6
Pyjama pants did not help a fever.
John was wrong. As usual, John was wrong.
Pyjamas did not help a fever.
Pyjamas most certainly did not help a migraine.
The pain in his head had bloomed into something totally unrecognizable- he never got migraines, ever- but it had to be a migraine. There was nothing else that it could be. The pain had gone from needles to knives, and he was pretty sure that something was trying to carve into his brain. The pain had moved from the right side of his temple, spreading slowly to the general right side of his head. It had taken two hours before Sherlock decided to bring it to John's attention. He only decided to because his vision was starting to blur, turning fuzzy.
"John...?" he ground out, flinching at the sound of his own voice. It had been completely silent and rather dark- it had to be near night time, although he was unsure how long he had actually been asleep- and now his own voice made his headache worsen.
Not ten seconds later, John appeared in the doorway. Sherlock thought he looked tired.
"Yes?"
Sherlock waved a hand uselessly, bringing his fingers to press against his eyes.
"What?"
"Migraine..." he muttered. "Can't see..."
"What?" John's voice raised half an octave. Sherlock felt like he was either going to pass out or be sick. John seemed to notice, and he lowered his voice. "You need to explain to me what you mean."
"... It's a migraine, John. Has to be. My right eye, vision's gone funny. Blurry."
"The pain is occurring on the right side of your head?" John sank onto the edge of the bed. "May I?"
"Touching it isn't going to help," Sherlock snapped, flinching at the pain in his throat. He really had to learn to lower his voice.
"Yeah, you need to stay calm, Sherlock. Your fever's only down probably because it's so early in the morning and you're pumped full of paracetamol." John reached out a hand gingerly; Sherlock caught his gaze briefly before John carefully placed his fingers against Sherlock's temple.
John's fingers were cold- Sherlock was morbidly unsure how he could still feel cold after being so cold for this long- but John's fingers were freezing. The pressure he was exerting was extremely light, very careful. His eyes kept flickering from his work to Sherlock's eyes. He was worried. Always worrying...
Sherlock closed his eyes.
"Sorry," John said quickly.
"What?" he muttered, frowning as John removed his fingers. "No, it feels... nice..."
"Oh." A pause. Sherlock didn't open his eyes. "Did you want ice...?"
"Not particularly."
Another pause. "Okay." A third pause. John's fingers hesitantly slipped back into his hair. Sherlock sighed imperceptibly. "Sherlock?"
"Don't talk," he muttered, raising his arm to place it over his eyes again. Their fingers brushed. He curled his fingers into his palm to avoid disturbing John's gentle massaging.
Another long pause.
"Sherlock, go back to sleep."
He was already half asleep by the time John said that.
He was woken up by the pain.
He immediately sat straight up and vomited over the nearest thing, which happened to be the duvet, spluttering and gagging and gasping for breath.
The pain was incapacitating- his ground his teeth together and squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his fingers against his eyes and trying to breathe evenly.
It took him a solid minute to realize that John was sitting next to him, his fingers awkwardly placed on his shoulder. It took him another thirty seconds to realize that John was sitting next to him and he had just vomited all over the bed.
He flinched out of John's reach, shrinking in on himself against the pain.
"Sherlock, it's okay. It's the headache, isn't it?" John's voice was worried, but not disgusted. Which was one of the main emotions that Sherlock was feeling now, disgusted. "Nausea and vomiting occur all the time with migra-"
"Don't," Sherlock said calmly, although his voice bordered on something dangerous. He hadn't intended it to. It just- his head hurt-
He took a deep breath and attempted to steel himself against another rush of pain, but the throbbing seemed to be hitting every part of his body, wracking it. He gagged again, feeling bile against the back of his throat and wondering how the hell he could still be able to be sick.
"Oh, shit..." John fumbled for a moment before producing the bin from earlier, shoving it into Sherlock's arms. "I'm sorry."
Sherlock dropped his forehead against the edge of trash bin, ignoring the spike of pain to the best of his ability. "For... what..." he muttered, in between breaths.
"I can't help. I-I mean, there's no cure for a migraine, the most I can do is attempt to battle your fever but I'm afraid to do anything with you right now, because there's all these little triggers for migraines-"
"John..." he breathed, exhaling his flatmate's name breathlessly. John was rambling. He was clearly upset. It probably had something to do with his being a doctor and being not able to help, having to watch someone, a patient, suffer. John hated that. He was... upset...
Sherlock groaned, gritting his teeth against the pain.
"I feel so helpless...!"
Sherlock flinched at John's outburst, drawing his arm around his head.
"Sorry, I'm sorry..." John exhaled heavily.
There was the makings of a swear word on the tip of his tongue, but he held back the expletive in favour of not lowering himself further. Cursing was a small mind trying to prove a bigger point. He didn't need cursing. Besides, John would be more upset. John would think that Sherlock was upset with him, and he really wasn't; he was grateful, in fact, but everything was just throbbing-
Pressure on the top of his head. Fingers tangling in his hair. John's hand.
What was that supposed to do? What was that...? Sentiment? Sentiment, had to be sentiment. Like... comfort or something. Had to be, correct? John was the master of all things sentiment, except his dating skills were less than rudimentary...
Sherlock sighed heavily, not raising his head from the rim of the trash bin.
The pain lasted for three hours, after the initial two. Five hour migraine. John had said something about how he was probably going to experience postdrome now. More pain. Less painful, but it was still more pain.
The majority of the pain had vanished. Gone away. Left him feeling weak and sick. There were still sharp, stabbing moments, though.
The latest flash of pain left the world blurring, but for a different reason. His eyes stung. Warmth on his cheeks. Belatedly, he realized that his eyes were watering.
He dashed the tears away irritably. Eyes watering because of pain. What next?
"You can have another dose of paracetamol."
"Good," he breathed, struggling to sit up. "How long does this last for?"
"Postdrome? Hard to say," John muttered, passing the paracetamol to Sherlock. "Malaise and cognitive difficulties could last for days..."
"Not for me..." he muttered, placing the pills on his tongue and taking a large gulp of water.
"You need to go back to sleep, if you can."
Sherlock huffed lightly. "I don't want to sleep. I feel better."
"Your fever has dipped back to what it was, but, like I said, it's only ten in the morning. Fevers peak in the evening, lessen in the morning. Sleeping isn't going to hurt."
"Well," Sherlock stated, settling his head back against the pillow carefully and placing his arm back over his eyes, "I'm not tired."
It was a total and utter lie. He imagined that John could see through that as well. John wasn't that clueless.
Plus, he knew that he only felt better because of the paracetamol, because of the morning hours. He knew he'd feel terrible later, but now he almost felt like continuing the experiment he had in the kitchen-
Except he also knew that John wouldn't let him.
Not to mention the crippling exhaustion he was really feeling. It was probably part of the postdrome stage of the migraine. Everything still sort of... ached.
"Sherlock?"
"Hm?"
"Did you want anything?"
"If I did, I'd tell you."
"No, you wouldn't."
"Yeah, I wouldn't."
John laughed slightly, although Sherlock couldn't tell if he was exasperated or genuinely amused.
"Are you sure you don't want something? Applesauce? You have to be hungry."
Correct. He was marginally hungry, but the repeated episodes that he'd been having throughout his illness made him not want to eat anything for a few days. Unfortunately, he didn't think he could swing that this time.
"Aren't you-" he cleared his throat, swallowing against the pain afterwards- "supposed to, I don't know, feed a cold and starve a fever?"
John looked at him, seeming surprised.
"What?" Sherlock asked irritably.
"I'm just surprised that you know an old proverb." John stood. "But it's just applesauce. Not like you're having a steak dinner. Be right back."
Sherlock watched him go before turning his attention back to the ceiling.
John was entirely too tolerant. He didn't know how, and he didn't know why, but he had long ago decided that John Watson was part of a mystery that he would never figure it. It probably had a lot to do with sentiment, because John was a very sentimental person. Sherlock would never understand that amount of sentiment, and thus, he had dubbed it unnecessary to think about.
Except, he did think about it.
Quite a lot, actually.
John Watson was a mystery that he couldn't figure out. That was part of the intrigue that Sherlock felt towards John. Part of the intrigue that had confused him from the second day that he had met him. It still almost baffled him- how John could say fantastic or amazing when everyone else just said freak. It was nice, a nice change, and it didn't make sense, but Sherlock had learned to deal with it. One mystery that he had learned not to worry about solving because, if he solved it, it definitely wouldn't be the same.
Didn't mean that he didn't think about it.
"Alright, applesauce and ginger ale and then you're going to go back to sleep."
Sherlock's gaze flickered to John once again, who was balancing a spoon, an applesauce cup, and a mug between his two hands. Sherlock almost laughed, if he would have felt like it.
"You try to do too much at once," he said instead.
John glanced up at him absently. "Oh yeah. Says you. The Master of Multitasking." John sat the mug down carefully.
"I'm able to handle it."
"So am I!" John protested. There was a sharp clatter that made his head throb again as John dropped the spoon onto the floor. He gave Sherlock a sharp look before stooping to pick it up. "Don't say anything," he warned.
"Hmm." Sherlock smirked as he took the spoon and applesauce cup from John.
"Don't smirk at me, Sherlock Holmes," John muttered, sinking onto the edge of the bed again. "I'm going to sit here and make sure you don't choke."
"Why would I choke? It's just applesauce," he muttered, peeling the top back. "Boring applesauce."
"Just eat it, Sherlock."
"Whatever you say, Doctor Watson."
I dearly wish to hear Sherlock call John 'Doctor Watson' now.
Sorry for the slight delay. Brain was demanding angst, so I was working on some angsty Cabin Pressure. Sherlock's fever's gone down a bit- it's morning!- so he's marginally better. But it's not the end of his illness... [I realize he probably wouldn't be up to almost arguing just from his fever going down, but... for the point of the fanfic, he is!]
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