Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
Hello, everyone! Here's is part one of a two-part response to a prompt from BlueMoonstone. I hope you enjoy!
It had been a long, but productive, day. John collapsed into his bed after twenty-two hours of running around London, chasing after Sherlock. Actually, to be fair, they had spent some time in their flat starring at the gigantic web of photos, maps, and string tacked to their wall, not to mention the couple of hours John spent in Kensington, hunting down a clue Sherlock seemed to think was important (as always, he was right and John's data ended up being the illuminating factor for Sherlock's brain). John closed his eyes, feeling every muscle in his body relax, before falling asleep.
John woke suddenly. He starred up into the dark, wondering why he was awake and then he remembered. There had been a noise.
Thud.
There it was again. Heart beating a little faster than normal, John pushed his covers down and slid his feet into his slippers. Taking his gun from the drawer, John crept down the stairs and switched on the lamp in the hall. There was no reaction to the light but John kept his finger trained on the trigger. He advanced down the hall and felt really silly when he saw the light coming out from the bathroom door. He let his hand fall and he was about to return to his warm bed when he heard what sounded like someone dry heaving.
"Sherlock, are you okay?"
"Fine." Sherlock's answer was strained and followed by retching noises.
"You don't sound fine." John said, only to be responded to by more repulsing noise.
"I'm coming in." John called through the door. He tried the knob and wasn't surprised when it swung open.
Sherlock was sitting by the toilet, knees drawn up and his back leaning against the wall. His face was red, and the rim of his t-shirt collar was soaked with sweat. John could hear him breathing from the doorway – it was clear he was having trouble – and Sherlock's head was hung low, resting on his arms that were suspended on his knees.
"Bloody hell, Sherlock!" John exclaimed, rushing over and kneeling by him. Sherlock, as soon as John knelt down, pushed him away as he lunged for the toilet. He vomited violently before falling back against the wall, hand reaching up lazily to flush. John was on one knee, watching with great concern.
"What happened?" John finally asked. Sherlock's head rose from the cradle his arms created and he turned, blinking slowly.
"Don't know." Sherlock mumbled, his voice scratchy.
"When did this start?"
Sherlock closed his eyes as he tried to think, which was almost as worrying to John as the vomiting.
"I felt ill this evening."
"Ill how?"
"Queasy."
"Okay, then what?"
"I went to bed same time as you and I woke up a few minutes ago."
"Did you fall out of bed or something?"
"What?" It was an odd question, and one Sherlock wasn't expecting.
"I heard a noise." John said. "Like something falling."
Sherlock nodded.
"It was me. I fell when I tried to get up the first time."
"Are you dizzy?"
Sherlock, still panting, nodded again. John reached for one of Sherlock's wrists and took his pulse.
"Your heart is racing." John said. "Are you having difficulty breathing?"
Sherlock swallowed and the doctor didn't need an answer.
"We need to get you back to bed."
"What if I'm sick again?" Sherlock asked and John's heart ached. He had never heard his friend sound so broken or scared.
"I'll bring a bin. You need to be lying down."
Sherlock didn't protest and John held out his hands to help pull the detective to his feet. With Sherlock so unstable, John bore most of his weight and guided him back to his bed. Sherlock fell into the mattress, leaving John to arrange the bed clothes.
"I'll be right back, okay?" John said and left without waiting for a response. Sherlock closed his eyes, willing the content of his stomach to stay where they were, and took deep breaths, trying to slow his heart. John returned a moment later with a bin, lined with plastic.
"It's right here, okay? Let me know if you need it."
Sherlock didn't respond and John reached over him, pulling the second pillow from the bed. He arranged it under Sherlock's head so he wasn't quite as flat. Sherlock swallowed hard.
"John?" he mumbled and John wordlessly handed him the bin before sliding a hand behind his back to help him sit up. Once upright, John let Sherlock have a moment of privacy while he went into the bathroom, searching for the thermometer.
"Done?" John asked Sherlock, who was leaning against the headboard with eyes closed, bin haphazardly on his lap. Sherlock merely nodded and John moved the bin to the floor, making a mental note to empty it after.
"Do you want to lie down again?"
Sherlock lazily opened his eyes, still trying to control his breathing, and shifted in the bed. John adjusted the pillows once again and soon Sherlock was lying comfortably.
"Can you slip this under your tongue?"
John felt bad probing his friend with so many questions, especially when it was so clear he wanted to do nothing but go to sleep. Luckily, the answer for this question only required Sherlock to open his mouth and John did just as he asked by manoeuvring the thermometer under Sherlock's tongue.
"You don't have a fever." John stated a moment later, somewhat shocked by the reading. "That doesn't make sense."
Sherlock's breathing was still very rapid and there was sweat beading on his face. John put the thermometer down and went into the bathroom again, returning with two cool compresses. One he laid generously over Sherlock's forehead and the other he folded tightly and began blotting his neck.
"How does that feel?"
"Good." Sherlock breathed. "But I'm going to be sick again."
John repeated the process – handing Sherlock the bin, helping him sit, and then easing him down after the bout had passed. John adjusted the compress resting on Sherlock's brow.
"We need to figure out what caused this. At your own pace, tell me what you did today."
"You were with me for the entire day."
"No, we were apart for awhile. Let's start this morning, what did you eat for breakfast?"
Sherlock took a deep breath, his eyes closed, before answering.
"Oatmeal, same as you."
"And how did you feel after breakfast?"
"Fine."
"What about lunch?"
"I don't eat on my cases, remember?"
"Right. Okay, when I went to Kensington, what did you do?"
"I thought."
"Besides thinking, what were you doing? Did you have something to drink? Or doing an experiment in the kitchen?"
"I was lying on the couch."
John had a mental flashback to when he was first summoned to 221B Baker Street, Sherlock demanding use of his phone. He remembered he couldn't fathom how Sherlock had three nicotine patches on his forearm.
John suddenly pulled into reality.
"Did you use a nicotine patch?" John asked.
"What?" Sherlock asked. He had started to doze off and he did not appreciate being woken. He couldn't vomit if he was asleep.
"Nicotine patches. When we solved A Study in Pink, you wore three nicotine patches. Did you do that again, use more than one, I mean?"
Sherlock nodded but didn't open his eyes. John, too impatient to wait for an answer, grabbed Sherlock's arm and rolled up his sleeve.
"Four patches, Sherlock?!"
Again, Sherlock didn't open his eyes. The darkness seemed to quell the dizziness.
"It was a four patch problem."
"That is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard." John said, peeling off the patches one by one. Of course, it was this comment that prompted reaction and Sherlock lifted his head as much as he could.
"I solved the case, didn't I?"
"Was it worth the nicotine poisoning?"
"Is that what this is?" Sherlock's head fell back onto the pillow.
"I think so. I'm going to treat it as such anyways, seeing as there's no way you'll let me take you to hospital."
"In that case, ask me tomorrow and I'll say yes, it was worth it."
"And what about now?" John asked, folding the patches into one another carefully.
"It is an unforeseeable side effect."
John just shook his head and rolled his eyes, but Sherlock opened his own eyes in time to see John's response.
"What?"
"Nothing, Sherlock. Go back to sleep."
"You think that because I think of this as a work hazard-"
"It's not a work hazard, Sherlock. You can solve problems without overdosing on nicotine supplements, you know."
"Where's the fun in that?"
"Oh, I don't know, maybe sleeping through the night without vomiting? And don't say that's dull or boring because then I might be forced to shoot you."
"Shoot the wall." Sherlock said, losing himself to sleep. John merely sighed.
If any of you have seen Scandal in Belgravia with the commentary, you'll know that Benedict actually got nicotine poisoning from smoking all those cigarettes in the numerous takes of the morgue hallway scene. Poor guy :( Anyways, don't know when chapter 2 will be up, seeing as school is super busy but I had to write something or else I'd go stir crazy.
Please review!
