Thanks to MapleLeafCameo for looking over this for me. Also, I don't own them so I can't profit from writing about them.
The headaches would torment him at least once a month. Sometimes there were warning signs and Sherlock could prevent, or at least lessen, the oncoming storm. Other times the pain would dramatically alter his day in less than five minutes time. If he was lucky, the detective would at least be at home and not in the middle of solving a case. The few times Sherlock had been working when the pain arrived had been unpleasant to say the least.
Light and sound levels could make a difference between severe aches and agonizing misery. There were times when Sherlock was convinced his skull would crack from the destructive pressure pushing in from everywhere. All he could do was take medicine that did little to help, thanks to his recreational drug use while younger, and try to remain in a quiet and dark room while he waited it out.
That was the common practice until one Doctor John Watson limped into his life. Nerves of steel, more intelligence than the common person and compassion that flowed through his veins, John was nothing Sherlock had ever experienced. His mother liked to hover, Mycroft tutted in dissatisfaction and Lestrade would leave him on the sofa with a nervous pat on the shoulder. John though, took care of him. Even if his flatmate, lover and friend had never obtained a medical license, Sherlock was convinced the man would have always been a doctor at heart. His nurturing nature had taught Sherlock that Mycroft's conviction of caring not being an advantage was incorrect.
Of course John did not have a miracle cure. Sherlock still suffered but now there was comfort that had not been there before. John made sure a cold cloth was handy, massaged his precious head, would hum softly as he ran his fingertips over the detective's features, offer his chest as a resting place and, most importantly, love him. That, Sherlock believed, was what soothed him the most.
