John hates ice cream. It's cold, it's sticky, it hurts his teeth. Fortunately, frappacino's from Starbucks are just as good. Did I say fortunately? Well, it was fortunate for about seven days. In those seven days, John consumed sixteen mocha fraps., and he loved every moment of it. Sherlock liked it too, because John was awake and alert and very, very happy.
Yes, for seven days John thought he had found the greatest thing on earth. Oh, how the man was wrong. On the eighth day, John woke up clenching his stomach and hoping, praying for something to come along that'd kill him right then and there. His stomach was in so many knots, John couldn't stand.
"Sherlock!" John called.
"What is it?" Sherlock called back.
"Come here!"
Sherlock came and saw John wrapping around himself and moaning with pain.
"What's the matter?" Sherlock asked, alarmed.
"My stomach, I can't move."
"Are you-what do you need me to do?"
"Get a bin, I think I'm going to be sick."
And John was sick. For thirty-two hours he flushed his system clean. John's never been that sick in his life. He took pride in the fact that he hadn't thrown up since before the war, but that was all shot to hell now. He felt awful. Then, he felt awful because he threw up on one of Sherlock's shirts, a pair of his shoes, three towels, and in the kitchen sink.
"It's ok, John. Far worse has been in that sink."
"What could be worse than vomit?" As Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, John snapped, "Do not answer that question."
Sherlock rubbed John's belly and chest. "Do you feel better?"
"I guess."
"Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Probably not."
Sherlock looked shocked, almost hurt. "There's nothing I can do for my hurting boyfriend?"
"No. You can't make soup or tea."
Sherlock looked sad. "How about I just rub instead?"
"I guess it'll do."
The boys didn't leave their bed for sixteen hours after that. John was physically drained from all of that, and Sherlock, who couldn't do anything else for John, found one thing he could do.