bakerstreet | SICK DAY MEME [ THE SECOND ]

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SICK DAY MEME [ THE SECOND ]

SICK DAY MEME

There's not denying it, you're feeling crap. School, work, a date, tea with nana, mowing the lawns, doing your laundry, that important meeting... you can't make it. You want to stay in bed and maybe you just need a little TLC in the process. What is YOUR reason for that ever-fateful call in sick that every boss just loves to hate?

RULES:
- Leave a comment with your character's name, fandom, and any preferences you have.
- When replying, RNG for a number between 1 and 16.
- The number corresponds to the scenario that you will play out in any way you feel the urge.
- The poster is the sick person, the tagger is the one taking care of them/keeping them company.
- Go from there!

THE LIST:
1// COLD
It's just a boring old sinus infection and you probably could go in, but you're not because bed is just too nice.

2// FLU
You feel like you're dying and everything aches, but it's not quite serious enough to arrange your own funeral yet.

3// MAN FLU
Doesn't anyone understand how sick and miserable you are?! You can't function! The world is ending! You need cuddles, and hugs, and you can't do ANYTHING by yourself!

4// STOMACH BUG
Uh oh, this is going to get messy...

5// FOOD POISONING
But that meal was sooooooo good. The best you ever had! Why is it betraying you so badly?! Never eating ever again.

6// CONCUSSION
You've been hit in the head and now it feels like it's going to explode. Being horizontal is the best option, and not even in a good way.

7// MONO
Everything hurts, you feel sick, you don't want to move, you don't want to eat, but you're in it for the long haul. Company and maybe some cuddles with chicken soup might be nice.

8// CHICKEN POX OR MEASLES
SPOTS! Spots everywhere! Yes, even there! You look hideous and it itches so damn much. Don't scratch, don't scratch... oh screw it!

9// LARYNGITIS
Your throat hurts so bad and now you can't talk. How are you going to communicate, maybe you need a little bell? Is it bad form to text message someone sitting right in front of you? Who cares, you want chicken soup.

10// HANGOVER
It's still sick, right?

11// BACK PAIN
You don't know what you have done, but you woke up barely able to move. You probably shouldn't have done what you did last night... and you should probably rest it.

12// INCAPACITATING INJURY
You got hurt, you can move much, and you're stuck in bed. Is it a broken bone? Torn groin muscle? Cracked ribs? Whatever it is, the world clearly hates you.

13// POST ROUTINE SURGERY
It was a simple procedure and now you're back home. The only catch is, you can't be alone for 48 hours in case of complications, with the added bonus of it hurts like a bitch.

14// POST MAJOR SURGERY
You're stuck in hospital for a few days and have a gaping surgial wound. There aren't even any hot nurses. Now what?

15// LONG TERM ILLNESS
You've just been diagnosed with a longer-term illness (of your choice). You're feeling poorly and don't want to be alone.

16// ANYTHING GOES
Something not listed here, have a wildcard of your choice! Anything that might lead to a timely sick day.

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"I was locked away in a cave for three months, Sherlock," Tony snaps, eyes dark and brimming with barely restrained emotion as soon as his brother insults his creations.

"I'm sure as hell not putting up with you of all people locking me up in my room to waste away. Now leave it be or I'll have JARVIS lock you out of the house."

"Two thousand, two hundred and sixty-seven hours. One hundred thirty-six thousand and forty-three minutes. Eight million, one hundred and sixty-three thousand seconds--I am well-aware of how long it has been. I have counted every tick of the clock's hand while you were away," Sherlock says sharply, his lips pressing together as he stares ahead out the window.

"My intent is for your injuries to heal. I do not care where in the house you remain or if you move locations within it but your workshop is not conducive to rest."

Edited 2012-09-24 03:49 (UTC)

Tony goes effectively silent at the sharp tone from his brother, lips pressed tight together. Of course Sherlock would count down to the fucking second, because he could do that without even thinking about it. Sherlock's curse was his observational skills and seeing everything, and Tony's was his inherent need to create, and apparently this reactor lodged in his sternum, which was low on power. He could feel the pull of those shards desperate to shred through his veins.

"I have to work, Sherlock," he fights still, desperation slipping into his voice because god dammit he's not understanding.

Edited 2012-09-24 04:04 (UTC)

He had it counted down to the second because every time the hand on the clock moved Sherlock had been sure he'd been closer to no longer having a brother. He'd been that much closer to becoming the public face of Stark Industries in Tony's stead. The thought had horrified him every moment.

Sherlock doesn't deal well with people. He had been forced out of the house for one press conference while Tony was gone and he'd walked off stage in the middle. They'd talked about it for weeks afterward. He's sure, someone, somewhere is still talking about it.

It's not that he doesn't want Tony to work. He just doesn't want him to make anything worse. He drags a hand through his already ruffled hair. He's trying here; he really is.

"You cannot pull a marathon as you typically do. Try to limit yourself to a handful hours." He feels like he should add a please but the tone should do it well enough.

Tony is well aware of all of Sherlock's problems with the public eye. He wasn't built for that sort of attention, more so without the stead of his brother at his side. Tony hadn't planned on being tortured and nearly killed, either, Sherley, so he's having a bit of difficulty keeping the comparison of 'who's life was shittier while I was away' out of his head when he knows without a fact that he wins.

"Yes, mother," he says, curt and a little colder than he'd intended. He can't bring himself to care.

Of course he wins, Sherlock knows that hands-down Tony's life had been hell on Earth while he'd been gone. It's the same reason he hasn't complained about how rough things had been on him and he's not callous enough to try to make the comparison. Sherlock isn't heartless, despite claims otherwise, he just keeps most of his emotions tightly controlled and buried. Logic and observation are easier.

"My apologies, I never meant to inconvenience you with care for your well-being." The tone of Tony's voice hurts. His brother has always been there for him through all his difficulties. Sherlock is attempting to repay him for it now but he can't if it's not wanted.

"When your injuries strain you to the point of collapse, shall I not be bothered to call an ambulance either?"

Hot, stinging anger surges through Tony at the low blow Sherlock just threw at him, the sarcastic bite in his tone cutting deep. His lips quiver with the effort of keeping even more hurtful words from spilling from him, and he has to fight to swallow them down and let the anger fade enough.

He knows Sherlock is only trying to help, in the only way he knows how.

"If I show it to you, will you stop hounding me," he grits out the words, nails biting into his palm from his slung arm.

He hadn't meant to make it hurt so much but Sherlock doesn't appreciate being pushed away when all he's trying to do is help. It's not a thing he tries to do very often. Of course, there's a reason for that. He's terrible at it.

Sherlock stills, actually turning his head to look at Tony this time and he glances down at the marks his brother is living in his hand before his gaze returns upwards. He considers carefully, because he can see the unease in his brother at even the suggestion.

"I am unlikely to refrain completely but I shall make an attempt," he replies honestly. He is Tony's brother. He's supposed to be insufferable or something but he doesn't want to ask the other man something he's not comfortable giving so he waits to see if that's good enough.

It's as close to an agreement as he's going to get out of Sherlock, this he very well knows. He closes his eyes for the briefest of moments, lets the back of his skull press into the lush, rich feel of the leather of his personal limo, and then they're open again. His fingers work at his dress shirt - how strange that he remembers precisely how to twist his fingertips to open it one-handed, despite his absence - and he pointedly refuses to look at his own creation lodged in his chest once it's rightfully exposed.

The skin is puckered and split and raw around the edges. Half-healed scars that have been worried at and re-opened countless times, but the reactor itself? It could be considered beautiful. Sherlock knows precisely what encompasses an arc reactor, how impossible it'd been to create on such a minute scale on all previous attempts. Hell, Sherlock could probably make one of his own, if he were that determined.

All the fight leaves him the moment it's exposed. "Need to replace it soon," he mumbles, voice distant and quiet. "Running out of power."

He's nothing but patient as Tony works himself up to showing him and undoes the buttons of his shirt. They're alone here--well except Happy but he doesn't count, not really--and Sherlock shifts slowly so he's in a better position to be looking.

Sherlock sees every scar and line in Tony's skin, frowns just a little as he eyes it. The reactor is beautiful. Even he can admire a brilliant piece of craftsmanship, particularly when he knows the conditions that his brother had to work in and that arc reactor technology has given them nothing but difficulties.

He reaches out, incredibly slowly for his own perceptions of reality, but he wants to give Tony a chance to stop him if doesn't want Sherlock to touch it. His fingers will be gentle if Tony lets him, barely doing more than tracing the edge.

"You might have spared us an argument had you mentioned a replication was the work you wished to do," he murmurs back. Sherlock can hardly argue with work that keeps his brother alive which he only assumes at this point it is doing. "I confess they told me little of its true purpose. The reactor is a power source--what does it run? What does it do for you that it is necessity?"

Tony doesn't stop him, won't stop him, not his brother, because if there was ever a constant in his life it was that he could trust his Sherlock Holmes Stark implicitly. They fought and traded harsh words that would potentially leave other relationships stale or too unstable to reconnect, but they trusted each other with their lives, of that there was no doubt.

So yes, Sherlock is free to touch. To explore. To allow that wondrous mind of his access to Tony's deepest darkest secrets. Still, it doesn't stop the hitch in Tony's breath the moment those fingertips touch the cool metal. It's not as if he could feel it, of course, but the connection with his own eyes was enough for a phantom knowledge of it.

"It was a tiring vacation," Tony retorts wearily, but it holds no venom, not anymore. "When the convoy was attacked," he begins, swallowing thick around his own tongue, "it was with Stark weapons. I was hit. There's shrapnel that Yi - ...the doctor couldn't get out." He's not ready to talk about Yinsen. Not yet. "There's an electromagnet holding the shrapnel away from my heart. The reactor powers that."

That brief explanation alone answers an incredible amount of Sherlock's questions regarding most of Tony's actions since he'd resurfaced in the world and he's relieved by how much of it makes sense. He knows the media hounds are going to be all over the dissolution of the weapons division and how PR will probably claim it's temporary.

It's far easier to support his brother's choices when he knows the reasoning. He would have regardless, especially when it came to weapons, but his brother isn't just doing this because he had a near death experience. It's unlikely he's going to go back on his plan six months from now.

A military convoy attacked by their own weapons is alarming. It means people that shouldn't have their weapons do and that's bad news. The only question now is who's selling their weapons behind their back. Someone remarkably talented at looking them in the face and lying to them because Sherlock would have noticed, should have noticed.

"An electromagnet," he repeats faintly, drawing his hand back to press the back of his knuckle to his lips. "You are remarkable."

"I made a suit," he says in response to the praise, voice low. Low enough so even Happy couldn't hear. His eyes are dead serious as he focuses one hundred fifteen percent of his focus on his brother.

"That's how I got out. Made a suit of metal while they thought I was making the Jericho for them. Blew everything that was in the camp on my way out." He leans in further, their shoulders brushing. He might need a bit of help getting back into a straight position on the chair. "There has to be more out there, Sherlock. My stuff. My weapons. I'm sure as hell not letting that go unchecked."

Sherlock leans in instinctively as his brother does and this is probably the most focused he's ever been on anything for a given length of time. At least, actively focused, his mind is always paying some margin of attention to what's going on. Tony is priority number one at the moment.

"Our weapons," he corrects absently because Stark Industries is technically theirs. The sentiment is understood, however. Tony has a much larger investment into that portion of the company.

A frown crosses his face, those are dangerous words coming from his brother. If either of them are determined to do something it gets done. "Yes, but what can be done about it?"

"I built them," Tony re-corrects. Sherlock had wanted nothing to do with the weapons manufacturing side of the company. Still, he occasionally helped with the chemistry side of it, when it fancied him, if just to prove a theory correct.

He holds his brother's gaze for a second too long, then glances away. "Nothing. Forget about it."

They could likely argue semantics all day but they share the name that's plastered across the side of them either way. People look down on Sherlock just as much as they do Tony. It's not what's important right now anyway.

A second feels like an eternity for Sherlock and is incredibly obvious. He doesn't like this plan of his brother's, whatever it happens to be. "You know as well as I that is nigh impossible." Tony might as well just tell him because not knowing will just bother him.

Tony makes do with staring sullenly out the window. "Let's test the theory," he mumbles, just to be difficult on his brother. He'd rather not speak of this anywhere but safe in his home, behind locked doors. Nothing against Happy, but he's paranoid, and for good reason.

He stares at his brother for a long moment, fingers drumming on his knee and then they disappear into his jacket for his pipe. It's a little old-fashioned but Sherlock hardly cares; it looks nicer than actual cigarettes and he feels, personally, he smokes less with a pipe than he would with a pack of cigarettes.

He doesn't light it, though he desperately wants to, because he knows how Tony feels about it but he needs something to do with his hands while he thinks.

Sherlock doesn't take his eyes off his brother as he sits back himself. "We have tested it a number of times. I have never been proved incorrect in the matter."

Edited 2012-09-25 04:31 (UTC)

There is a heavy silence that falls between them when Tony doesn't respond, to the words or the pipe. He lets his eyes flutter closed for a few moments, lulled into a half-conscious state from his exhaustion, but the moment he realizes his eyes were closed he jerks back into awareness.

He's breathing harder than would be necessary if he hadn't just come back from a three month long torturefest in a cold, dank cave.

Recovering a moment later, because he knows just that was more than enough to raise Sherlock's suspicions, he mutters, "I want a cheeseburger. No. Five. Five cheeseburgers."

He fiddles with his pipe silently but his mind is going a million miles a second. Sherlock is thinking not only of what Tony might be planning to do but of the things that will probably need to be done to reassign work and decide a new direction for Stark Industries. Behind the scenes he can do.

His lips press together as he sticks the end of his unlit pipe in his mouth and stares at his brother. That had been a terrible deflection of the obvious. Increased breathing suggests a rapid heartbeat and all in response to just closing his eyes. Sherlock can't begin to imagine what must be going through his head.

He sticks with the safer subject because it's probably too soon to push, as if there is ever a right time to ask what had happened.

"You have already had two," he had seen those wrappers. Don't even try to say you didn't. "You cannot possibly eat another."

Tony shoots Sherlock a wounded look at being caught with the earlier cheeseburgers. Rhodey had been the single sweetest thing he'd ever seen, all tall, dark, handsome and holding cheeseburgers.

"I can eat as many cheeseburgers as I want," he grumps, "Happy, you heard me, you follow my wishes. Burger King, chop chop, dear. I'm going to be extravagant and get onion rings too," he says this staring right at Sherlock. "Try and stop me."

"I am the one that will have to suffer hearing about how your stomach is upset," Sherlock mutters back but he doesn't stop Tony. He couldn't even if he wanted to probably. Let him have his cheeseburgers, they can't possibly hurt him any worse than he's already suffering mentally.

He just wishes he could help more or knew how to help and only Tony could possibly bring those feelings out in him.

"I shan't stop you. But do try not to induce--" Sherlock cuts off abruptly as his brain tells him that finishing his thought is likely far too close to home.

"Yep. And you'll like it." He offers a tight little smile, even if it's the biggest genuine one he's offered since his return. Sherlock will know the difference.

Tony stills a little as his brother cuts off. He's not stupid, he can put the sentence together himself. His tone is dull in an instant. "A heart attack? Yeah. I've had like, a dozen of those since this," he taps his reactor. "For some reason I think I could survive one more."

"Unlikely," Sherlock refrains from rolling his eyes but it is a simple brotherly back and forth. He appreciates the smile for what it is and is almost relieved to see it. Something he's doing is right or he wouldn't have gotten it.

Only it's completely undone by speaking before following a train of thought to its end. His lips press together and his eyes briefly close in a pained expression. He swallows and softly offers, "That is not a theory that requires testing. I am quite content not knowing."

"No tests for your extravagant theories this time, Sherley? None at all? I'm sure I'd make a fantastic experiment, wouldn't I. Yank it out and see how long it takes before I'm choking on my own blood?" It's harsher than he intends it, harsher than he cares to admit to but he will, because his brother doesn't deserve it. He's only trying to help, Tony has to remind himself.

He mumbles an immediate apology, re-shifts himself in the seat with a wince. There's a heavy silence.

"Where are those cheeseburgers, Happy, come on."

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