AN: please don't get the italicized text confused with the unitalicized. Please enjoy this Johnlock Mpreg. John-lock and drop it!
All day I have felt this nauseatious overtake beating at me. Sweat, since I woke up hours ago from a slumber I don't remember falling into, has been pouring down my back and coating my forehead. My less-than nimble fingertips worked their way onto the tedious buttons on my white and very much soaked button-up. I am starving, yet I know I wouldn't be able to hold down the simplest of foods or liquids. I am scared as well, I am never this hungry. And I have never felt 'this' sort of sickness before.
John and I walk the streets after a successful arrest of a murderous magician. I say magician with a light air since the only magic he's conjured is robbing people blind, with a small side job of killing the showgirls. However, this is not my problem anymore. Whatever sort of glitterized, gun pointing the two of us were doing ten minutes ago is of no relevance. I am on another task, one consisting of getting John his dinner and hydrating my slowing body.
"Damn. You see that, Sherlock? Our diner is already closed!" I can hear John lick his lips in thought as he continues. "Do you think Speedy's is still open by any chance?" I want to say 'yes' for his amusement, but I know the times, I have saved them in my memory for his use only. For times like this. "We could stop by a grocer if your that hungry..." And I knew he was. John couldn't go a few days without food like I. So it was sort of my obligation to make sure I don't kill him over of starvation.
So hungry. But the hunger doesn't compare to the ricochet of pulsation coming from my abdomen. My useless legs stumble towards the bathing room. I would much rather be there than puking my empty stomache on Mrs. Hudson's nice wooden floors and antique rugs. I flail a step or two before banging to my knees. Crawling is the best option now. Close to the ground at least. In this POV I see my veining hands reaching forward, my clothed knees (which are now stinging) following after my hands, and a drop of sweat or spit falling to the nice floor every two or three steps. It really isn't as painful as my body thinks. The hellish thing disobeys my simple commands to just 'function properly!'.
"Grocer? Sherlock, we smell like stage smoke and gun powder." A 'no' then. I sigh, it's late and I'm ready to just get on with life. John stops at a corner, eyeing both vacant ways. "Let us just go to the pub around the bend. 'M Pretty sure they sell more than booze and drugs." Of course they do John, could you be more obt- Oh, it was a joke. That was quite funny. I unintentionally let out a small chuckle, "The pub? The one we pretended to be-" John clears his throat perposefully loud. "Yes." He croaks, and he's already a considerable few feet in front of me, lining straight for the building. "-And got a free lunch?" Which we did. That was a fun crime to solve. "Do you think the owner will recognize us, John?" I push his buttons just a little harder than usual.
He doesn't reply, but I do get a great and pouty look screaming at me to just 'shut the hell up'. I do, however, it doesn't stop me from grinning ear to ear. Getting under his skin is as fun as any solved mystery. I slowly catch up to John who is impatiently holding the door open for me to go in first. I'm always the first. But this, this could be from the dangers that is being alone in a London pub. At night. The cigarette smoke pouring to the cold streets welcomes me in any form. I walk in happily.
I was so blandly focused on my feet and hand-work that I am surprised to catch myself palming the cool tile of the bath room in the dark. I want to just bolt away from it, but I am just so damn hot. But my hands are just so fucking freezing! I take a second to just think. I sit back on my hind and recollect what is going on. Okay. It is nearly midnight, right? John's coming home any minute. I am probably suffering from minor- (my stomache churns and I jerk forward)- Moderate food poisoning or dumb organ-origined illness. I am fine, though. I just need to breath... In and out, in and- I hurry forward to the toilet, sloppily dropping my head and expelling pure bile. It tastes like my drug days, except not as acidic coming back up.
John and I seat ourselves in at a safe table near the doorway. The pub is dark and smokier than imaginable, and I am sure John is struggling to suppress a cough. I stare at him intently, waiting for him to give up on eating or cough-attack his way outside. He doesn't move, but his eyes do find mine curiously. Wondering why I am staring. He knows why. "What poison can I get for you two lovers tonight?" A extremely young, used, and endowed blonde yells ignorantly above the music I hadn't noticed playing. She's twirling a pencil in her hair and holding a nearly empty notepad in hand. I flick an eye to John, awaiting his usual banter back at her. "We're not lovers." There it is. She smiles fondly, and begins chewing on gum that was hidden in her cheek. "Apologies, hun. I mean for the lovely couple?"
I find it endearing how John, despite his obvious annoyance with her, still looks the lass up and down. Like she were a meal herself. My patience wears thin, however, and I punch myself in, "He will take your best burger and beer, and I will have a tall glass of lemonade." John's stare immediately grabs me, and he's piercing it through. The young lady begins writing, "A Nasty Joe with a Nogger, and a hard lemonade. Coming right up dearies!" She flips her hair our way and spins off in a mad dash. She has a room full of people to get orders to. "Oh. Sherlock Holmes is going to drink alcohol! Lets see how this plays out, shall we?" John undermines me, like always. I didn't necessarily WANT a hard drink, but I guess I didn't specify otherwise, we are in a pub for crying out loud. "Yes, we shall." My sight is found at the mysterious customers at the bar.
My head bobs up for air, and the lightless bathroom seems luminous compared to the inside of the toilet's bowl. I do not care, though, I am swept with an urge to sleep again, and I rest my head against my shoulder. My mouth is dry as heck and all I want is to sleep, take a shower, eat, and at least have a clue as to why I feel like dying. Well, I do have clues, but they aren't helping much. As my eyes flutter close, I pray John doesn't come looking for me. The last thing I need is his sympathy. I mustn't worry right now. All I care for is the dripping of the sink's faucet, dropping water droplets two at a time.
John has his food in front of him before our drinks come out. Rather odd, I think, but at least we have them now. John's dark beer and my wierdly milky yellow alcoholic lemonade. I turn it around a few times before sipping gingerly at it. John goes straight to eating and chugging both food and drink. Being in places like this lets his barrier come down a notch, so he doesn't feel obliged to act like a gentlemen. Yet he stops a number of times, as if waiting for me to say something. I do, eventually, but am I that predictable? "The men at the bar behind you keep looking our way. I think they want trouble." I wait for him to swallow his food and glance back quickly. "They don't look like anything but drug dealers, Sherlock, just finish your drink and I'll pay the bill."
I don't want my disgusting knock off of a drink anymore, but since John's paying I finish it off anyway. John pushes his empty tray and glass aside and fishes out his wallet, hailing the blonde tease of a waitress. "That will be forty even, boys." She hands over an almost unreadable ticket and sticks her palm out. John willingly pulls out a forty and lays it in her hand, I barely catch her wrist to stop her. "Miss. The ticket reads thirty, not forty. Begging for a tip?" Her all smiles face drops and she chucks the money down. "God! I thought gays were nice." I see John's thankful smile out of the corner of my eye as he corrects the change.
A roar of light burns through my eyelids and suddenly my dream of sword fighting with the pirates turns into being painfully stabbed. Sleep was so much more magical than chloroformic reality. I was on edge of passing out. I blink violently to the lights, then the figure at the door. John. With his mouth hung, eyes fixed, breath quickening, he looks far worse than me I bet. He doesn't move just yet. My body convulses again and I spit out another mouthful of tasteless vomit, letting it colorlessly drip down my chin. A noise of being strangled drug out and echoed in the room, and God that was me. I haven't a clue if I was attempting words or crying for help, but it moved John. He was at my side in seconds, feeling my head, whispering questions I couldn't answer, then he was gone. In slow motion I caught fragments of what he was doing, my whole body turning with me achingly. I needed in the bathtub. Badly.
Waking back up was the worst thing that could've happened. I was crawling the small space to the tub, my knees gave way a number of times before my chin rested on the tubside and my hand was collasping and reaching its way for the knob. I needed hot water, no cold, freezing... I needed to be submerged. My hand didn't reach, however, John's hand was on mine and he had a wet washcloth at my head. "I'm taking you to the clinic in the morning." His words were painfully slow, reaching my ears in snail pace. But they weren't what I wanted to listen to. Whatever face I had twisted on dropped dramatically and I threw a 'no' look at him. Doctors didn't like me, and I only liked one doctor.
"Please tell me you feel slightly off like I do." John was squinting as we exited the pub, and had walked a couple feet away, "Or don't. Whichever way seems better." He looked wide eyed, his skin flush, hands almost sad without something in them. "I feel somewhat hazy, but nothing major. Are you feeling drugged, John?" Those were possibly the exact words to describe how he was feeling. His eyes go wide and he nods hugely at me, stumbling into my side. "It's nice, though. I feel rather happy, rather..." John normally licks his lips, it's a trait he carries, but as he does it now, looking at me, it's for another reason. "Aroused?" I knew what it was. It was so obvious already. Those guys in the bar, the strangely timed drinks, the blonde stripped for cash. I began feeling a mix of dopamine run in my head, the happy feeling in the beginnings of progression.
"Don't say that. And yes." He's leaning so fully into me I have to concentrate on walking for both of us. (Also) Times like these make my days of drug use helpful, so that I'm not equally falling to the ground like John. Not yet. "We can easily sleep it off. The trick is getting home." I visualize the few blocks to the flat, we can get there. John nips a word into my side, he's trying to tell me something but would I really trust listening to a drugged John? He may actually be quite fun, but now isn't the time. "The bad guys!" He finally muffled shouts. 'Oh'... 'yeah' the bad guys, we have to get the bad guys. "The HELL to them!" I manage, because frankly I don't give a fucking damn about them. I care about getting home in one, pleasant peace.
"No arguing. Not this time. If you aren't doing well in the morning then you are definitely going!" This wasn't something John wanted to see, and I didn't want him to see it. If he'd only just go mind his own. I gag again, my face being pointed to the tub, John's hands on my back rubbing. He's never done this, it's clear, but he has dealt with drunk friends before. This is what I feel like. An annoyance of a drunk friend you have to watch so they don't choke on their own puke. I struggle again when nothing comes up, I still want in the tub, bad. John blows copious amounts of air from his lungs and I am suddenly being hoisted into the place I wanted most. But once I'm inside, I feel no better. I feel worse. I need water. "Just hang on."
The shower head looks at me and soon sprays evenly over my thankful body. The water is cold, but it feels so much better. I drop my tongue out and lap at it, hoping to subside the lack of fluids in my body. But John isn't gone yet. Why? I look over at him, and he's watching me like I'm a child. "You were fine when I left. You were sleeping." His voice is more frustrated than I recall. I bring my eyebrows together and look at him confused. What is he getting at? He doesn't have to just stand there and watch me, so why does he do it?
Getting home was the easy part. Fishing out my keys with shaking hands was the beginning of the hardest. "You should reeaalllly just run ahead of me once this door opens." John was warning me, not just ordering. I chance a look his way once I put the key in the slot, he's worse than I thought. His ears are flush along with his cheeks and neck, a hand placed thoughtfully over the front of his trousers (if I could, I wouldn't look too far into it), And his lips are being licked. He's ready to pounce in a simplest sense. "I was going to say the same to you."
I said it before thinking it over, the drugs the ecstacy made me say it, there was no control. I'm finding myself not in my right mind, I am not Sherlock Holmes right now. I am pure urge. Something I'm not quite comfortable with being around John. The door opens, yet I hesitate to take his heed to action. Behind me, John's breath becomes laboured, what is he thinking? My feet go forward now, and I am hurdling over the stairs. I grab and twist the door handle and stumble to my feet, stopping abrubtly inside. Made it.
"Can you strip on your own?" His voice sounds far off, he wants me to take off what clothes I have left. My mind says I can't, yet I shake my dizzy head, leaning forward on my propped knees. My shirt is basically falling off, so I can slide it down my arms easily. John says something else before dashing off, everything is so mumbled I cannot decipher it. Not even the water spraying sounds normal, it's growling at me. My hands slip over the button on my tight pants, I get it undone but I knew I'd pass out before shucking them off as well. John returns with my robe, he's on the phone talking more nonesense, but his eyes are on me. I think he may be trying to diagnose this.
He walk to the tubside, and thinking he's going to give me the robe, I raise my arm to him. John doesn't, he presses the cell inbetween his ear and shoulder and his hands are on the thigh's of my trousers. He says something again, then pulls roughly. The jerking motion hurts like hell, but it's over and I'm naked and I am clean. He looks like a doctor right now, even when he avoids his gaze, I see Dr. Watson. He turns off the water and lays my robe along my body, whispering something now. And again, I miss it. I should thank him, but I can't.
"Sherlock." A desperate choke comes from the doorway behind me. He's supposed to be in his room, doing whatever he wants with his time, not spending that time with me. It's dangerous, it's very wrong. "Shut the door." It's comes out as an invitation. I am aware of something I've kept from myself a long time. Sexuality. Or better perhapse, 'my' sexuality. It's not difficult to deduce from my bodies reaction to the drugs. An erection and a steadying heartbeat. "With you inside." I explain further. John's sweaty, and if it weren't for his own sported tent I'd say he's pulling his jumper off his head out of pure heat exhaustion. He is undressing though.
And I am too, and it's exciting. Thrilling. And scary. "Take that- All of that off." John works at his undershirt and belt smoothly, and I have to reconsider this a minute. Am I really this drugged? This high? Could I actually take advantage of this situation? The answer was yes, and John said yes many minutes ago. And just a few minutes later, I am shirtless, wearing nothing but my boxers I kept on just incase I found my right mind. Just incase. John did the same, so maybe there was a way out. But as I look across the way, bare chested, with two obvious erections between us, that 'Just Incase' isn't looking so swell. I want him.
I fell asleep to the roar of John's voice in my head, I was happily curled in the tub and the pain slowly subsiding in my sleep. Even though I could go for a full eight hours, my body protested. I was still hungry beyond belief. When my eyes did open again, I could read the clock from my room, thankful the door was still open. 7:04. It was now or never to determine if I could stand long enough to raid the kitchen, now or never.
