Sherlock could feel the pain in his sleep long before he awoke. His stomach was cramping intensely and it was causing his sleep to be anything but beneficial. It was a rare occasion that he was sleeping and even rarer that he actually wanted to sleep. He and John had just concluded a case and Sherlock hadn't slept for five days. They had come home, eaten some take away, and then both gone to bed immediately afterward. Now that the case was over, Sherlock was exhausted and he had looked forward to getting some much needed rest.

But it seemed his stomach had other ideas. The pain was coaxing him out of sleep even though he fought it. Apparently, the food had not agreed with him. They would have to remember not to get take away from that Chinese restaurant again. He tried to focus on going back to sleep, willing himself to calm down. He knew that if he acknowledged the pain, focused on it, that it would get worse. If he could just get himself back to sleep he would probably sleep through most of it.

He drifted in and out of sleep for what seemed like forever before he realized his stomach was not only cramping and getting worse by the moment, but also nauseous. Sherlock didn't get sick and he didn't want to be sick now. He glanced at the clock and the green numbers read 4:45 am. He still had a lot of sleep he wanted to get but when his stomach rolled so much to felt like it was inside out he couldn't get out of bed fast enough.

He ran to the bathroom and he was so focused on his goal that he had not noticed it was occupied until he was already bursting through the door. John was already hanging over the toilet gripping the sides of it as if for dear life in mid-vomit when Sherlock burst in. Sherlock had to swallow down his own nausea for a moment and try to compose himself.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock wasn't sure exactly why he asked it. What a stupid question to ask. He just had not expected John to be here and he did not want him here.

"What does it look like?" John looked like he was in as much agony as Sherlock felt. Sherlock tried to suppress the nausea that he, until a moment ago, had been full intentions of giving into. It was a bad enough idea to get sick alone, in the dead of night, when no one would know. There was no way he was going to vomit here in front of John. But as John vomited again Sherlock knew he was losing the battle. He tried not to pay attention to what John was doing but it just coaxed his stomach to give in to the same fate; taunting him, daring him to fight it.

Sherlock knew he was losing the battle and would soon be sick himself so he hoped that he could at least usher John out. "John, are you finished yet?"

John finally looked up at Sherlock. No, glared was a better word. John glared at Sherlock with a ferocity that Sherlock had never seen directed at him before. He looked like he might punch Sherlock if he wasn't feeling so lousy or weak. "I'm a little busy here at the moment, if you don't mind."

Sherlock could only see the nausea, it was all he could hear and feel, it was all that existed. Sweat was beading up on his forehead and he felt a little dizzy. He pushed John back a little and bent over the toilet completely giving into it. He was appalled as he got sick twice in a row. How could he possibly have so much in his stomach?

When it appeared that nothing more was coming out at this moment, he sat down on the cold tiled floor. Vomiting provided a slight relief but not as much as he had wanted. And it left his stomach sore and his throat burning. Sweat covered his body making him cold and shaky.

"Oh, Sherlock," John said looking a little annoyed. "You could have given me a little warning." John, who had not been prepared, and therefore did not look away, when Sherlock got sick, was now getting ready to get sick again himself. When he was done he laid down on the floor, wrapping his arms around his midsection, and curling up on himself.

"This is revolting," Sherlock moaned. His stomach was making noises and motions that told him he would get sick again. How was that even possible?

"Its pretty terrible. But throwing up isn't the end of the world you know."

"That's a matter of opinion."

Sherlock fought it fiercely. He'd already gotten sick, twice. Shouldn't that be the end of it? It was bad enough that he'd lost it in front of John once. He took deep breaths and swallowed to force the nausea down.

"Don't fight it," John said. He was still lying on the ground curled up in pain with his eyes closed.

"What are you taking about?" Sherlock said, hoping his actions weren't that obvious. John wasn't even looking at him for crying out loud, surely Sherlock wasn't that readable.

"You're trying not to vomit. Its best just to get it over with. Your body is trying to get rid of something and this is the fastest way to do it. If you suppress it you'll only prolong and intensify your pain," he said glancing at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye.

"Its alright; you don't have to be embarrassed with me."

Sherlock scoffed. "I'm not embarrassed."

John just looked at him. That face of his that said 'oh really?' He was not fooled.

"I simply do not have to get sick again. I threw up twice already. There surely isn't anything left in my stomach." John probably didn't mind seeing Sherlock throw up; he was a doctor after all. But Sherlock minded John seeing him get sick.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that." Almost, as if on cue, Sherlock's stomach lurched upward quickly and he just barely made it over toilet. He was wrong; there had been more-a lot more. That was too close; it had happened so quickly he'd almost not made it. His body was now out of his control.

An hour later, Sherlock and John were both lying on the floor of the bathroom, tired and miserable. Every 15 minuets one would vomit followed by the other. Sherlock had stopped counting how many times he had thrown up and he was disgusted with himself, with his body for betraying him like this. They were both curled up trying not to move, as the slightest motion would bring on the overwhelming nausea. It wasn't comfortable; the floor felt good right after you vomited and were hot but it soon got cold and it was hard. It wasn't comfortable, but it was safe. And that's something you really needed when your stomach was being so unstable.

"John, what's wrong with us?" It occurred to Sherlock that he should have asked this sooner but he had not thought about it until now. This dreadful sickness was so all consuming that it was slowing down his thought processes. Something would have to be done about this.

"I think its food poisoning. It could be the flu but with the quick onset and severity of our symptoms and the fact that we experienced them at the same time, I would say its food poisoning of some kind or the other."

"I shouldn't have let you talk me into trying that new restaurant."

"Me? You were the one who wanted Chinese food."

"Yes, but it was your idea to try that new place out."

"It had good reviews! Besides, this could happen anywhere. Its no one's fault really." John groaned. "I don't think I'll ever eat Chinese food again, so it doesn't matter."

"I'm not sure that I'll ever eat again. I always knew it was nuisance. Here's the biggest piece of evidence."

Sherlock groaned. Food poisoning. Great. Well, he decided he was done with this. He'd gotten rid of all of the stupid Chinese food; he knew that for a fact. The last time he'd gotten sick there hadn't been anything left except bile, which was truly appalling. And if his body had rid itself of the problem then there was no reason to continue to vomit.

He pushed himself off the floor. He felt weak and shaky and he had to take his time because he was dizzy. At the movement, his stomach rocked, but he pushed the nausea down, determined to will it away.

"Where are you going?" John asked.

"I am going to get some sleep."

"You really think you can?" John asked incredulously.

"Well, I don't intend on spending anymore time here on the bathroom floor. I'm done with being sick." Sherlock said it like that closed the issue entirely, and left the room.

"All right then," John said from his place on the bathroom floor. He knew he wasn't getting any sleep anytime soon so he didn't plan on leaving the safety of the bathroom. Sherlock could pretend that he could just will his illness away but John knew better than that. This thing wasn't going to be over anytime soon and Sherlock would be back. He laid his head down and closed his eyes and waited for the next wave to come over his stomach.

Oh no! Sherlock and John are sick at the same time? What will they do? Please follow and review :)