AN:This one is actually based on my own personal experience I had with a migraine several weeks ago when walking home.

Warning: If you're someone that doesn't like reading swear words, then avoid this chapter. If you're someone who hates bad spelling, then avoid the part where Sherlock uses his phone.

I hope you enjoy it :)


Have you ever been in so much pain that you've just wanted to stop what you're doing, drop everything that was in your hands and curl up? Sherlock has. He was feeling like it right now, but he wasn't home yet, so he couldn't.

He had been expecting the migraine to happen, the sudden temperature change they had within a few hours was bound to set him off. The morning was cold and stormy, it had been pouring down with rain with thunder and lightning whilst remaining really cold. An hour later there wasn't a cloud in the sky and it was boiling hot, getting to the highest of 23°C. Sudden temperature changes always did bring out the worst of migraines in him, and the way the weather's been just lately, he's just been getting more and more. The temperature would be really high, as to where many people were wandering the streets in shorts and without shirts, to really cold where everyone would be needing coats within several hours.

Sherlock had tried his best to prevent it, he had drunk more water than normal to keep himself hydrated, he had avoided using his and John's laptop and his phone, he put an ice-pack on top of his forehead and laid down on the settee with it until it had all practically melted, he had tried everything he knew but it was just unavoidable. Lestrade came to him with a case at 1pm, Sherlock had climbed into the cab a little later and then it hit him. Like a ton of bricks falling down, it hit him. He couldn't stop his involuntary gasp of pain that earned him a look of concern from the driver.

"I'm fine just drive." Sherlock said.

He didn't have his medication, with the constant migraine attacks he had used them all up, and some of those times they hadn't even worked. So even if he did have them it was likely they wouldn't work. He put his arm against the cab door, brought his hand to his head to cover his eyes and leant against his hand with his eyes shut to protect them from the glaring sun. He stayed like that throughout the entire ride, only moving when he had to pay the driver and leave.

He kept his eyes open like normal, despite the glaring sun that was causing tears to form. His face was impassive like normal and he walked into the crime scene, he was grateful that the murder had taken at a house and not outside, he wasn't sure if he could handle it outside, he probably would but he'd look pretty pathetic and weak in front of everyone. He found out some information from Lestrade and looked around the scene. He forced himself to ignore his pain.

Male, mid 40's, accountant…. No, that's not right, shit. No, he was an accountant, if his clothes were anything to go by. He felt a stab of pain behind his right eye and shut his eyes tightly. Shit, please don't start. He opened them and carried on observing the scene. Right handed, 2 dogs, wife has them… or is it 3? The dogs aren't important! Stop looking at that and move onto how he died! Strangled by some sort of cloth, a scarf? That's stupid; nobody wears scarves in this heat. But it was definitely some sort of cloth. Attacked from behind, must have turned his back. Great deduction, Sherlock, he won't be getting attacked from behind if he's looking at them. Sherlock bent down to examine the man's arm. Burn marks, small and circular, cigarette burns, but he doesn't smoke and neither does the wife. There are no ashtrays and no ash, but that's the only explanation, unless it was lit and pushed into his arm. Could be his children or friends. Sherlock looked up and dark circles started to form in the vision of his right eye. Shit! Please stop soon, I can't do this as well with one eye. Sherlock stood up slowly; he didn't want to start feeling nauseous and examined the room. Why is my mind being so slow? It's just a bit of pain. Mind over matter, it will stop! Focus, Sherlock! There was a picture on the wall, the dead man, wife and 2 children, 1 of them adopted, both spoilt with money. One of the children must have done it, which makes sense, must have denied giving one of them money. I'm not sure, it makes sense. Oh, god, why does thinking have to hurt? Was Donovan talking?

"What's the matter, Freak? Can't find out anything? A case finally stumped you? Took long enough." She said in contempt.

"Sergeant Donovan, stop it." Lestrade warned.

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. That helped. He calmed down slightly, the pain lessoned. He forced himself to remain calm and collected as he turned to tell Lestrade what he'd found out, trying to ignore the concerned look that crossed the older mans face. He had wanted to tell Lestrade all of his deductions, informing Lestrade that the man was an accountant, has lots of money, spoilt the kids with it, was strangled by some sort of cloth, cigarette burns on his arm and to interrogate one of the mans sons. What he did say was something short and clipped, proving to Lestrade that his suspicions were correct and that he was currently in a lot of pain.

"Interrogate his children. One of them strangled him." He said, his voice tight as he forced it to remain neutral, it didn't work too well.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" Lestrade asked sounding concerned.

"I'm fine, go interrogate his children." Sherlock said.

He then turned to leave, putting his hands in his pockets to feel for some money. He panicked, there was nothing there, he could feel his phone, his keys and his lock picking kit. Surely he picked up some money earlier? He must have done! He couldn't remember. He would have to walk. Where was he? Chalcot Road. With his speed that would be at least 40 minutes to walk! Sherlock groaned, squinting as he went outside and started to walk, rather slowly, home. Despite the heat he was starting to feel cold, he didn't have his coat or scarf, only his suit jacket, you'd be foolish to wear a coat in this weather. He crossed his arms together and pulled his jacket closer, he kept his head done to avoid the light and kept to the shadows. He still couldn't see too well out of his right eye, the spots taking up most of his vision, pressing down against the nerves and making his eye feel horrendously painful. He could feel sweat running down his back as the heat got to him, but he still felt cold, he wanted to take his jacket off but he just felt too cold. His head as pounding with every step he took, slowly getting worse as the minutes passed.

Sherlock was unsure of how long he had been walking for when he needed help; he didn't want to admit it though. Why would he? He's not supposed to be weak, he's not supposed to be relying on others, he's supposed to be strong and independent! Not this weak man who was now crying tears of pain. He was on Prince Albert Road, all he needed to do was walk through the park that Outer Circle was around and he'd be home! But he knew he wouldn't be able to, not on his own.

He could feel it, he wondered how long it would take, he's never had a migraine without feeling sick before. The nausea was rising; he could feel something working its way up his throat. He closed his eyes, feeling slight relieved to shut out the light and threw up on the path in front of him, managing to get some of it on the bottom of his trousers and his shoes. He carried on vomiting, until he fell to his knees and his head started throbbing in time with each heave. He did this until he couldn't any more, using his hands to keep him steady despite his trembling arms. Several people walked past him, each of them exclaiming in disgust and calling him a drunken arse. Sherlock stayed there, on his knees using his hands as support, gasping heavily not willing to open his eyes or to stand yet.

Slowly he opened his eyes, sighing in relief when he realised that the black spots no longer remained and slowly stood up, he'd need to keep going, he wasn't going to stop there, not now. Sherlock forced his legs to move, they were weak and trembling from the pain his head was causing him. He opened his eyes to cross the road, squinting against the bright sunlight as he entered the park. Why does this have so hurt so much? Why can't I be like John? He only gets headaches that stop when he takes paracetamol. I always have to be different. So different that I can't even get normal headaches. He was starting to wallow in self-pity! That was stupid. That wasn't going to accomplish anything.

He walked into the park, keeping his head down, being sure to avoid the people walking past and crossing his trembling arms to keep himself warm. Even though he could feel sweat running down his face and back making his thin blue shirt stick to him, he still felt cold. Too cold to be out in his suit. The sweat on his back was making him uncomfortable, he wanted to remove his jacket but he was too cold to do so. His whole form was trembling from it.

He looked around trying to ignore the tears now forming in his eyes, all the benches were taken, so he couldn't sit on them to get some rest, he'd have to sit down on the grass. Putting his head back down, he walked over to the grass, he didn't make it far until his weak legs gave up on him and he fell to the ground with a small and surprised yelp, the fall jarring his agonising head. He lay there, keeping his eyes shut, relishing in the position he was in and the darkness. He must have landed in some shade; it was the only explanation for why there was some form of darkness. He opened his eyes, he was right; he had landed under a thick tree with lots of leave that was producing a lot of shade. He wanted to stay there, but he knew he had to get home, even though the upright position made him worse he still needed to get home. That small amount of darkness from the shade stopped his eyes from stinging so much and calmed the stabbing pain in his head.

Sherlock lay there for a while on his side, the curled up position he had landed in helped calm his stomach down, his eyes shut, his arms slowly climbing upwards to cover his face, that for him was automatic, his legs half curled and brought up close. Sherlock knew he couldn't stay like that, he needed to get home, he had experiments to work on, emails to send and a website to run, he couldn't stay out here waiting for a migraine to leave. He could hear people all around him, he could hear the cars driving past, it was only making his head hurt more, he could hear someone running on the grass, they seemed to be getting closer. He hoped they weren't running towards him. He pulled out his phone, with his eyes barely open, he started a new text.

'Lesreade? Is tjis Lesdtrade? – SH'

Sherlock wasn't paying any attention to his spelling, he only hoped the message went to Lestrade and if it went to the wrong person then that person would tell him. The reply was immediate and so was the voice from the person running.

"Sir, are you okay?" The voice belonged to a young woman, she sounded panicked and worried. She must have seen him collapse.

Sherlock ignored her and looked at the message.

'Yes. Sherlock, what is it? ~ GL'

Despite being in the shade, opening his eyes to read Lestrade's reply caused tears to roll down his face. He couldn't see the buttons he was tapping to reply to the text.

'Cam yuo cimr anf collercty me/ - SJ'

"Sir, please, tell me what's wrong. Do you need and ambulance?" She sounded calmer than before but still concerned.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at her. She was kneeling down beside him, blocking out more light. He forced out a few words, "No hospital. I'll be fine." And immediately closed his eyes again.

She didn't seem to believe him, "Are you sure? Do you need an ambulance?"

Sherlock shook his head. He didn't need an ambulance, he needed to get home. His phone vibrated and he squinted as he read his next text.

'Are you hurt? Where are you? ~ GL'

'The prak to the righft of Ouetr Cicrel. Gto mugiraine. Please hruuy – SG'

"Sir, there's something wrong; I can't leave you here to suffer."

She was a Good Samaritan, Sherlock hated those kinds of people, they would never leave him alone. What took her so long to realise something was wrong? The trembling of his body? The paleness in his face? The pain written in his posture? Sherlock thought sarcastically.

"Lestrade's coming, he'll help." Sherlock forced out, his voice was tight from pain and was trembling like the rest of him.

'I'm coming, Sherlock ~ GL'

Sherlock felt weak and pathetic, he was relying on Lestrade to take him home and there was this woman here refusing to leave him alone. He needed to get up and walk, he shouldn't be lying here on the ground, why wasn't he moving? He dropped his phone and moved his hands to his ears; everything was starting to get louder. It was making his head feel worse, if that were even possible, he felt as if it were going to explode. Make it stop, please. It's too loud, someone make it all stop, please, make it stop. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts! Sherlock scrunched his eyes shut tightly, as if the lack of sight would make a difference on his hearing, the lack of light only calmed the pain in his eyes but it intensified the sounds which made the pain in his head worse. He could just about make out the woman's voice.

"Sir, please tell me what's wrong. What's hurting you? What do you want to stop?"

She sounded panicked, she had heard what he thought, that wasn't good. She can't call an ambulance, Lestrade will be here soon, everything will be fine when Lestrade gets here, he'll take him back to Baker Street where he can rest and get rid of this pain. Once Lestrade gets here, he'll be fine. Sherlock forced himself to relax, when did he start breathing quicker? He was close to hyperventilating, his breath was coming in short pained gasps, he needed to relax, hyperventilating will only make it worse.

"Sir, you need to relax. Listen to my voice; take some deep breaths, in and out, in and out. Keep doing that, Sir, in and out slowly." The woman said in a soothing tone. She's too calm; she must be studying to be a nurse or she already is one.

Slowly, Sherlock calmed down, he didn't remove his hands from his ears, nor did he open his eyes but his breathing calmed down and he relaxed slightly, his form not trembling so much.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock lifted his head slightly and opened his eyes, that was Lestrade's voice, Lestrade was here, he can take him home and away from all these noises and light.

"Is that your name?" The woman asked. "He's calling for you, I'll go get him."

Sherlock groaned, he may have been in the shade but the woman was blocking the sun and extra light, now that she wasn't there the sun was glaring at him making his eyes fill with tears of pain. When was Lestrade going to get here? Sherlock didn't know how long it had been, but soon there were hands gently tugging at his arms and pulling his hands away from his ears.

"Have you had your medication?" Lestrade whispered.

Sherlock relaxed, Lestrade was here, Lestrade can help. He looked at him and gently shook his head. He felt a hand come to his forehead and move some of his curls away from his face.

"Okay, what about at home?" He asked.

"It's all gone." Sherlock mumbled. He was an idiot and used it all up the other day. John said he'd pick up some more on the way home after work.

Lestrade nodded, "Sherlock, do you think you can walk?"

Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes briefly. He felt Lestrade wrap his right arm around his shoulder and he felt another arm go around his waist.

"I've parked the car around the corner. Think you can make it that far?" Lestrade murmured.

Sherlock nodded once more and closed his eyes completely as Lestrade slowly lifted him up. Though Lestrade was slow and gentle, the upright position did his stomach no good and he could feel the nausea rising.

"You ready?" Lestrade asked quietly.

"Yes." Sherlock murmured.

The walk to the car was slow and painful, his legs were trembling and his head was getting worse with each step. It must have been the vertical position making him worse. He let out a groan of pain as his head landed on Lestrade's shoulder.

"It's okay, we're nearly there." Lestrade said soothingly, "Just a few more steps."

Lestrade was right; there were only a few more steps until they had reached the car. Lestrade had gently lowered Sherlock into the passenger seat and made his way into the other side. Sherlock did the same thing as he in the cab; he put his arm against the door, covered his eyes with his hand and leaned into it.

"Sherlock, if you think you're going to be sick, just say and I will stop the car."

Sherlock replied with a grunt, he just wanted his migraine to go. He wanted the weather to stay at on temperature, not to constantly keep changing. It was either hot or cold, not both. Why did sudden temperature change have to affect him so much? He hated it; the summer weather was practically famous for it. If the temperature were to change then it should do it slowly, not go from cold to absolutely boiling within the space of an hour as it did earlier!

The drive to Baker Street was short and quick, Lestrade helped him climb out of the car and into the flat. Sherlock leant heavily on the older man as they walked up the stairs. Sherlock's form was trembling so much that he was surprised Lestrade hasn't accidentally dropped him.

"I'm taking you to your bedroom." Lestrade whispered.

Sherlock could only grunt, which then turned into a little moan of pain. Oh, god, why do migraines have to hurt so much? The walk to his bedroom felt even longer but at least he could open his eyes to darkness instead of burning bright light. Lestrade gently lowered him onto the bed; Sherlock kicked his shoes off and buried his head under the pillows with a mumbled "Thank you."

Lestrade put a hand on his shoulder and rubbed it gently.

"I'm just going outside to call John to see when he can get home. Shout if you need anything." He whispered.

Sherlock gave another grunt as a response, his migraine was calming down now that he was inside and amongst the darkness, it still hurt terribly, but Sherlock was glad it was calming down. He felt a hand reach under the pillow and ruffle his hair.

"Next time, Sunshine, tell me when you have a migraine, I don't want to see you suffering at a crime scene again." Lestrade said. "Or ever again." He added as an afterthought.


AN: I'm sorry, I didn't feel satisfied with the original and the feeling didn't leave until after I rewrote this. Again, sorry.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Have a nice day :)

~Steffii