John slumped into his chair, letting his head dangle over the back. His forehead throbbed, a pulsing thickness that worked its way around his eyes and under his skull. He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. His stomach flipped.
He didn't get migraines as often as he used to when he first came back from the war, but one still knocked him out every few months. He had had medicine for them, but he had run out right before he moved into the Baker Street flat. Since then, he hadn't needed a refill.
He twisted his neck, wincing as the vertebrae tightened and locked. He rubbed the muscles firmly with one hand, reaching to flick off the lamp with his other.
He lay in quiet for a while, willing the pain to ebb.
When the door opened, the hinges squealed, causing the pain to flare up near his left ear again. He whimpered, grimacing as the door clicked shut.
"John?" Sherlock's footsteps stopped outside the kitchen. "What's wrong with you? What are you doing?"
John waved a hand at his flatmate, not opening his eyes or bothering to sit up. "Get away. Stop talking."
The couch sagged next to him as Sherlock sat. A cool hand pressed against his cheek and then his neck. He sighed, opening one eye as Sherlock leaned back against the arm of the couch.
"When did you stop taking the medicine?"
John sat up slowly. "What?"
"For the migraines, John."
"How did you know-"
Sherlock huffed impatiently. "Honestly, John. I'm not an idiot; I know what a migraine looks like, and it's obvious you had medicine for them. Of course you did. Your therapist probably prescribed them. They are psychosomatic, yes? Like your limp?"
"Sherlock."
"That or they're stress-related, but either way you never had them before the war. I know you don't have medicine in the flat. Why is that? Why wouldn't you keep it here? You could be taking it somewhere else, but more likely you haven't needed it. Your headaches have stopped. Could be a-"
"Sherlock!"
"What, John?"
John rubbed his eyes furiously. "Just... stop talking."
Sherlock tilted his head. He stared at John with a bemused expression. "Where is the pain most condensed?"
John gestured to his entire head. Sherlock rolled his eyes. John tentatively pointed to the bridge of his nose, between his eyes. It wasn't the most painful part of his head, but he was sure if he could get the throbbing there to go away, it would take the nausea with it.
Sherlock slid across the couch, nudging a groaning John with his feet until he was seated behind him. He slid his hands around John's head, gently feeling for the soft flesh of John's temples with his slender fingers. He rubbed in slow circles, applying a pulsing pressure. John winced as his eyes seemed to throb in time with the massage.
When Sherlock's fingers moved to the base of John's skull, his eyes fluttered shut. "Ah," he gasped involuntarily. Sherlock stopped.
"What is it? Does that hurt?" John could hear the slight worry in his friend's voice, and he opened his eyes to look back at him.
"No, that felt great. Sorry."
Sherlock resumed massaging John's neck, tentative this time. He worked his slender fingers around under John's ears and along the soft flesh beneath his jaw, working his way back around to knead at the base of John's neck with his thumbs. He gently pushed John's head until his chin rested on his chest. Sherlock pressed the heels of his hands into John's muscles where his shoulders met his neck. John groaned again.
Sherlock worked the skin there for a while, rolling his hands over John's shoulders and around his neck to his collarbone. He rubbed firmly at the front side of John's shoulder joints. His hands slowly worked their way across the front of John's chest, stopping to trace small circles around his clavicle. He dipped his fingers rhythmically inside, using the palms of his hands to loosen the tops of John's pectoral muscles.
John leaned his head back against Sherlock's chest as he relaxed. Sherlock reached his hands between them, using his thumbs to massage John's shoulder-blades. By the time he began massaging John's spine, the fierce army doctor had fallen asleep, his mouth hanging open as he snored against Sherlock's chest.
Sherlock smirked. It had always amused him how easy it was for simple-minded people to relax. His own mind was whirring away with the three cases he was working on, as well as wondering whether Mycroft had yet to notice the "present" Sherlock had left him at the abandoned garage. (He had loved tricking the murderer into going all the way out to the country, but it had been almost too easy. The real challenge had been finding enough tape to keep him from escaping.)
Sherlock glanced down at the man sleeping soundly in his lap. He frowned, shifting uncomfortably. John's elbow was digging into his thigh, cutting off the circulation. Sherlock hated the "pins and needles," as John insisted on calling it, more than almost anything. It interfered with his ability to pace properly and it prevented him from thinking clearly.
He slid his hands under John's head, being careful to not pull his hair as he did. He lifted John's torso, shifting an arm under his back. He slid out from under him, laying the sleeping man back on the couch, his head resting on the pillow designed to look like the British flag. He flushed slightly when he saw the bit of skin at John's stomach exposed—his shirt had ridden up when Sherlock slipped out from under him—and he reached over John's sleeping figure to pull a blanket from the back of the couch, billowing it over him. Sherlock stood, hands on hips, for a few moments, staring at his flat-mate.
He shook his head, running a hand through his curls. His mind was too quiet. He had had this problem since John moved in—Sherlock would find himself staring at the wall or into his tea, his mind slowly going blank.
He hated it.
He turned in a circle a few times, trying to remember all the details of his cases. He needed something to work on, something to distract him from the peace. He had algae growing in the bathroom, but that needed a few more days before he could begin experiments on it. There was the witness out in Cardiff he needed to question, but he had wanted to take John on that one. Sherlock would never admit it out loud, but he did like to show off in front of his flat-mate.
He snapped his fingers, turning on his heel as he remembered the severed hand in the fridge. "Perfect," he murmured to himself as he pulled it from the vegetable chiller.
He glanced into the sitting room again as he scraped under the hand's fingernails. John had shifted in his sleep, but Sherlock could see the red pattern on his cheek where it had been resting against the fabric of the couch. He shook his head again, willing himself to go back to his work. The more he worked, the less he allowed himself to think about John.
The stress of it all was enough to give Sherlock the beginnings of a headache.