John could hear the moaning coming from Sherlock's room. He wasn't sure what was going on in there, and he didn't particularly want to find out. He sat down to peruse the newspaper, but the moans were becoming more and more anguished. Settling into doctor mode, he padded down the hall.
He knocked carefully at the door and the knock was responded to almost immediately with another groan. He pushed the door open and was greeted by the sight of Sherlock curled up in a ball on the bed, his fingers pulling violently at the mass of unruly curls on his head.
"John. I think I'm dying. It's like my brain's finally gotten too big! Everything is glowing. Even my own voice makes me hurt. Please, help me."
"Shhh, I think you're having a migraine. Have you ever had anything like this before?"
He responded with a low whine and an arching of his back.
"I'll be right back. I'm just going to get you something out of my bag. Hopefully it will help."
John came back and lowered himself quietly into the chair next to Sherlock's bed, placing a glass of water and a small bottle of pills on the nightstand. Gently, he leaned over to brush one hand across Sherlock's clammy forehead before reaching up to shut the blinds.