A/N: Yes! A new story! I have a lot of ideas banging around in my head, and I will try to be fair in updates of both. I've seen a lot of A-Z stories, but I'd like to try my hand. Mostly, I'd like to see if I can actually get to Z.

Also, I really do love the softer moments between the boys (how about that hug, huh?) so, I'm indulging…sue me. They will each get alternating letters, and will both be present. Appearances from supporting characters will also occur.

As ever, I do not own anything…that privilege belongs to ACD and most recently, the incredible Moffatt and Gatiss.

Please enjoy!

BOYS OF BAKER STREET:

An A-Z Almanac of Hurt/Comfort

Secondary Genre: Slight humour

Rated: T for swearing

Character: Sherlock Holmes

A is for Anaphylaxis

Wherein Sherlock discovers he is allergic to wasps, much to John's dismay.

'We have a wasps nest,' John stated conversationally as he stirred his morning tea. He had woken to the lazy plunk of the insects colliding with the window; and for some reason, during the vague process of rousing; John thought that this news may be of some interest to the Consulting Detective. Lack of a case, and the subsequent boredom that followed - made living with the sociopath more unbearable than usual.

Sherlock did not respond. He was stretched languidly on the sofa, eyes shut and fingers steepled beneath his chin, pointedly ignoring his flatmate.

Irritated, John entered the living room and glared at the insufferable man.

'Did you hear me, Sherlock?' He asked, sipping his tea.

The Detective heaved a very put upon sigh. 'Yes. Wasps. Dull.'

John shrugged. 'Dunno. I just thought you could do an experiment – if you were bored.' He offered.

A single, quicksilver eye popped open and glared scathingly at the doctor. 'What type of experiment would you suggest, pray tell?'

John just sighed and rolled his eyes. 'Bloody hell, Sherlock! You're the genius, I'm sure you can think of something. I'm heading down to Tesco's for some milk. Need anything?'

'Ginger snaps…and methylated spirits.' He shot back, eye firmly shut once more.

John drained the last of his tea, set his mug in the sink and hurried out the door. God only knew the amount of damage he could do in half an hour.

It turned out that the prospect of an experiment, no matter how mundane, was too much for Sherlock to resist and John's return to Baker Street found the lanky detective hanging halfway out his bedroom window with a pair of kitchen tongs and a fly swat.

The doctor stopped, closed his eyes for a second and took a deep, steadying breath.

'Sherlock!' He called as approached the door to 221B, craning his neck and smirking as the detective brandished the fly swat in an attempt to deter the insects. The man in question froze and shifted his gaze downwards to the doctor standing in the street, arms laden with groceries. 'What the actual hell are you doing?'

'Experiment,' he ground out through clenched teeth - giving the swat another exaggerated flourish as the wasps buzzed angrily around his face. The papery mound looked to be just a little out of reach, despite Sherlock's height and truth be told, it was rather an amusing sight – dark curls mussed as the madman dangled precariously out the window, snapping the tongs.

'I thought wasps were dull,' John called back, swallowing a smirk as Sherlock flinched away. Obviously stung – and serves him right too, for not being more careful.

'John, you idiot. Wipe that smug look of your face and come up at once. I may require your services,'

The doctor quirked an eyebrow and continued to watch as the harried man wiggled his long body back into the room. Panting heavily as he righted himself, he looked down at John's laughing face.

'Oh shut up!' He bellowed, making the doctor laugh harder as he slammed the window shut. Shaking his head, John unlocked the front door and climbed the stairs to the flat.

'Sherlock, what did you need me for?' John called out as he unpacked the groceries, slipping the milk into the fridge, quite a bit away from the jar of tongues. After a couple of minutes, he heard a shuffling that indicated the approach of his flatmate and he grinned widely with every intention of giving him shit. John turned, and whatever joke that had formed on the tip of his tongue, dissolved at the sight of Sherlock, red-faced and wheezing in the doorway.

'Jesus, Sherlock!' John swore, abandoning the groceries and hurrying to his friend. The situation, which was supposed to be hilarious and possibly a little uncomfortable for the Detective, was suddenly dangerous.

Sherlock slumped against the wall, his dexterous fingers fluttering around his throat as his mouth opened and closed rapidly.

Well, it was a good thing John was a doctor and all.

Curling a hand around the closest bicep, John led the taller man slowly into the living room to sit on the sofa and knelt in front of him, observing the symptoms.

'Johnnn,' he gasped hoarsely through tightening airways, as he slumped back, positively gasping for air. 'I think I may be allergic to wathpth.'

Now the lisp would have been funny, under different circumstances – but as it stood, it meant that Sherlock's tongue was swelling and with the gasping for breath, it was really a bit not good.

'Ok Sherlock, relax. I'm going to call an ambulance.' John said firmly, pressing his fingers to Sherlock's wrist. The detective shook his head, eyes rolling madly before he pitched forward and vomited down John's jumper.

There was no disgust, he was a doctor after all, and had been covered in much worse. No, he was frightened, because Sherlock's eyes were pleading and he was reaching out to John, entrusting his friend to ease the discomfort. Quickly divesting himself of the soiled garment, he brushed the damp curls from the detective's brow and gave him a tight smile.

'Hey mate, ok…I'm going to check my kit. If I can find some epinephrine and you start to improve, we can forgo the hospital. If not, you're going – no bloody arguments. You're in anaphylactic shock and this could kill you. Understand?' John explained, trying to ignore his friends whimper as he slumped back onto the cushions. John ran his eyes once more over the younger man, before rushing over to his chair and retrieving the medical kit. As far as he could recall, he had at least three EpiPen's floating around – he liked to be prepared for every eventuality. He groped around his bag blindly, gaze never leaving his gasping patient. Crying in triumph, he clutched the adrenaline in his fist and stumbled back to his best friend.

'Oi, Sherlock…you keep your eyes on me, eh? I'll get you sorted,' John soothed, pressing his fingers once more to a rapidly thrumming pulse.

The Detective listed sideways and John scooted forwards, slowing his descent. The rattle in Sherlock's breath was quite concerning and as he popped the cap off the EpiPen, John considered calling an ambulance anyway.

Cursing at the man's lack of response, the doctor jammed the pen into Sherlock's thigh and depressed the plunger.

He checked his watch and waited; a second dose ready to go as a precaution.

Minutes passed slowly as Sherlock continued to wheeze, and John was mildly shocked when the self-proclaimed sociopath reached out to grasp his undershirt.

John gave his wrist a brief squeeze and pulled his phone out, ready to dial 999 – holding his friend's puffy gaze.

Sherlock's pulse was still racing and when, after ten minutes, his breathing hadn't improved, the doctor administered another dose of epinephrine.

Lips now tinged blue form lack of oxygen, the detective's eyes rolled back, lids fluttering and threatening to slip shut.

John swore, and gave a hollow cheek a firm slap. 'Stay with me Sherlock, or I call an ambulance.' He warned, giving his friend a soft smile when that quicksilver gaze returned, pupils blown in panic. 'You're ok mate…take a couple of deep breaths for me, yeah?'

Sherlock gave him a quick nod and obeyed, nostrils flaring as he inhaled and lips trembling as the breath was blown out. The wheeze sounded like it was abating as Sherlock's inhalations became deeper and steadier.

'There you go, that's it…feeling better?' John asked, assisting the younger man into a more comfortable position.

'Yes John, thank you.' The detective finally spoke, quite softly but very genuinely appreciative of the assistance.

Doctor Watson gave his leg a pat and climbed stiffly to his feet.

'Cuppa tea?' he asked, fingers lingering at Sherlock's pulse.

'Please,' Sherlock confirmed, noting John's hesitance to leave the room. 'I will not expire in the time it takes to boil the kettle, John. I could continue to speak as you work, if that would make you feel better.

'Please,' the doctor replied quickly, not missing the bewildered look on his friend's face as he turned to the kitchen.

He made a mental note to phone pest control in the morning. There would be no further experiments involving wasps.

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