"Sherlock..." John groaned.
It took a few seconds, but the consulting detective, clad in inside-out t-shirt, pyjama pants, dressing gown, and safety glasses, appeared in the bathroom doorway.
"What, John?" He crossed the bathroom and unlatched the window, pushing it open. "Honestly, can't you take care of yourself?"
John shuddered when the sudden cold air rushed into the bathroom. "C-Close-" he gasped, curling up. "-the window!"
"The bathroom smells of vomit, John. I don't care to close the window."
John groaned, reaching for the counter. He hauled himself to his feet, shivering, teeth chattering as he did, immediately turning for the window. He wrenched it closed, wrapping his arms around himself.
"What do you want, John?" Sherlock asked tartly.
He honestly didn't even know what he wanted. Sherlock was his flatmate, Sherlock was a close, physical presence... but one that wouldn't give any comfort. John didn't know why he had bothered to call Sherlock ino the bathroom.
"... N-Nothing," John stammered, shuffling towards the door. He desperately wanted to go to bed and get some proper sleep, but his stomach was still churning. Was it too much to ask Sherlock to go to Tesco's to pick up an antiemetic? Probably...
"You should rest," Sherlock murmured from behind him.
John didn't look back, just focussed on not tripping or walking into the kitchen table. "I c-can't..." he mumbled.
"Why not?"
"My stomach," John groaned, managing to stumble to the sitting room and flop onto the sofa. The world was met with a dizzying sensation and John hated it; he'd just gotten to the sitting room, he didn't want to vomit again.
"Take something and go to sleep," Sherlock retorted, taking a seat on the barstool in the kitchen. He messed with something on the Bunsen burner in front of him, the blue flame sparking up again. So, that was the reason for the safety glasses...
"Sherlock..."
Sherlock sighed heavily. "What?"
"I need..." John swallowed. "I need a bucket."
Sherlock looked at him. "Don't vomit in the sitting room."
John didn't respond that he was about to, instead just pressing his hand over his mouth. Sherlock must have decided that a bin was better than the floor, because John felt the rubbish bin being thunked onto his lap. He couldn't respond right away, but after the latest round of his stomach upheaving, he managed a weak thank you to the detective.
"You need to rest," Sherlock said. John realized that Sherlock was still standing awkwardly in the kitchen door, where he had retreated as John had vomited.
"Can't..." John whispered, setting the bin down quietly. "Ugh..."
"At least lie down."
John groaned, carefully stretching out across the sofa. It wasn't comfortable and he wished that he had his pillow and a blanket, or the afghan from the back of the chair, but it seemed like too much effort to get up and get it now.
But then... he didn't have to. A blanket was suddenly thrown across his body and John's eyes snapped open, looking at the detective looming over him.
"I'll get your pillow. Just relax."
John sighed heavily, closing his eyes again. "... Wait, relax?" he echoed, but Sherlock was already out of the room. Was Sherlock really getting him his pillow?
The answer was yes, because, moments later, John was subjected to a face-full of fabric that was his pillow.
"Thanks," John mumbled, rearranging the pillow.
"Is there anything else?" Sherlock asked, in his tone of annoyance.
John hesitated. He really wished that they had some ginger ale or peppermint tea around, to settle his stomach. Not to mention the fact that an antiemetic would be great-
"John."
John looked studiously at the ceiling. "Could you go to Tesco's?"
Sherlock sighed. "What do you need?"
John flickered his gaze towards the detective warily. "Does that mean you will...?"
"Just tell me what you need," Sherlock stated.
"Ginger ale or peppermint tea... Something to stop the vomiting, and picking up more paracetamol couldn't hurt..."
"Anything else?"
"Er..."
"Just tell me."
"C-Could you get me the paracetamol... from the bathroom? I think I've vomited it all up..."
Sherlock made a noise of disgust. "Thank you for that information," he muttered, but his footsteps were retreating and John knew that he was walking back to the bathroom.
They returned a moment later. "Can you manage not to vomit on the floor while I'm out? While statistically unlikely, there's the horrendous possibility that you could choke on your own vomit. I really do not want to have to come home to that."
"Might be traumatising?"
"Hardly," Sherlock scoffed. "But what I am supposed to do with your body?"
John snorted, which didn't go over entirely well with his pounding headache. "Experiment, I'd imagine."
"Hm..."
"Probably leave my body on the curb afterwards..."
"Don't be silly, I'd take your body to the morgue afterwards." Sherlock set the bottle of paracetamol on the coffee table. "... At some point."
"At some point..." John echoed. "That makes me feel better."
"Be back in a bit," Sherlock announced, picking up his coat.
"Don't stay out too long..." John mumbled.
Sherlock slammed the door on his way out, and John didn't hear Sherlock descending the stairs over the sound of his own vomiting.
Well, Sherlock's not the best doctor, nor is his attention focussed entirely on the sick patient. Doctor!lock... I promise.
Reviews are appreciated. Thanks!