Just a short one - shot sequel to the chapter 'concussion' from my story ''study of Sherlock's mishaps". Hope you enjoy.
Please read and review.
Ta,
Laila.
His head felt fuzzy. Like cotton had replaced his brain.
A voice called his name. His name ... which was ...
"Sherlock! Open your eyes, Sherlock. Take ..."
Who was ... John, his brain ... cotton, reminded him. John was calling him and his fuzzy brain refused to co operate. What was John telling him to do? Open his eyes. That's it. Should be easy.
Only ... it wasn't. Someone had dropped those packets of fingers over his eyes. Surely that must be it. Why else would they feel so heavy?
His stomach roiled at the mention of fingers and before he had even opened his eyes, he was retching. Into a bin. It would have been embarrassing if Sherlock had had the strength to take in his surrounding. But right now he was squeezing his eyes shut against the ache in his stomach, throat and his head. His head was the worse. Each pound of his rapid heart sent stabbing spikes of pain rushing through his head, which in turn invoked more vomiting.
The retching seemed to go on for hours. Finally, finally, it stopped. He slumped back and was stopped by the arm on his back. Wait, arm?
Sherlock opened his against the throbbing in his skull and perceived a worried John looking at him. John wiped his mouth with a cool cloth and held out a paracetamol.
Sherlock raised a trembling hand and popped it into his mouth. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, before opening his eyes with great effort. John propped him up slightly with a couple of pillows.
"How do you feel?", John asked him, sitting on the coffee table with his hands clasped.
"Head", Sherlock whispered through his abused throat. True to his word his head was throbbing with renewed vengeance and all he wanted was to go back to sleep.
John nodded sympathetically, but continued on. "I'll ask you a couple of questions, alright? And then you can go back to sleep. Yeah?"
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes. 221 B Baker Street. Consulting detective. John Watson. I don't know the date nor the king of Britain", Sherlock rattled on, before John had a chance to ask the questions.
John blinked once, then shook his head slightly, not knowing whether to be surprised, annoyed or to laugh.
"Right. Ok. So ... do you want to go to your bed?" he asked instead.
Sherlock seemed to consider this for a while before he nodded slowly. He made to rise, when John laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"Whoa, slow down, mate. Take it easy", he cautioned.
Looping one of Sherlock's arm around his shoulder, he stood up slowly and allowed Sherlock to gain his feet.
Sherlock groaned as the movement sent a sharp pain through his head, but managed to stay on his feet. They made their way towards Sherlock's rarely used bedroom, stopping now and then to let Sherlock catch his breath.
Sherlock, for his part, seemed to be fully concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other and squinting his eyes against the pain.
After an arduous journey they reached the bedroom and the pale detective all but collapsed onto the bed, his hed cushioned on a hastily fluffed up pillow that John had placed. Sherlock felt the warm covers being pulled over his trembling body and a warm hand smosmoothing his sweaty hair back, lingering for a moment on his scalp, gently pressing to chase away his headache.
John left the room for a moment and came back with a wet cloth with which he wiped Sherlock's face and placed it on his forehead which was slightly warmer than normal body temperature.
Sherlock sighed in relief and a barely heard 'thankyou' passed his lips, before his breath slowed and he had drifted off.
John rubbed his eyes wearily, watching his friend sleep. He was still worried, but his concern had ebbed away as he knew now for certain that the detective would be alright.
It was with a light heart that he trotted to the kitchen for a cuppa to sustain him during his watch over his friend.