Work Text:
By the end of the day, there’s no use denying it; you have a cold. Your joints ache, you have a splitting headache, your nose is running, your throat is dry and painful, and the mucus built up in your lungs has given you a deep, thick cough that leaves you breathless and tired. When you get home, you spend your remaining energy changing into your pajamas and crawling into bed, where you lie on your back sniffling miserably until you drift off to sleep.
You wake up at 8 in the morning (after strange, confusing dreams) with a bad taste in your mouth, feeling unrested. You try to figure out why you woke up; it is, blessedly, a Saturday, which means you have no reason to be awake at all. You’re never up this early on a Saturday. So, it wasn’t your alarm clock that awakened you. Then... what was it?
As you begin to awaken more fully, you’re aware that there’s a sort of rummaging sound coming from your kitchen, which must have been what woke you up in the first place. You find this odd because you live alone. There should be no one else in your home but you. As you come to this realization, fear creeps into your stomach and you quietly (albeit somewhat unsteadily) get out of bed.
You tense as you hear something crash to the floor (which makes your head throb, like a reminder that you’re still sick), followed by a muffled curse in an English-accented baritone. Wait… you know that voice. You know that voice very, very well.
Incredulous, you pull on a robe and silently enter the kitchen. The smell of burnt eggs hangs in the air, and the windows of your home are cracked open, letting out the foul smelling smoke and allowing the unseasonably chilly spring air to enter. A tall, lean man with curly, dark hair is standing in front of the electric stove, his back turned to you. Squinting as your eyes struggle to adjust to the brightness of the kitchen (compared to the dark sanctuary of your room), you self-consciously tug your pajamas and robe closer to you against the chill, and are about to make your presence known when your stuffy nose betrays you; you sneeze. Loudly and violently.
The man in your kitchen jumps and turns, a plate of hideously made scrambled eggs in his long, slender hands. Your jaw drops as you instantly recognize the face in front of you.
Benedict Cumberbatch is in your kitchen. And he’s just made you breakfast (or at least tried to).
He affixes you with his dazzlingly blue eyes, making you go a bit weak in the knees. Then his features rearrange into a picture of pure concern.
“What on Earth are you doing out of bed!” he exclaims. He sets down the plate of eggs and strides towards you. Before you can utter a word, he sweeps you off your feet and carries you bridal style back to your bedroom. All you can think of during this short journey is how warm he is and how wonderful he smells (despite having been standing in the smoky kitchen). “I was going to make you breakfast in bed, seeing as you’re sick,” he says, and from your position pressed close to him in his arms, you can feel every syllable rumble through him.
When you get to your room, Benedict lays you gently on the bed and tenderly tucks you in so that you’re wrapped in warmth and comfort.
“As you've most likely noticed, the eggs are probably inedible,” he laughs, “but tea is something I can definitely do. Don’t move a muscle. Or else!” he threatens teasingly before he leaves the room for a few minutes to prepare some chamomile tea. He comes back with a steaming mug and helps you sit up to sip at the liquid. It is just the perfect thing for your scratchy, painful throat, and the hot liquid soothes your entire body, making you pleasantly drowsy.
“I’ll be here when you wake up,” says Benedict, smiling softly and stroking your forehead with a wonderfully cool, soothing hand as you feel yourself drift off. “Sleep well.”