Warnings: none.
This is inspired by sevenpercent's take on Sherlock having Sensory Processing Disorder, and how that affects his physical reaction to stimuli. I hope I've done her insights justice.
Sherlock Holmes was in pain.
John Watson had donned his physician's mantle and sat quietly, watching the Consulting Detective from across the room at Baker Street. His own muscles were still singing with the aftermath of the evening's tussle, but it was Sherlock who took the brunt of the skirmish.
Sherlock sat stiffly, his arms hugging his torso as if afraid to move. Eyes closed, he shifted on the sofa in an unsuccessful attempt to get comfortable. For the third time in twenty minutes, he said, "I'm fine, John."
"I didn't say anything," came the soft reply.
"Didn't have to."
"Lay down, Sherlock. You need sleep."
Sherlock replied with a weak, "You know I can't sleep right after a case."
It wasn't that he didn't want to. God, his was tired. His mind was too ablaze, too busy trying to sort data, tie up loose ends, search for weaknesses in the evidence, inconsistencies that could jeopardise a conviction. But, with the headache, there were blind spots that were plastered over his mental field of view like so many black holes, sucking facts and connections into an endless pit that left him mentally blind, physically exhausted, and beyond frustrated at his total inability to put two coherent thoughts together.
John had seen it happen before. The headaches struck seemingly without rhyme or reason, without any of the typical migraine triggers. This one hit at the climax of a case, with an intensity that quite literally left Sherlock breathless, and in pain so severe it had stopped him in mid-sentence. But it hadn't stopped him from running after the teen, half Sherlock's age, and launching a totally inelegant flying tackle that sent them both tumbling down a flight of stairs. John had caught up with them moments later, finding a bruised and jarred Sherlock sitting silently on the boy's back, holding his aching head in his hands but quite effectively pinning the little cretin, who, judging from the bloody head and broken wrist, definitely took the worst of the fall and was now blubbering for his mum. Case closed.
"Go to bed." John urged.
"Not tired."
John sighed. "You're an idiot."
Sherlock opened his mouth to reply; all that he managed was a sigh. The lack of snarky response was enough to spur John to action. As he rose from the chair, another grimace passed across Sherlock's face. From the creases around Sherlock's eyes and the set of his jaw, John could tell that the headache was worsening. The doctor huffed out an impatient breath as he approached the sofa. Sherlock's hand suddenly shot out and seized John's wrist in a death grip.
"John, do something." There was a desperate edge to his voice.
As if that didn't startle John enough, Sherlock leant forward and rested his head against John's chest. John was nonplussed for a moment, then allowed his hands come up, one to Sherlock's back, the other to his head. He ran his fingers through the mass of curls, and the stray thought – Softer than I imagined. John could feel himself blush. One more thing I can cross off my bucket list. He chuckled to himself.
"Be right back," John whispered.
Sherlock hesitated for a moment before allowing the loss of contact.
John walked to the bathroom, then bedroom, bringing back with him a rizatriptan packet a tube of Traumeel, and a duvet. John turned off the lights, letting the glow from the kitchen cast a soft illumination through the room. Sherlock sighed in relief. The doctor opened the blister pack.
"Under your tongue." In the small corner of his mind that was capable of coherent thought, Sherlock thanked whatever gods may be that John was intelligent enough to know that, with nausea lurking, he would not have been able to tolerate taking pills with water. Sherlock opened his mouth and allowed the doctor to place the dissolving tablet in his mouth without protest.
John knew that not only did Sherlock rarely tolerate casual touch, he never initiated it, unless it was to provoke a reaction or to manipulate someone. Mrs. Hudson and John seemed to be the only exceptions, a point for which John was, at this moment, supremely grateful. Still, it was a risk.
"I'm going to take your shirt off." Sherlock flinched at the first contact, then forced himself to accept it. John undid the buttons on the too-tight shirt, then opened the cuff buttons and gently slipped the shirt off Sherlock's right arm. Sherlock winced as his shoulder moved, and John could see a large bruise starting to form on the curve of the shoulder. He eased the shirt off the other arm and tossed it onto the chair. John gritted his teeth as he saw more bruises on his arms and side; it was no wonder he hadn't wanted to move.
"Shoes." Sherlock sat numbly, passively as John slipped off his shoes.
"I'm going to lay you down now. On your stomach." John put a gentle hand on his shoulder and Sherlock flinched again. It was as if Sherlock's wires were crossed and the migraine was somehow less painful than a subtle touch. John applied firmer pressure, which Sherlock relaxed into, and he allowed John to guide him into position on the sofa, his long legs comically propped up on the armrest.
"Can't sleep," Sherlock protested.
"I know. Just hush."
John squeezed a generous portion of Traumeel onto his hands and allowed it to warm. "Arnica. It will help with the bruising and soreness from the fall."
"Obvi–." The last syllable was swallowed by a moan.
His clinical eyes made note of more bruises on Sherlock's back, equally spaced lines of angry red where Sherlock's back had impacted the stairs. John let the physician's cloak slip away, leaving in its place friend caring for friend. Best friend. Only friend. He moved his hands to Sherlock's uninjured left shoulder and began to work the cream into the muscle with firm pressure. Sherlock moved to pull away, but it was a half-hearted attempt at best.
"John, unnecessary. I'm–" but he sighed, and the rest of his thought vanished into the void.
John spent several minutes on the area before moving across Sherlock's neck, feeling the corded muscles there. It needed deep pressure that, to anyone else, might be uncomfortable, but John let his instincts lead him, and he pressed his fingers deeper. He was met with a grunt, followed by a quiet hum. John nodded to himself and continued. He wondered if pain over-rode any other sensory input, then an even more startling question arose – was the pain so intense that Sherlock was not even aware of John's touch? Regardless of his conscious awareness or not, Sherlock's body, his mere transport, was responding, muscles releasing their tension as they eased back into their normal suppleness as endorphins began to flow.
It was a strange sensation for John, too. Of course he had touched Sherlock before, many times. A casual touch on the arm or his back, the memorable night of arm wrestling (How could he possible have been a fair fight when Sherlock's forearm towered over his?), the doctorly ministrations when Sherlock was ill or injured, even the occasional punch… John smiled at the memory of hurling himself onto Sherlock's back in the street near The Woman's place. But he had never seen Sherlock lay himself so open to touch as he had tonight, nor had John allowed himself to feel – what? tenderness? – as he cared for Sherlock in a decidedly non-clinical way. He felt humbled and privileged, as if he were on hallowed ground and privy to the Arc of the Covenant of their friendship.
The adrenaline of the earlier chase had long since dissipated, but John could still feel the tremors in his own body. As he worked with a steady rhythm, his muscles were relaxing as the endorphins swept over him, as well. He allowed himself to revel in the peacefulness of the moment. As his hands moved along Sherlock's back in long, smooth motions, the rhythmic pace, the reassuring cadence of the in-and-out of Sherlock's breath, and the warmth of human touch were as soothing John as to Sherlock.
John's steady hands moved to Sherlock's battered shoulder, rubbing more gently around the bruise until the cream had absorbed. It was then that John became aware of the change in Sherlock's breathing pattern. Tidal breathing.
John gently let his hands surrender contact with his friend. He held the moment precious, for in their frenzied, unpredictable lives, he knew that a moment like this might never happen again. He laid the duvet lightly over Sherlock, who did not stir.
"Good night, Sherlock."
And Sherlock slept.