A/N: I don't own Sherlock or anything related to it, but I am eating some strawberry cake now and I do own that!
John could hear Sherlock lumbering up the stairs as he returned from a short visit to Lestrade's office to round up the most recent case (several thirty-one year old women had been thrown the roofs of hospitals, with seemingly too much evidence pointing to suicide). He got off the sofa, where he had been reading, and went to warm up the toast and tea he had made earlier, while Sherlock had been out.
This case had lasted unusually long, and Sherlock, true to his usual form, had refused to consume anything other than tea while he had been working. Now that the case was over, John was determined to get something in Sherlock's stomach before someone else was murdered. The door opened and John heard the world's only consulting detective enter.
"What changed?" Sherlock muttered, taking off his coat. "The lamp. Why?" This time he directed his question to John, who took a while to realise what he was talking about. He had almost forgotten about the workmen who had come earlier that morning to deliver a lamp to their apartment. He shrugged in reply. He had assumed that Mrs Hudson had ordered it, but he was not about to let Sherlock take his mind of his task. He approached with the toast as Sherlock settled down on the sofa and assumed his 'thinking' position, as he usually did. John held the toast up to Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock scowled at him.
"This again? I had some tea this morning."
"Right, and now you'll have some toast! It's been five days, Sherlock! Even machines need oil to function."
"Digestion slows me down. I'm working. Now leave me alone."
"The case is over, so you can be slowed down for a minute." No response from Sherlock.
"I'm not going to stop bugging you until you eat." Still no response.
"Sherlock."
"Oh, alright! I'll have your stupid toast!" Sherlock grabbed it and savagely took a bite, then put it down and grabbed John's laptop. John sighed as he went to clean up the kitchen, leaving Sherlock to hack into his account once again. He would finish the toast eventually, John supposed.
"Your sister's ex's name? Really? Dull." John ignored him as he set about cleaning the dirty dishes in the sink. Sherlock, continued doing whatever he did on John's laptop. John finished the dishes and settled down on the sofa next to where Sherlock was sitting to read a book he had recently purchased. Sherlock continued to type.
After several bites of the toast, Sherlock noticed that his stomach began to hurt, but attempted to ignore it. It was just transport, after all. Then the nausea came, and Sherlock's throat began to close up. John was still reading. Sherlock felt his breaths shorten into a pant and begins to wheeze like a broken accordion.
This caught John's attention, causes him to look up and see Sherlock, deathly white and sweating.
"Are you alright?" John asked, rather stupidly. Sherlock does not remark on this (he had lost the ability to, together with his ability to breathe) and actually looks frightened. Then the doctor in John is awakened and he leapt from where he had been perched and proceeded to examine Sherlock. The first thing that he had to deal with was that Sherlock obviously couldn't breathe, and John knew that Sherlock was probably is having an anaphylactic reaction and needed epinephrine, but John doesn't have an EpiPen and didn't know where Sherlock kept his or if he even owned one at all. As he stood to call an ambulance, Sherlock passed out.
John's phone rang. John was holding his phone, about to call the ambulance. Mycroft Holmes was calling. He answered the call and blurted out that Sherlock was in danger. This is when he realised that his breathing is uneven and rapid as well, and it took several tries before he could say anything of coherence to Mycroft. Mycroft was considerably more calm, and informed John that an ambulance had been sent on its way to 221b, and that there was an EpiPen located under the skull on the mantelpiece.
John doesn't even pause to put down the phone as he scrambles there and back and jabs Sherlock in the anterolateral aspect of one of his thighs (he's not sure which one, in his haze of panic) and counts to ten. Several seconds after that, the paramedics burst into the room and steal Sherlock away from him before he can take Sherlock's pulse, just to be sure that he is not dead.
Please don't let him be dead.
Sherlock was taken to St Bartholomew's Hospital, where Mycroft and Anthea (or whatever her name was that month) met a clearly anxious John Watson in the waiting room. He was quiet, his posture rigid other than the constant tapping of his finger on his left knee. The paramedics had looked so frantic, shouting about stats and oxygen, which John should have been used to since he worked in a surgery and was a doctor. But this time, it was Sherlock.
Mycroft and Anthea settled down next to him, and the room was totally silent other than the rapid clicks from Anthea's phone as she typed.
A doctor finally came out to talk to them. He confirmed that it had been anaphylactic shock, and that Sherlock would be fine. At his words, John let out the breath he didn't realise he had been holding and nodded briefly. His relief was almost audible. Mycroft only nodded, but everyone knew that he, too, had been worried.
All three of them were allowed to see Sherlock. He had an oxygen mask and still looked as white as a ghost, but he was breathing. His eyes were closed, but flickered open when the trio approached.
"The lamp." John blinked. These were not the first words he had been expecting.
"Yes, yes. It's a good thing I sent it, obviously." Mycroft retorted curtly, leaning on his umbrella. John blinked again, confused. Mycroft sensed this.
"There was a camera with the lamp I sent. That's how I knew that my dear brother was in trouble."
"Jam."
"Sorry?" John asked.
"It was strawberry."
"Oh?"
"Sherlock's allergic to strawberries. You put strawberry jam on his toast, which probably triggered this reaction." Mycroft explained.
"Oh god. I did this." John looked horrified.
"No. You didn't kn-", Sherlock coughed. "You didn't know better." John approached and clasped Sherlock's hand.
"You idiot. Why didn't you tell me you had an allergy?" Sherlock simply smiled.
"It never came up."
"Anything else you're hiding from me?"
"Nothing serious." Sherlock squeezed his hand and managed a small smile. John returned the smile and sat down at the edge of his bed.
Mycroft smiled as he and Anthea left the room. The crisis had been averted, and everything was fine. John's voice could be heard floating from Sherlock's room as they exited.
"Wait...nothing serious?! Sherlock!"
A/N: I hope you liked it! :)