The last time I had a cold (thanks mostly to Tylenol Cold Plus), I was able to write the first two parts of my completely insane Maurice parody, The Boathouse. Now, I'm feeling more sick than creative and I've accomplished NOTHING, despite the Tylenol Cold Plus. Hell, I crashed at 9:30 last night. 9:30. I never do that. Unless I'm feeling substantially better tomorrow, I'm totally taking a sick day. I would have done so today, but the super was going around to all the units in my building to make sure our smoke detectors were working and I didn't want to be around for that. In retrospect, it seems pretty silly considering how crappy I felt at work. At one point, I literally forgot how to carry out a step in one of the programs I've used countless times over the years.
Well, despite this USELESS cold, I did manage to finish reading Ariana Franklin's A Murderous Procession tonight. And now I'm going to read a shitload of fic -- or as much fic as possible before I can no longer resist the allure of my bed. If nothing else I want to read On Lestrade's Flawed Heart, and Other Slightly Damaged Things. I've been really craving it since yesterday, though I can't think why.
“How long have you had that cough?”
Lestrade looked round from his desultory snooping through the contents of Sherlock’s desktop, startled; he hadn’t heard John come up the stairs. He’d come by with some crime scene photos for Sherlock--a nice grisly double feature, husband and wife, looked like your standard murder-suicide, but Sherlock seemed convinced there was something they’d all missed on this one.
“Sorry,” he said, and cleared his throat. “Mrs. Hudson let me in. Sherlock around?”
John shrugged out of his coat and hung it up. “Bart’s,” he said apologetically. “Could be hours. Days, possibly. How long have you had that cough? Sounds nasty.”
To break the silence more than anything, Lestrade started to ask if John knew what Sherlock was working on at Bart’s, but to his chagrin he didn’t get more than two words into the sentence before he had to cough again--and then again, painfully, one of the deep, wracking bouts that had been making his nights miserable lately. He turned away, holding up a hand.
"Really nasty," John said, glancing up from the teapot with a wince. "Getting better or worse over the past few days? Any fever?"
"Er...about the same, I suppose. Low-grade fever, off and on. Really, it's--"
"Nothing," John finished for him, nodding. "Yes, I know. Always is, with blokes like you. Look, you really do need to get that listened to. I've a stethoscope upstairs; get your coat and shirt off while I go fetch it."
Lestrade blinked. "Oh, that's--I mean, thanks awfully, but--"
John was already leaving the room. "Don't be an arse," he said offhandedly, turning back briefly at the door to give Lestrade a wide-eyed no-nonsense look. "I'm saving you the trip to the surgery. Coat and shirt; you can leave your vest on."
Nope. No idea at all.