AN: Credit goes to Catie501 for this chapter. They suggested that seeing Sherlock on his own would be interested, then my brain nearly exploded with this chapter.
Thanks for all your suggestions! I really appreciate it! I've received a request Donovan, Anderson, Lestrade, and Sherlock with a protective!Mycroft (suggested by Blueskies23. Protective!Mycroft by Tempus Rose. These will likely become two chapters). Another chapter with Lestrade (suggested by Catie501). A chapter with Sherlock, John and Lestrade (suggested by Catie501). Mrs. Hudson's first time seeing Sherlock's migraine (suggested by Nichole Mark). And a Molly chapter (suggested by Nichole Mark). These will be the next bunch of chapters I shall be working on. Do remember, I am open to suggestions, if you want to see Sherlock in a certain situation with a certain character, then simply tell me! I'll start writing it.
Tempus Rose, thank you for your advice about the tea! I'm not really one for tea, but I'll be sure to give it a try next time. Thank you!
He throws the glass at the wall as he paces and watches as the top hits just below the mantelpiece, the glass shatters, landing on the mantelpiece, the floor, he and John's chairs. He groans when the sound reaches his ears but he doesn't care, the remains of the glass can prove to be a distraction. He needs a distraction. He craves for one. Anything to keep his mind busy and to stop focusing on the pain! It's all that's on his mind. Pain, pain, pain! He wishes it would just stop!
He stops pacing and stares down at the glass, the base sits on the floor beside the chimney place, bigger pieces surround it, thousands of tiny pieces lay on the floor, the chairs, some on the mantelpiece, everywhere. Sherlock looks down at John's chair, a long piece of glass sits by the cushion and lots of tiny pieces surround it, he'll need to clean it before John returns.
Sherlock returns to his quick pacing, he hates the way he's walking – steps are unsteady, he's stumbling frequently, his legs are clearly trembling. It all reminds him of the betrayal of his transport. It shows him how easy and obvious it is for his transport to give in except he refuses to stop.
John, John, where is John? Medical conference, he won't return until early Monday morning. Mrs. Hudson is visiting her sister and won't return for a week. Lestrade has the weekend off, but is visiting his brother somewhere in Oxford. Mycroft... No, he's not asking Mycroft for help, no. He's out of the country anyway, so Sherlock couldn't even if he wanted to.
Sherlock groans loudly. His head won't stop, it just won't stop hurting! He desperately wants to play his violin but the sound will only make him worse, he doesn't want to suffer through it. He desperately wants to go outside but the bright sunlight will only make his head want to explode. Not that, it isn't feeling like that now. He wants to do something, anything. He will do anything to stop him from focusing on the truly agonising pain radiating from his head.
His hands are trembling hard as he wraps his arms around his shivering form. He's cold; he's cold, so very, very cold, though he's not going to put extra clothing on over his shirt because he'll likely to be so very hot soon. His stomach churns horribly and he falters in his pacing, he feels like vomiting, he doesn't want to vomit, he's done that three times already (the bathroom smells disgusting as does his bedroom), he'll only dry heave and produce bile. He soon returns to his pacing, wiping the sweat off his forehead with his shirt sleeve as he does so. Surprisingly enough, he isn't dizzy, that had passed one hour and sixteen minutes ago, but his right eye is starting to feel a strange sensation and he estimates it will be ten minutes before he loses his vision.
Sherlock groans loudly once more, there's nobody else here, he can be as loud and vocal as he wants. Too bad he doesn't want to hear himself. Why would he want to hear himself sound so pathetic? So weak, so vulnerable, so human. It's all just a reminder that he's as human as the next person, and he hates it.
Sherlock closes his eyes, he feels something prick at the bottom of his right foot, it grows stronger with each step he takes. The carpet feels different as he walks, he's likely to be bleeding but he can't feel the pain. He's stepped on glass before and felt it, it usually hurts, now though, he can't feel it, the pain in his head is too strong for him to feel the pain that's supposed to be in his foot. He opens his eyes to go and look, not before noticing that he can't see anything from his right eye, as if an eye patch has been placed upon it. There's nothing but blackness. That's different; he normally has back spots first. He looks down at the floor, turning his head so that he can see it from his only good eye, sure enough, the heel of his right foot is bleeding, not much, but it's leaving blooded marks on the carpet. John and Mrs. Hudson won't be pleased.
Sherlock unfolds his arms and starts to undo the buttons of his shirt, it's clumsy and it takes too long. He's hot now, so very, very hot. He feels something cool hit his chest, he knows it's his own tears, he's been crying for a while now, he's surprised they're still falling, he can't be that hydrated. Considering the amount sweat, vomit, and tears that have all come from him, he can't be that hydrated. He knows what John would tell him, he should try to drink some water, John would like it if he tries, he doesn't want to, he'll only vomit; he can't hold the water down. He's vaguely aware that he's stepping in more glass; he's treading more blooded footprints on the carpet, except he can't feel the pain! He wants to feel the pain. He needs to feel the pain. If it distracts him from the pain in his head then he will welcome it with his arms open.
Sherlock sits down on the floor, well, more accurately, he falls down, and he's still sitting on the carpet. He wraps his arms around his legs and brings them towards his chest, he can feel the sweat on his chest rub against his trousers, he squirms slightly at the feeling. He buries his head into his legs, hoping that just this once, his mind will work with him and not heighten his other senses. It doesn't. The lack of sight only makes sounds louder. He can hear the cars passing, someone's child screaming, two men shouting at each other, someone's obscenely loud music, car horns, the television belonging to next door (one of the married ones are hard of hearing, Sherlock never did bother to remember which one.). He can tell by the traffic that it's rush hour, it's somewhere between five and six in the afternoon, he's had this migraine for what feels like so long, it started at twelve twenty-two, it's only been roughly five hours. He just wants it to stop!
He's vaguely aware that he's rocking back and forth, it's certainly something he hasn't done in a while, but he's not going to stop the motion. He lets out a cry of anguish into his legs because ithurtsithurtsithurts, it just won't stop. The cry hits his ears and his head creates a stronger wave of pain, but he doesn't care, not anymore. He can focus on how deep his voice sounds, he can focus on how pained it sounds, he can focus on how pathetic he sounds. Sherlock clenches his hands into fists, fingernails digging in, barely registering the sting as they dig into his skin, and releases another cry. He wants to scream, every second is just painpainpain, but he doesn't want anyone to hear how pathetic and weak he sounds, nor does he want to hear himself.
His whole form is trembling; suddenly he's cold again, so very cold. His fingernails are digging in much harder now, he needs to cut them soon, they're far too long, and any more pressure on the middle one and it's going to break off itself. There's a stinging sensation coming from the nail bed of his middle finger, except it isn't enough, he can still feel his head every second.
Sherlock lets go of his legs and flings himself back onto the floor, the quick movement has him gagging though nothing comes up. He's lying on the floor now, staring up at the ceiling, only able to see it properly with one eye. Tears and sweat now slide down the side of his face, mixing in with his sweaty hair while others hit the floor, making the carpet wetter than it was before and mixing in with the blood from his feet. His breathing is laboured and if he doesn't calm down he's going to hyperventilate. He grinds his teeth together, forcing himself to calm down, it takes a while and soon his breathing starts to slow, but then his head sends out a stronger wave of pain and within quick succession his eyes snap shut tightly, his fingernails are digging in harder, and his breathing fastens.
For a moment, Sherlock is glad nobody is here to witness this. To witness how pathetic he is being, to see that he can't handle a simple little headache. He knows that they wouldn't think that, he knows that if John or Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson were here that they would be in pain themselves, they would hate seeing him in so much pain and they would be wishing that they could do anything to stop it. John would likely be in doctor mode, he would be using his knowledge to try and calm the migraine down, using those home-made ideas or going out of his way to get some form of medication that will likely need to have been prescribed to a person, so he'd call Sarah and ask her for a favour and state that he will do anything she wants him to, she would be a little hesitant but agree, the medication would work, but only for so long (he's only done that twice, and he wishes John were here to do it again.). Lestrade would likely be hanging around feeling awkward, torn between helping Sherlock himself or interrupting John at work, date, something. Lestrade would talk quietly, crack a few jokes, place something on Sherlock's forehead before settling down beside him and running strong yet gentle fingers through Sherlock's curls, they always helped to soothe and relax him, calm him down slightly and push the pain down to manageable levels. Lestrade would remain there with him until something drags him away or Sherlock's fallen asleep. Mrs. Hudson would likely have put him to bed or settled him down on the couch, both places his head would be in her lap (occasionally on her chest, where she will then rock him back and forth slightly), she would be staring down at him and have her soft and gentle fingers stroking his hair, she would be torn between remaining silent and singing to him (it always helped her little sister, except she wasn't so sound sensitive.). After a while she would settle on one, and she would remain there with his head in her lap until something drags her away or he's fallen asleep.
A moan escapes Sherlock and his trembling form shudders harder, he doesn't want to be on his own for any longer. He wants the people he cares about to be with him, he wants them to help him through the pain, as they have done so many times before, they make the pain more manageable. He wants John, John's a doctor, John can heal him, help him feel better, help calm him down, reassure him, and tell him that the pain won't kill him and will be gone soon. He wants Lestrade, he wants to feel Lestrade's finger stroking through his curls, telling him that it's okay, it will get better soon, everything gets better soon, and he wants Lestrade to promise him a case once the pain has passed. He wants Mrs. Hudson, he wants to feel her rocking him like Nanny did or softly stroking his curls, he wants to hear Mrs. Hudson's soft reassuring him, telling him that the pain will soon pass, he wants to hear her voice calming him down, and that once this has passed she will make him those cakes he likes most. He wants Mycroft, he wants his older brother to be here and make the pain go, like his older brother has done so many times before, like older brothers are supposed to. He wants Nanny, he wants her to hold him against her chest, to rock him back and forth, and to sing to him softly in French, to whisper in his ear, and do everything she once did until he left for University.
A cry of anguish escaped Sherlock's mouth and he moves his hands to pull at his hair. His hands slide through his hair, he's aware that his hands are making his hair feel wet. He doesn't remember making his hands bleed, it must have been from his fingernails, he didn't feel the pain to tell him he'd cut into his hands. He pulls at his hair, he can feel a stinging sensation at his roots but it still isn't enough to distract him from the pain in his head. He hates it. He hates what he's being. He wants to go back to his confident, arrogant, and strong self. He doesn't want to be this weak, vulnerable, pathetic being that relies on other people to make him feel better. He hates his transport for going turning against him and making every little thing hurt. He wants it all to stop. Stopstopstop. He wants to sleep but it hurts too much, he wants to pass out from pain but his body simply won't let him, making him aware that the pain is still there, every second that passes by.
He knows it won't be stopping soon, this is the worst one he's had since he was eighteen and his asinine roommate decided to have a party, and the bad ones always last for up to forty-two hours. At first, it appeared relatively minor, likely needing only a lie down in bed for several hours, a small nap, and then next day he'll be irritable and experience no pain, until an experiment set the fire alarm off. It took him nearly ten minutes to rid the flat of all the smoke and turn the alarm off, now his migraine feels unbearable.
Sherlock rolls onto his side and brings his legs to his chest, the movement has him coughing and gagging, his throat burns as the bile rises. The coughing makes his head feel worse and he is so close to finally passing out, but he can't because there's a risk of choking on his own bile. It throws itself out of his mouth, landing on the floor beside him; it smells horrible except Sherlock isn't going to move, not anymore. Sherlock bites down on his lip and remain pulling at his hair. Painpainpain, why won't it stop? He only wants it to stop. Hurtshurtshurts. More moans and whimpers escape his throat, he soon stops biting down on his lip and lets them happen, they've been happening for the past five hours, there isn't much point in stopping them now. It's not like anyone's going to hear him.
He can hear sirens, police and ambulance sirens. They're growing louder and oh, God, the pain is growing with it. He cries out in pain multiple times (he won't ever admit to screaming, despite how much he wants to do it), as the sirens grow louder and the pain grows stronger to the point where Sherlock would much rather be dead than alive. At least then he won't be in pain. His hands move from his hair to his ears trying to block out the sounds, another cry escapes him and as the sirens pass, so does he. The darkness, the darkness that he has been waiting for since the pain started to grow unbearable has finally arrived, and Sherlock falls towards it. Relief flowing through him as the pain starts to dull, the tension starts to leave him and he can finally relax.
He wakes with a groan, the pain is still there, it still hurts so much. Sherlock opens his eyes slowly, it's pitch black in the flat, and for a moment he thinks he's lost vision in both his eyes until he moves his hand in front of him. Sherlock isn't too sure if moving is a good option, he still feels nauseous and now the dizziness has returned, but lying on the curled up on the hard floor is no longer comfortable. Not that it was before; it's just gotten worse since he passed out. He lifts his head slowly, not wanting to cause it anymore pain, and looks around. The couch doesn't look too far away, it's closer than the bedroom, and he has no intention of walking, not with the glass still in his feet. Sherlock uses his forearms to drag himself to the couch, the movement only reminding himself how pathetic he is being and making him hate his transport even more. Once he makes it to the couch, he buries his face into the cushions, they muffle the sounds of the moans, whimpers, and groans that soon escape his mouth as he waits for sleep to come once more and for the pain to finally stop!
Sherlock sits by the table in the kitchen, scribbling notes into a small notebook. His co-ordination is still clumsy, his handwriting not at its best but it's still readable so it'll do for now. He had been able to remove all the glass from the floor, chairs, and mantelpiece, the blood will take a while longer though, he's not sure he's up to smelling the horrible detergent that removes blood stains from the carpet quite yet. He was also able to remove all glass from his feet, it was clumsy as his hands were still trembling, and next time he'll wait for John to return, but he'd managed to remove all bits of glass and then bandage his feet up. The cuts were deep; fortunately, they weren't deep enough to require stitches. Sherlock had also been able to remove the bile from the carpet, remove the vomit from his bedroom and the bathroom, though he has no intention of going into either of them as they still smell horrendous.
Sherlock raises a hand to rub at the side of his head; his head still hurts though it is only a headache. He always gets one once the migraine has gone. He can hear John's heavy footsteps making their way up the stairs. Sherlock continues rubbing at the side of his head with a slight grimace as he waits for John to return and make a comment about the blood on the carpet. He doesn't wait long.
"Sherlock, why is there blood on the carpet?" John asks, he sounds tired and annoyed. He certainly won't put up with Sherlock's behaviour for long tonight.
"There was a slight mishap with a criminal." Sherlock lies removing the hand from the side of his head.
"But you haven't had any cases." John replies entering the kitchen.
Sherlock doesn't look up from the notes he's writing, "You haven't been here since Friday, John. I do have private cases."
John sighs, "Fine, okay, whatever. Just clean it up before Mrs. Hudson returns."
Sherlock nods.
"Have you eaten?" John asks taking his mug out from the cupboard.
"Of course." Sherlock says nodding down to the plate beside him.
"Just checking."
Sherlock feels John's eyes on him and shifts uncomfortably. "What do you want, John?" Sherlock asks irritably, looking up from his notes.
"Are you sure you're okay?" John asks, his doctor voice coming out.
Sherlock groans, "I'm fine, John."
"Are you certain?" John asks giving Sherlock a look that says he doesn't quite believe him.
"Completely certain." Sherlock replies confidently.
John nods and turns the kettle on. "It's just, before I entered the flat, Charlie told me that he heard the sounds of glass smashing and the sounds of someone crying out in pain, but when he knocked on the door to see if everyone was alright, there was no answer."
Sherlock looks back down at his notes, "As I said, John, it was a slight mishap with a criminal."
John pauses for a while before responding, "I know you're lying to me, Sherlock. You're still in pain right now, I can see it."
Sherlock shifts in his seat and doesn't respond.
"Why didn't you tell me?" John asks, coming over to Sherlock and placing a hand on his shoulder.
"You wouldn't have been able to do anything and I can handle it myself." Sherlock says trying to defend himself.
"So throwing glass at the wall and making yourself bleed is you being able to handle it?" John replies ludicrously.
Sherlock shrugs John's hand off his shoulder, "I'm fine now, John."
John keeps his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Just tell me next time. I might be able to help."
Sherlock nods and returns to his notes.
AN: Yes, I do realise that I'm pushing Sherlock's character again, but when you're in so much pain, you will do anything to stop it, and that's what I tried to portray through Sherlock. The other thing is that, when you're on your own, you don't have anyone to pull an act for; anyone to stay strong for, those shields have dropped and you just show your pain. This is also based on the migraine I had last week, and the pain felt like it was more than enough to kill me.
Again, if you want to see Sherlock in a certain situation with a certain character then tell me. I'll start writing it.
I hope you enjoyed this, have a nice day :)
~Steffii
