AN: UPDATE: Let me just say one thing. THANK YOU SO MUCH, KIRSTEN, FOR THE TRANSLATIONS TO THIS! I am extremely grateful you reviewed and corrected my mistakes. THANK YOU!
So, thanks to Moriarty's chapter, I have no idea if I should be writing in past or present tense. This is in present tense, but I would really appreciate it if you all tell me which tense you prefer.
John dabs the cloth lightly across Sherlock's forehead trying to remove the sweat and lower his fever. He sighs softly as Sherlock kicks the quilt off himself once more, putting the cloth down on the bedside table, he moves to lift the quilt back up and places it on Sherlock's damp chest.
"This is why you shouldn't go swimming in the Thames. One man is easier to save than two." John murmurs to himself.
Sherlock doesn't respond. John doesn't expect him to either because Sherlock is currently in the middle of a fever driven sleep. John places a different damp cloth to rest across Sherlock's sweaty forehead and turns around. He hears the Detective moan in his sleep.
"Violet," He rasps out, "revenir. Où allez-vous?"
John lowers his head, Sherlock has been swapping from English to French all morning, he's always calling out for Violet and Nanny. When he is awake, he isn't lucid enough to understand that he's at Baker Street with John, and wants to know what's happened to Violet and Nanny. He wishes he could understand French, maybe then he would be able to help Sherlock better than he can now. It is beyond frustrating, knowing his friend wants, no, needs something from him, but he can't give it to him because he doesn't understand what it is Sherlock needs. He only understands a few words and that is only because he's had several French patients to help.
His pocket vibrates; he takes one last look at the sick man before him and then walks outside the bedroom, pulling his phone out as he does so.
"Hello?" He says, closing Sherlock's door behind him.
"Hi, John." He hears Greg say.
"Greg, how are you feeling?" John asks in a quiet voice so not to wake Sherlock.
"I'm fine." Greg says quickly, but soon corrects himself after a painful groan, "Could be better. How's Sherlock?"
John walks down into the kitchen, hesitating slightly before reply; he didn't want to give Lestrade any more guilt. "As well as he can be for someone who went swimming in the Thames."
"I'm sorry, John." Lestrade apologises, guilt lacing his tone.
"It wasn't your fault, Lestrade. You couldn't have known the suspect was going to push you into the Thames." John replies. He looks down at his watch; he'll have to give Sherlock some more antibiotics soon.
He hears Greg shift around, "That doesn't make it any better. Is there anything I can do to help?" He asks.
"Not unless you can speak French." John says, "You should be resting yourself." He says sternly.
"I am resting!" Lestrade protests, "Sherlock's speaking French?"
John nods despite Lestrade not being able to see, "Yes, he keeps swapping from French to English, always calling for Nanny and Violet. Do you know them?" John turns around; he can hear something coming from Sherlock's room and slowly walks towards it.
"Only that Violet was his Nanny and that her mother tongue is French." He hears Lestrade reply.
As he moves closer towards the door, he realises that the sound from Sherlock's room is the sound of him coughing. "One moment, Greg." He opens the door slowly, looking inside the room. Sherlock is still asleep, but the top half of his body is rising and falling as he coughs. He puts the phone down on the bedside table, removes the cloth from Sherlock forehead, not that it helped much, and sits down beside the sick man, slowly lifting him up and resting him on his chest.
"Come on, Sherlock." He whispers into Sherlock's ear putting on his doctor voice, "I know you can hear me, breathe with me. In and out. In and out. Slowly does it."
Slowly, too slowly for John's liking, the coughs begin to subside and Sherlock's breathing returns to normal. Picking the glass up from the bedside table and encourages Sherlock to drink from it. The coughs have woken Sherlock up, is now drinking small sips from the glass.
"That better?" John asks slowly moving himself from Sherlock.
Sherlock only nods, his throat and chest too sore for him to attempt to talk.
"Get some rest, Sherlock." He says softly.
John looks him over once more before picking up his phone once more and leaving to continue his talk with Greg.
"Sherlock's calling out for his Nanny?" John asks when he remembers what was said before Sherlock's coughing.
"From what I've heard, yes." Greg replies, a grunt of pain slipping from his lips when he finished, "Sherlock was calling out for her when he was detoxing. Don't know what happened to her."
"So I can only listen as Sherlock calls out for her?"
"Yes."
John sighs looking towards Sherlock's room. He can hear some muffled words.
"Nanny, ça fait mal, qu'elle s'arrête."
John bows his head down; he recognises one of the words. One of them means hurt. He isn't sure he wants to know what's going on inside Sherlock's mind.
He's curled himself up against the closet wall; it is the darkest room in the house because it has no windows. No windows to let in that horrible sunny light which only hurts his eyes more. He can hear his Nanny calling for him, she sounds scared. He doesn't want her to be scared, but he doesn't want to respond, it only hurts his head even more. He had told Mycroft when it started, but Mycroft sent him away and told him to stop whining, Holmes men don't whine about a silly little headache. Mycroft told him to take some painkillers, but not the ones Mummy takes; they're too much for a little boy like him. He did take some, he doesn't know when (he's not that good with telling the time yet.) but they didn't work and he vomited in the toilet before entering the closet. He doesn't want to go back to Mycroft for help; Mycroft is studying for some very important exams and doesn't want to be interrupted by his little brother whining about a silly little headache.
"Sherlock!" Nanny calls.
She sounds scared; he doesn't want his Nanny to be scared. He can hear her opening up the doors to each room, she's getting closer, he doesn't need to call out to her, not when she's coming to him. He presses his head into his legs and presses his hands against his ears. The sound is getting louder, it's too loud for him, it's making his head feel as if it will split open. He hopes Nanny can make it stop, Nanny makes everything stop hurting. She stopped his arm from hurting when he broke it after falling out of the tree. He didn't think that would ever stop hurting! If Nanny could make that stop, then she can make this stop, right? He moans softly into his legs, she is almost here. Then, the door opens and Nanny is kneeling down beside him.
"Sherlock," She says softly, sounding scared and concerned, "pourquoi êtes-vous ici?"
Sherlock moans once more, her soft voice sounding like that gunfire from the crime show Mycroft once watched. He tries to make sense of what she asked him. He soon realises, she's asking why he's in the closet.
"It hurts, Nanny." He replies quietly, he hopes he replied in French, he knows Nanny isn't that good at English.
"Qu'est-ce que c'est, Sherlock? Où as-tu mal?" She asks placing a hand upon his knee.
He avoids moaning this time, curling the hands by his ears into fists and digging his nails into the palms of his hands instead. What was she saying? He needs to think. He needs to focus, but his head is hurting too much. It takes him a while, not too long; he learns that she's asking what it is and what hurts.
"My head." He says, he hopes those weren't tears falling from his eyes. Holmes men don't cry.
"Laissez-nous vous sortir du placard, Sherlock." Nanny says, placing her hands to under his arms.
Sherlock doesn't protest, his head hurts too much for him to protest. His stomach roils as she moves him, from his curled up position against the wall, to his head resting against her shoulder and her holding his trembling body as she slowly stands up. He wants to gag because of the movement. He hopes he doesn't, he doesn't like doing that, and he isn't too sure he has anything to throw up.
Nanny groans softly, "Vous êtes lourd, Sherlock." She murmurs.
The light from the outside hits Sherlock's eyes and he closes them tighter than before and buries his head into Nanny's shoulder, a small whimper of pain passes his lips as he does so. He raises a hand to cover his eyes and a muffled sob escapes his mouth. Big boys don't cry. What eight year old boy cries over a silly headache? He tells himself. It doesn't stop him though. The tears stream down faster as Nanny carries him out of the closet and into the bright hallway. The light's too bright; it's stabbing his eyes and making his head worse. He wants it to stop! He can feel Nanny's hand stroking his hair as she slowly carries him down the stairs. The hand calms him slightly, reminding him of the other times Nanny has helped him, Nanny stopped the pain then, she can stop it now.
"Make it stop, Nanny, please." He pleads, his own voice hurting him even more. He isn't even sure if he's talking French or English anymore.
"It will stop soon, Sherlock." Nanny whispers in English, "Did you take something?"
Sherlock does a simple nod, not wanting to move his head too much, "Didn't work."
"Will you take some more?" She asks softly.
Sherlock shook his head, "Don't want to be sick, Nanny."
The hand moves from his hair to his face, Nanny's thumb is gently wiping the tears from his face. They've stopped now, and Sherlock moves the hand from his eyes and grips hers like a lifeline. The light is brighter here; he can feel it through his closed eyelids. It's driving needles into his eyes so he buries them into Nanny's neck to get rid of the offending light, he moans again and trembles harder. His other hand is gripping Nanny's jumper. He wants moan and cry and scream. But big boys don't do that, neither do Holmes men. He knows he's doing one of them, he isn't sure which one, all he knows is that his head is splitting open and Nanny's rocking him back and forth. He doesn't remember them moving to sit down, but with the pain in his head anything can happen and he wouldn't be aware of it.
He's sobbing into Nanny's chest, it's better than screaming, but it still hurts all the same. Each sob that tears through his throat and reaches his ears sounds like gunfire, but he can't stop it, he's in too much pain to stop. He's gripping Nanny's hand hard now, harder than before, he thinks for a moment that he might be hurting her, but that thought gets pushed away as the pain increases slightly, his stomach flips and trembling grows stronger. He's feeling cold now, but it's May and it's really hot today. Is he sick? Is that why his head hurts so much? Is he getting that sickness Mummy normally has? But Mummy doesn't get these headaches, Mummy regularly gets flu. That's what Mycroft told him, that's why Mummy has to regularly take the pills.
Nanny's hand is back in his hair, she's stroking his hair softly, it's calming him slightly, his crying not so strong. Nanny being the one thing reminding him that it will get better, just like all those other times he's been in pain or scared. She's still rocking him, back and forth slowly, rhythmically; her voice is soft as she tries to shush him. She always sings to him when he's hurt or scared, it calms him most, but he knows she can't do that. Not without making him feel worse.
"Go to sleep, my little Sherlock." She whispers softly in English.
She must know he can't focus properly if she's talking English.
"Can't, Nanny, hurts too much." He replies through his sobs.
"You can try, Sherlock."
Sherlock nods once and forces himself to calm down. He needs to ignore the pain if he's going to sleep.
"Stay, Nanny." He says without realising.
His Nanny nods and Sherlock's sobs slowly diminish. The pain is still there, he's trying his best to ignore it though, he's waiting for sleep to come to him. It's taking a while, and he's finally stopped crying, Nanny is still stroking his hair and rocking him, soon it is all he can focus on. That gentle rocking, back and forth, slowly, rhythmically. That soft hand gently running through his hair, stroking his curls, easing some of the pain. Slowly, too slowly for his own liking, he relaxes into Nanny, he feels the trembling slowing, the pain easing away, and he goes to sleep. Curled up and resting against his Nanny like the little baby boy he once was.
When he wakes, his Nanny isn't here. He's alone on the chair, a green blanket lying on him. He becomes aware that his head doesn't hurt so much anymore, it still hurts, but it's not so much and the afternoon sun still hurts his eyes but not as much. It feels more like one of those headaches where you want to take something to stop it, but it doesn't hurt enough to take one.
He hears a voice. Sherlock listens out for it; his fingers gently start rubbing his forehead in an attempt to calm this headache down.
"He needs to see a…" There's a pause, as if the person was trying to think of the correct word. "Doctor!" He hears his Nanny finally shout in English.
If Nanny's talking in English, then that must mean Father is home. Father never did bother learning French when he hired Nanny, saying that she should and could learn English if she wishes to talk to him. Mummy learnt French though, knowing someone would need to communicate with Nanny when required to.
"It was one headache!" He hears Father shout.
"He is huit ans, no. He is eight years old." Nanny quickly corrects herself, "He should not have a headache that intense."
Sherlock can tell she's thinking hard about her words. It's so easy for her to slip into her mother tongue, even more so when she's angry. He wishes they would stop fighting. It isn't his fault his head hurt so much, but he shouldn't have been such a baby about it. He should have just stayed in the closet. Nanny was only trying to help him.
"You need to learn your place! You are their Nanny. A babysitter who can easily be replaced!" His Father shouts.
A moment of fear runs through Sherlock he doesn't want Nanny to leave. He likes her; he doesn't want her to leave. He won't like the others. He doesn't hear Nanny's response but he soon sees her. She looks angry and upset, and he hopes Father doesn't replace her. When she sees him, her expression softens and she comes over.
"Comment te sens-tu, Sherlock?" She asks softly.
"Je vais mieux, Nanny." He replies. He is okay, his head doesn't hurt so much and he doesn't quite feel like being sick. He's fine.
Nanny nods and runs a hand gently through his hair.
When Sherlock's awake later that day around ten forty-two pm, he pushes that memory, back into his Mind Palace. He frowns, he's not too sure he knows what brought that memory back, he hasn't thought about Nan – Violet in a while. Why was he thinking of her now? It must have something to do with the fever; a fever always brings unwanted memories back for him. He hates every minute of it when that happens. Almost every minute. As Sherlock coughs heavily into his pillow, he tries not to think of the time he was thirteen and sent Nanny (because she will always be Nanny to him, despite what he used to think.) into a state of panic that required a two day hospital stay. That feeling of guilt is creeping up on him as John helps him sit up, weighing down on his chest as he feels John rub at his back, whispering into his ear, telling him to calm down and to try to breathe.
He didn't mean to scare Nanny so much, but it just hurt so much. He didn't mean to make so much noise, it just happened. It all just happened. Even the seizure. It just happened quickly. So quickly that he wasn't ready for it. So quickly that nobody was ready for it. Not Mycroft, Nanny or even the school nurse.
His coughing has stopped now, so it gives him the chance to talk. "Je suis désolé, Nanny." He hears himself say. His throat hurts and his voice sounds hoarse, but that doesn't stop him from talking. "I'm sorry, Nanny." He repeats in English. He doesn't understand why he's saying it, he knows Nanny isn't here, he knows that he's with John at Baker Street, he knows he's not that frightened little thirteen year old apologising to Nanny for scaring her so much. Yet, he still says it. He's briefly aware of John talking.
"It's okay, Sherlock. Go back to sleep, I'll be here if you need me."
Sherlock nods and moves himself to lie back down. He pushes those thoughts away, he doesn't want to dream of Nanny again, but he does so anyway.
AN: This is Chapter 7, and I know some of you might be getting bored, as it's all Sherlock with a migraine, mostly the same thing happening in each chapter. I'm going to try mixing it up somehow but I'm not too sure I know how. My mind is full of fluff right now, each character comforting him in some way. I'm going to try to get cases involved and add some hurt to the other characters so it's not just Sherlock. But it will still remain a Sherlock with migraines fic.
I did some research and it says migraines can start at any age and that they can cause seizures, more so from a young age if it runs in the family. I needed Sherlock young enough so he could be carried, but I fear I made him a tad bit too young. I also fear I put too much emphasis on the relationship with Sherlock and his Nanny, but I've learnt a lot about Bowlby's attachment theory, and I've always pictured their parents as the business type that don't have time to be with their children, which is where the attachment theory steps in.
I hope you enjoyed it. Have a nice day :)
~Steffii