Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
Hi everyone! I have for you another story in which I am cruel and torture poor Sherlock was something that's very painful … but you'll have to wait and see what it is! Enjoy =)
John was having the loveliest dream. He was walking along a nice, warm beach with a beautiful woman who was kind, sensitive, funny, and …
"John … "
And a really low voice? What? That couldn't be right.
"John …"
The woman was slowly fading from view and in her place was Sherlock. John opened his eyes slowly, the room still dark. He glanced at his clock, the red letters telling him it was only 2:49 A.M.
"John …"
Sherlock's voice, wherever it was coming from, had changed a bit. There was a bit of … hurt or maybe panic? … in the voice and John opened his eyes.
"What?"
"Help me."
Help me? That couldn't be good. John was fully awake now and sat up, turning on the lamp. Sherlock was in the doorway, half-hunched over and holding his side. Needless to say, John got out of bed faster than he ever had before.
"What's wrong?" he asked, leading Sherlock to his bed. His friend, upon closer glance, was pale, shaky, and sweating.
"Sherlock?"
"Pain … agh." Sherlock drew in a sharp breath, curling over himself even further.
"How bad is it?" John asked, not particularly enjoying watching the strongest man he knew double over. Sherlock raised his head long enough to look at John.
"Do you really think I'd be up here if I could handle it?" he asked through gritted teeth.
"Right." John said. "Where does it hurt?"
"Abdomen. Back."
"Anywhere specific? Right side?"
"No, not my appendix." Sherlock said.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Fix it." Sherlock said. He had a high pain tolerance considering his job but he had never, ever experienced pain this bad before.
"I can take you to hospital."
"No."
"Sherlock, abdominal pain can be very serious and even if I knew what was causing it, I wouldn't be able to help you. You need to go to A&E."
Sherlock had stopped paying attention, closing his eyes. His stomach was churning … oh, please no …
"John, the bin," Sherlock whimpered, holding his stomach tighter. John retrieved the bin and Sherlock vomited – painfully, he might add. He felt like a thousand knives were being pulled across his back. Throwing up did nothing to alleviate the awful feeling. He finished and John took the bin back.
"John, do something …" he moaned, clutching his stomach.
"Can you lie down?" John asked, knowing full well that this examination would get him no where and he'd still end up calling for an ambulance to take them to hospital. Sherlock lay back gingerly – this was not helping much – and tried to relax.
"I'll be right back, alright?" John said and Sherlock, eyes squeezed shut, nodded. John ran – literally ran – downstairs and returned with a damp washcloth and the thermometer. Sherlock opened his eyes as John returned and let John slip the thermometer probe into his mouth and sighed with relief – temporary, mind, but a bit of relief nonetheless – as John blotted sweat off his forehead and neck. The thermometer beeped and John glanced at it – barely a degree above normal. John fixed the compress on Sherlock's forehead before moving a bit so he was leaning over Sherlock's lower abdomen.
"I'm just going to feel around, okay?" John said. "If something hurts more or less than somewhere else, I want you to tell me."
Sherlock nodded and John began doing his exam. A couple of times Sherlock hissed and John saw his leg muscles visible tighten in response to a bit of pressure on a certain spot. Sherlock was right about one thing – his appendix didn't appear to be the problem, which was good. John finished the exam and Sherlock inadvertently curled up into a ball on his side, arms wrapped tightly around himself.
"Have you been eating in the past few days?" John asked. They didn't have a case but that didn't mean Sherlock would necessarily be eating.
"No."
"Are you hungry now?"
"No."
"Have you tried eating anything?"
"Couldn't keep … couldn't keep it down."
This pain was unbearable … couldn't John do anything before he resorted to going into hospital?
John sighed.
"Sherlock, I don't know what's causing this. You need to go to hospital."
Sherlock knew that John was right. Something was seriously wrong and it needed to be dealt with … and Sherlock wasn't sure how much more pain he could take.
John didn't wait for Sherlock to respond. He grabbed his mobile and called for an ambulance.
"John …" Sherlock groaned after his friend had hung up the phone.
"It's alright, Sherlock," John said, trying to sound soothing. He picked up the facecloth and blotted Sherlock's forehead again. "Help will be here soon and we'll get you sorted out."
"I want you … to treat me." Sherlock muttered, feeling as though he was going to be sick again.
"What?"
"At the hospital. I want you to be part of medical team looking after me."
"Okay, sure," John said. "But you'll need to tell the doctor when we get there."
Sherlock nodded, knowing it wouldn't be a problem. He had had Mycroft insert a note on his medical file a while back that gave John medical clearance as his acting physician. John heard the siren outside and ran downstairs to let the paramedics in. It was unfortunate that Sherlock was on the third floor but at least he was able to walk down the stairs to the ambulance with John on one side and a strong paramedic on the other. Once inside, the paramedics strapped him in and took his temperature, blood pressure, and pulse, all the while talking to him.
"Why do they keep asking me questions?" a frustrated Sherlock complained to John when there was a brief moment of silence.
"They're just getting information and keeping you awake," John said with a smile.
"How could I possibly fall asleep?" Sherlock muttered under his breath but John heard and tried to keep from laughing.
The ambulance got them to hospital quickly and Sherlock was wheeled into emergency. He didn't like being tied down and was fighting the belts holding him to the gurney but of course, that just made him hurt more and he was moaning.
From his vantage point, he could see only heads as doctors and nurses and paramedics came and went in his little cubicle. Either he was in worse shape than he thought or it was a quiet night in A&E because there seemed to be a lot of people around him awfully quickly.
"John?" Sherlock asked and John stepped into view.
"I'm right here, Sherlock," John said. "They're going to transfer you to a bed in a minute and then the doctor will examine you."
John watched with an air of nostalgia as the medical team counted to three and moved Sherlock – he cried out in the process – and the paramedics left, wheeling their gurney out of the room.
"John?" Sherlock asked again as strange hands began feeling his abdomen.
"I'm still here. Try to relax so the doctor can examine you."
Sherlock didn't relax – he didn't like a stranger touching his stomach. He shifted his head so he could see the doctor.
"Let John help." he muttered. "Dr. Watson."
The doctor glanced down at his patient.
"Yes, I've seen the note and I'll consult with him on my findings and course of treatment but right now, you're my patient and I need you to cooperate with me."
His voice was firm and Sherlock didn't like it … but he also wasn't in much of a position to argue. The pain was growing worse from not being able to move and Sherlock hissed as the doctor touched him again, prompting the doctor to order an intravenous drip with some medication – Sherlock missed the name of it, though. His mind was clouded but he knew it was a pain killer that was not morphine. Apparently Mycroft had been making notes in his medical file, too …
Any guesses as to what's wrong with poor Sherlock (this time)? I'll give you a hint … in my fifty plus stories, I have done this before …
Reviews are always appreciated!
