A/N: Wanted to do a standalone sick!Sherlock fic. Not my best work, too Johnlocky, and then it just sort of shuts off at the end; but, if nothing else, perhaps it will be entertaining? I hope so. Enjoy!

"John."

"Mm?"

"John."

"Yeah?"

"John."

"Yes, Sherlock, how can I help you?" Sarcasm. Obvious irritation. John forcibly closed his newspaper and let it fall in his lap as he looked to his flatmate expectantly.

Without moving from the threshold of the sitting room, the detective held out his phone and wiggled it impatiently. "Read me this text." He stared at the empty space above John's head.

John did his best to keep his voice level. Contain yourself, John Watson. He allowed himself an irritated sigh. "Is there a reason you can't read it yourself?"

"I'm blind."

"What!" John narrowed his eyes at his friend and flatmate, all sorts of explanations springing to his mind as to why Sherlock could be suffering from sight loss of any kind. What did he take? Was he conducting another dangerous experiment on himself? It wouldn't have been the first time. "Sherlock, why are you blind?"

"Brain tumor," Sherlock stated, pressing his free hand to the side of his head at John's outburst. He looked a little green. The hand holding the phone fell to his side. "Or else my massive intellect has finally outgrown my unfortunately average-sized cranium."

"Or you're having a migraine," replied John, crossing the room in a few long strides. He put a hand beneath Sherlock's elbow and guided him to the couch. Then he gently nudged Sherlock onto it, and was surprised when the detective neither argued nor resisted, but instead lay down – albeit very slowly, to avoid exacerbating what was no doubt an excruciating headache.

"I was working," Sherlock sighed wistfully.

"You can't get much done without your vision," John pointed out. "How bad is it?"

Sherlock squinted up at him. "About 75% lost, mostly on the left."

The doctor nodded knowingly. "Well, if you're already in pain, which you appear to be, then that's a good sign for your vision. Typically, the aura disappears shortly after the headache reaches its peak. So you'll probably be able to see in a little while, but you'll still feel like hell. Look at me?" He bent over Sherlock and peered into both his eyes, just to be certain he was dealing with a run-of-the-mill migraine and not an unknown head injury. Both pupils were erect and reactant to light, but the eye movements were sluggish and a bit jerky. That was to be expected. It would probably improve a bit once the aura disappeared and the pain came down a bit.

Diagnosis confirmed, John stood and headed for the kitchen. "Would it be completely asinine to ask if you've eaten anything recently?" he called over his shoulder as he rummaged about the cupboards. For once, he decided not to say anything about the spleen in the tea drawer.

"Completely," was Sherlock's muffled reply from the sitting room.

"Of course," John muttered under his breath. He fell silent, and emerged a few minutes later with two steaming cups. He went to where Sherlock lay, and held one out to him. "Sit up and drink this," he ordered lightly. "It'll help."

Sherlock sniffed. "Coffee," he said, his tone almost questioning.

"The caffeine will help." The doctor was drawing the curtains, dimming the lights, turning off the telly. "I cannot testify to the theory myself, but I've had many patients tell me that a cup of coffee can shorten the lifespan of a migraine by almost half."

"Mm," said Sherlock into his cup. "Warrants research."

Warrants research. Of course it did. It couldn't just be oh, okay, I'll try that. It was research. John sipped at his tea and then perched himself on the edge of the couch next to Sherlock again. Setting his own mug down, he slid his hands up into Sherlock's hair and splayed his fingers against his scalp, apparently searching for something with gentle pressure.

The detective gave the doctor a rather questioning look.

"Counterpressure," John explained. "Let me know if it's working, it's meant – "

"Mmm," Sherlock sighed.

Working, then. After a little while, John worked his fingers out from Sherlock's hair and sat watching him. The caffeine must have started to do its job, because the detective had sunk deeper into the cushions, the tension leaving his narrow shoulders and the set of his jaw.

"What did the text say?" The question was unexpected, out of the blue, and spoken very softly. Sherlock wouldn't chance speaking at a normal volume, or even sitting up, now that some of his discomfort had finally been relieved.

Absently, John took Sherlock's mobile from where it had fallen into the V between the couch cushions. He navigated to the only unread message. "Put the phone down," he read aloud, his voice low, minding Sherlock's headache, "and go to bed. Lestrade." The doctor chuckled and peeked into the sent messages box. "You were texting him nonsense."

Sherlock frowned, creasing the pale space between his dark brows.

"It's normal," John reassured him, placing the mobile phone on the coffee table. "Cognitive functions often get sluggish right before a migraine." He paused, then stood. "You should try to get some sleep. I imagine you'll feel just fine when you wake up."

"You've just dosed me with caffeine," Sherlock pointed out.

"Ah, true. Well."

"I'm fine," the detective stated. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "And, John – thank you."

"Of course." John went back to his newspaper, and the sitting room became enveloped in a comfortable silence. Within half an hour, that silence was punctuated by the occasional snore from Sherlock's side of the room.