Standard disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.
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This chapter was beta-ed by atypicalhumanbeing/ 221bhannah. Many thanks to her for her efforts/work. Check out her stories.
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Chapter 2
John had dozed off for about ten minutes, or at least that was how long it felt when he jerked awake. At first, he didn't know what had woken him, but then he heard a moan. Sherlock must be getting worse. He stood up and headed towards his room.
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock was sweating and his breathing was rapid. John touched his forehead with the back of his hand; the fever had not got worse but was still there.
"Sherlock… Come on, wake up."
Sherlock blinked, then gulped.
"You're gonna be sick?" John asked, knowing the signs. He hurried to the bathroom to fetch a bucket.
"Of course not!" he heard Sherlock mumble, still half asleep.
"Do you think you'd be able to warn me if you realise you'll throw up?"
"Yes, I did throw up before."
"And how long ago was that?"
"Maybe… nine years and two months?"
"Sorry, but I'm not sure I want to trust you on this, better be safe than sorry," John placed the bucket next to the bed and sat down on the edge.
"Don't be ridiculous, one does not throw up without a reason, and there is no reason here."
"Sherlock, as long as you don't let me examine you and you don't answer my questions, I'll have to rely on what I see… and that tells me you're not well and you might have caught a stomach bug."
"That's bullshit. Let me sleep." He sank back into his pillow and John decided to be a bit more invasive here; foul language was another sign that his flatmate was not his usual self. He leaned closer and rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.
"Sherlock, being a friend doesn't only mean being there for another person, but also trusting his or her judgement, and occasionally following his or her lead if they tell you to. Let me do this."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"I…" but then he just shut his mouth gulped and a second later closed his eyes, too. "Fine, go ahead. I will endure it for you, then."
John didn't like this at all, and he pulled the blanket away. Sherlock was on his back, not moving.
"If your body needs to get rid of something you need to let it go. You know that, don't you?" John just rested his flat hand against the left side of Sherlock's stomach before starting an examination. He knew Sherlock didn't like being touched, so he tried to do this carefully. Sherlock was sweating and now seemed to clench his jaw shut.
"I will not puke!" he pressed out.
John could feel Sherlock's stomach cramping under his hand.
"Do not try to hold it back if it happens, you understand me?"
Sherlock didn't react.
John started probing his abdomen and lower stomach.
"Tell me if this hurts or makes you sick."
"Why would I…"
But at that moment, something caused a reaction. Before Sherlock even knew what was happening, he was retching. John had been expecting it and had the bucket under his mouth and dragged him over it before Sherlock's brain even registered he was about to puke.
Sherlock seemed to be just wondering how he had gotten into the position and why he was feeling so ugly when the first round of vomit hit the bottom of the bucket.
"Sherlock… Just breathe; it'll be over in a minute… Just relax," John soothed, since Sherlock seemed to be having a problem catching his breath.
John wondered if Sherlock would be able to sit upright much longer. He was white as a sheet and the look on his face was of… surprise, and disgust, and panic.
"It's alright… Just let it go."
A few moments later the puking seemed to have finished, and Sherlock started moving.
"What are you doing?"
Sherlock pushed the blanket aside and tried to lift his legs over the edge of the bed. John put the bucket on the floor in haste and reached for Sherlock's shoulders, and held him in place.
"I need to get rid of this and sit in front of the toilet," Sherlock was shivering.
"Don't be ridiculous, you cannot get up."
"I will not throw up into this again… and the smell makes my brain sick, too… I need to empty the bucket."
"Sherlock, I can get rid of it, why don't you let me take it and lie back?" Why did he think he needed to clean the bucket himself?
"No… I am sorry," Sherlock stammered.
John frowned. What was happening here? Why was Sherlock apologising? The man never said he was sorry no matter how inappropriately he behaved.
John gently pressed his flatmate back into his pillow.
"Sherlock, you'd not be able to stand up right now, just wait! I'll get rid of the waste and get you a washcloth."
Sherlock appeared not to know what to do, he looked lost in fact.
"Don't try to get up!" John warned.
Sherlock just stared at him.
John hurried to go to the bathroom and came back three minutes later. Sherlock's behaviour was kind of… out of line… but he couldn't grasp it yet.
"Just do me a favour and let me finish that examination," he stood next to the bed.
Sherlock was still kind of staring, a frown on his face.
"Please! Tell me… Are you in pain?"
Sherlock shook his head once more.
"You look as if you're in pain, you would tell me if you were, right?"
Sherlock pressed his lips together.
"Okay, relax," he started probing Sherlock's abdomen once more, carefully. Sherlock didn't react.
"Tell me where you're hurting."
"Eh… that might be a problem… I switched it off," Sherlock looked ashamed, but at least he had shared some information with him.
"What?"
"I switched off the pain reception."
John stood there for a moment, his mouth open.
"How…? You can switch it off?"
"Not always and not fully and not all kinds of pain, but… yes."
"That's kind of odd, mate, you know that?"
"No."
"Switch it back on then," John tried to see it from the logical point of view with which Sherlock had obviously tried to handle this.
"Can't."
"What?" Now that was even more odd.
"Why not?"
"Switch is gone."
"Blimey… You're telling me you can manage your pain reception but misplaced the mechanism somehow?"
"Of course I can manage it, can't you?"
"Not to that degree."
"Maybe I classified the kind of pain wrong and now it is not received as pain," Sherlock mused.
John leaned his head back and faced the ceiling to think more clearly… this was Sherlock, but he needed to figure this out in order to help him… definitely new grounds here. No patient had ever reported such a problem before.
No wonder he didn't like doctors or hospitals, telling this to a normal doctor would probably not help him to receive treatment, it would get him into a psych ward instead of being tended to in the way he needed.
"Okay, you try to find that switch while I examine you, alright?" John suggested, and focussed all his attention to every tiny move, sound and perception he received from Sherlock's body. He even used examination techniques usually only used on unconscious patients or babies or those who could not voice their pain.
"Okay," John had his hands flat over Sherlock's stomach once more, concentrating on feeling for cramps.
"Your stomach is cramping a bit and I fear you're gonna have some nasty bathroom sessions ahead, so be prepared… to tell me you need the bathroom. You don't want to fall instead of getting there in time," John tried to point out why Sherlock needed to be honest.
"Hmmm," Sherlock hummed.
"You feel kind of weak, right? You want to change?"
Sherlock shook his head. He was still wearing his dress shirt and trousers.
"Open your collar then." Every normal person would have done at least that hours ago, but Sherlock seemed to have switched off all kinds of negative feeling perceptions.
"Try to get some rest," John opted against trying to make him change for now.
Sherlock nodded, fumbling with the button.
"Okay, you try to relax. Yell if you need anything," John wondered if he was just agreeing to get rid of him. He headed for the couch to take a nap.
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A/N:
Thank you for reading.
I'd love to get some feedback.