A Simple Love
John'd known it was a mistake to come the instant he'd stepped out of the cab at the crime scene. At first, he'd thought he was just having an off morning-that maybe he just needed to wake up a bit more after being unceremoniously pulled out of bed by an eager Sherlock with a blinking mobile. Damn Lestrade anyway. Why couldn't he at least wait until a decent hour before texting? He'd blearily pulled on his trousers and the nearest jumper before following his bounding flatmate out the door.
Dimly, he registered that Sherlock had already gotten out of the cab and that he should follow. His limbs were unaccountably heavy and stabbing pain shot from his eyes straight to the back of his skull as the morning light assaulted his eyes. He straightened and waved the worried looking cabbie off irritably. It was an overcast, but bright day, and the clouds, instead of shielding him seem1ed only to reflect the sunlight in sickeningly bright off-grey waves that cut and burned their way through his aching head.
"John! Do hurry up!" came Sherlock's voice from where Sherlock, brimming with enthusiasm, was already examining the body of a woman, laid out in front of her flat with the forensics squad standing, indignantly rebuffed to one side. Sherlock was excitedly hopping over and around the poor lady's body and gesticulating wildly, and oh yes, there was Anderson glaring balefully from behind, hovering like a bloody bat, clearly unwilling to let Sherlock take over without direct supervision. John spotted the berieved neighbours huddled in a corner looking increasingly scandalized by Sherlock's apparent glee. Oh dear, damage control was going to be necessary. A wave of nausea passed through his belly, up his chest and settled as an ache in his shoulders. He shook it off. "Get it together, Watson," he thought to himself, and went to greet Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson. He would simply wait this out, and excuse himself after lunch for a much needed kip.
As he made his way closer to the body, the stench of the beginnings of decay hit him harder than usual, causing his stomach to roil unpleasantly. The world tilted and abruptly the air was heavy and moist. The sound of gunfire crackled in the distance and the heat was drowning him in the smell of putridly decaying corpses. The air was too thick. John's leg trembled underneath him and he shook his head from side to side, letting the pain of his headache ground him back in London. When his vision swam back into focus, he realized that Sherlock had stopped making deductions and was staring quite intently over at him. Sweat bloomed on the nape of his neck and at his temples. Making a quick strategic decision, John turned around, leaving the body behind him as he greeted the small cluster of ladies that were standing upwind of the body.
The ladies mistook the misery on his face for compassion and began gossiping eagerly to John, which served the double purpose of distracting them from Sherlock's unorthodox behaviour and preventing Sherlock from deducing him further.
"Oh, we knew there was something odd about her!" cried one with a particularly screechy voice. This wasn't good for his nausea, thought John tiredly.
"Oh yes, she didn't seem to have many friends, did she?" offered another.
"No," giggled another a bit nervously," she was dreadfully awkward! And that lifestyle! Always seemed to have a different man on her arm. Still, it's such a shame..."
John groaned internally. He was always amazed at how unfailingly critical some women were of other women, as though it would make themselves seem better in comparison. It was becoming painfully obvious that the victim's neighbours were not going to be able to provide any useful information and John had had enough. He was feeling truly awful by this point. Aches were traveling up and down the back of his legs and he felt weak and jittery. His body had begun to tremble with cold and the oldest of the ladies had begun to eye him with some concern.
He longed to go back to Baker Street, and, if he was honest, the nausea was becoming so bad he wasn't sure if he was going to be able to hold it in. His mouth was filling with saliva and he swallowed compulsively as another wave of sick passed through him, wracking his body and making him feel small and exhausted. He turned to go find Sherlock. He hated to interrupt a case which was going so well (if the triumphant volume of Sherlock's deductive cries was any indication) but he needed to ask his partner to take him home before he embarrassed himself. He turned away from the ladies (he couldn't really remember if he'd excused himself or not, but he found he didn't care) and trudged toward Sherlock and the body.
Upon hearing John's approach, Sherlock, still oblivious to John's condition turned around excitedly, gesturing wildly and proudly exclaiming "as you can see, John," Sherlock waved something brown in his face", the victim's favourite coworker has obviously poisoned her coffee!". John pasted on a vaguely approving look and tried to focus his gaze on the thing that was dangling from Sherlock's fingers which he was obviously supposed to examine. It was furry. Some primitive but quick part of his brain recoiled in horror while the rest of him struggled to piece together what he was seeing. There was a tail. A long. pink. tail. It was hanging, held aloft from between Sherlock's middle finger and thumb. It was attached to...No. It couldn't be. Sherlock wasn't holding a dead rat inches in front of John's face. This simply was not happening to him right now.
"I found it in her coffee mug," and Sherlock sounds so pleased with himself, so eager for John's approval and that's just it. John loses it. He crumples to the ground and heaves last night's dinner right onto Sherlock's expensive brown leather shoes. (Sherlock quickly moves his feet.) And the rat and the body and the smell of sick crowd in on John and he wretches harder, bringing up more sick, which splatters on the ground in front of John. Misery. He tries to catch his breath and gags again, pain traveling all the way up through his body as his muscles tremble in protest. He is vaguely aware that Sherlock is holding him up by the shoulders, rubbing soothing circles on his back and whispering something in his ears. He notes that Sherlock has been good enough to place the poisoned rat somewhere out of sight and manages a giggle that nearly turns into a sob when he hears what Sherlock is confiding to him "Good work, John! You managed to hit Anderson, too." Sherlock sounds gleeful. And it's true. Anderson is glaring hatefully at John while stripping his suit off, vomit spattered up and down the legs. John feels to awful to be humiliated and is vaguely proud of himself for his projectile feat.
"Sh'lock" John's attempt at speech turns into something embarrassingly close to a moan and his vision swims. He has to admit to himself that what he has is not, in fact, a headache, but a full blown migraine. He can only see a short distance in front of himself and lights are dancing in front of him. He feels Sherlock wipe the vomit away from his lips and he's absurdly grateful. The soldier in him hates feeling exposed and he turns into Sherlock's waiting arms, shuddering and burying his face in Sherlock's expensive wool seater. He takes a few deep breaths, but the nausea overwhelms him again and he turns, dry heaving onto the pavement. When he turns back to Sherlock, his eyes burn and his hands shake. He fists them back into Sherlock's shirt and holds on, trying to stay upright in perilously crouched position. His defenses are fragile and he can't stop the memories of Afghanistan from washing over him, the face of one of his dead friends burned into his mind. He is wrecked.
"Lestrade," Sherlock addresses the D.I. "a rag please" and then blessedly, Sherlock is tying the rag about his head, blocking out the cruel light and reducing the overwhelming pounding behind his eyes.
"Come on, John, up you come", Sherlock says gently, so gently that Donovan and Anderson gape at him. He gets his hands under John's armpits and bodily lifts him up, cradling him gently against his chest. He waits the few moments John desperately needs to quell the dizziness. "I'm sorry I didn't notice you were so ill. It was unforgivably stupid of me."
"The freak apologizes?" Anderson has never sounded so dumbfounded. In fact, John is sure the yarders are all gaping like fish at the uncharacteristic display. He and Sherlock are confident in their relationship, but in general they are both private individuals. He expects an acid retort from Sherlock, but instead he feels an arm come about his shoulders and Sherlock is steering him carefully but inevitably away from the scene. He's still blindfolded, but Sherlock makes sure he doesn't stumble over anything, and soon he finds himself being half lifted into a cab.
Finally away from prying eyes, John breaks down, relaxing against Sherlock and letting out a sob. He knows Sherlock has noticed his limp and, not for the first time, feels extraordinarily grateful that his partner is one of the most brilliant people in the world. He almost never has to explain himself. Sherlock just gathers him close and even rocks him gently, rhythmically so as not to jar him and trigger worse pain. The cab stops outside 221B and it's not long before John is downing three extra strength paracetamol and is being tucked into bed, all the curtains drawn. Sherlock helps him to drink a glass of water and presses a kiss onto his temple. He gets into bed next to John and wraps himself around him, a physical barrier between John and the nightmares. Sherlock's phone buzzes, but he turns it off. The murder will wait for another day. He'd practically solved it already anyway.