After a few bites of the curry, Sherlock began to feel nauseous. He forced the feeling down and continued to eat. He didn’t want to be sick; being sick would mean that Molly would take notice, and she always grew keen when she took notice. There would be no hiding that something was wrong when he threw up.
So he forced the dread and nauseous down, eating methodically until his entire plate was clean. “I see someone was hungry,” Molly remarked proudly. “Good?”
“Good,” Sherlock agreed. He felt marginally safe. He’d probably nap the nauseous off if it persisted. “Do you—“ before he could answer he burped. Molly giggled. Sherlock smiled, covering his mouth as another burp worked its way up his throat. Only it wasn’t a normal burp; Sherlock’s eyes widened as the nauseous rose to a dangerously high level and lunged for the sink. With a sob he heaved the curry down the drain, hating himself for letting his happen. I shouldn’t have eaten. Stupid! Vainly, he hoped that Molly would just walk away and ignore him.
“Oh God, oh Sherlock. What’s wrong?” But sweet, caring Molly rubbed his back and whispered sweet nothings until he stopped, rinsed his mouth, and sagged against her comforting weight. “You should have told me you weren’t feeling well. Was that it? I thought something else was wrong. Come on—let’s get you to bed.”
Sherlock allowed her to drag him into the bathroom, where he brushed his teeth and rinsed out the disgusting taste. When all he could taste was mint, Molly's hand lingered on his forehead and she clicked her tongue. “You don’t feel very hot…maybe it was the food. But I feel fine.”
“Maybe,” he mumbled, letting his head fall onto her shoulder. She took him into the bedroom and helped him undress. When he was under the sheets he fetched her novel and slid in beside him. “Want my lap?” He took the offer and pressed his head against her soft, warm thighs, clinging to the idea that maybe it had been the curry. Nothing else.
Sherlock fell asleep to soft turning of pages and Molly’s fingers combing through his hair.
Tomorrow, he thought. I’ll tell her tomorrow.
***
Should I reply to the original prompt each time, or should I reply to the last part I posted? What sound better, OP?
Also, it hasn't been proofed so beware of my mistakes!
Re: Baby fill continued - I don't have a name yet (p3.2)
After a few bites of the curry, Sherlock began to feel nauseous. He forced the feeling down and continued to eat. He didn’t want to be sick; being sick would mean that Molly would take notice, and she always grew keen when she took notice. There would be no hiding that something was wrong when he threw up.
So he forced the dread and nauseous down, eating methodically until his entire plate was clean. “I see someone was hungry,” Molly remarked proudly. “Good?”
“Good,” Sherlock agreed. He felt marginally safe. He’d probably nap the nauseous off if it persisted. “Do you—“ before he could answer he burped. Molly giggled. Sherlock smiled, covering his mouth as another burp worked its way up his throat. Only it wasn’t a normal burp; Sherlock’s eyes widened as the nauseous rose to a dangerously high level and lunged for the sink. With a sob he heaved the curry down the drain, hating himself for letting his happen. I shouldn’t have eaten. Stupid! Vainly, he hoped that Molly would just walk away and ignore him.
“Oh God, oh Sherlock. What’s wrong?” But sweet, caring Molly rubbed his back and whispered sweet nothings until he stopped, rinsed his mouth, and sagged against her comforting weight. “You should have told me you weren’t feeling well. Was that it? I thought something else was wrong. Come on—let’s get you to bed.”
Sherlock allowed her to drag him into the bathroom, where he brushed his teeth and rinsed out the disgusting taste. When all he could taste was mint, Molly's hand lingered on his forehead and she clicked her tongue. “You don’t feel very hot…maybe it was the food. But I feel fine.”
“Maybe,” he mumbled, letting his head fall onto her shoulder. She took him into the bedroom and helped him undress. When he was under the sheets he fetched her novel and slid in beside him. “Want my lap?” He took the offer and pressed his head against her soft, warm thighs, clinging to the idea that maybe it had been the curry. Nothing else.
Sherlock fell asleep to soft turning of pages and Molly’s fingers combing through his hair.
Tomorrow, he thought. I’ll tell her tomorrow.
***
Should I reply to the original prompt each time, or should I reply to the last part I posted? What sound better, OP?
Also, it hasn't been proofed so beware of my mistakes!