Pain. That was the first thing that pierced his awareness. Incredible pain. It was his hands. They were aching intensely. The pain was radiating up his arms into his shoulders. Sherlock forced himself to stillness, keeping his eyes closed. He had to assess the situation.
His last memory? Falling asleep in his bed. Odd. It felt like he was in his bed. Need more data. Slowly, so as to avoid alerting anyone who might be watching, he cracked his eyes open a fraction. He was in his own room. The detective's eyes flew open. He was alone, there was no sign of anything amiss.
In one fluid motion, Sherlock sat up, placing his feet on the cold floor. He instantly regretted the motion. The pain blossomed in his shoulders and down his arms. It was then that he noticed. His fingers were curled into fists. Fists that he couldn't open.
Sherlock was well acquainted with pain. He had survived torture, after all. But this. It was pain without a cause. There was absolutely no reason behind it. He started to panic. He couldn't use his hands.
"John!" he called out, voice booming. "John, something is wrong!"
Later, John would attribute his actions to the panic in Sherlock's voice. Sherlock never panicked. The first thing John knew, he was standing in the detective's room, his gun in ready position. He took in the room at a glance. Except for Sherlock, there was no one there. "Jesus, Sherlock. You scared me. What the..."
It was then that he registered the panic in his flatmate's eyes. The genuine panic. John lay his gun down on Sherlock's bedside table and dropped to his knees in front of him. "What is it Sherlock? What's wrong?"
Sherlock's baritone was raw as he spoke, "I hurt John and my hands. I can't open them." He looked at John with pleading in his eyes, "What's wrong with me?"
John took a deep breath and forced himself into doctor mode. "Tell me where it hurts."
"My shoulders, arms and hands. They hurt, John, for no reason." Sherlock's voice cracked. He felt his reason slipping. He would not let this get the best of him. He would not.
John used his most soothing voice, "Relax, Sherlock. Let me feel." John's hands felt the detective's shoulders and moved down his arms, pausing at his elbows, wrists, and knuckles. He moved each arm through several movements, stopping each when Sherlock let out a moan of pain. "Right then. I'll go get you a pain killer. You'll take them. Then I'll go get some prescriptions filled. You'll take those. No argument. We'll deal with the symptoms now and I'll get you in to see a rheumatologist."
Sherlock looked at John with his processing face. John waited patiently. Finally, Sherlock spoke, "So, you suspect an immunological disease."
"Right." John let out a great sigh. "With your drug history, they will want to check for HIV, of course." John held up a placating hand. "I know, you always used a clean needle and you've been tested before. I'm just telling you what will happen. After that, well, there are so many possibilities, but with these symptoms, I'm sure they will test for Rheumatoid Arthritis up front as well."
Of course, Sherlock had the typical progression of the disease stored in his Mind Palace. Most damage occurred during the first seven years from onset. Vital organs could be attacked as well as joints. It was a leading cause of disability. He pushed those thoughts aside. Oddly, he had no information regarding onset. "But, John. I've had no symptoms before this. Nothing. Not a hint of pain."
John nodded. "I know. It's not that unusual, actually. It can develop slowly or it can come on all at once, like this. No warning." John tried not to show the worry on his face, but he felt it to his core. He forced a smile. "So, let me go get that painkiller, shall I?" When Sherlock didn't answer. John took that as a yes. "Right then. I'll be back."
John stepped out of Sherlock's room, closing the door behind himself. He leaned heavily against the adjoining wall and took a steadying breath. He knew there would be no quick answers. This was going to be so hard.