"Come on. Come on!"

"I can't-" Sherlock gasped. "'m gonna vomit..."

John didn't say a word, but turned and strode out of the bathroom.

John's mobile had buzzed a few seconds ago, presumably with a text from Mycroft because John had told Sherlock that the car was here. Sherlock, while equal parts relieved and equal parts hating himself for letting John call his brother, had only struggled to stand before he was sick again.

The pain in his stomach was debilitating.

"Here! We have to get to the hospital," John said, shoving a basin into Sherlock's hands.

"Oh, John, I don't want to vomit into..." Sherlock trailed off. "This is the basin that I had the liver experiment in..."

"Yep. That's in the trash. Come on, I'll help you stand."

"My experiment..."

It was a painful process, but Sherlock managed to coax himself to his feet, swallowing back bile and trembling violently. It was an even more painful to get downstairs, and Sherlock took advantage of the basin more than once, even though there was nothing left in his stomach to vomit up.

When they got to the car, Sherlock collapsed onto the seat, shaking even though his Belstaff coat drenched with sweat. John joined him and slammed the door, not even prompting the chauffeur to drive before the car took off. Apparently Mycroft had decided that the panic in John's voice, and the demand, was enough to mean that there was a serious tragedy happening.

Sherlock swallowed, trying not to vomit again. His stomach hurt so badly already and the repeated vomiting was leaving him feeling weak and helpless.

"Don't hold it in," John said.

Sherlock swallowed again, looking towards John. The doctor's eyes were trained on him and Sherlock wished he wouldn't look at him. He hated being analyzed. Sherlock analyzed; he didn't get analyzed. "There's nothing to 'hold in'..." Sherlock murmured. "I've vomited it all up..."

"Yes, well, I can see you're trying not to vomit."

The car hit a bump in the road and the noise that elicited from Sherlock's mouth was neither dignified nor beneficial. It was a bit of a whimper, Sherlock realized, and John looked like he was... Well, John looked like he was about to either yell or full-scale panic. Sherlock wasn't sure which one.

"You need to tell me what exactly's wrong with you," John said, his voice controlled. "Your stomach hurts. Nausea and vomiting, and now you have a fever. Where does your stomach hurt? One to ten pain range."

Sherlock unclamped his teeth and opened his eyes, neither of which actions had he made a conscious decision to do. Must have been a reaction to the pain. "Ten."

"If you're just being dramatic-"

Sherlock sighed shakily. "Maybe a nine. Definitely a nine. Oh-" He curled his hands into fists again, drawing his knees directly to his chest.

"Breathe..." John reminded, looking to the window. "We're almost there. Keep talking. Where does it hurt?"

Sherlock swallowed again. He did not want to vomit in Mycroft's car, basin or not. He had standards... albeit if they were very quickly diminishing. "Stomach... Right quadrant..."

Suddenly, it clicked.

The slight pain at first. The pain localizing and intensifying. The nausea; the vomiting. The fever afterwards.

"Appendicitis," Sherlock mumbled.

"What?" John asked, his eyebrows knitting further as he frowned. "Did you just say-"

"Appendicitis. Has to be..." he trailed off, shivering. His stomach contracted. He groaned, clamping his teeth together again.

"How long has this been going on? Sherlock? When did you notice your stomach hurting?"

"Yest... Yesterday..." Sherlock muttered. "Localized pain started... around dinner... Nausea started when I went to bed... Vomiting at seven... Fever around... well, recently..." he trailed off, biting his lip as he steadied himself before the car could turn into the hospital parking lot. "Oh. There was blood in my urine... It all fits..."

"Why didn't you tell me?" John asked. "Especially about the blood-"

"Because I just found out before I started vomiting again," Sherlock said on one breath, carefully uncurling his legs.

"Okay. Okay. We're okay, you'll be fine." John sounded like he was trying to reassure himself. "Okay. Can you walk?"

"Um... Maybe," Sherlock mumbled.

"I can get you a wheelchair," John said, getting out of the car.

Sherlock shook his head, gripping the door tightly as he stood. He did not want to be subjected to such a state as a wheelchair.

However.

The pain was excruciating. Tears sprung to his eyes and spilled over, quickly travelling down his cheeks. Really? He was in UCH's parking lot, crying, in the middle of the day when people were around?

His legs shook. He could not stay conscious through passing out again. Or, at least, he couldn't stay conscious without actually breaking down in tears, consciously giving into the childish notion to cry.

Luckily, he didn't have to. John seemed to have noticed when Sherlock had, and he had just managed to get there before Sherlock collapsed, hooking his arms under Sherlock's armpits. It stopped him from collapsing entirely and he instead fell back on John, who staggered under the weight and propped himself up against the car.

"Okay, take it easy..."

Sherlock focussed on breathing, and when it became too much, instead focussed on heaving bile into the basin that John shoved to him again.

Eventually (it seemed like hours, but had to be seconds), there was a nurse with a wheelchair and Sherlock, while wishing he had passed out, sank into the infernal hospital equipment. This was humiliating. This was just downright-

He went into another round of dry-heaving.

Somewhere around him, Sherlock was aware of a flurry of movement. Nurses and doctors and medical equipment, John's voice talking incessantly. He kept hearing words like 'appendix' and 'rupture' and 'hydrated', although he was desperately trying to tune everything out.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!"

Sherlock wearily opened his eyes. John was crouched in front of him, looking worried.

"We need to get you into a hospital gown and in bed. It'll be more comfortable and we can work on treating your pain," he said. "I know it hurts, but stand up, alright? I'll help you."

The doctors were saying something about how they could manage, but John shook his head.

"No. He won't let you. Let me do it. I'm a doctor. Sherlock, come on. Take my hand."

Feeling useless, Sherlock did so, if only because he was not going to let someone else change his clothes. He was not that... okay, well, maybe he was, but he was going to undress himself.

He struggled to his feet. He felt weak and sick and like he was going to vomit again, and he immediately made to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Hang on a second," John muttered.

Sherlock clutched at the bedframe for support, trying not to groan.

He blinked in surprise when John started undressing him. The shirt was fine; the trousers, however, and Sherlock felt what was maybe close to a laugh starting to build in his chest. Wouldn't people talk?

John didn't seem to notice, just picked up the hospital gown and helped Sherlock into it. Sherlock made a mental note to say something about the people-talking lark, later, when he felt better.

"Sit."

Sherlock sat. And then he stretched out along the expanse of the bed, burying his face against the pillow, before drawing his knees up to his chest again.

There was the rustle of the curtain as John vanished outside of the bed cubicle. Oh. That's why John hadn't been concerned about people talking. He had drawn the curtain around the bed. Made sense... He thought.

John returned a moment later, along with a doctor and a few nurses.

An IV was quickly inserted and taped into place. Sherlock vaguely wondered if they were giving him medication- probably not, they had tests to run. Hydration, then. They were just giving him something to keep him hydrated. How... dull.

The nurses worked purposefully, but Sherlock didn't want to keep his eyes open to watch everyone. The doctor was asking him questions, John prompting him to answer, and Sherlock wished that they would give him a sedative.

The doctor had just asked how bad the pain was when the aforementioned pain spiked. Sherlock's initial response was a gasp that evolved into a whimper. He drew his legs impossibly closer and clenched his fists so tightly that he felt blood spring up underneath his fingernails. "Ten," he gasped, pressing his head back against the pillow and squeezing his eyes closed. "Ten..."

Sherlock heard John swear, sounding like from a distance.

"You need to run these tests, now," John said crisply. "He needs medication. He can't have morphine but whatever else you can give him. Please."

Darkness swam before Sherlock's eyes, which was strange as he already had his eyes closed, as his stomach twisted. He felt like he was dying.

"John," he gasped, his voice pitching off into another whimper. He had to stop that. That was making him sound pathetic.

"I'm right here, Sherlock," John said. Sherlock became aware of someone placing their hand against his forehead. "You're burning up," John muttered.

Fingers swept Sherlock's bangs out of his eyes and rested lightly against his scalp, keeping his hair out of the sweat that was dripping off of him.

"We'll need to get him in for a CT scan as soon as possible," a woman's voice said.

"Mr. Holmes, you said this pain started yesterday?"

"Yes," Sherlock spat.

"And localized in the lower right quadrant of your stomach?"

"Yes."

"Have you been vomiting?"

Sherlock groaned. He wanted them to stop talking.

"Profusely," John supplied. There was a pause, followed by "I'm his flatmate".

"His fever's at thirty-nine, doctor," said the woman's voice.

There was suddenly pressure against his stomach and Sherlock flinched horribly, finally managing to open his eyes.

"Don't touch me!" he growled, trying to scoot backwards.

"Sherlock, no," John muttered, removing his hand from Sherlock's forehead and gripping his wrists. "Sherlock, they have to run these tests. Just hang on for a few minutes, okay?"

Sherlock tried every trick in the book to internalize his pain. Despite his best efforts, he could only muffle his groan against his hand, which was clapped permanently over his mouth, as the doctor tested for rebound pain and tenderness.

"He said something about blood in his urine, too," John supplied suddenly.

"We'll be taking a urine analysis... but it's possible, if this is appendicitis."

"And?" John asked. "That's what it is, isn't it?"

"Usually, we test for leukocytosis to be sure, but given the rest of the indicators, it seems as though it is. We'll get him up to radiology and, if diagnosed, be able to get prepared for the surgery... A nurse will be by momentarily for blood work so we can put a painkiller into the IV drip," the doctor said, before the curtain rustled again.

"Sherlock?" John asked, breaking the quiet.

Sherlock painstakingly forced his eyes open again. He looked at John questioningly.

"You'll be alright."

Sherlock's stomach seized up again and he buried his face into his pillow, trying to breathe. His fingers curled into fists again, briefly, before he felt John's fingers pry them open. He was about to complain- mentally- when John's fingers suddenly intertwined with his. He couldn't complain and he didn't consciously squeeze John's hand, but he found it was a nice way to attempt to channel the pain.

John's free hand pushed back his hair again- which Sherlock had to admit was really annoying, sticking to the sweat on his forehead- as he muttered some heinously condescending and sentimental words under his breath.

First of all, I am not a doctor nor do I have any training in medicine. I simply do research- as much as I can, anyway- so please refrain from thinking that I am a professional.

Secondly, I don't know if they'd give Sherlock pain medication before running blood tests, so I opted not.

Thirdly... To all those who guessed appendicitis, YOU WERE RIGHT! To Arth, who reviewed on the first chapter, yes, this story was inspired by reviews on a story about kidney stones... so thanks to Storylover18 for writing that kidney stone story I just referenced and all of her reviewers that inspired this idea! :D

As usual, I do not own Sherlock. Obviously, if I did, there would be a lot more h/c in the series. And I wouldn't be writing fanfiction. I'd be writing scripts. But, you know. =p I don't own it.

Thanks!