Sherlock sat down on a chair at the kitchen table, he gasped when a stabbing pain started behind his right eye. Not again. He can control the pain, mind over matter, he can stop it before it gets any worse. Slowly, it travelled top his head, quickly growing stronger. He can control it. Mind over matter. If he continued with his experiments then that would stop it, he wouldn't be able to feel it because he would be too distracted to notice it. Within 30 minutes he had to stop, his head couldn't handle anymore. The pain had quickly gotten worse making the light feel like needles in his eyes and the bubbles popping from the burning chemicals sounded like gunfire.

He turned off the experiment, walked into his bedroom, closed the curtains and went through his bedside drawers. He should have some kind of medication, even if it was just his pills. His injections may work quicker, but even his pills seemed adequate enough right now. What was taking so long? He really needed to go through this. He was finding small boxes with things from previous experiments, papers related to previous case. Was that the ring from the Giyunder case 4 months ago? He never did give it back to Lestrade. Sherlock soon lost all patience and threw the drawer out, tipping it upside down and emptying it of its contents, papers, boxes, bullet holders, bullet cases, pencils, unlabeled chemical, and finally, his small box of pain pills. Sherlock sagged in relief as he picked up the small box, pushing out 2 pills and swallowing them, hating how weak and desperate he was being. He hated relying on his medication; it was stupid, relying on it made him feel weak and desperate, but he also knew it can't be helped; sometimes you just have to take it. Sherlock was beginning to wish he had replaced the cold compress, he had used it for an experiment last week which resulted in the chemical burning through it and creating a massive hole, John had been angry at him, ordered him to replace it; Sherlock had gotten distracted by a case and forgot. He was desperately wishing he hadn't.

Sherlock climbed into bed, curling up tightly and throwing the duvet over his head. He lay there, relishing in the darkness, trying to fight off the nausea building up, trying to ignore the pain in his head and behind his eyes. It wasn't working, the medication would need a while to work, and he only hoped he wouldn't vomit. Vomiting would mean throwing up the pills he had just taken, making it completely pointless for him to have taken them in the first place, then there would be the urge to take them again, but not knowing if he would vomit the pills back up for a second time.

He was lying there for 5 minutes, at least, what he thought was 5 minutes until his phone beeped, indicating that he had a message; he groaned and pulled it out, opening up the message. Sherlock winced and fought back an onslaught of tears as the light assaulted his eyes.

'Lestrade has a case for you.'

Sherlock didn't reply, instead, he tossed his phone at the floor, not caring if it broke, he was in too much pain. There was no chance of him going outside to observe a crime scene for Lestrade. The bright sunlight would practically render him blind! He would be useless but not as useless as Anderson. He doesn't care how interesting the case is, he won't leave the bed until the migraine goes.

It was another 5 minutes until his phone beeped again. Sherlock groaned, he was hoping that the battery had fallen out as it does when he simply drops it from the table, or where he's sitting on the sofa. Out of all the times it didn't fall out, it chose now? It chose now to stay inside the phone? Sherlock groaned again, from pain and stupidity when he realised something.

His phone was on repeat, every two minutes. His phone will beep every two minutes, indicating that he had an unread message, and it will do this until he reads the message. Deciding it was best not to wait for it to go off again, he slowly sat up, fighting off the rush of nausea as he moved into an upright position and searched the room. It was by the door, too far out for him to stretch across and reach it. He would have to stand up to reach it. That is what he did; he stood up and walked towards his phone, ignoring the sudden dizzy feeling he had as he sat down against the wall to pick it up, before he could read the message though, his phone started to ring. Biting back a groan, disgusted by how weak he was being, he answered.

"Hello, Sherlock, didn't you get my messages?"

He winced; John's voice hurt him, "Yes."

"Are you going to help?" He asked.

"No."

"Why not? It's an interesting case and Lestrade needs your help." John's voice was that of disbelief. His voice had gotten louder to show it.

It took all of Sherlock's will power not to throw the phone at the wall.

"Busy." He replied, short and clipped.

"Sherlock, you're not busy."

"I a-"

Sherlock stopped, his eyes widened as an onslaught of nausea attacked. He could feel the bile rising up his throat, he tried to force it back down but it wouldn't stay down. He lunged towards the bin by his bedside table, retching into it, vomiting the bile and the pills, spiking another wave of agony everytime he heaved. He could just about make out John's worried calls.

"Sherlock? Are you okay? Are you alright? Answer me, Sherlock! I'm coming home, Sherlock!"

Sherlock sat back gasping as he wiped a hand across his mouth. That little episode just made taking pain pills pointless. He put a shaking hand to his ear; he was still holding his phone.

"John, don' come home. 'm fine." He said, voice shaking slightly.

"Sherlock, you are not fine. You just threw up! What part of that says fine?" John replied angrily. He really did hate it when Sherlock put off his own health.

Sherlock put the phone down, his migraine was growing stronger and he desperately wished he hadn't thrown up his medication. He probably wouldn't of if John hadn't rung him; it was all John's fault. Great, now he was being completely irrational, it couldn't have been John's fault for him vomiting, it was his body's fault. His body's fault for being so weak and needy, for betraying him, he hated it. Sherlock sat back against the wall, brought his knees to his chest and buried his head into his knees, getting rid of what little light there was in the room.

His perception of time was screwing up; he had no idea if it had been 5 minutes or an hour when he heard John rushing up the stairs, there was a muffled shout and then the footsteps were getting louder, and finally, the door opened.

"Sherlock?" John called.

Sherlock didn't bother to lift his head or even talk, he made a slight noise that sounded more like a whimper and stayed exactly where he was. He could hear John kneel down beside him.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?"

Sherlock bit his lip to stop himself from groaning and pulled his knees closer.

"Sherlock, I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong." John said while putting a hand on Sherlock's knee, "Are you in pain, Sherlock?"

Sherlock buried his head deeper into his knees. He couldn't help it, but his head felt like it was exploding.

"Is this one of your migraines?" He asked, his voice a lot quieter than before.

Sherlock only groaned in response.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He whispered angrily, "I'm a doctor! I can help!" John sighed and calmed down, "Have you taken your medication?"

"Yes." Sherlock said, hoping he didn't sound as pained as he felt.

"But, you threw up, so you brought it back up, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Do you have any anti-nausea pills? No, don't answer that. You've already vomited, they won't work." John said his voice as quiet as he can possibly make it, "What can I do, Sherlock? How can I help?"

"Makin' i' dark." Oh, god, did he have to sound that bad? It sounded all weak and pathetic.

"Sherlock, I can't turn the sun off. The room's as dark as I can get it."

"Fine." Sherlock grumbled.

"Sherlock, do you have any other medication?" John asked.

"Only pills."

"Are there any other ways? What if I got you a damp cloth or something?"

"Pos'bly."

Sherlock could feel a tug on his arm; John was trying to get him to stand up.

"Come on, Sherlock, lie down in bed. I'll get a damp cloth."

As Sherlock climbed onto the bed, he tried his best not to curl up again as he stretched out across it. He heard John leave but return a few moments later. A damp cloth was put on his forehead above his eyes. Just before John closed the door, Sherlock thought he could hear John say,

"You're an idiot sometimes."

AN: I'm sorry if there are any medical inaccuracies, I don't know the medical stuff, I may experience migraines, but I don't know the medical stuff that comes with it. Most of this is research. If anyone finds any inaccuracies can let me know, please?.

The cloth thing is something that I've heard works for many people when their medication doesn't. Something to do with calming down their nerves and making the feel cooler.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed it, have a nice day :)

~Steffii