Hello! I hope you enjoy this sick!fic- it isn't a one shot, and will be continued, but this one is not yet on wattpad.
Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or BBC Sherlock.
I'd like to add that I suffered from the same condition as Sherlock for four years, and doctors became lazy with diagnosing me. So I am writing from my experience- however, when I started having episodes everyday my mother put her foot down so fortunately it never got to vomiting, though I was close. Thank God, as I am emetophobic.
I hope you like it- sorry for making Sherly suffer!
-tapeandblades
Sherlock normally wore an expression of nonchalance when he refused a meal, as if it were habit, or just simple lack of appetite. He didn't bother with looking disgusted, never considered the pros or cons- just waved a hand dismissively and continued with his daily routine. Not that he had a daily routine, but all the same, he just didn't care.
John had always pondered this strange and erratic relationship with food. If John forced him to eat, he would look mildly irritated, but would never complain. The doctor did notice, however, that he would remain eerily quiet for the majority of the following day, and this confused him.
So when Sherlock's face screwed up in discomfort at the mention of food, John was surprised. He had been holding out a plate of toast and was giving the taller man a stern look- a look that immediately slipped from his face when Sherlock grimaced, face paling a few shades. His doctor instincts kicked in, and he put the plate down, taking a step closer to his flatmate.
"Are you all right?" He said, and Sherlock nodded, expression now blank and eyes void of any emotion that may have been there seconds prior. John didn't give up so easily though, and instead picked up the toast and reoffered it to the detective. "Eat something. You didn't eat all of yesterday."
There it was- the pained expression. Sherlock didn't do the best job of hiding it this time, and John knew something was wrong. "Sherlock, tell me why you don't want it. Are you sick?"
"I'm fine," he said, snatching the plate from John. "Why wouldn't I be?"
John eyed him skeptically as he munched angrily on the buttered toast, his teeth gnashing quickly as if to prove a point. There was definitely something there, in his icy irises. It looked like it could be exhaustion, but not the tired kind. More of the expecting kind- Sherlock knew something was going to happen.
"Lestrade has a case," he drawled blandly once his plate was clear. "Double homicide. His guess is a suicide pact, but it's obviously not." Standing, he slid on his coat, tying his scarf in a knot. "You coming? Or are you just going to stand there frowning?"
John shook his head, yanking his coat from the hanger and dragging it on. Sherlock smirked, idly pulling on his gloves. "I have to say, the latter option wasn't very productive." John can't help but laugh at this, but the chuckles die in his throat when Sherlock's face slips back into one of discomfort again. It doesn't last long, and the taller man swallows thickly before marching out the door.
Once again, John goes to voice his concerns, but is immediately cut off when Sherlock begins rattling on about the case and the contents of the file. This lasts the entire cab ride to the scene, and John decides that he will interrogate the detective later- a startling and vaguely ironic concept, but a must nevertheless.
"So," Lestrade began when they climbed out of the cab, turning sharply and leading them into the building. "Just to warn you, they're young," he said, chewing his bottom lip in agitation. "Fifteen and Sixteen, so don't be alarmed when you walk in."
"We won't be," Sherlock stated, frowning. He glanced back at John, noticing that the doctor looked a little uneasy. "Well, I won't be," he corrected, pushing past Lestrade in order to enter the room.
Almost immediately, Sherlock strode over to the bodies and began examining them. John walked around the two teenagers more cautiously, feeling a pang of grief in his chest. There was a boy and a girl, lying on the floor and tangled in each others arms. Each had a matching bullethole just over their ear, and the boy had traces of sticking tears marking his cheeks.
John was lost in the tragic scene when Sherlock started his deductive speech, and only caught snippets of his theories. Something about the angle of the gun, and the position of their arms. Oh, and the position of the window.
"Really Detective Inspector, I would have expected even you to figure this one out," Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows. "Psychopathic father, just released from prison after two years. Convicted of child abuse. It was in the-" He stopped suddenly, and John looked up in confusion. The detective had his eyes closed, and was swaying ever so slightly.
"Sherlock?" John placed his hand on the taller man's elbow, becoming more worried when Sherlock didn't register his touch. "What's wrong?"
"I'm fine," he muttered, lifting his hand and rubbing it over his brow. His lips had thinned out and a small sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead. "I just need to..."
John helped him lower himself to the ground, and Lestrade turned and shut the door so the forensics team stayed out. Once on the floor, Sherlock hunched over, hands bracing his head as he sucked in deep breaths. "What's happening?" John asked anxiously, his hand having now migrated to the Sherlock's shoulder. A reply never came- instead, with his face creased in pain, the detective leant forward further, positioning his head, between his knees.
When a small moan came from the hunched figure, the doctor stared at Greg, eyes darting about frantically. "Has this happened before?" He demanded, and the Inspector shrugged, clearly as lost as he was.
"I have no clue." Lestrade bent down to Sherlock's level, trying to get a glimpse of his face. "Maybe he's just sick...?"
"Maybe," John mumbled, placing his hand on the detectives neck. "He's a little warm, but I don't think he has a fever."
Just then, Sherlock shifted, placing himself on his knees and clutching his stomach. Both men got a look at his face, which was now ashen, and a little green. His lips trembled as he dragged in several large breaths, and John noticed he was controlling his breathing, like he'd been in this situation before. Another groan, his eyes screwing up tighter, and the doctor could see what was going to happen before it did.
Sherlock retched, rocking forward and vomiting onto the floor. John lifted him up so he wasn't sick on his clothes, rubbing his back in soothing circles. Lestrade brushed his hair away as another wave hit, the detective gagging and spitting up bile as John reached under and massaged his aching stomach, feeling it spasming beneath his fingers.
"J-John," Sherlock choked out, tears framing his eyes as his stomach gave another alarming jolt. John squeezed his shoulder.
"I'm here," he said soothingly as the man threw up again, hands braced either side of him as another round hit the concrete. He knew he wasn't finished until his breakfast was gone, until his stomach was empty. It rolled and churned uncomfortably, clenching painfully as he emptied it onto the floor, breath coming in short gasps and his body shaking violently.
This lasted another few minutes, before he slumped back and rested his head on his knees, John and Greg either side of him. They both exchanged worried glances, watching as the detective trembled, in obvious agony. When John thought he had recollected himself, he helped him into a sitting position, moving them so they leant against the wall and away from the bodies and vomit.
"We should get you home," John said as Sherlock leant his head back and let his eyes flutter shut, exhausted and still not looking particularly well. After a few moments, he nodded, not even bothering to argue- something that concerned John the most. "Do you think you can stand?" Sherlock had to consider this, which was enough for the doctor to sigh, lifting him from under his shoulders and letting him lean against him. He wrapped his arm around the taller man's waist, leading him slowly past the sergeants and forensic team and out into the open air.
"You should've told me you were sick," John said once they were inside a cab, Sherlock leaning his head against the cool window. He was only met with silence. "If you'd said, you wouldn't of thrown up at a crime scene."
"I am quite aware," Sherlock murmured against the window, eyes still shut. "I thought it would pass."
"Pass?" John frowned, bewildered. "When you get ill, it doesn't just pass, Sherlock."
He pulls his head away from the window, eyes tired as he turns to face John. "It normally does."
John gapes, staring as the world's only consulting detective fell against the window again, surrendering to his transport's needs. When he finally pieces it together, he stumbles over the words, sounding like a total idiot.
"Wait so, wait you mean..." John waves his hands, eyes drifting to the floor. "You mean this has happened before?"
Sherlock hummed in response, some colour returning to his face. John continued to gawp, utterly taken aback. Why has he never said anything before?
"I can normally deal with it without making a fuss," Sherlock said, as if he had just read John's mind. "It's never been that bad before. First time I've vomited with it."
"What is 'it'?" John questioned, eyes narrowed. Sherlock dragged a hand over his face tiredly, letting it fall with a slap to his knee.
"I don't know."
Those words terrified John.
"I can only describe it as an episode- I've never been diagnosed with anything specific." His speech was becoming more coherent by the second, and the shakes were dying down. John would say that he didn't look quite so pale, but you could never really tell with Sherlock; with his alabaster skin and dark curls to contrast.
"Why not?" John exclaimed, disturbing the cabbie, who gave them an odd look. Sherlock rolled his eyes, moving them lazily over to John's face.
"Because no one could be bothered to figure it out. That's why," he spat, tone spiteful. "I've learnt to cope."
John's face softens. "You shouldn't have to." The cab begins to slow down as they approach Bakers Street. "It's why you don't eat, isn't it?"
Sherlock regards him with indifference; and when they arrive at 221B, steps out of the car steadily, if not a little slowly. John follows, subtly walking close behind his flatmate in case he falls.
Sherlock goes straight to the sofa once inside his flat, collapsing with unexplainable grace and curling up on his side.
So as not to disturb him, John silently vowed that if no other doctor would diagnose him, then John had to. Sherlock had chosen the right person to share a flat with.
He was a medical man, after all.