Teresa Lisbon sat in her office, her head on her desk and her hands clasped tightly to her abdomen. Never in her life had she felt this sick. She had a headache from the fever, nausea rolled through her body, the waves getting almost unbearable, making her stomach hurt even more as it churned and rumbled. Seafood. Even thinking about it made her stomach grumble. Her morning coffee had seemed to only make her feel worse.
She let out a soft groan. She had woken up feeling fine, quite happy after her night out with Patrick Jane, the annoying but most undeniably hansom, enticing man she knew. But now; now all she wanted to do was go home and crawl into bed and die, he told her she was going to get sick, she didn't believe him, so that was out of the question. Stupid egotistical male. She had insisted on getting some form of seafood, it was her favourite, Patrick had flat out refused saying he liked his bodily fluids to stay where they belonged―inside his body. But she had insisted, and Patrick, wanting to teach her a lesson on believing him―whether or not he might regret his decision― had given in, telling her it was her stomach―he had gone next door in search of a salad.
As if almost on cue, she heard a knock at the door. She groaned as her lifted her head off the table, small spots popping in front of her eyes, altering her vision and leaving her feel even more disorientated. She cleared her throat and took her hands away from her stomach to try to look a little more natural. "Come in." She called, wiping the sweat off of her face and picking up a pen to make it look as though she had been working the whole time.
A blonde head popped around the side of the door. He was smiling, he look rather pleased with himself. "You're sick." He stated.
"No I'm not. I'm fine."
"Lisbon. You're as white as a ghost, your bathed in sweat and I can hear your stomach from my couch." He let out an apprehensive smile. He looked at her, all of a sudden quite worried about her. "Are you ok? "
Just as Patrick had started talking, her stomach started churning furiously. It was making unsophisticated gurgling sounds, that Patrick probably would have been able to hear from his couch. A fresh wave of nausea revolved through her body. She held up her left index finger, while her right hand was grasping small fistfuls of skin on her abdomen. Her face was contorted in pain.
"Lisbon?"
She looked at him, with fear in her eyes.
"Bin!" her left hand came to her mouth to try to resist the urge to vomit until the bin was thrusted firmly under her chin. She opened her mouth and the contents of her stomach spilled over. She felt a comforting hand on the small of her back. She also noticed her hair had been firmly pulled off her face. She retched again, each spasm leaving her head pounding and her stomach writhing. She coughed a couple of times and then sighed.
"Ok, so maybe I'm a little sick" she admitted.
"It doesn't take a mentalist to work that out." Patrick stated handing her a tissue for her to wipe her mouth.
"Thanks." She muttered accepting the tissue. Patrick took the bin off her lap and placed it on the floor. Lisbon put a hand on her forehead and wiped away the sweat. She leant back on her chair and closed her eyes, her hand returning to her stomach.
"Aww, Lisbon I'm sorry."
She let out a small sigh.
"Why?"
"Because I knew you were going to get sick and yet I still didn't stop you."
"You tried."
"Not hard enough obv―"
"Hold that thought."
She reached over, grabbing the bin again and placing it firmly on her lap. It was a couple of seconds until she was vomiting noisily into the bin. Once again she felt the hand making small circles on her back.
"Let me take you home."
"Jane, you don't know how badly I want to be at home right now, but we have a case, and I have a feeling this one is going to be a hard one to crack."
"Teresa."
"Patrick." She mimicked. "Besides I have a hell of a lot of paper work to do, because of you I might add. You told next to a hundred people they were going to die. I've had a lot of complaints, some people have even threatened to sew."
"Teresa, please let me take you home. I fell responsible for you being so ill."
Her stomach groaned in response. She winced slightly and started rubbing her stomach. She sighed.
"I feel a little better after throwing up now, anyway."
"Liar. If you were felling better you wouldn't be rubbing your stomach so vigorously right now."
She looked down. She hadn't realised she had been.
"I can't go home anyway. "
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want to go home to a the bottom of a bucket or the porcelain toilet bowl."
"So what you'd rather puke into a work bin or a bush?"
"I'm not gunna vomit again anyway."
"But you just said..."
"Jane. Save it." He put his hands up in surrender.
"Fine." He said defeated. "But if you need me, you know where to find me." And with that comment buzzing around her head, he left her office. She groaned in pain and frustration and put her head back on the desk.