It's my first piece of fan-fiction. I always make up stories in my head, but I've never written them down.
I get a lot of headaches and migraines, and my body is in pain a lot. Sometimes it helps me to think of my favorite characters in similar situations...if they can get through it and still be awesome, maybe I can too. You can review or whatever if you'd like, I don't mind either way...I mostly wrote this for myself.
It was, in a sense, debilitating.
John Watson had frequent migraines. It's not unexpected, given his history. He'd fought a war, a bullet, depression, and other sorts of added stress. After rooming with Sherlock Holmes, however, many of those things were be easily forgotten, or at least pushed aside. But the migraines were stubborn, and could not be isolated.
This one, however, was different. Once in a great while, a few times a year, he would suffer from debilitating and agonizing migraines that could last up to a full 7 days. During these times, he was useless. Sleep, food, reading, telly, ANYTHING...useless and futile. The pain would be so wretched and hell-bent, he'd forget that the Earth was still spinning and continuing with life.
After years of taking different sorts of over-the-counter medications on an almost daily basis for headaches, his body had grown immune to their effects. He's since been prescribed something stronger, but not even those pills could touch the current cycle of fire and nails rummaging through his skull.
He lay upstairs, on his bed, the curtains drawn and the lights off. His arm was draped over his eyes, a once warm rag sitting on his forehead. The incessant pounding racking his brain had been raging for 3 days now. He could FEEL the blood in his body, for every pulse that pumped would ricochet a wave of immense pressure to his brain. He had no idea what the time or the day was.
Sherlock was off on a minor case given to him by Lestrade, a case he would not have normally taken had his companion not been out of commission and so...boring. Of course he solved it within minutes of arriving on the scene, but he decided to really milk it and play a self-made game of which officer he can force a mental breakdown upon first. Goal; Anderson. So far, so good...Anderson was even more impatient today than normal. Brilliant.
He was, though, somewhat concerned for his friend. It was just a migraine, after all...John had them all the time. Not like this, really, but it was about time for John to come down with something. He did have the worst luck with health, and he'd been on an unusually long stint of primeness lately. Sherlock was SO bored...he hadn't seen John in days, and knew he couldn't text him. Knowing John and the magnitude of the migraine, he assumed John would have turned the phone off and flushed it down the toilet if any noise came from it.
It was day 7 now. There was no evidence that Sherlock's flatmate even existed save for a few rustles coming from upstairs. He idly wondered if John had even showered the past week. From the time he's known him, though, John's demon should vanish soon. There hasn't been an episode longer than 7 days.
That's why Sherlock became increasingly concerned by day 9. He had long since finished his trivial case for Scotland Yard, and was on the verge of desperation to ask Mycroft for a case. His fingers hovered over his phone before putting it down and making his way to the stairs. He rather missed John. It was strange, not having him around. Although his superior mind and prioritized objectives often spoke out otherwise, he rather enjoyed the small moments he shared with John; watching crap telly, reading the papers with coffee in the morning, calling for a cab on the way to dinner. He'd been alone all his life and managed fine...how was it that John made it all impossible again?
He knocked softly on the door.
"John?"
It was quiet.
"John, I've become concerned and I rather don't like the feeling of that emotion, so please what can I do?"
With no reply, he decided to gently push open the door. John was laying on the bed, arm draped over his eyes. He looked ghastly...horrid, in fact. He was pale and looked so thin...how much weight had he lost? Sherlock never really suffered from headaches, but he didn't imagine this is what it was supposed to look like.
"My God, John...what...what's happened to you?" He reached his bedside and touched his friends shoulder. There was a low grumble from John's throat, but that was it.
"John, you haven't eaten or quite possibly slept for several days. You are not well."
John's head moved a minuscule amount, but Sherlock noticed. When the doctor spoke, it was hoarse and weak.
"Sherlock, I think...I may need an ambulance."
Sherlock's heart stopped. An ambulance? John despised hospital's, especially for himself. He cursed himself for not checking on him earlier.
"I...John...uhm, alright. Are you...alright?" He suddenly didn't know what to say, but he had to hear John say he was alright. Of course he wasn't exactly in prime condition, but the sort of 'alright' Sherlock was searching for was closer to the state of his life rather than his body.
"I don't know, Sherlock..." His voice trailed off, barely a whisper.
With that, Sherlock quickly pivoted and left the room, making a bee-line for his phone. The number he had just recently abandoned was suddenly under his finger-tips again, and he pressed the call button. Seeing as it was rather unusual for Sherlock to call his brother, it didn't take long for the latter to answer.
"Sherlock." Said the voice from the other end, as if somewhat expecting the call.
"Mycroft, John's ill. He's, I don't know but I need an ambulance. Now."
"I was beginning to wonder where he's been...I haven't seen him in over a week." Sherlock duly noted that he'd have to chastise his brother for the spying check-ups. Mycroft's voice interrupted him.
"If you want a hospital, brother, may I suggest you call one?"
Sherlock shook his head, his heart pounding with every wasted second. "No, your people are quicker. Please, Mycroft. He's barely conscious."
Not knowing the deepest parts of Mycroft's heart, Sherlock had no idea the strings that were tugging on it. Mycroft was quite fond of John, especially given his substantially positive part in Sherlock's life.
"2 minutes." Came the short reply. "Try and keep him awake." Click.
Pocketing the device, Sherlock strode back into his friend's dark room. He was in the same exact position, but his skin looked somehow paler.
"John, help is coming, only a few minutes, alright? I need you to stay awake." Not even a grumble for response.
"John?" Sherlock lifted John's arm from his head and laid it on his stomach. His eyes were closed. No...thought Sherlock. Come on, John, not now.
"John." He shook his shoulders gently.
"John, wake up." Silence.
"John! John, open your eyes!" His heart was racing, his mind working in hyper-drive, pictures of a life without John flashed in his head. He hesitated for a brief moment, the thought of his next action causing brief emotional pain, but decidedly reached out two fingers to John's throat. After feeling something pulse beneath his skin, he released the breath he didn't know he was holding in relief. It was a short relief, however, when he began to feel the pulse. It was so, so soft. So...weak. And it was erratic, slow.
"Don't you dare die on me now, John. This is ridiculous." Hot tears were beginning to well up in his bright eyes. Mycroft's words, words that seemed like a life-time ago, echoed in his mind as he ached for John. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.
No, it wasn't. It really, really wasn't. John meant everything to him...John saved him, in so many ways. He was a constant light in what was once a dark tunnel. He was the honest laughter that Sherlock forgot even existed in him. He was the simplicity of morning tea that made the rest of the day so much better. He was his best friend...his brother.
Damning his sentiment, Sherlock felt a tear run down his cheek as he stared helplessly at his probably dying friend. But then, under his pain and affliction, Sherlock realized something. John was all of those things to Sherlock because John CARED. John always cared...Sherlock wouldn't be where he was in life if it wasn't for John's caring. So in some strange, twisted irony...caring rather was the advantage. It was an icy thought, given the caring man's given state.
His fingers remained on John's vein, tracking it's downhill slope. He blindingly registered the door being burst open, the people stomping up the stairs and pushing him out of the way. He stumbled to the back of the room, a hand on his shoulder. He watched with a haze as the people did their work, odd images of warm tea and biscuits shadowing his thoughts.
"They're taking him to the hospital, Sherlock...do you want to come with me?" With a slight movement from his head, his eyes still not leaving John's still form, Sherlock realized the hand on his shoulder belonged to his brother. He nodded subtly.
He sat, studying the oxygen mask and slow beeping of the monitor. He had his legs crossed and his chin propped up on his palm. He wondered why hospital chairs were so uncomfortable, given their purpose was to accompany the patients.
John had been flown via helicopter to the hospital. He was given immediate resuscitation. He was not expected to live.
But the incessant monitor proved those monetary doctors wrong...clearly, they did not know John Watson.
It bothered Sherlock...it bothered Sherlock so much. How could this have happened? Mycroft tried to tell him that this happens to some people, that really it isn't so abnormal. He was right, though, in his theory that Sherlock was shocked of it's cause. John was not supposed to die or become seriously injured, but if ever he did...Sherlock surmised the root of it would be from his dangerous habits. Not this.
Not an aneurysm. Not the stroke that followed that aneurism.
In reality, John SHOULD have died. The internal bleeding was substantial...the starvation and dehydration his body collected was considerable. But he was here, his heart beating, his lungs breathing. From the scan tests, John's stroke affected his breathing more than anything. He'd forgotten how to do so, apparently. How human, Sherlock thought tiredly.
He'd been unconscious for 3 days. Sherlock could tell Mycroft was trying to ease him into the idea that John may not wake up. Mycroft wanted to protect Sherlock, protect him from too much hope. Hope was deadly.
But Sherlock didn't necessarily have hope...he just knew. John would wake up. John would be alright. Of course he would, look how far he's gotten! Against all odds, John had survived. He didn't fight so hard to be stopped by a damned coma.
Although it took longer than he had preferred, Sherlock was right. And although that took longer than he preferred, John was eventually cleared to go home. He was on strict orders to utilize the clunky breathing machine every night...it was feared in his sleep, his mind would not take the initiative to send orders to the lungs.
"How do you feel?" Asked Sherlock. John was sitting in his armchair, his eyes closed with hands around a warm cup of tea.
"I'm alright, Sherlock." He answered. Sherlock thought back to how different John's state of 'alright' was the last time he wanted to know.
"I'm sorry."
With that, John opened his eyes and looked at his friends face across from him, whose eyes were glued to the floor.
"Why, Sherlock?"
"I...I should have checked on you. Long before I actually did." He said honestly, his voice quiet. John stared at him, then looked at his tea.
"We both thought it was just another migraine run...you saved my life, Sherlock. And I, um. Sherlock, thank you." Sherlock's eyes rose and locked with John's. It was so relieving to see him there, sitting in his armchair. His hands were holding tea, as they should be. Seeing John alive and not unconscious in a dark room with barely a pulse was one of the most warm relishes Sherlock had felt in a long time. He felt somewhat guilty, but so much more relaxed.
"You are welcome, John." John smiled a small smile and rose the tea to sip it.
"But please, do not ever...ever...put me through that again." John could tell that Sherlock was lightening the mood by the cast of the statement, but he could also pick up the raw honesty that kerneled beneath it.
"It's fine, Sherlock...I really am alright."