Archive of Our Own

The first set of texts came as John was only just starting to roll out of bed.

Exp complete -SH

Data, obs. Recorded -SH

Which. Well. Um.

Okay, then?

John didn't know what experiment Sherlock was talking about, and he didn't know why Sherlock was texting him about it. He also didn't really know what sort of experiment Sherlock could've gotten up to out here in the middle of nowhere at six in the morning, but Sherlock Holmes would be Sherlock Holmes. Mischief and mayhem in the name of science could be gotten up to anywhere, if he wanted it.

John, still inordinately ticked off and wounded from the night before, stowed his phone back in his pocket, and ignored the messages.

The second set of texts came just as John was sitting down to eat a light breakfast.

Prelim. Results ??? -SH

Need impartial researcher for anl. -SH

John? -SH

Even more confusing than before, then. Great.

John considered giving a rude text in response- Glad to know I'm impartial enough for you now, if I wasn't last night, perhaps, but in the end, John really didn't want to restart their argument, or. Whatever that had been. More to the point, he actually was uncertain about that part- Sherlock would rarely ask for his help in his experiments, needing another set of eyes, but he had never outright admitted to being unqualified to do something himself.

He really didn't know what that request was about.

Or that last, almost plaintive message, that was just his name.

John hesitated once, fork lingering in his suddenly stiff, aching hand.

Then, gritting his teeth, he shoved his phone back away, and forced his focus back down. He wasn't going to enable this. No. If Sherlock wanted to apologise for last night, then he'd listen- and probably give an apology of his own- but he wasn't going to enable Sherlock just pretending it hadn't happened. Not this time.

They were going to have to have the Bit Not Good talk again, and John wasn't going to let him get around it with the what-the-hell-experiment-is-this talk instead.

The third texts came not ten minutes later, when John was just finishing breakfast and preparing to head out to Henry's, on his own or not.

Exp not concluded, data collection ongoing- SH

Unexpected result, half life longer than hypothesised -SH

Or ??? -SH

Need impartial researcher -SH

John? -SH

The text conversation went still for several moments, Sherlock's side dormant while John, honestly, had no idea what to say. He lingered in the doorway to just stare at the increasingly baffling screen of his phone, barely even cognizant of the other guests starting to mill behind him.

Then, perhaps hesitant in the way only Sherlock Holmes could be:

Md attn ASAP -SH

And with that, his heart skipped a beat into an unsteady, racing beat, John turned tail, and headed straight back into the inn.

For better or for worse- oh, it was always to so much worse- John could apparently never say no to a message from Sherlock that said that.

John tried calling Sherlock four times, pounding on the door three times, and threatened to phone Mycroft twice.

He only had to try to pick the lock once.

That was all it took to realize his worst, most exasperated fucking fears, right there in one breath.

Sherlock was collapsed right there on the floor.

There were a few details that filtered their way through his shock, then. Just a few- mostly because of just how bloody inscrutable the scene was. His friend- yeah, bugger off, Sherlock, you ARE my friend, no matter what you try to protest about it- was down there flat on his back, looking as if he'd been trying to crawl to the loo yet had fallen asleep on the way. Head pillowed against what looked worryingly like a destroyed pillowcase, and- good lord. Scarf, pooled all the way over his face. His noise-cancelling headphones, smashed haphazardly against mussed curls to rest over his ears. Arm splayed out and long legs akimbo, almost a sight that would've been funny if it wasn't so frightening.

John almost would've thought he was asleep, if his hand hadn't been flapping pathetically against his phone.

"S... Siri," Sherlock croaked, in a voice that sounded like death. "Call John Watson. J-John Watson."

Okay, yeah, no.

"Don't bother," he said, and to punctuate the statement strode forward to lift the phone out of Sherlock's grip, since the chances that he'd been heard through the headphone were slim to none. His friend flinched badly at the touch, words wrenching into a startled gasp, but somehow all John could see was the unhealthy flush on his half-obscured face as he tried to pull away.

"Hey, no, no- none of that. It's just me. Sherlock." He gently tugged the headphones off, since whatever the hell this was, he was going to need Sherlock to be able to talk to him if he had any hope of figuring it out. "It's just me," he said again, and the fact that Sherlock actually started to relax at that did more to him than he knew what to do with.

"What happened?" John tried again, hands hovering uselessly because god, he didn't even know where to start. Sherlock looked absolutely awful. Even with over half his face covered, he looked half-dead; skin flushed sweaty and red, and feeling at the juncture of his throat gave a hummingbird-flutter that was too fast for any comfort at all. Had he been hit in the head? What- woken up from a bad nightmare on the floor? "Sherlock, you need to talk to me, right now. Are you listening? Sherlock?"

There remained no answer, no answer at all, so John went for for his throat, next, pulling free the first couple of buttons to keep his breathing unrestricted. The scarf was next, the expensive silk blotched with sweat and blocking his nose, but John only managed to roll it back an inch before the detective cried out again, jerking for it desperately, scratching at John's hands jagged nails and agony until John let go.

"Sher-"

"No," Sherlock whined, an actual, honest-to-god whine. His hand flapped desperately again, pushing his scarf all over with a sloppy wave; "No, it- hurts. Hurts."

"What hurts, Sherlock?"

"Head." Another gasp wrenched past clenched teeth, and his hand fluttered again, curling without touching over his right eye. "Something-. Christ. Jesus fuck. OW."

John's worry hitched up another notch, unease crawling underneath his skin. Sherlock's pain tolerance was incredibly, almost disastrously high; John was not sure he had ever heard Sherlock admit that something hurt, not like that, not so primally, desperately, honestly true. And Sherlock could be a drama queen about anything else in the world, but if he was admitting to his own frailties now, something had to be seriously wrong. Swallowing hard, he returned his hand to Sherlock's throat, resolving not to touch his head again until he had a better idea about just what that something was. "Did you hit your head? Last night, on the moors, or-"

But Sherlock merely snarled through clenched teeth, a gruff, abrasive sound that was a no in as many words. "As ever, John," he growled, voice hitching, "you see, but... but..."

"...but I do not observe. Yeah, got it. Thanks." John sat back on his heels for a breath, pinching at the bridge of his nose before returning his hand down to Sherlock's neck. His sweaty, feverish neck. This was not good. This was more than a bit; this was really, really not good.

This wasn't the nicotine withdrawal. And this wasn't- whatever last night had been, either. John remembered what he'd seen, then, the sweating and the involuntary bits of crying, and it looked like that had only continued, after he'd left Sherlock sitting there at the fire, but he hadn't been in pain the night before, and now- what was it Sherlock had been going on about, in his texts; an experiment? What experiment?

His nerves tightened on to an almost unbearable knot of apprehension. Slowly, his hands clammy and his throat dry, John gave his friend one last worried look, and then, pushed to his knees to go on to examine the rest of the room.

It was- better than what he'd feared, at least. Oh, it was a mess, the sheets torn from the bed, and yes, that was a pillow that had been ripped to actual shreds, but at least this was just going to be a problem for the poor maid to deal with, and not something that would leave them with a damage deposit. Sherlock's meager luggage looked like it'd been dumped out over the (of course) unused bed, notebook and laptop abandoned in a dress shirt and his beloved coat, but there, next to the bed-

Another whiskey glass. That same whiskey glass that Sherlock had been clutching the night before with a trembling hand, downing its contents like they were water.

This one with just a few sips left in the base of it, not of whiskey, but instead, something blood-red, like wine.

John's eyes narrowed.

"Sherlock," he started, and the dawning wave of realization rose to crash over him like solid, unmelting, miserable ice. "Are you hungover?"

His friend just gave another aggravated, long-suffering groan. Obvious denial. Still flat on his back, still not pushing up, still not so much as lifting the scarf from his face. Scowling, John strode back to his side, dropping down with a business-like manner and for a moment having to clench his hands to stop himself from hauling him upright. Jesus Christ. "Sherlock, what did you take? That's what this is- you took something! You're not hungover, you're crashing!"

John got all the confirmation needed when, rather than protest, confirm or deny, or argue in any way whatsoever, his friend simply thinned his mouth, and kept silent.

God fucking damn it.

He should've known. Should've fucking-

Every single last shred of empathy flown straight out the window and into a wood chipper, John hauled the scarf off his friend's sallow face. Sherlock tensed at once, eyes squeezing shut as he tried to pull away, but John stopped him with a mere hand on his shoulder and something in between disappointment and exasperation collecting around his heart. "Oi, Sherlock, what'd you take? What did you take?" He snapped once in front of glazed, bloodshot eyes, waving his phone over his face. "Or do you even know? You said the half life was longer than you'd hypothesised- did you just take a hit of some unknown crap and text me when it went south?! That could kill you, Sherlock!"

Sherlock still wasn't answering, and John, with another curse, turned his examination to the rest of his body, searching now for the signs he knew he was going to find. Of course Sherlock had taken something. Of course. "Not even you would be stupid enough to take depressants with alcohol- a stimulant, then? Weren't you already wired enough?" He went for his arms, first, tugging at the sleeves and tearing open the buttons at the disheveled cuffs. There'd be track marks, there always were; Sherlock was more than smart enough to hide them, but he never did- the bruises just always right there like a badge of honor-

"John. John." Sherlock's hand made its attempt at uncoordinated grappling again, this time latching around his wrist in an earnest, undeniable desperation. "'S not- the data... the data, John, it's..."

"What data?" Comprehension dawned on him in the same breath as the pinched, miserable look on Sherlock's face, and the doctor in him pushed up to his feet to flip out the lights with a sigh. "You said- you said this was an experiment, but why-"

"The data, John, just- my list- John-" He flung his hand about, trying to gesture, to order him somewhere, only for his voice to hitch again and his face to twist through another spasm of pain. Sherlock kicked once, short and miserable, and whatever he'd been trying to say was lost underneath the sick pallor of whatever chemical deficiency was tearing through his system.

And since Sherlock, evidently, was going to be of absolutely no help, John rose back to his feet, and turned back towards the rest of the room.

The data, that his friend was so insistent was about. What data? Sherlock was saying he had it now, and he'd said it in his text messages, too- data observed, recorded. So Sherlock had written his observations down somewhere, observations that could help John figure out what he'd taken. Laptop was guess number one, but John wasn't exactly in the mood to try and figure out Sherlock's password, so that left him fishing the notebook out of the heap of clothes. Staff paper, for music, probably compositions; of course it was. He tore it open, flipping past the first couple pages, passing Sherlock's musical shorthand by-

Then stopped dead.

Oh.

Oh, hell.

He'd found the data.

Or... what Sherlock called data, anyway.

John didn't know what the hell to call it.

It was a sheet of what had once been music. Possibly. Scrawled in Sherlock's indecipherable shorthand, John guessed- but whatever it had been before, it didn't matter now.

Because now, scrawled on top of the music, was nothing short of sheer madness.

There were elements there that John recognized- a chemical formula there, upside-down, and there, what might've once been medical terminology, underneath at least three layers of Sherlock code and mess. But the scraps of sanity spilled together like a dozen mismatched puzzle pieces, splashing to make a whole so incoherent it might as well have been in a foreign language. Maybe it was; upside-down and sideways, sloppy diagrams that looked as if they'd been drawn blind, a shorthand that was messier than John's worst days of med school- fuck. This was an absolute disaster. It looked like the writings of a madman.

This was Sherlock's so-called precious data?

As thrown, stressed, and honest-to-god worried as John was, it took a few moments for anything but utter bewilderment to sink through and click.

Like the fact that as messy and disorganized as Sherlock could seem on the outside, he'd survived grad school- he knew how to properly record data, and barring experiments he wanted kept private, for some reason, he always made sure to do so.

Like the fact that Sherlock was currently trying to quit nicotine, and, therefore, would not be bloody stupid enough to replace nicotine with something this much more dangerous.

Like the fact that Sherlock wouldn't have even had a way to get any such illicit substances out here, nor would he be stupid enough to take a hit of something unknown without supervision. Nor would he take a hit of something unknown for an experiment in the middle of a case.

Like that one legible word, bleeding sideways on the sheet of notes, written in all capitals and underlined three times in what even John could translate as crucially, vitally, life-threateningly important.

DRUGGED

A second wave of ice-cold reality rammed into him, jarring him through from head to toe.

"John?"

Oh God.

Oh no.

"John?"

Bit more than a bit not good, then.

"Right here, Sherlock." Notes, data, whatever the hell, tucked under his arm, John spun back, his earlier disappointment and fury all flagging downwards underneath a crushing wave of concern. Sherlock had not taken something, he had been given something. Forcibly. Fuck. "Sherlock-"

His friend made another low, pathetic sort of whine again, hand wavering in the air. John caught it, first to feel at his wrist for his pulse, then just holding it steady, feeling the slight fever and traces of old sweat and Christ, Sherlock hadn't taken a thing. "You stupid-" John leaned closer, trying to get unfocused eyes to meet his own. "You stupid clot. You do realize there's a difference-"

"John. John." Sherlock licked his lips and shut his eyes in the same breath, his free hand drifting back to massage at his head. There was a new note of urgency in his voice, high-pitched, earnest, genuine urgency, and it shut John up just long enough for his friend to say, "I'll s-sit still to be yelled at later, but- but c-currently I believe I am having a- stroke."

"What?"

"A stroke." Sherlock said it with that lilt of his, the one that made it sound as if he thought John was very, very stupid, but there was still that edge of near-panic underneath that ate the attempt at condescension away. Sherlock was scared. "It's difficult to s-speak. The r-right side of my head h-h-hurts. I- c-can't see out of my right eye. The-" He stopped, once, gulping air in frantically, bare throat jumping underneath John's hand. "The unilateral c-constriction of the symp-"

"All right, take it easy, Dr. Holmes. Don't panic just yet." He gave Sherlock's hand a firm squeeze, because the very, very last thing his friend needed right now was for his doctor to be scared, too. "Let me have a look at you before we start calling time of death."

"John-"

"Open your eyes again. Just for a second."

Sherlock gulped a second time, the hot flush of his face sweaty and sticky against the back of John's hand. Then, with an effort so stringent he could feel it in the tenseness of his hands, his friend steeled himself, and cracked open his eyes.

He managed no more than three seconds of the penlight before craning away with a choked whimper of agony, covering his face with one hand.

"I told you," he gasped, "I told you, that hurts-"

"I know, I know. Shh. I got what I needed." John let his friend cover his eyes this time; it was probably best for it, so Sherlock wouldn't see the look of something nearing faint amusement right now, and deduce what it meant before John could tell him. Instead he kept quiet for a few moments, massaging into his shoulder in the surely fruitless hope that it would remind Sherlock that he was in good hands, so, please, for the love of god, stop freaking out.

He gave Sherlock another moment, willing him to get his breath back, the tiny, loose tremors shaking through his hands out of control. Then: "Lift up your arms, for me?" He ran a hand on down them, wincing at the sticky sweat he could feel clinging even through the sleeves of his shirt. "That doesn't hurt, does it?"

John was reasonably sure the only reason Sherlock was being so cooperative was because the detective had off and convinced himself he was about to die of a bleed in his brain, but whatever the reason, he complied without complaint. Both eyes still shut, breaths still a rapid, stuttery pattern of near-panic, he lifted his arms off the floor, hands still trembling intermittently but on the whole, steady. Good, good. All good. Which just left-

"All right, one more thing, mate. The smile test."

"John," Sherlock whined, aghast.

John couldn't help another smile himself, and was again grateful that the detective's eyes were closed, so he couldn't see it. "I need to see it to be sure of the diagnosis, and time is critical, now, Sherlock; you know that. Come on- try and smile for me." He paused, giving his shoulder a little firm pat when Sherlock continue to grimace like he'd just swallowed a pineapple whole. "It won't kill you, but if you're right, it could kill you not to."

There was another heavy moment of silence. Sherlock's pale face twisted still, contempt and impatience and frustration all warring together over a sick undercurrent of genuine terror.

And then, once again, he complied.

The slight, miserable grimace of a smile he got was quite possibly the fakest smile that John had ever seen someone give in his life. It looked like he'd just been force-fed an entire fruit cake from a fussing aunt in one bite, and now Mummy had told him to look up and say thank you.

For someone who employed dazzlingly bright, brilliant, and fake smiles on a daily basis, that expression of distress was probably the most honest thing he'd seen on the man's face all morning long.

"Okay. All done." Sherlock's smile dropped like a light, and John rolled his eyes. "You can-"

"Well?!" The detective's hand flopped about again, scrabbling desperately for the phone left abandoned on his chest. Still remarkably restrained, for any other patient, but for Sherlock Holmes, he looked almost like he was about to have a panic attack. "What are you waiting for?! Call an ambulance, for Christ's sake, John, or Mycroft, I-"

"Love?"

"-aren't you a doctor, don't you-"

"You've got a headache."

This time, it was Sherlock's turn to stop dead.

With a decidedly undignified splutter and all but comical twist of his face, words catching in his throat, but stopped dead all the same.

John would've been smiling, if his best friend didn't look so bloody miserable.

"Migraine," he amended, gently pushing at the fringe of his hair. "Sorry- not quite a headache, is it?" Of course, that, John knew, was an understatement. It was an entirely separate neurological phenomenon. It was several world's worth of difference away from a headache.

It was, by the look on Sherlock's face, excruciating.

And Sherlock, still, was gaping like a fish on land, and John pushed his hair back again, trying to give him something concrete to focus on. "Oh, Sherlock. You've never experienced one before, have you?"

"But. But." Sherlock's throat jumped again, and for the first time, finally, he opened his eyes willingly. Glazed, bloodshot, in agony. "My right eye- I can't- see, John-"

"I know. Migraine with an aura." He combed his fingers through Sherlock's hair, partway to calm him, partway searching surreptitiously for any telltale lumps or gashes that might suggest this was something more; when nothing was found, he continued to comb through it, because he looked like he could really use the contact right now. Yes, apparently, even Sherlock Holmes was not immune to the benefits of physical, human contact. "Migraines can be accompanied by sensory disturbances and sensitivities. Scary, I know, but they're temporary, and no more indicative of a medical crisis than a headache."

There was another stunned, broken moment of silence. Sherlock opened his mouth and shut it again, gasping almost like a suffocating goldfish, his watering eyes fluttering.

"But. The- my speech. That's not-"

"It's not a symptom of a migraine, no." He paused to allow himself another small smile, letting his hand slow down in his sweat-soaked curl. "It is a symptom of not having slept or eaten in a day, and just coming round the bend from what is looking to be one hell of a drug."

"But I've gone much longer-"

"It's also," John interrupted, and once again, he just really could not help but smile, "the symptom of a very smart patient who is convinced he is having a stroke, and is aware that one of the symptoms can be difficulty in speech."

Sherlock's mouth twitched again. He looked, to John's rising amusement, positively gobsmacked- or as close to it as Sherlock Holmes could get.

He also, however, looked like he felt like his head was about to split open, and whatever sense of amusement John had passed very quickly to sympathy instead.

"Come on." He shifted, grasping Sherlock's hand tighter in his while working his other arm behind his back, preparing to lift the impossibly lanky, long form next to him and take all his weight when he did it. "You're getting back to bed."

Alarm bloomed across the pale face, hitching in the already unsteady, still panicky breaths. "No- J-John, I-"

But John had seen the protest coming, knew that Sherlock thought moving would make the pain worse than it already was, and he manhandled his friend through it. Moving the five feet from here to the bed would not make it worse, and stumbling on his feet for a half-second would not make it worse, but lying flat on his back with his head rolling against a cold, unforgiving hard wood floor would. "Just three seconds, Sherlock, that's all," he promised, folding him up to his knees. "That's it, I've got you. Three- two-"

As he'd predicted, Sherlock was of absolutely no help at all. He didn't have the strength, eyesight, or coordination to remain on his feet unaided, with his eyes squeezed shut, he wouldn't have been walking anywhere on his own, anyway. John helped him the few stumbling step between the floor and the room's disheveled bed, and just as his friend had opened his mouth to complain again, settled him down on the edge and let him go.

It took approximately two seconds of befuddled, pained shifting for Sherlock to apparently decide that the position he most wanted to be in was starfish-flopped on the bed, and approximately five seconds for him to arrange it so.

Thankfully, John considered, watching as his friend spread out on his stomach, each of his long limbs spread to the four corners of the bed, he knew better than to ask if that had actually helped.

Instead, he set about clearing up the bed as best he could, with starfish-Sherlock currently occupying it. He'd landed facefirst in his coat pile, squeezing into and around the Belstaff, so John had to settle for nudging the suitcase clear and then trying to free the laptop from being smushed by Sherlock's stomach. "D'you want your headphones back?" he asked quietly. Sherlock hadn't seemed sensitive to sounds, only light, but he had been wearing them before- "Hyperacusis can also-"

"Mmph. No." With a whimpered sort of whine, the detective planted his face more firmly in the pillow, as if he could use it to grind the pain out of his skull. "They were to reduce stimulus... now unnecessary, John. John." One hand roved blindly over the bed, crawling, searching, frightened. Vulnerable, Christ. Sherlock actually looked vulnerable.

John only had to take one step closer before that searching grip latched about his sleeve as tightly as iron, and there, it did not let go. "Y-you're sure?" the detective rasped again, yanking to reel him in closer still. "You're absolutely positive?"

Sensing what the detective was trying to say, John let him hang onto his sleeve, nodding once though Sherlock could not even see it. "I am." He didn't want to sit down on the bed, didn't want to even risk jostling his head, but something in him just had to be closer to him, so he dropped carefully to his knees beside it instead. "Photophobia isn't a symptom of a stroke, and unilateral symptoms are more common than not in migraines. The correct anatomical term is ipsilateral, by the way. You're going to be fine."

"Ipse... of course. Obviously." Sherlock twitched through a soft, aching sort of sigh; for a moment, finally almost actually sounding like his best friend again. Another breath passed in tense silence, the grip at his sleeve curling tighter. "But I have no history of-"

"Chronic migraines are much more common in female patients than male- it's not surprising you've never had one before. But they can also be set off by hormonal fluctuation, and seriously, Sherlock, your body chemistry has probably been through hell and back in the past twenty four hours. I'm not even surprised that this came on with an aura, knowing how unique your head is." Well aware that this was probably not very comforting, or, in his state, even intellectually stimulating, John turned his hand over after a moment, brushing his thumb against Sherlock's. "I'll keep an eye on you to make sure. And if you don't feel better by tomorrow morning, I'll get you to an A&E."

Sherlock remained tense for several more moments, his back stiff and his fists curling underneath John's watchful eye. He shifted, once, a little twitch that morphed into a choked groan, and his every breath and move remained so excrutiatingly relegated to keep what had to be enormous pain at bay.

Then, with a sulky, petulant huff, Sherlock relented via nuzzling his head back down into the cheap pillow.

By the lack of protest, he knew he didn't need to explain more.

He didn't need to explain that never mind the low-duty painkillers John had with him in his kit; even in a proper hospital, the best they'd be able to do for him was sedate him through the pain. Painkillers did terribly little when the problem was in the brain itself, and for someone with Sherlock's tolerance, they'd do even less. Maybe some of the more illicit substances that Sherlock knew how to get his hands on would actually help, but a hit of cocaine on a brain that was already malfunctioning could just as easily make things worse as better.

No.

Even in his current state, Sherlock knew that there was nothing for this except to ride it out.

Somehow, that was a fact that John could only be grateful for, because it saved him the misery of having to gently explain to his best friend that he could not and would not give him so much as a single shot of morphine.

As much pain as Sherlock was in, and as sick as he was right now- as much as it ached for John to know there was nothing he could do for him now but wait and watch- this really was all John could do. Whatever it was that Sherlock had been drugged with, it was almost certainly out of his system by now. There was no point in getting him to a hospital for it. The migraine was just the after results of his very big, very unique brain crashing.

They weren't going to be able to do anything at all but let it crash.

Slowly, miserably, the space between them began to settle into an unhappy silence. Sherlock looked terrible and probably felt even worse, and though John had about a dozen and one questions he desperately needed the answers to, each and every one could wait until his friend wasn't in pain. He'd need to text Henry, too, explain that Sherlock was unwell and they wouldn't be over today- maybe Mycroft, maybe to ask the elder Holmes to pull some strings at Baskerville before this damn case got Sherlock killed...

Christ. Sherlock could've died. Why hadn't the bloody mad idiot texted him the moment he'd realized what was going on?

"Sherlock," he tried again, keeping his voice low. "Seriously. You know there's a difference between you taking something, and being dosed with it against your will?"

The detective gave another huff of a sulk, utterly unmoving against the pillow. "Obviously."

"Is it? Because you're not acting as if it is." Getting him to move enough to get him under the blankets was surely out of the question, so after a moment, John just went for his beloved great coat, instead, spreading it out over him as best he could. Sherlock always did run cold, clinging to his Belstaff even in the height of June and summer, so at the very least, John would be providing him with a sense of familiarity that could only help.

Sherlock, for what it was worth, did not react at all. Not so much as an inch of movement, or a single breath of a sigh.

He supposed that was a good sign, really. Now that Sherlock seemed to have accepted that movement was not, in fact, going to make the pain in his head even worse, if he had not liked the coat, then it would already be on the floor.

"Ideal conditions," the detective muttered suddenly.

"What?"

"Ideal..." One pale hand rolled back and forth on the bed, like he would have been gesturing, if he'd had the wherewithal to lift it. John, sighing, tucked that one back under the coat. "Ideal conditions. You were not happy with me. I had disappointed you. I needed to begin the experiment as promptly as I could, I- could not risk you not- taking my hypothesis seriously. And." He shifted, a bit, nuzzling his face back down more firmly against the pillow with a slow, agonized attempt of a groan. "Could not risk..."

"Couldn't risk what?"

Sherlock's face buried as it was, John couldn't see his expression- couldn't imagine it would even do much good if he could. Sherlock was a fantastic actor, and even with his skills diluted by pain and misery and exhaustion, there was no promise that what he'd read on his face would be genuine. As it was, the detective just stayed slumped and unmoving, breaths just the faintest hint ragged, and for a moment John thought the question was going to go unanswered entirely.

Then, Sherlock murmured, "Rude."

"Hmm?"

"Didn't want to be... rude. Again."

"Sherlock. You have never once, in your entire life, cared in any way, about being-"

"I upset you. Before." Sherlock drew in another ragged breath, this one edging just on the heels of a whimper that just about knotted John's stomach to shreds. "Once I realized I was not in full control of myself, I didn't want to risk- repeating the mistake." There was another brief, torn pause. "I value your friendship more than the accurate measurement of results, John."

Something warm and liquifying pooled in John's gut.

Friendship. Sherlock. Valued. Sentiment. From Sherlock. Self-avowed high-functioning sociopath Sherlock Holmes.

The same bloody bastard who, a mere twelve hours ago, had spat fire, snarling at John that he did not need friends as if the word itself was the foulest insult he'd ever been called.

The same Sherlock Holmes, who'd apparently been drugged out of his mind, and yet had still been coherent enough to examine their friendship, allocate it a value, a worth, and determine that worth to be more so than his own health.

Fuck, that was not something John should be praising, but- oh, damn it.

Lump back in his throat, full force, John decided it was time he put his training to good use before Sherlock realized just how much the words meant to him, and turned back down to his sheet of "data" instead.

It was going to require some talking through with Sherlock later, once he'd gotten some sustenance in him, and whatever wrongly dilated vessels or misfiring nerves had gotten themselves sorted and his head had calmed down, and the man had had a good, long nap. John couldn't decipher his friend's shorthand at the best of times, and this, clearly, had not been written at the best of times. There was something that might've been a feedback loop, but with half the steps added after the fact and not a single one of them written in plain English, all to the point of illegibility. Then, upside-down, was something that looked like it had been a theory or hypothesis, stamped out by an emphatic scrawl of STUPID on top of it.

Not for the first time, John wondered on what it really said for Sherlock's self-esteem, that the most brilliant man he'd ever met so often, so viciously, derided his own thoughts as stupid.

John shook his head, half-fond, and a little more than half sad, and moved on.

Somewhere in the mess, John's examination latched hopefully against a gathering of words that he knew, undiluted by Sherlock's code. Perhaps he did not feel comfortable enough with medical terminology to have developed a shorthand for it- which was actually funny, if he didn't think too hard about it, but that wasn't the point- tachycardia... something that might've been hyperhidrosis, before Sherlock had gotten his hands on the word... shaking...

And, there, underneath that, so sloppy he could barely read it at all-

Panic attack?

"Oh, god," he moaned, the words bitter and soft, under his breath. In the immortal words of Sherlock, stupid. Obviously. Stupid.

"John?" Sherlock grated.

Last night. That had been a panic attack. That was what that had been. John had been confused, mostly, a little angry, a little hurt, but most of all, just lost, while Sherlock had been having a panic attack.

Now, with distance, now, with proper and professional detachment- well, god. Obviously. That had not been nicotine withdrawal. That had not been Sherlock throwing a tantrum. The shaking, the sweating, the rapid-fire speech and eyes. Oh, hell, Sherlock had even tried to self-medicate with alcohol- a terrible idea, actually, but he could hardly blame Sherlock for trying. But it was excruciatingly obvious, now.

If any random patient had walked in off the street into the clinic with those symptoms, John would have immediately diagnosed them as having a panic attack compounded by severe nicotine withdrawal. He would've kept them for observation at least until the worst of it had passed, and if it had not, would've escorted them over to the hospital proper himself.

Meanwhile, he'd looked at his best friend, showing those exact same symptoms, and, like a right arsehole, he'd pretty much told Sherlock to walk it off and stop being so irrational about it.

"Jesus Christ," he moaned, again. Like if he moaned a god's name enough times, then said god would actually before avowed atheist Sherlock Holmes and fix this all with a snap of the fingers. Shit. There had literally been nothing worse that he could've said. "God, Sherlock. I am so sorry."

Sherlock rolled minutely, just a little, shifting the smallest bit to blink up at him with one watery, bloodshot left eye. His right remained buried into the pillow, a hand pressed and shaking against the curve of his head and hair. "Mmm?"

"Last night. I should've taken you seriously, Sherlock, I-"

"Hmm?" He didn't roll his eyes, but it seemed like a near thing, exasperation flickering through as he rolled back to re-settle, facefirst. "You were correct not to, though. I was behaving irrationally. I now have scientific proof of it."

"That's not the point! You- no, there's not a bloody monster Frankenstein dog out there for real, but your reaction to it was real. Your emotions were real. I should've taken it more seriously. Or at least not blown it off enough that you felt like you had to do this alone."

That was the worst of it, really, wasn't it. John didn't quite know how bad last night had been for Sherlock, but one look around the room confirmed: it had been bad. If whatever he'd been dosed with had tumbled him over the edge into a panic attack, then he'd probably been like that for hours.

And he'd been like that here, in the dark, alone, because he hadn't wanted to risk texting John for help.

God. The bloody mad bastard. Just- fucking- god!

"But I was being irrational," Sherlock finally murmured, again. He sounded honestly, innocently perplexed, as if he could not possibly imagine why John was pushing the point. His hand kneaded miserably into his head, fingers curling, scratching, as if he just might be able to rip the problem area straight out. "You were correct to point it- oh."

"Sherlock?" John leaned back over in alarm, one hand reaching for a shoulder under the pile of coats, not daring to touch his head. "Talk to me. What's happening? What do you feel?"

"J- John," he groaned, voice edging higher into a mild degree of panic. "I genuinely believe thinking this through is making me need to throw up."

"Woah. Okay. Easy, now. Easy." He rubbed at both his shoulders, now, the back of his neck, trying to knead through the coat pile, to get him to relax in any way that he could. "Nausea and emesis can also come with a migraine. Easy. This is all normal. You're going to be okay." Nausea was not only normal- for many patients, vomiting could help the pain, signaling the end of the most difficult phase, but there was no sense in telling Sherlock that. If his friend knew that was even a chance it might help, he knew he'd find himself grappling to keep the idiot from shoving his fingers down his own throat.

No, John considered, still massaging against Sherlock's shoulders, best to keep that tidbit to himself.

"You're stiff as a board back here, you know," he muttered, in no small part just seeking something to distract him from the nausea. But it was true. The detective's back, even through a dress shirt and two coats, felt tense enough to make an orthopedist cry. "Relax, Sherlock. Being tense'll just make it worse."

"Impossible," Sherlock croaked. "It could not possibly be worse. It feels- oh, god." Despite John's words, he tensed, spasming uselessly once again, then let out such a plaintive, croaking cry it was almost more than John could take. "I do believe I would like to kill myself, John."

"That's probably the politest I've ever heard a patient say that."

"I'm not joking. I am going to shoot myself in the head and-" He choked, once, on a swallowed, muffled sort of sob. "-and enjoy it, holy hell, John-"

"Of course you are." John continued rubbing his back, simply unsure of what else he could offer or do. The best thing for Sherlock right now was sleep, but it didn't sound like that was an option, at this point. That left only distraction.

When the wave seemed to have passed, at least, leaving Sherlock worn and shivering and panting, John again straightened out the sheet in his lap, just wanting to find something to try and take his mind off the pain. He'd seemed to do well with it before, at least, and if it would help... "You've got nausea and emesis recorded down here, too. You experienced these last night, then?"

"No. This- feels different than then. Not the same symptom," he amended gruffly, voice gravelly and guttural, then just sank underneath John's hand, utterly miserable. "Three hours in. After- after the experiment started. The nausea. I first threw up four hour in. The nausea abated some after I got the idea to block incoming stimuli, but I think I'd already upset my stomach by that point. I threw up on five more occasions."

"Jesus." John glanced down at the mess of the sheet, wondering if he should note it down, somewhere, then just swallowed and shook his head. He wanted to press the point again that Sherlock should have texted him, should not have gotten so sick alone, but that was clearly a conversation that was going to have to wait until his friend was up to it.

Because of course Sherlock would be more up for a discussion of pharmacodynamics and progression of symptoms than fucking text me if you're sick, you bloody mad git.

Another thought struck him, then- the memory of Sherlock downing that whiskey like it was water, and then, there, that whiskey glass on the bedside table, the dregs of what looked like wine clinging to the bottom. Sherlock had correctly diagnosed that he'd needed to calm down, and he'd correctly diagnosed that it had been beyond his control to will it without medical or chemical intervention, but if John was right, he had wildly miscalculated the correct way to do so. He could just picture Sherlock downing whiskey after whiskey, getting more upset when none had the desired affect, ordering another, another. John's heart ached again, and barely without a thought, his hand migrated shakily back to one tense shoulder.

"How much did you have to drink last night?"

"I'm not hungover," Sherlock snipped back, indignation flaring again in his voice. "I told you-"

"You could be hungover in addition to everything else," John pointed out, getting gingerly to his feet. Hungover or not, if he'd been drinking and throwing up, dehydration was a concern. "Just answer the question, Sherlock."

"I only had the one! I'm not stupid, John-"

"Oh, current circumstances might-"

"-once I'd realized I'd been drugged, I knew the drug interaction was a needlessly confounding variable!" He huffed a great, dramatic sigh, the most put-upon sigh in the history of dramatic, put-upon sighs. "Honestly, John, it's positively hateful, your instinct to mother-hen- I know how to run a proper experiment-"

"Oh?" John re-emerged from the wrecked loo, bearing a glass of water and raising an eyebrow, utterly wasted on his friend's pitiful, facedown form. "Then what's that in the glass there next to you? Another experiment, then?" Without waiting for him to answer, John sat back down on the edge of the bed, squeezing at his shoulder to try and coax him onto his side. "Come on, sit up a little. You need to drink something."

"No."

"Sherlock-"

"No."

"Come on, mate. I know it hurts- just for a second, that's all." John gave the shoulder another gentle jostle, now working his arm around his back, starting to carefully pull him up even against protest. "Just like before. Just for a few seconds, and you'll feel better after it."

Sherlock did not look convinced. Sherlock did not look happy. Sherlock, boneless under his grip, looked absolutely utterly spent and broken, being gently maneuvered not even halfway upright and supported entirely by John's hands. His hair plastered against the sweat on his face, curls mashed over one eye, his right eye cracked open and watering like mad, to the point that tears were and had been streaming down half his face.

John bit his tongue. As dreadful as Sherlock looked, as much pain as he could see he was in, right there on his face, he knew there was nothing he could do for it. Four years of medical school, and the absolute most that he could do for his best friend right now was what he was already doing: sit there by his side, keep him held upright, and cajole him into swallowing a few precious mouthfuls of water. Just until the pain on his face found itself tempered by annoyance, and Sherlock swatted at his hand hard enough that if John hadn't been ready for it, the water would've ended up spilled all over his friend.

Then, Sherlock was back face down and moaning, and John was left to pull the coats back into place and resettle back into his place by his side.

"You're not avoiding the question from before, you know. I need to know how much you had to drink." This time, after pulling the blanket-Belstaff back up, his hand lingered at the base of his neck. Pressure seemed to be helping, if the hand Sherlock had crumpled to his forehead was any indication. And, on one hand, something was ridiculous as stroking Sherlock's hair was just ridiculous, because this was Sherlock, but on the other, John was a doctor, and-

Well, to be honest, his friend looked a little bit beyond caring about anything but the pain at this point, anyway.

So, with a brusque, almost business-like sort of manner, one that allowed not even an inch of awkwardness to seep through, John slid his hand to his hair, instead. He pressed, gently at first, half-stroking, half-not, but Sherlock stiffened so abruptly and let out such a hitched moan that he jerked back as if scalded.

"I'm sorry- hey, shh, it's okay- I'm sorry, Sherlock, I thought-"

"No," the detective choked, grappling blindly backwards in abject desperation. "No, harder. You moron. That helped- John-"

"Oh." John blinked, a new warmth suddenly rising in his face, then started and shook his head hard. No, John. Dr. Watson. Professionalism. Come on, now. "Right, then. I- sorry." He returned his hand to where it had been before, pressing gently against the problem spot with his fingers laced through those ridiculous, expensive curls. "Is this okay?"

The obscene moan he got in response was all that he needed to know the answer.

So John pet at Sherlock's hair, trying to press the migraine away as very much as he could. His distractions weren't working as well as he'd hoped, Sherlock apparently unwilling to answer questions and not up to posing any of his own, so maybe this was just what they'd have to do.

The detective had more than earned a sick day, as far as John was concerned.

With Sherlock lapsed back into silence beside him, John, one-handed, started to grapple for his phone. First off was a text to poor Henry- who, John only now realized, if Sherlock and Henry had both been drugged, and Sherlock had gotten this sick, then Henry could be in danger, too. Biting his lip, John dragged his thumb across the conversation for a moment, utterly torn on what to do, but one look at Sherlock made up his mind.

Sherlock had been alone last night, after John had gone and just utterly botched it up in every way possible. He wasn't going to be alone today.

He closed Henry's conversation, and brought up his with Greg's, instead.

Case in Dartmoor, looks like we need backup. Big favor?

Sherlock's not in a good way

It took less than a minute for the answer to come through.

Believe it or not, Mycroft's already sent me your way. Give me another hour

Is Sherlock okay?

Offf course. Bloody Mycroft.

After yesterday's foolish excursion into Baskerville, they really should've seen this coming.

I'm keeping an eye on him, John texted back with a sigh, casting a cursory look back at the slumped detective by his side. Once again, his stomach twisted in sympathy. Oh, the fit he was going to throw when he found out his brother was nosing in again... I need a wellness check at our client's address. Sherlock will still be down for the count when you get here, so I'll see if we can talk then. Tysm

Then, after shooting off Henry's address, he stowed his phone back away without so much as waiting for a response, his attention already back on Sherlock.

Who, of course, had not spent the last few minutes idle.

"Why," the detective groaned, the longest suffering groan of all groans ever uttered, "would you tell Mycroft about this. Why, John. I thought you didn't hate me."

He could almost hear the pout in his miserable voice, for god's sake. Rolling his eyes, John returned to stroking his hair, barely able to suppress the smile. "I don't hate you, which is why I texted Greg, not Mycroft. He'll be here to help out soon."

"Don't need help," he muttered sulkily, shoulder flexing and rolling underneath Jon's elbow. A moment passed, full of twitching detective and silence. "You... texted who?"

Lord. "Just try and get some rest, Sherlock," he sighed fondly, nudging at one limp arm with a leg. "Sleep if you can, relax if you can't. I'll be here."

And Sherlock was, mercifully, quiet again.

Soft as melted butter underneath John's hands, the aching tension in his back fading with every careful massage, slowly softening underneath the coat pile and the curled fist against his head relaxing. Trails of tears were drying against his temples, upside-down and silvery, and he still was sweating and tiff and looked miserable, but he was coming down, now. The drug had to be fully out of his system, by this point, and all that was left was starved receptors and hungry synapses, overstimulated circuits struggling to claw back to proper homeostasis once again.

As horrible as Sherlock had to feel right now, they both knew that the worst of it was now over.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

The lump that looked vaguely like a shoulder shifted again, making a stab at flexing. "Need a blood test."

John sighed, allowing his hand to slow in his hair. "I can draw some blood, but I don't think it's in your system, by now. Even if you took it orally, it's been over twelve hour since you were dosed." This is why you should've let me know last night, he thought sourly, but did not say.

"Mmm. No. Not... I know. I have the sample. Taken two hours post experimentation-" He stopped, clearing his throat once, then coughed roughly into his pillow. "Method of administration depending, of course; I know it might not show anything, but it's worth-"

"Hang on, slow down. Slow- easy, Sherlock; you sound like you're going to get sick again." He rubbed his hair again, trying to coax him back into calming back down, to relaxing against the mattress. God, of course Sherlock would still want to be up and antsy, even sick as a dog. "So you drew your own blood, then?" I really don't want to admit it, but... good thinking. "Where is it?"

Sherlock, however, went oddly quiet. He twitched once, again, shivering under the coats.

"Sherlock?"

"...can I request that you forestall any yelling until my head is no longer trying to kill itself?" Sherlock asked, his voice suddenly, strangely small.

John's eyes narrowed. A sense of suspicion, unwelcome, but absolutely, undeniably necessary, now, settled its way into his brain.

After a year and a half of being Sherlock's friend, he knew, very well, that that statement did not bode well.

"You can explain what you're talking about, first of all, and if yelling is appropriate, I think I'll do it. Sherlock?"

The detective let out a shaking, choked whimper again, a whimper that died into a moan. He started to shake his head, then shuddered to a stop with a gasp, pain shocking down through him so vehemently that John could feel it in every single tense line in his back.

"...deduce it," he said finally, and he still sounded just- wrong. "I told you. I only had one drink."

"And what is that supposed to-" Great. So Sherlock was going to be like that, again. Great. Cursing- still carefully, still quietly- John sank back against the headboard, glaring alternately between Sherlock's stiff back and, now, the nearly empty tumblr on the bedside table. The tumblr that screamed more than one drink, because John had watched him consume one full of whiskey, and now there was a second one, one that contained just the dregs of something not-whiskey, something red like wine.

John's eyes widened.

Something red like wine- wine that, as Sherlock had been trying to furiously self-medicate on a bottle of whiskey, he would've had no reason to drink.

Something red like wine, which Sherlock was swearing up and down that he hadn't had. He had no reason to lie.

Something red like wine, in the tumblr that was apparently related to the blood that Sherlock swore he had drawn the night before.

Fucking-

Glaring viciously at Sherlock's back, John shoved to his feet, this time taking no care not to jostle him. He pushed around to the other side of the bed to heave up the messy tumblr, and, without a word, brought it up to his nose to smell.

Not alcohol.

Oh fucking hell, that was not alcohol.

"Sherlock bloody Holmes-"

"No yelling," Sherlock protested, a plaintive sort of whine he was now halfway convinced was all an act. "You said-"

"I said no such thing and you know it. Arms, Sherlock. Now!"

His answer did not come in words, but in the resigned, uncoordinated flapping of his left arm under the coat. Because Sherlock had to know it was unavoidable, at this point, and had merely chosen to surrender under his own terms rather than face a biter defeat under John's. Glowering still, not mollified at all, he stole forward and wrenched the Belstaff back to bare the limb for inspection.

There, close up to the crook of the elbow, overlaid on the scars of very old track marks and skin still much too pale, was a fresh, blood-crusted wound. Cut neatly horizontal with a short blade, likely a razor, sliced around the curve of his arm into lean muscle and skating by the veins by little more than a centimetre.

It was very explicitly and undeniably self-inflicted.

It was also, very explicitly and undeniably, not an attempt at self-harm, but had instead only been a cut to draw enough blood to give sample for them to test in the morning.

John saw red, and for a breath, quite nearly wrenched Sherlock's arm right out of the socket.

"Sherlock!"

"It was safe!" his friend protested, and he actually had the gall to sound petulant, son of a bitch, "I didn't touch a vein, I just-"

"I do not care. I do not care. I'm going to kill you. You- no, lie still, Sherlock, or so help me-" He pulled the arm around, turning it back and forth, tapping along the sickly skin, but to his rising disbelief, Sherlock was right. He had been careful. He had clearly made sure to avoid the veins, cutting to draw as much blood as he could without putting himself in harm's way, and then- John leaned closer, breathing in deeply, and tensed again. The fucker. He'd even done his best to clean it. He could smell the soap, see the very faint, irritated red brushed along the skin, from where he'd scrubbed raw. John still would've preferred to clean it out under sterile alcohol and then bandage it safely away, but Sherlock had clearly done the very best he could with what he'd had.

And somehow, this made John even angrier than if he'd found a sloppy, messily infected wound that he'd need to stitch and clean himself.

Only Sherlock Holmes could be responsible, efficient, and safe about cutting himself.

John squeezed his eyes shut, for a moment, pressing a hand to the bridge of his nose and struggling, desperately, to calm down. Sherlock was sick, through no fault of his own. Sherlock was suffering, through no fault of his own. Sherlock, though he would surely argue otherwise, was not currently capable of properly handling or processing a discussion of this magnitude. He would not repeat last night's mistake, of mishandling his friend when he was very obviously not in his right mind. He would not, he would not, he would not.

He sighed grievously again, fighting to clear the lump from his throat against the still shuddering shoulder, lying perilously stiff just there underneath his hand.

The sample had been a smart idea. Even John could admit that. And, in Sherlock's severely addled state, he could understand why he'd gone to such lengths to get it. John did not, currently, have the heart to tell him that the sample was most likely, now, actually worthless. Sherlock had not had the materials on hand to properly sterilize the glass, and it had been left sitting out, uncovered and un-refridegrated, for hours on end. It'd be worth it to test, sure, but John wasn't going to bet on the results coming back with anything over than a contaminated mess.

But, again, that was hardly Sherlock's fault.

Finally, the tight ache in his throat melting back away and the sharp stab of anger in his gut following suit, John settled his friend's arm back down on the bed. He left the cuff unbuttoned and bloodied sleeve rolled up, gently situating it all for ease of access later, but, for now, just saw to it that it was laid back down, as comfortably as was currently possible. "I am impressed," he told Sherlock, one hand returning to stroke in the mussed curls. "I am impressed, and you're brilliant. I'm also annoyed, and you're reckless, and stupid, and we're going to talk about this when you feel better. And for your next birthday I would like to give you a sense of self-preservation and nothing else. Seriously." He stroked his hair again, pressing gently the way that Sherlock seemed to like. "This case is not so important you had to hurt yourself just on the off chance that-"

"I needed proof."

"No, you didn't," John said bluntly. "You did not. Your health is not worth risking for-"

"Oh, God, John, give it a rest. It's a scratch, not a gunshot wound. I- hm. H-" Sherlock breathed in raggedly again, a low, deep gasp, shoulders jerking and tense underneath his hands. "Hmm."

John recognized the signs of renewed nausea without having to be told, this time. "All right, it's all right. Take a breath." Clearly, this discussion was just going to have to wait. "Just relax, Sherlock. We can talk about this later."

"But-"

"Nope, sorry." John allowed himself a faint twitch of a smile, more sad than not, and gave a reproachful tug at his hair. "If you keep trying to argue, then I'll text Mycroft for backup instead of Lestrade."

This time, the stiffening of Sherlock's shoulder was one of sheer, absolute betrayal. Somehow, somehow, the rudest, most untouchable detective in all of London looked like a kicked puppy, all wet-eyed and slumped shoulders and pouting lower lip, and fuck it all if John didn't actually feel just the slightest bit guilty, at the gobsmacked look on Sherlock's face.

Got you.

"Interfering tosser," Sherlock muttered at last, melting bonelessly back into his pillow, and John knew he'd finally won.

Or, well, the migraine had won for him, but at this point, really, John would take what he could get.

Sherlock was, mercifully, quiet and non-combative after that. Thinking too hard seemed to make him feel ill, so he resorted to just lying there on his stomach, whimpering whenever John's fingers in his hair slowed or stopped, and having to wait for the worst of it to pass. Migraines could actually last for days- another fact he saw fit not to mention, just yet- but John was expecting this one to pass in a matter of hours.

If it didn't, he already knew he'd be putting serious thought towards just getting Sherlock to hospital so he could sleep the rest of this out.

Greg texted again, at a few points. First to confirm that Henry was all right, furthering John's theory that Sherlock had just had a brutally bad reaction to whatever the hell it was they'd been dosed with. Then, several times more, wanting to know just what the hell was going on, but John put him off each time. When Sherlock felt better, he assured, over and over again. Now that he knew that his friend had gone so far as to hurt himself in his delirium, there was no way in hell John was leaving this room until he was completely confident Sherlock was back in his right mind.

Which was looking to be more of an ordeal than he'd seen coming.

Sherlock got worse, as the minutes softened into hours. His back curled tenser no matter John's soft admonishments to try and relax, and when John's phone told him he'd been on vigil for two hours, the stiffness began to dissolve into an anguished, horrible rocking. Face still buried from view, the detective whimpered and tossed, his bare feet wriggling against his coat, and more than once kicked so violently with his long legs that a heel cracked against the end of the bed. His right eye was now watering in earnest, and more than once, John caught a glimpse of his left doing the same.

"John," he gasped, high-pitched and shaking. Another kick of his foot and he all but shoved the sheets of the bed with it, writhing like a bear caught in a trap. "Sedate me, John. Please. I don't- I don't care, it-"

"Shhh." John leaned closer, phone dropped instantly for his free hand to press at the back of Sherlock's neck in a gesture he could only hope was comforting. "We can't sedate you unless we go to hospital. That's hours away, Sherlock; I know you don't want that car ride. You're doing totally fine right now. This is all normal, love, I promise. You've just got to wait it out."

"I will-" Another ragged, absolutely miserable gasp- "I will knock myself out before-"

"You'll do no such thing. Shh, Sherlock, relax..." John kneaded gently at the back of his head again, his heart lurching at the second whine of anguish. He had never heard Sherlock sound like this before. Not with broken bones, not with the flu, not even on that one case that had gone so, so badly and ended with the smuggler pulling the fingernails from Sherlock's left hand, one by one.

The fact that, medically speaking, there was nothing at all concerning, and nothing at all to be done but lay there and let it pass, did nothing at all to change the fact that Sherlock was in genuine pain.

At John's steady refusal, Sherlock merely whimpered again, something that sounded like frustration compounded against a wall of agony. He kicked once more, trying to twist and getting nowhere.

When the sound of rapid mutterings came, a hushed murmur into the pillow carrying Sherlock through the elements of the periodic table, one by one, all John could do was continue to sit by and listen.

"You're doing great, Sherlock. Really well, I promise; just keep that up."

"...seven Nitrogen, eight Oxygen, nine..."

The mantra continued. The attempts at writhing got worse.

"...twenty-four Chromium, twenty-five M-... Ma..."

"Manganese," John filled in softly. (Only about halfway confident, honestly, but what did it matter if he was wrong; what did it matter, so long as he helped with the distraction). "I always stumbled over that one, too."

"Manganese, shutupJohn, twenty-six Iron, nooneaskedyou, twenty-seven.."

John smiled weakly back, fatigue cracking against a well of sympathy, and lapsed back into silence.

"...seventy-nine Gold, eighty Merc-"

Sherlock's breaths abruptly hitched, his mantra lurched against a brick wall. He tried to curl again, breathing rapidly; then, for the first time in well over an hour, tentatively pushed himself onto his side.

John only had to get one look at his ashen face to predict what was coming next.

He got the bin up from the floor just in time for Sherlock to wrench upright, back heaving and shaking hand to mouth. John wasted no time in pulling his friend to sit even more, rubbing at his back with one hand and pulling at his arm with the other. "Sherlock-" he pressed, squeezing his hand.

He got no further than that before Sherlock began heaving into the bin.

Having had nothing more than a single whiskey and half a glass of water in well over twenty four hours, there was, thankfully, very little in his stomach for his friend to actually throw up. Still, Sherlock convulsed beside him, shivering as he heaved again and again, and all John could do was keep a steady hand on his back and another gripping at the inside of his wrist, feeling the unsteady racing of his heart.

Until, all too soon, just like that, it was over.

Sherlock spat once, twice, sweat shiny on his forehead and the look on his face a cross between weariness and sheer disgust. He spat again, running a useless hand across his forehead which migrated very quickly to press over his right eye. This time when John offered water, he accepted it without a fuss.

"Better?" John asked quietly, again rubbing a firm hand up and down his back. Still shuddering, still sticky with sweat, but no longer heaving.

The look Sherlock gave him was positively venomous, and more than that, impressive, for two watery and bloodshot eyes to pull off such a hateful, seething glare. He spat again, this time the mouthful of water, and took another tentative swallow. "Today," he growled, in a voice as gravely as a country road, "is proof of an utter failure of human biology and evolution. I am disappointed in my ancestors' genetics."

John laughed once, the hand on his back sliding now to squeeze his shoulder. Somehow he managed to laugh, anyway, because all he felt underneath was sheer, unwavering relief. The worst was finally over, then. "I'll take that as a yes." He pushed a little closer to Sherlock, supporting him when his friend just slumped sideways in a messy collapse, head dropped to his shoulder and bowed at the neck like every single last bit of vanishing strength had just evaporated out of him like water in a frying pan. "Think it's time you got some sleep, now, yeah?"

The detective merely moaned, a whine of abject, undeniable misery, one hot cheek still pressed to John's shoulder. "My head hurts."

"I know. Still normal, I'm afraid. Come on, Sherlock; down you get." Sherlock was still collapsed on him, clinging to his side with one shivering hand, so John just contented himself with trying to get his friend horizontal again, curled and shivering against the weight of his coat. "Get some sleep, okay? You'll feel better when you wake up."

"John."

"Nope. No talking, Sherlock. Time for that after you've gotten some rest."

"John," Sherlock croaked, and now he was pawing, for god's sake, longer fingers scratching into John's jumper over drooping eyes and a face already falling slack with a body begging for respite. "An apology. For last night. Is it appropriate?"

"What? Sherlock-" Somehow, John's hand found its way back into Sherlock's messy hair again, the detective curled against his lap, eyes watering with the force of his sickness. "Not now, okay? Don't worry about it, you-"

"Is it appropriate?" He breathed deeply again, eyes fluttering. "I understand that apologies are meant to be accepted, but I have apologised, and you have not-. You. John, if there is- something else that I am meant to-"

And, well, there went John's heart after all.

Never thought he'd see the day where Sherlock Holmes would make him melt, puddled in his lap and pressing into his hand like a puppy wanting to cuddle, but here it was.

"Sherlock," he interrupted, squeezing the shivering hand back in his. He waited, then, watching him, waiting to make sure that he had been heard and he was being listened to. "Sherlock. I'll make you a deal: I'll forgive you for last night, if you do one thing for me now."

Watery eyes narrowed, a glimmer of suspicion etching its way onto his dreadfully exhausted, half-obscured face. "Yes, John?"

He looked genuinely wary, as if John might ask him the impossible, even for Sherlock Holmes. To snatch the moon from the sky, or stand up and do a handstand, or solve the case right here, right now, lying there in his lap.

Sherlock Holmes, John determined, not for the first time even that day alone, was as bloody brilliant as he was utterly stupid.

"Get some sleep," he said, and squeezed his hand again.

Sherlock blinked, once. His eyes fluttered again, narrowing, searching from behind wet lashes, even as John saw him struggle against the sleep that his brain was begging him to give; the sleep that was becoming less and less of a choice by the moment.

"Yes, John," he finally gave, the words cracked and fading already. He blinked again, shivering harder, and then, the next breath, he was out as surely as a light.