Sherlock hadn't had a clue why John had seemed so annoyed when he had stormed out of his room. Then again, he didn't put much thought to it.
He had noticed, though, a few seconds later, John's footfalls on the stairs. A couple stairs, followed by a stumble. A few more stairs, and then silence. That was only one staircase, up or down, only enough stairs to get to either landing but not the other floor. Sherlock had frowned and looked up towards the ceiling. There had been more silence... and then Sherlock had heard the faintest utterance of his name and a heavy thud.
He took off at a dead run out of his room.
"John?"
Sherlock knew how everything in this flat worked, including John. There were ten steps to each staircase, two staircases to every floor, a landing in between each floor. John's room was above Sherlock's. That was a staircase, a landing, another staircase, and then a door into John's room. Twenty steps on the stairs, two or three to cross the landing, another two or three to get into John's room. John had taken ten steps, which put him precariously close to the edge of the first staircase, before either a) falling, b) collapsing, c) deciding to sleep on the floor. The latter seemed very unlikely for John. The first wouldn't be entirely uncommon, but John didn't trip much. The second, Sherlock couldn't place a reason unless John was suffering from hypotension, but it didn't mean it couldn't happen.
"John!" He found the good doctor passed out on the landing, just where Sherlock thought he would be. "John?" He crouched next to him, hooking his arms under John's to pull him away from the edge of the stairs. "Mrs. Hudson!" he yelled, fingers busy with loosening John's tie. (Why was he wearing a tie today, anyway? Force of habit? Perhaps so.)
Mrs. Hudson's light footfalls alerted Sherlock to her arrival.
"Sherlock, dear?" Sherlock could imagine that she was peering into their flat.
"Call an ambulance," he said calmly, fingers looped around John's wrist as he monitored his pulse. He didn't think it was anything particularly pressing, but figured that it was maybe a good idea to have John checked out, anyway.
Mrs. Hudson's worried face peered up the staircase. "Are you okay, Sherlock?" She paused upon spotting John, still laying on the floor. "Oh my... Sherlock, what have you done?"
Sherlock sighed heavily. Mrs. Hudson took that as a reminder and hurried down the stairs in a fluster.
He hooked his arms John's again, pulling him into a sitting position against his own chest. The last thing that he needed John to do was freak out upon waking up and take a tumble down the stairs.
Speaking of waking up, Sherlock felt John stiffen against his chest. Sherlock removed his arms from the doctor, although didn't lower his guard. John sat up straight, coughed, and groaned quietly under his breath.
"Feeling better?" Sherlock monotoned, staring down at the blonde hair. He felt John jump before the doctor looked back at him. "You passed out. Caused quite the crash. I'm fairly sure that you have no broken bones, though. Might have you hit your head?" He resisted the urge to prod at John's head; the only thing with treating someone else was that you could never be totally sure what they were feeling.
John opened his mouth to respond, Sherlock presumed, but instead, gave an unnatural pause before proceeding to vomit all over the landing floor. Sherlock cringed back into the wall, wrinkling his nose in disgust. "John...!"
Sherlock prided himself in not being squeamish, but when one was about three inches away from getting vomited on... Sherlock didn't mind most bodily fluids, but vomit was just downright disgusting. Urine was sterile. Tears, while annoying, cleaned and lubricated the eye. Saliva helped with digestion and, maybe, even possibly helped to disinfect wounds. Vomit... Well, it had benefits, but it was just... disgusting. Especially when one vomited out their nose.
John coughed again, waving away Sherlock's complaints. "I-I'm fine. Fine," he muttered, letting out a deep breath.
"I am not cleaning that up."
"Great, Sherlock," John replied, making to stand.
"What are you doing?" Sherlock shot back, lacing his fingers into the belt loops on John's jeans. "Can you stand?"
"Well, I'd love to try," John replied quickly, a bite of anger to his voice. Other than that, and overlooking the sudden precipitate vomiting slash fainting, John seemed to be fine.
Mrs. Hudson came back up the stairs. "How are you feeling, dear?"
"Fine, Mrs. Hudson. Don't worry."
"He's just vomited all over the stair."
"The ambulance will be here soon. I'll get a mop."
"Ambulance, why?" John swiveled his head to look at Sherlock, glaring. "Why would you call 999?"
"I didn't. Mrs. Hudson did."
"You told her!"
"Don't normal people call ambulances when someone passes out?"
"You're not normal!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Just stay here until-"
"I'm going to be sick again."
Sherlock let go of John's belt loops almost immediately. "Stay." He swung onto his feet and took the steps two at a time, pivoted into the kitchen and grabbed the bucket from under the kitchen sink before bolting back up.
"What is this rubbish?"
"Well, obviously, John, it's a bucket."
"What have you had in it?"
Sherlock shrugged eloquently. He had had a variety of things in it, none that John really needed to know. "Come on, let's go down." He slipped his hands into his pockets and headed downstairs.
"Sherlock..."
He glanced over his shoulder. John had stood up, but was leaning back against the wall for support. Sherlock narrowed his eyes a bit and backed up. "Put your arm around my neck."
"Huh?"
"Your arm. My neck."
"Oh." John looked uncomfortable for a half second before he became very busy with the bucket. Sherlock exhaled slowly, looking towards the window. How tedious.
It was probably just a vasovagal episode, nothing to worry about. John was right- he hadn't needed to call an ambulance. It was just a brief loss of consciousness and nothing-
A clack, followed by another thud.
Sherlock swiveled back to John. Unconscious again.
He frowned as he stared down at his unconscious colleague, the sirens of the ambulance becoming prominent in the background.
Maybe this wasn't as simple as Sherlock had been led to think.
Thirty minutes later found the consulting detective and Mrs. Hudson in St. Barts. Mrs. Hudson was chatting with one of the nurses, going on about knitting and pain relievers, Sherlock reckoned. He himself was standing at the window, his fingers tapping out an erratic beat on the windowframe.
Maybe it wasn't a vasovagal episode. It was unlikely that John would go unconscious twice in less than five minutes if it was. So, he had ruled that out. Now he was trying to reason what could be ailing John- and he found it wasn't working.
His head was aching and he was antsy; he wanted to pace the floors and maybe even see John, to possibly assess the damage himself. Instead, he was placating himself by tapping on the windowframe and trying to keep himself calm while ignoring his headache.
"He'll be fine, Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson suddenly there, behind him, and Sherlock was cursing in every language that he knew (which was a lot) at his awareness.
"Of course he'll be fine, why wouldn't he be fine?" he snapped back.
"You just seem nervous, dear," she replied, laying a hand on his shoulder.
Flaring his nostrils, he terminated the tapping of his fingers. Nervous habits were bad. He didn't like habits of any kind, so best to kick that before it got started.
"I'm fine."
"Sherlock?"
A wave of relief washed over Sherlock at the ever familiar voice. He glanced over his shoulder, eyes taking in the form of Doctor John Watson. Other than looking a little pale, and a little confused, he looked... fine.
"John," Mrs. Hudson greeted, removing her hand from Sherlock's shoulder and going to John. "How are you feeling?"
Sherlock stayed where he was, looking back out the window. Oh, how ridiculous he had been. Emotions. How could have he been ensnared into their clutches once again?
"I'm okay. Just a bit of low blood pressure. I'm fine."
"You gave us such a fright."
"Oh, sorry, Mrs. Hudson." John paused. "I hate that I dragged both of you here for no reason."
"Oh, it's no problem, love."
"Quite. Let's go," Sherlock added, drawing his coat closer to himself. He stepped out into the bright of the day, casting his eyes towards the setting sun.
He heard Mrs. Hudson and John talking quietly as they trailed behind him. The landlady was being persuaded by John to go visit with Mrs. Turner. Mrs. Hudson was arguing that John needed her attention. Sherlock ended the conversation by telling Mrs. Hudson to take the rest of the night off. With a glance that seemed to convey volumes, Mrs. Hudson nodded. Sherlock didn't take the time to assess what she thought he was thinking. They parted ways.
John and Sherlock's cab ride home was full of silence.
"So," Sherlock stated as he hung up his coat, "hypotension?"
John glanced up from untying his shoes. "Um, yeah. A bit."
"Much have been pretty low for you to pass out twice."
"I guess."
"And the vomiting?"
"Dunno. Maybe I got into a spot of bad food. God knows what you keep in the cupboards."
"Hm." Sherlock nodded absently, sinking into his armchair.
"I'm off to bed. Keep the violin down."
"Sure," he replied airily.
John clomped up the stairs, clearing all twenty steps of the cases this time. Sherlock heard the door to John's room swung shut.
He let out a quick breath after John had gone, eyebrows furrowed. He was... worried. He was agitated.
What am I missing here...? he thought to himself.
Since everybody flipped tables at the end of the last chapter, I figured I'd be lovely and update quickly. So, here we are. I... I dunno. I really love this chapter even though there's not much to talk about *o* Haha... -Awkward smile- I hope you like it, too.
P.S. The twist... hasn't twisted all the way. (It'll get exciting again -Smile- Not necessarily in the good way, but, you know... :P)