This is just a supposedly short one-shot to try and stave off my writer's block, just in case any of you think I have abandoned my fics because I haven't. I've just reached that point where I'm not too sure where they're going but I really want them to go somewhere good so I'm just having a bit of a puzzle. This is serving as a welcome distraction. Enjoy and I promise; I'll try to update my other fics as soon as I can. Also, nothing to do with Sherlock actually belongs to me. No, seriously, none of it does unfortunately

Appendicitis

The cool autumn wind danced through the air causing each of the small group shudder with the sudden chill, the woman's hair was blown into disarray, causing her to scrape it backwards desperately in an attempt to maintain her vision, and the tall man's coat billowed behind him, seemingly having a life of its own. Suddenly a gust of wind blew harshly through the browning leaves on the tall sycamore tree. A few of the more withered leaves spiralled down and eventually came to rest on the silent, but not peaceful looking corpse. A bony hand, belonging to the tall man of the group instantly swept them off in frustration.

"Was my presence really necessary on this case Lestrade?" asked Sherlock in a bitter tone.

"Well, do enlighten us to what we have missed then." The detective let out an exaggerated tone.

"And there was me thinking that Scotland Yard was supposed to be good at their jobs, this one is so simple even John could have figured it out given the length of time you've had, and he's received no training." The doctor, whose eyes had been transfixed on the wide and obviously terrified eyes of the victim, looked up upon hearing his name. Unsure of whether he was supposed to feel insulted or complimented he fought to maintain his face in a neutral expression as Sherlock continued with his spiel.

"Just start off with what he is wearing, a three piece suit, designer clothing. He's obviously well off to be able to afford that. The briefcase and the laptop indicate that he was most likely a lawyer before he… transpired." There was a sudden pause in which the lanky detective took in a slight, sharp gasp and his hand twitched as if it wanted to move towards his abdomen. His gasp wasn't his usual I've suddenly realised an important detail which will allow me to solve a case. This was something completely different all together, something nobody could place. Everyone looked at him in confusion except John; John looked at him with concern.

After only a moment Sherlock continued, increasing his previously rapid pace and his normally passive face had been contorted into a slight grimace and his pale complexion had become impossibly whiter. "He was not killed by a simple mugger who wanted to get his hands on the man's expensive possessions since everything of value is still on him, meaning that the murderer knew him. If you look, on his ring finger, there is a band of pale skin, where a wedding ring used to be. The white skin is fairly prominent, so the divorce happened recently, no more than six months ago. An angry ex-wife is looking pretty promising then but not necessarily. He has a girlfriend; she was probably the cause of the divorce in the first place. You can still smell the faint scent of female perfume on him. However, the most important detail we can gain from his person is the fact that he had children. There's a small fingerprint of jam under his collar from where he picked up his child to say goodbye in the morning and they grabbed his collar. He is a lawyer, during the divorce he would have been able to pull some strings to make sure he got custody of the children, a promising motive for murder. There is one last thing though, the footprints. It did not rain last night, and even though you lot have trampled all over them, if you step back about ten metres you can see the distinctive evidence of high heels walking to and from his dead body and there is the occasional drop of blood from where it dropped from the knife he was stabbed with."

Sherlock turned to head back towards the main road and John hurried after him. "Check his wallet, find out who he is and then arrest his ex-wife," Sherlock shouted over his shoulder.

"That was amazing," John muttered under his breath. The detective obviously heard him because a small, but oddly pained smile played at the corners of his lips. Once they reached the road a taxi seemed to materialise as Sherlock held up a shaking hand to hail it.

Once they were in the taxi, heading towards Baker Street, John took a moment to look at Sherlock properly in doctor mode. The man was sitting in silence, facing away from his friend, with his forehead pressed against the cool glass. From the position he was in it was hard to tell if anything was wrong because he could hardly see the detective's face. However, he could see the slight tremors rippling through his body and the fact his long arms were wrapped around his abdomen. He probably just needs some sleep; he's been pretty frantic the last few days with the lack of cases. He hasn't slept in at least three days and hasn't eaten in at least two days. I'll see what I can do when we get back. John knew that there was definitely wrong when, by the end of the cab journey, Sherlock still hadn't noticed that he'd been staring.

Under normal circumstances Sherlock would bound up the stairs, as if he were eager to show off his agility, and John would follow him at a more leisurely pace. This time was different; he plodded slowly up the stairs, wavering when he lifted his foot to make it onto the next step. John, who had waited behind to pay the cabbie, was actually held up on the last three steps because Sherlock had taken them so slowly, something definitely was up. The door to their flat swung open and the two men stepped inside; the detective began to slowly make his way straight to his room. "Hey Sherlock, are you alright mate?" John asked, realising this could be the only chance he got to ask.

"Fine," replied Sherlock without stopping, still managing to inject some bitterness into his tone despite his not feeling brilliant. This time John decided not to pursue the subject, as the bedroom door slammed he shouted, knowing the detective would hear him. "Please try and get some sleep Sherlock."

The moment that the door had closed behind him he collapsed onto his bed, suppressing a moan of pain, it would not do for John to know how much pain he was in. It was his abdomen, he'd started the day with a dull ache but then, suddenly, during the case and in front of everyone it had become sharp and unbearable. Of course, he had tried to carry on as normal but he had seen the concerned look in his friend's eyes. He hated that look, it was about the only thing that could make Sherlock feel guilty, he didn't enjoy worrying John. And he knew that he should probably tell John since he was his friend and a doctor but he couldn't bring himself to, it would probably pass in a few days anyway.

He had barely managed to finish taking the yarders through who had murdered the lawyer, the waves of pain had been growing in intensity causing his body to shake horribly. It had been lucky that a cab had arrived so quickly too, or else he probably would have collapsed there and then, in full view of everyone and John would have been worried. A feeling of nausea shuddered through his body, causing him to draw he knees up towards his body and he whimpered quietly, desperately wanting to keep the bile down. There was no food in his stomach to bring up, just tea.

John had ordered him to sleep, he didn't need sleep, he was Sherlock Holmes and he ran purely on tea and the thrill of the chase. But perhaps, just this once, he would adhere to John's request, he didn't want to worry John. Anyway, if he slept for a few hours then the dreadful pain would probably have passed leaving him ready for an interesting case or, when failing that, for an experiment or two.

It had been two hours since they had returned from the case and two hours since he had heard anything from Sherlock. John glanced concernedly towards his best friend's room; hopefully he was getting the much needed sleep the doctor had ordered him to get. John was meeting a woman for lunch, she was knew and worked in the surgery he worked in, she was on admin and her name was Rachel. What he didn't tell her was that he had absolutely hated that name since his first case with Sherlock.

Gently he knocked on Sherlock's door. "Are you alright Sherlock?" he asked loud enough for Sherlock to hear if he was awake but not loud enough to wake him if he was asleep. There was no reply so John hurriedly scribbled down a quick note telling Sherlock where he had gone and to get something to eat when he was up.

Despite his out of character desire to sleep Sherlock did not find refuge from the pain in slumber. In fact pain was the reason he could not sleep in the first place. He was vaguely aware of John talking to him but the raging agony which blazed in the lower part of his stomach addled his mind and it was too difficult to form an understandable sentence so he didn't bother, he just lay there. Then he heard the door closing behind John and was with it just enough to realise John had left.

It was at this point Sherlock lost all resolve to repress anything and lay, curled up on his bed, moaning and whimpering loudly as the relentless waves of anguish plagued him without consideration or compassion. He was beginning to shiver slightly, feeling inexplicably cold even though the heating in the flat had been on all day. Suddenly an overwhelming feeling of nausea washed over him without warning and he just ended up retching up a foul concoction of bile and tea onto the duvet next to him. It left him exhausted and he panted for breath. After a few minutes he either dropped off to sleep or fell unconscious, he was unsure of which it was.

Upon reawakening Sherlock felt impossibly worse. The pain in his abdomen was now so severe it was making it nigh on impossible for him to breathe. And the nausea was getting worse, not aided by the vomit which was lying inches from his face but he had been unable to do anything about it. He had a temperature too and, judging by the way all the colours in the room were blending together, it was quite a high one. But he was thirsty and that was his primary concern. It wasn't that he was slightly thirsty so he could ignore it, he was severely dehydrated probably because of the fever he was running. His throat felt as if it was on fire, his tongue felt swollen and sore and his lips were cracked. He couldn't bear it anymore. Slowly, he sat up to avoid losing consciousness and bit back a yelp as his abdomen protested against his movements, the pain causing him to nearly fall back onto his bed. He must have bitten harder than he had thought as the bitter taste of blood filled his mouth and he gagged.

The next stage was to actually stand up, and he knew this would be difficult so he sat there while the blur of colours shimmered before his eyes, before he knew it he was gagging once again, spitting the foul mixture that came out his mouth onto the floor. Deciding it was time he stood up, his abdomen screaming at him to stop, and then he took a step. This was too much for him to handle and he collapsed to the floor with a small scream of agony. He was not unconscious but he was walking the fine line between consciousness and unconsciousness. In the knowledge that he would not be able to get up again he called out weakly for John, feeling betrayed when his friend did not run through the door. In a desperate attempt to ease the throbbing in his abdomen and to retain some body heat he curled up in a foetal position where he lay, feebly repeating John's name over and over again.

The date had gone well, for a first date. They'd had a late lunch, gone for a walk in the park, got to see a film and then had dinner too. He walked her to her door, arranged to go on another date in a week at the same time and they had kissed goodnight. John was happy, that was one date that Sherlock had not managed to ruin. As he walked through the door he was struck by how silent the flat was, it was calm, something most people were so accustomed too but something that never happened in 221b Baker Street. In fact, it was something worth worrying about and worry John did, especially when he saw his note, unmoved from where he had left it.

Tentatively John knocked on the door, more firmly than before and called his friend's name loudly.

"John?" It came out more as a strangled cry of agony than anything else and John burst into the room and was horrified at what he was met with. The great Sherlock Holmes was lying, curled up on the floor, moaning in agony. His big coat was tightly wrapped around his shivering form. A thin sheen of sweat and grime had formed on his forehead, his hair was matted down to his head and he was shivering violently. His face was a sickly shad of white and green and his eyes were bloodshot and pained.

The doctor in him suddenly came into play and he rushed to Sherlock's side. "What's wrong Sherlock?" he asked, not allowing himself to panic but he grabbed Sherlock's chin and pointed his face to look at him, to make sure he paid attention.

"Pr'mise not be w'rried?" he slurred.

"Promise," John replied calmly.

"Mm sore."

"I know," he soothed, smoothing the hair out of his face. "I need you to tell me where though so I can make it better." Instead of replying the detective let out a loud whimper and clasped tightly onto his stomach.

Gently John began to coax Sherlock's hands away from his abdomen, removed the coat and jacket and proceeded to undo his friend's beloved purple shirt. He had descended into constant moaning, unconscious of everything except the pain which ravaged him. Ribs which far too prominent for John's liking shuddered in the attempt to breathe painlessly and his whole body was covered in sweat. Gently John began to probe Sherlock's stomach, and suddenly, when he reached the lower right side he let out a scream of pain. John's eyes widened in sudden realisation and he grabbed his phone, dialling 999.

Quickly he explained the situation and that he was sure Sherlock's appendix had ruptured. Things happened very quickly after that, it all passed in a blur. The paramedics arrived and he told them he was Sherlock's brother so he got to ride in the ambulance with him. Then he was at the hospital waiting, waiting for any news. Then Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly and Mrs Hudson were there waiting with him, nobody said a word, not even the customary greetings. Finally a nurse came through and confirmed what John had thought, Sherlock's appendix had burst and that he had just finished in surgery. She warned them that even though the surgery had been successful he was a huge risk of infection and recovery would take a long time. John simply stood there and nodded while Mycroft asked questions that John already knew the answer to because he is a doctor after all. Finally they were allowed in to see him; there were tubes which didn't look right coming out of Sherlock, tubes needed to drain fluid which had built up from the infection. It looked all wrong. And his skin looked pale against the white hospital sheets but his steady breathing and the beeping of the heart monitor was reassuring. Then they were all sitting down, John was holding Sherlock's hand, eagerly awaiting the moment his eyes would flutter indicating he was about to wake up.

Voila, that's that one done. Hopefully now I can get back to my longer stories. I really hope those of you who read this enjoyed it and I will love you forever if you leave a review. Just so you know.