A/N: Hey, I'm back! With school finally over, I am trying to write up a new story. It will be several chapters long, and I hope that I can write up chapters quickly so that you won't have to wait to long if you like it. No one has done betaing or britpicking on this one, but if you want to for later chapters... be my guest :) Hope you like it!
It had been going on for almost two whole weeks when Sherlock decided he had had enough. He hadn't been able to take a good, normal breath in what felt like forever, and the feeling that someone was continuously strangling him was…well… breath-taking. Sherlock and John had been chasing two criminals together over the past few days, and John had been the one to catch up with the bad guys first both times. Meanwhile John had been holding a firm grip on the criminals, Sherlock had come jogging and out of breath right behind. The worst part, thought Sherlock, was that it was getting harder and harder to breathe each day, and it had now come to a point where it was really bothersome. Even though he hated doing so, most of all just wanting to brush it away and wait for it to hopefully stop, he told John.
"John, I can't breathe."
It wasn't supposed to come out that way, and it was surely not supposed to sound like that. He was just planning on telling John nonchalantly that he had some problems getting air down his lungs, and if anything could be done with it. Now that he actually thought about what he had said, it wasn't far from the truth. It had come to a point where air wasn't coming down his lungs anymore.
"Wha-"
John looked quizzically at his friend, but it quickly turned into a deep frown as the lanky detective almost fell down on the sofa next to him. He could see his friend turning into a slight tinge of blue, and that his chest was almost convulsing in an attempt to get some air. The doctor gripped Sherlock's shoulders firmly and forced him into an upright position. The two arms holding him up quickly became like a stress-ball, as Sherlock clenched all he could and made John grimace. He was starting to panic, that much was obvious, and panicking was the worst thing to do when one couldn't breathe. The same second he was about to open his mouth to tell him to calm down, Sherlock got his breath back, just as sudden as it felt like it had all happened. It did, indeed, seem like someone had just had a hold of his friend's throat and suddenly decided to let go. The two of them kept sitting beside each other on the sofa for a while, both pair of eyes searching frantically for answers in the other. It was Sherlock who broke the contact first, as he rose with a huff of frustration and strode over to the door where he put on his coat and scarf. John was still a bit baffled from what had just happened, because what had just happened?
"Where are you going?"
He snapped out of it and managed to stop Sherlock before he fled down the stairs and out of the flat. Only some muttering about a case was what John got as an explanation before the tall man was suddenly gone, and he was left in utter confusion and bewilderment. What on earth was going on?
It didn't take long before he started to analyze and think back to the last few days and weeks, had Sherlock behaved any differently? John couldn't think of anything, and it made him irritated and unsettled as hell. Why did it happen so sudden, and why did it go away so sudden? Now it didn't feel like such a good idea that Sherlock was running around on his own in London's dark alleys, maybe even more so with the sharp autumn air that had been lately. It was a possibility there was something wrong with Sherlock's lungs, and a night out in the cold, on the run after or from something, would do him no good then. John decided to get out after him.
Sherlock had actually tried to pursuit a criminal, having found out the address as to where he was hiding earlier, but not really cared too much about the case. Now seemed like a perfect time for the distraction. However, he had never come further than right around the corner of Baker Street before the newfound throbbing in his head became too much. Annoyed and angry at himself for giving in, he strode back to the flat, slammed the door after him and thumped up the stairs. He got slightly confused for a second, when he couldn't find John anywhere; he hadn't been out that long? Either way, he decided it was nothing to care about. Not a minute later he found himself flopping down on the sofa, rather than going to his bed or searching the folders he had from Lestrade to help with a cold case. Slowly, he fell asleep, even though he never meant to, to a steadily increasing headache and a stupidly high wish about wanting his doctor there with him.
And it was to just that wish he awoke again too. Immense pain shot through the whole of his now curled up body, all the way from his head down to his toes. The great detective took his head in his hands, and clung to his hair as if it would save him. An undignified sort of squeak and groan left his lips and was picked up on by a certain John Watson. It was just as he had hung his jacket on one of the pegs in the hallway that he noticed the shifting on the sofa, and then came the strangled sound. John's brows furrowed as he moved further into the apartment and took a closer look at his friend. He was half relieved to finally find him, but also wondering what could make him give away such a sound. Under further inspection, John saw that his hands were clamped over his temples, and his nails were digging into his scalp. Not knowing what was going on was starting to beat the patience out of John, and he once again asked the question he had asked himself so many times that evening; what was happening? John tried to pry Sherlock's hands away, but to no avail, he just kept moaning and digging his nails almost further into his head. Something was very off, and extremely a bit not good. All he wanted was to get Sherlock out of his seemingly catatonic state, and so he did what he thought was best.
"It's just John. You need to calm down and listen to me." He said as calmly and kindly he could.
The sound of his voice slowly penetrated its way into the detective's ears, like gospel over the deafening white noise from his headache and heavy breathing. Sherlock remained silent however; the headache was too much, and it made a haze it was impossible to speak or even think through. The only thing he could do was close his eyes tightly and try to lock it all out. John frowned even more and put a hand to Sherlock's head, not really knowing what else to do. Nothing seemed or felt different, but the man on the sofa was making a big deal out of nothing then. The moaning increased significantly when John took his hand away again, as if he was trying to hold back tears, which might as well could've been the case.
"My head…" He managed to mutter under his gasping breath, as he kicked out at the pillows at the bottom of the sofa and dragged at his own hair.
"I know, just try and calm down. Think of something else, maybe hold onto something else than your head? It might just get worse of it." John said sadly, reaching out his hand to show Sherlock he was there.
"Ju- just… don't-"
Sherlock didn't manage to finish talking before he a let out a low, painful groan and then fell silent. He kept staring forlorn at the ceiling, not knowing what to say or do. At the same time, John watched him with a concerned expression seeking for answers, just as last time. Was there something neurologically wrong? Once again, Sherlock rose up with an air of frustration and anger around him, rushing into the bathroom and later on to his bedroom. John remained in the same position by the sofa, his mind working and clogging around all his questions, until he snapped out of it and saw the clock had just passed 2AM.
It happened several times in the days after that, and they got absolutely no sort of warning on when or how it would transpire. Sherlock would be in a sudden immense pain, trying his hardest at ignoring it at continue what he was doing, and just as suddenly it was gone again. The worst was probably that it happened several times a day. At worst, John had lost count. It had happened in the most inconvenient of times; once at a crime scene, in a cab, several times while he was drinking or having something he didn't want to spill in his hands, but mostly it had woke him up from his sleep. The pain would be in different places all the time, although his head seemed to be a popular place for it to wreak havoc. Every time John asked (more like demanded), he described it as a piercing or stabbing one. Both John and Lestrade had witnessed Sherlock trying to deal with it as best without anyone being supposed to notice, but the change of the tall detective's posture, breathing and the small noises he made were all too obvious. There was nothing John had wanted more than to be there and calm his flatmate down, but he had never been allowed to, each time being forced away. He had been so focused on finishing the big, on-going case that he wouldn't let anything take his focus away from it. "'It's just transport." Sherlock had been angry after the pain attacks, maybe a little bit ashamed and very frustrated. They were also starting to irritate John and leave him pondering for hours and days afterward, until it was the only thing on his mind. The thought of seeing a doctor had passed his mind more than he liked, but he never seemed to gather his wits enough to tell Sherlock. Not when he was in a constant black mood, it might as well be the death of him then. The four or five days after the first incident occurred to John as a haze, just as much as it did for Sherlock. After that, it had been silent for at least three days, or Sherlock had just managed to supress the pain.
The load had lessened somewhat from John's shoulders, but he was still keeping a sharp eye on his flatmate. The question about what had caused the sudden pains still lingered, but it seemed like Sherlock had forgotten about it long ago. Did it really not bother him at all? At least John thought he would find it a little bit interesting now that it was all over. Classic Sherlock; taking advantage of everything to experiment. There had to be something different this time, John thought. He took a moment to just watch the detective sitting at the round table by the wall in the kitchen, fidgeting with his instruments and some blood samples in a couple of petri-dishes. He had seemed a bit on the edge all day, and as if to prove the other man's thoughts, Sherlock chose that moment to whip around and fix him with a cold, yet flaming stare.
"What?" he literally snarled at John.
"Nothing… you just seem a little twitchy today is all." John turned around to set his now empty cup in the sink, trying to feign nonchalance. "Sure you're feeling fine?" The question came out as a mumbling sentence of careful concern.
"Yes! And anyway, it is none of your business, go be worried about yourself or-" Sherlock stopped mid-sentence, he'd never done that before, not like that.
John turned back around to the sound of Sherlock's chair toppling over together with the tall man. In the process, he managed to drag with him the heavy microscope so that it landed on his chest. Several of the petri-dishes followed suit, and it looked like a real mess of both shattered glass and detective surrounded with blood. If John hadn't managed to turn around in time to see the petri-dishes smash to the ground, he would've probably reacted in a very different way. He should've been more alarmed, he knew that, but all he could feel was exasperation and frustration at the fact that he didn't know what to do.
Sherlock managed to push away the apparatus from his chest himself, but stopped in his movement when he tried to sit up. He sucked in a sharp breath and let it out shakily before he lowered himself slowly to the floor again. Before he could recline fully, John's strong arms grasped both of his biceps and made him sit up again. It earned him a tired scowl.
"Not here. It'll only hurt you further." He said, giving the shards a look as way of explanation. That wiped away Sherlock's expression. "Does your chest hurt? Can you get up?"
Sherlock looked down at his lap, seemingly shameful and a little bit uneasy, before he burst out into full on I-am-smarter-than-you mode.
"No, I am just sitting on the floor because I like it here. Of course I can't get up. Please, do use that thick, clogging mind of yours for what it's worth, you are giving me a headache." He almost screamed that second sentence into John's ear, filling it with something like abhorrence over the whole situation.
"First of all; you are sitting on the floor because I am keeping you upright. Second; that wasn't very nice, be careful about who you are pushing away Sherlock." Yet another scowl was shot vehemently to John for that lecture. For a moment, he knew there was something like regret in the otherwise calculating eyes of the detective, and that was good enough for his friend.
One of Sherlock's hands found its way to John's chest, and it used the sturdy body underneath to push the owner of it up on his feet. It seemed as if the whole ordeal was at least five times harder than it should be, and that made a warning pop up in the back of Dr Watson's head. John the friend, on the other hand, was insulted by being used as a bloody crutch for Sherlock to get up on his feet again. He saw him standing by the table again, slightly hunched and gripping the edge of it. Just as concern was about to set in to the "thick mind" in the room for the umpteenth time that week, he saw him straightening up and flatten out his now crumpled shirt. A snort made its way out of John as he rose to his feet. That man was utterly impossible and absolutely intolerable, but still, the thought of moving out had not crossed his thoughts once, yet…
"God damn it Sherlock, can you please tell me what is going on? You've been behaving like a real… bloody… sod all day. I don't know what to do. I can't imagine what it's like, or maybe I can, actually, but would you at least try to let me-"
Sherlock crumpled to the ground again, holding one hand to his ribs and trying to mitigate the impact of the fall with the other one. It did more harm than good, and it made him fall to his side when he hit the floor. Not one second later, John had an honest to God heart attack as the cold shrill of Sherlock's scream almost echoed inside the flat.
"Yes, I am a doctor, but that's not-" John tried to wait patiently for the person at the other end of the line to finish, Sherlock could see that, but he was definitely having a hard time. "I. do not. know! That's just the thing! He has been screaming and moaning like this for almost an hour now, please just send an ambulance here. Quick." It was the fifth or sixth, no… maybe seventh, time his good doctor had said that sentence now. "Oh… oh no… God, I have to… just… make them hurry."
Sherlock saw John putting down his Nokia and hurry back to the sofa again. For some reason he was telling him to calm down and don't think, or think of something else, or maybe try to say something. He had said that a lot, but why should he stop thinking about John and what he said, was that not what he wanted? No, focus Sherlock! That isn't what he means. And as if it was meant as a reminder from a higher deity; that was the exact moment he came back to himself again. What felt like a very, very real stabbing took place in the right side of his back. He arched against the soft surface he laid on, making no attempt at all to stop the cry escaping deep down from his throat. He felt John's hands in his hair at once, speaking the same mantra he had done all that night. Sherlock couldn't hear the words anymore, just feel John's presence and catch some of his calming tones under his own hysteric noises. He didn't know if he liked it or not, the touch from his friend that was, because it was without doubt that he did not like the pain. He almost thought he was going to cry, how had it come to this? His bane of thoughts got stopped as he could feel another stab, screwing itself deep down to what felt like both his spine and bone marrow. All he could do not to lose it completely was gape, and his impulse sent both hands scrabbling for something to hold so tight it would break. A sort of keening noise made its way into John's ears, together with a choked sob. John thought his pained friend was about to succumb to darkness, just when the door flew open.
Probably the worst cliffhanger ever... R/R to see a smile upon my face ;D