Baker Street was illuminated by only the sweet, melodic buzzing of the streetlamps that stood tall and proud. The Friday night crowds would continuously thicken as the pubs released the drunk, hour by hour. All in all, it seemed that the day had turned out relatively successful – the final case of the week had been solved with two hours until midnight. They stepped lightly, the air around them both still quite ecstatic and blissful from the conclusion (the answer had taken several methods of discovery, but in the end, the murderer had been the divorced husband of the victim) of the puzzle. The week was finally through, yet Sherlock and John were glad for the obliged for the forty-eight hours (perhaps less) until the next mystery walked up to their doorstep.
Chasing the killer, however, proved to be difficult. He had a map in his head of all of central London, and catching him was the hardest part of the entire search. Sherlock managed to get ahead of him by jumping rooftops, and while John caught up on ground level, he had slipped once or twice…perhaps three times. He'd experienced signs later on in the day of a bad concussion, such as the vomiting (and in front of the entire police force too). It was outright, well, embarrassing.
Boom. Boom. Boom. John was positive Sherlock was speaking – whether in general or directly towards him, he didn't know – but he couldn't focus on the words. Each footstep he took was another sharp beat of a headache. Had he and Sherlock even sat down to eat the entire day? No, right, Sherlock never eats during his cases...John groaned under his breath. They were almost home. He would rest there, alone in his room, with the lights turned off and the curtains drawn. Just what the doctor ordered, he concluded.
"…obviously, since the killer had cuffed up his sleeves, he didn't want it to be made aware that he had recently bleached his dress shirt. It wasn't that there was blood on his sleeves, no, that would be far too easy –" Sherlock paused in his drawl as John stood still, citizens casually brushing past him as he leaned against a building. "John?"
"Yeah, I'm fine, Sherlock," John muttered, head bowed down in pain. Every beat of his heart – which, by the way, was sputtering pathetically – gave him pricks and pins and needles deeper into his skull, bringing more and more aching. Each throb was a new shock, a new torture, and it felt as if it were drilling John into the ground. His right knee locked up, but he looked up for just a moment to utter, "Go on with what – whatever you were going on about, would you?"
He pushed his way against the flow of the crowd, bringing his gloved hand to rest against John's forearm. For a split second, their eyes met, and the world stood still in time again, but just for the moment. The next, the smaller man was once again doubled over in pain. "It's just a – an ache that I can shake if we get back to the flat." Despite that, his knees buckled and quivered a bit. He stood up straight, face unreadable, yet eyes alarmed. "Give me a moment."
Getting up seemed to be more difficult than John had imagined. Sherlock was available and ready to assist, but his eyes were all over the smaller Brit. Only few people glanced at the two men who stood at a standstill in the middle of a chaotic sidewalk. John sniffed as he stood, regaining whatever composure for the day that remained, and began to shuffle along the walkway again, his colleague following after.
"Most likely just some side effects of suffering from a bad concussion," Sherlock muttered, his mouth close to John's ear. John growled in response.
"Of course it's a concussion, I'm not terribly stupid." Another reply was in order, and Sherlock was just about to receive it, right in front of 221B. But John froze at the doorstep and gasped, even louder this time than before. The crowds were thin, now, with only the occasional couple or pairing walking by.
"John?" He turned to him, alarmed not to see surprise in his friend's eyes, but to see them squeezed shut in concentration. Hurriedly, Sherlock held John's head between his hands and steadied him. "Are you alright? John. John?" His name flowed from his pale lips, as if just saying his name by itself would cease the pain immediately. "Tell me what hurts!"
Beneath his eyelids, his vision flashed white. Did he mention to Sherlock that he had a migraine? Everything seemed so far away now, and he couldn't remember. "M-My head – it hurts, it hurts so much…"
The taller man didn't hesitate. He practically kicked down the door to their flat and helped John up the stairs, two – sometimes three – at a time. As soon as he could, Sherlock nearly dumped the man into his own bed and shut the lights, leaving him in the pitch black. As soon as John's body hit the bed he relaxed, melding to the mattress and sanctity of wrinkled and cool sheets. "I'll return in a few minutes," Sherlock declared, and without any other words, he gently shut his flat mate's door and quickly strolled into their living room.
"Is everything alright, dear?" A voice called, coming up the staircase. Mrs. Hudson stopped in the doorway of the living room, watching the man pace back and forth, muttering to himself.
"He'd fallen earlier, and obviously it's causing typical side effects of a concussion. Nausea, vomiting, severe headache –"
"Sherlock –"
"To what degree and angle did he fall from? He didn't fall off a building, that's for sure, that much would have killed him instantly –"
"Sherlock –"
"Depending on the severity of his concussion, the symptoms will last longer and longer, but it could be something more –"
"Sherlock, look at me!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, and Sherlock shut up, the only remaining noise the sound of John through the wall, groaning at them both to keep quiet. Her eyes radiated concern as Sherlock unintentionally glowered down at her. "Is John alright? He went straight into his room."
"John has a migraine, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock stared down at her, then broke the mutual gaze to mutter, "Suffered a bad concussion earlier in the day, so that's to be expected. A typical migraine lasts from four to seventy-two hours, so if it isn't gone in the next three days, something else is going on…" He took a deep breath and attempted to smile, albeit briefly. "Mrs. Hudson, my dear, could you put on the kettle?"
She exhaled quietly but headed for their cluttered kitchen, calling out her usual, "Just since John is sick, dear, I'm just your landlady."
As the kettle sat on the stove and Sherlock waited, the day seemed to meld together, focusing solely on the moment where John knocked his head on the ground. He sat; hands pressed together and entirely still, as the world flew by. The only thing that knocked him out of his trance was the tea, screaming absurdly loud. He brought a small cup to sit on John's bedside. The man lay motionless, but his breathing was indicated by the even rise and fall of his back. It'll be best to let it pass, Sherlock thought, and slipped out of his room without another sound.
The chase started in a snap. Mr. McCoy stood easily from his chair and greeted the two men visiting his apartment. Sherlock firmly shook his hand, and then remained motionless, his eyes raking over the suspect. Within minutes of searching his home, the evidence rapidly stacked up against him and presented, it was clear the case had found its conclusion. The air around the three men, for just an instant, was silent, unmoving. Within the next few seconds, they were all running.
A pursuit was always exciting, refreshing even. Mr. McCoy flew in between the couple and out the door, then quickly onto the streets. Sherlock burst after him, and John followed, a light grin almost playing on his lips. The handgun in his pocket felt awfully heavy right now, and it was invigorating. As they ran, the taller Brit barked harshly, "Stay on the streets, I'll go by rooftop."
That was exactly what the pair did. Sherlock leapt successfully across the roofs, scaling ladders and climbing stairs. John, however, kept to the ground and helped to corner the murderer. He'd stumbled only a few times, but the only time he actually fell was when Mr. McCoy hopped over the hood of a cab, forcing it to squeal to a halt. John, not having reacted fast enough, went to jump, but ended up with the side of the car in his gut, stealing the wind from his lungs. The side of his head scraped roughly against the thin, sharp corner of the license plate, and his head hit the gravel with a bounce.
After that, it was warm. The cabbie swiftly came to John's aid (he was positive Sherlock would let it slide; catching the killer was much more important than John regaining his momentum) and helped him stand. He exclaimed quite loudly, "Jesus! Look at that bloody cut!" "I'm fine, sorry."
It wasn't as enthralling once he'd sustained his injury. Lestrade showed up with two other cars to block McCoy's path, and by the time John managed to catch up, he was in hand-cuffs. Sherlock stood alone, turning to see John (his eyes almost appeared to light up when he arrived) when he approached. The smaller Brit took a deep breath, uttered, "Sher—", and then proceeded to vomit into a bin in front of the entire police force.
Author's Comments
Second Johnlock. First chapter. Jeez, I really loved writing this - I struggled but it was so much fun.
Thanks to otp-5ever on tumblr for the idea! I hope that they read it because it was amazing. More to come, hopefully.