The first scare was the hardest so far, for John.
Getting off work an hour late, John strode to the flat thinking up any excuse. Tonight was the night he promised Sherlock to help him organize something or another, and even though he'd see through the white lie, it was somehow easier to say.
But the seconds of entering the flat he should have guessed something not right. The television was twenty clicks too high on a show his friend would never, ever watch. It was one detail that ran John up the many steps a little faster.
The flat looked the same, so far. The television was, again, so far, the only out of element thing wrong. John manually clicks the telly off. And the flat gets dead silent. His brain goes to a case from a few months back, where a radio was covering the noise from the screams of a murder victim.
Long shot, but it was the best theory. Only, another clue brings John's eyes to the floor leading to the bathroom. "Oh god, SHERLOCK?" A very thin, puddled blood mixture splayed the good wooden floors. Coming from the kitchen John walked right by.
This proved John should never be the one to do detective work.
"I am fine." A stubborn voice soothes John a small bit, but remember the bomb strapped people forced to phone family, friends.
He edges toward the bathroom, inhaling a large breath before figuring out the door was locked. "Just hold on, i'm coming in." Reassuring him no matter what he'd see. Whether it be Sherlock in trouble or Sherlock washing off pig's blood again, he just needs to sure.
As he makes a line around to his flatmate's room, he hears Sherlock gurgled protests and disagreement. "No, John, just don't come in."
John hears evident fingernails scratching up the door, and opens it gently. "I have to." John times to say as he squeaks the door open. And it was only Sherlock inside. Sherlock, a hand reaching for John's direction to lock the said door, coming from the ground. Sherlock, head leaned more over the toilet. Sherlock, his own vomit and blood stained down his nice white shirt.
"What did you do?" John didn't hesitate. Sherlock's state was far more serious than it looked, obviously. It always was. "Just sick. You need... need to, get. Get to work." Every word took ages to get out, his eyes searched for the other's, it wasn't a good scene.
"I went to work ten hours ago. How long have you been feeling this way?" As John kneels, he remembers the morning. Sherlock was hovering over his laptop, a thick blanket over his shoulders and tea from last night still on the table. Maybe he looked a little flu-like but not vomiting blood-sick.
That was the first, real, scare. But it was months later that Sherlock gave John a reason for the sickness.
The doctor found himself being by Sherlock's side more often, watching him carefully during cases and insisting a cab ride instead of long run. More times than most the genius would confess to feeling dizzy, only because the wrath of his doctor was worse than the passing out part. During a mad chase, Sherlock began wheazing. The full titled, Doctor John Watson, went into action.
It was about three in the morning then, and cold, but not freezing. The alleyway they were running down was the only comfort John could give his friend as he sat him down. The head of curls was looking straight ahead when he plopped his side against John. "He's getting away." The man who never once let a man go free, literally could only let the man run free. A murder at large, but for one catch of breath?
John went to put a hand to Sherlock's head, seeing if that damn fever was there again, but Sherlock convulsed forward. The throwing up part was a weekly thing now that John could only listen to, he patted the detective's back and mentally put a note down to buy more tylenol.
Living with the man being sick was hard, because John knew his line. He knew that pestering him about what was really wrong would lead to a fight neither could handle. Sherlock was allknowing with what he had, and if he wanted John to know, John would eventually be told.
Writer's thing(but you don't have to call me a writer because i'm not really, i'm just a girl with a computer): this time skipping story will hopefully not be too sad. I stopped it here, which I am either sorry or "you're welcome" (i don't know your life), and I will continue asap.
