Panic
Ok I hope you like this one ladies and gentlefolk. It isn't as long as I'd hoped, but I think I finished it at the right point… enjoy!
John held onto Sherlock's arms as he violently vomited into the sink, his body shaking from the force of it.
Sherlock hadn't eaten much yesterday, and nothing all today, and unfortunately, he couldn't stop gagging long enough to swallow water, so he was now throwing up copious amounts of acidic yellow bile.
'Shhh' John comforted, placing a small kiss on his friends forehead, as Sherlock stopped trembling, and his gag reflexes calmed down.
'You done?' he asked, stroking his head where his hair previously would have now been stuck down, matted and sweaty. Sherlock nodded weakly and allowed himself to be half carried back to the uncomfortable bed.
'This isn't one of the privileges of chemo. I don't feel very graceful' he started to joke, and then leant forward and vomited again without warning.
John leapt up with a basin and a cloth and as he advanced he noticed that the now dripping bed sheets weren't just yellow, or clear. They were speckled with red. 'Shit' John thought, noticing Sherlock's face grow paler as he himself noticed the blood. They caught each other's eyes, and John jumped into action, his mind reeling at what would be the best thing to do. He wanted to be a doctor when he was older, but he had no idea what the first thing to be done when your best friend was orally bleeding would be.
John didn't say anything, just calmly pressed the small red button above the bed to call for assistance. He pulled out his phone and sent a single message to two contacts;
- Greg, Mycroft – Sherlock's vomiting blood. Help JW
- Please JW – he added as an afterthought.
He got two replies only seconds later;
- On way – Don't let Doctor do anything until I arrive MH
And
- On way. Don't worry yet John, keep calm GL
He didn't feel either of these were suitable to bottle the emotions he was currently feeling, but he didn't get much of a chance as two nurses pushed their way through, and pulled Sherlock back into a sitting position, still heaving over the bowl. They steadied his breathing, and rolled him onto a moveable bed, obviously planning to do something that wasn't a possibility in a ward.
He was about to tell the nurses to wait, when Mycroft stormed in, Greg in tow.
'Mycroft Holmes' he announced, although it was clear who he was just by looking at him. 'Update on my brother's condition' he demanded, looking around at whom would dare answer him first.
At this moment, Dr Dimmock walked in, wringing his hands again. Sherlock was taken out of the room, and the nurses asked both Mycroft and John not to follow.
'Please, please' Dr Dimmock hushed, waving his hands at the three worried men. 'We are in the process of doing tests, and I promise to update you as soon as possible. Now if you would like to wait here, or in the waiting room, I will get back to you once I've seen Sherlock' he rushed out of the room in the direction that Sherlock had been taken.
Greg sighed and fell into the nearest chair 'fuck' he whispered.
Mycroft shifted slightly onto his left leg, and loosened his tie. This was about as emotional as he would get. He was, remember,considered to be the iceman.
And John stood, waiting for the other half of his soul to return.
After two hours, Dr Dimmock returned.
He looked more relaxed than he did previously, and the men took this as a good sign.
'Mr Holmes, Mr Watson…' he nodded towards them, and then at Greg.
'During chemotherapy, it is not uncommon to see relatively small streaks of blood when repeatedly vomiting. He confirmed he had some epigastric discomfort, and both of these symptoms link to irritation of the stomach and oesophagus. You said Sherlock hadn't eaten much, John. This explains why there is a larger depth of irritation. Despite this, he is perfectly fine, his platelet cell count is also quite low, but we are working on that, and he is feeling much better already. He has been moved to a private ward, on your request Mr Holmes, and if you feel the need for more information, just come and find me' he nodded towards them and backed out of the room, reading through a clipboard buried under a thick wodge of paper.
'Fine' they whispered in unison.
Never has there been a word less suitable.
'Oh so Sherlock's vomiting blood, but he isn't dead so he's considered fucking fine' John mumbled, voicing all of their internal thoughts.
'Come' Mycroft whispered, which made both Greg and John jump, because they could clearly hear the sentiment in his voice, almost overpowering the single word he had spoken.
'Sentiment is a chemical found in the losing side' Mycroft choked. 'And I'm happy to be on that side as long as it doesn't include losing my brother'