Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.

Author´s notes: I am no native English speaker and therefore apologize for any mistakes.

And now: enjoy!

o o o

Not an Island, After All

o o o

His head hurt. Or possibly, it was his brain; he couldn´t tell, for he couldn´t think any more due to the pain. He lowered himself down onto the sofa with measured movements; his head was throbbing. He turned on his side and curled up, digging the heels of his hands into his temples, trying to apply pressure as a countermeasure.

He could hear the abnormally loud sound of a clock, each tick like a stroke with a hammer, in perfect rhythm with his heartbeat. He shuddered, feeling nauseous; this did not bode well. He tried to fight it, to concentrate on the clock, the feeling of the worn leather against his skin, the faint scent of John lingering on the pillow.

He breathed through his nose, wishing he could call John; he felt unable to speak however, unable to bear the reverberations in his head, his chest, his throat. Apart from that, his phone was lying on the mantlepiece, a seemingly impossible distance from the sofa.

o

Despite Sherlock´s efforts, the nausea steadily got worse. At one point, he couldn´t postpone the inevitable any longer: he needed to get up and into the bathroom.

His legs however wouldn´t support him, his knees simply gave out as he got to his feet. With a painful thud, he landed on the floor, only barely missing the edge of the coffee table. A dry sob escaped him, and he began to crawl towards the hall on all fours, dragging himself towards the bathroom on limbs which seemed heavy and unfamiliar.

He only barely made it in time; he was already retching when he had reached the loo.

o

When John came home from the surgery, it had already gotten dark, since it was well past six; London was a blur of lights and tumbling leaves, it had become autumn.

Sherlock didn´t seem to be at home, for there were no lights on in their flat. John listened for a moment before letting himself in: Mrs Hudson didn´t seem to be there either.

With a sigh, John put his jacket on its hook and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. He was just about to turn on the tap when he heard something. He paused in his motion: there it was again.

A sound like a dry cough, faint but unmistakable. He put the kettle down: "Sherlock?" Maybe Sherlock was in his room. John went into the hall and knocked on Sherlock´s door, but no one answered.

There was the cough again; very quietly, he followed the sound.

He found his friend in the bathroom, lying on the floor and obviously being ill.

o

Time had long become superfluous when Sherlock felt something. A touch, a gentle hand. Fingers ghosting over his skin, tentative and cautious. A quiet voice: "Sherlock."

Sherlock was shaking. John had never seen him like that, and it was unnerving. Ordinarily, Sherlock Holmes did not shake, he was in control of the situation. Only now he wasn´t, he was curled up and hugging himself with closed eyes, sweat glistening on his brow. He looked paler than ever.

John crouched down next to him: "Sherlock," he said, unable to keep the worry out of his tone, "tell me what´s wrong?"

Sherlock made an obvious effort to answer: "Headache," he ground out, his voice unusually feeble, slurred and void of sarcasm. "Thrown up. Repeatedly."

"Okay." John did his best to sound reassuring. "Can you get up, if I help you?"

"No... Still nauseous." Sherlock did not even open his eyes, but a shiver ran down his spine. Only now did John see the goosebumps on his skin.

"For how long have you been lying here?" John asked, alarmed. It was not even remotely warm in the bathroom.

"One. Or two."

"Hours?"

"P.M."

"Gosh, Sherlock."

"Gosh yourself."

John let this go; it was no use working Sherlock up in the state he was in. Though he doubted it would have worked anyway; his friend seemed too exhausted to bother.

The doctor quickly got up and went to fetch a blanket, which he spread over the ill man: Sherlock´s skin was ice-cold. Then John fashioned a flat pillow out of a towel: "Lift your head a bit," he said gently, in order to cushion Sherlock´s head to make him more comfortable, but the detective groaned: "Not..."

John could feel the tremor in Sherlock´s body and knew it was bad. According to Mycroft, Sherlock had had these headaches before; they were probably a form of migraine, judging from the viciousness with which they attacked. Brain overload, he had dubbed them for want of a better explanation.

"Okay," John put the makeshift-pillow aside. "It´s okay. Just tell me what you need."

"A... gun."

"No, seriously. Is there anything else I can do?" John was aware that Sherlock very probably didn´t want anyone to witness this state of misery, yet he couldn´t leave his friend alone like that. And Sherlock promptly surprised him when he answered:

"Stay...please..."

"Oh... oh, well. Of course. I´ll stay."

He had intended to anyway, but would not have expected Sherlock to give his consent, on the contrary. John therefore could not subdue a feeling of smugness when he settled down next to his friend, one hand lightly on his shoulder. Sherlock lay still, apart from a few shudders that occasionally ran through his body.

John had switched off the light, for he didn´t know how sensitive Sherlock was right then, and he thought the darkness might be soothing. He kept telling Sherlock that it was okay, that he needn´t talk but should take his time. Under other circumstances, any circumstances which might count as normal, the detective would outrightly have sneered at him for using such platitudes.

He was in far too much pain however to even mind. And it didn´t matter, really, as long as John´s voice was there; it was soft and did not grate Sherlock´s nerves, but was rather soothing. John´s hand wandered, stroking Sherlock´s back in slow circles; its warm weight felt reassuring.

o

"Are you still with me?" John asked quietly after about half an hour. The shaking had completely subsided and Sherlock was breathing more calmly now.

Sherlock made a small affirmative sound. John was sure he had not been sleeping.

"Still nauseous?" he asked.

Same sound again.

"Do you think we can try to get you up and into bed nevertheless?"

A groan. John however was determined to get Sherlock off the cold floor; once he was settled in more comfortably, he might even sleep. To the doctor´s surprise, Sherlock did not put up a struggle, maybe he was too depleted. He swayed and his legs threatened to give out under him, but John firmly held on to him, and slowly they made their way to Sherlock´s bedroom, where the doctor eased his friend onto the edge of the bed.

Sherlock´s face was white with a greyish tinge, and the effort of getting up and walking the few meters seemed to have robbed him of his remaining energy. His shoulders were slumped in a way John was not wont of him.

"We need to change your shirt," John said gently, indicating the vomit stains on Sherlock´s present one; it was furthermore soaked with cold sweat.

Sherlock tried to lift his arms but failed; he was trembling now, exhaustion taking over. That he lacked the strength for even such a small thing was worrisome.

John helped him to change and crawl under the sheet: "Don´t lie down yet, it´ll only intensify the nausea." he said, propping Sherlock´s pillows up so he could lean against them.

"There, that´ll do." He turned to the door: "I´ll be right back."

Sherlock looked a little alarmed at the notion that John was going to leave him on his own, but his friend sought to appease him: "I´ll get a few things from my room and the kitchen. I´ll only be a minute."

o

John was more worried than he let on. To see Sherlock so defeated and not quite himself seemed wrong and was hard to bear. Hurridly, he assembled what he needed, including a bucket, just in case, and returned to Sherlock´s room.

Sherlock´s eyes flew open as he felt the back of John´s hand on his temple, and he flinched; good, so he had dozed off, meaning he would be able to rest. It didn´t seem as though he had a fever, which was a small relief.

"Since your stomach is empty, I´ll give you some paracetamol intravenously instead of pills," John said. "And then you need to drink something. I have brought Ginger Ale, which I´ll mix with water. The ginger along with the medication should help against the nausea."

Sherlock did not object. He was shaking as he took the glass; after a few seconds, John added a steadying hand. However, after only a few sips Sherlock began to look decidedly green around the gills. It was all John could do to quickly put down the glass and grab the bucket before Sherlock expelled everything he had just swallowed.

When the bout was over, John put the bucket down and handed Sherlock a soft cloth, with which he clumsily wiped at his face. Sherlock´s whole upper body ached from retching, and with a barely audible groan he sank back into the pillows.

"Sorry," John said, feeling helpless. "I guess we´ll have to wait until the medication takes effect."

"Thank you," Sherlock murmured.

"You´re welcome," John said quietly, instinctively reaching out and touching Sherlock´s hand, which was still clutching the flannel. Sherlock regarded him with heavily lidded eyes, a faint smile ghosting over his face. Then he allowed himself to drift off into sleep.

As he lay there, he looked fragile, his thin, lanky frame sunken into the pillows like that. John thought of the grace with which Sherlock usually carried himself and smiled involuntarily.

Sherlock seemed to be changing constantly, if very subtly. He looked slender on the days during which he slept enough and ate sufficiently, emaciated on the days during which food and sleep were meaningless words in his vocabulary and he neglected himself. Excitement over a new case made him seem to glow, his eyes sparkling, his coat flying; frustration when he hit dead ends seemed to deflate him.

For a man who proclaimed himself unsusceptible to emotions he was showing quite a range of them, if unintentionally. John could read him like an open book most of the time. Except of course when Sherlock concentrated on not letting him in.

Seeing that Sherlock seemed indeed to be sleeping, John went into the kitchen to finally make his tea. He was tired after his shift, but it didn´t seem as though he was going to get any rest yet.

o

When he looked in on Sherlock a while later, the detective had curled up on his side and was looking maybe a tiny bit less peaky. Yet the way he was huddling in on himself even in his sleep was telling John more about his current state than anything.

Cautiously, so as not to wake his friend, he sat down on the edge of the mattress, uncomfortable with the notion of leaving Sherlock on his own for too long; despite his own tiredness, he was determined to keep vigil.

When Sherlock woke up much later, he was mildly surprised to find himself in bed, with the lamp on the nightstand dimly illuminating the room. For a moment, he couldn´t recollect what was going on, but when he moved his head ever so slightly, a dull ache made itself known. It was less prominent and he didn´t feel as nauseous anymore, only bone-tired.

Sherlock stilled immediately nevertheless, taking stock. The world had lost its edges, and his senses were dulled. A state which was so utterly unpleasant that he wanted nothing but sleep and forget. He didn´t know why he had woken up in the first place; he completely felt drained.

With measured movements, his reached for the hem of the quilt to pull it further up, but encountered unexpected resistance. It was only then that he realized that he wasn´t alone, proof that his brain wasn´t functioning properly; pathetic, really.

John was lying next to him on the bed, looking as though he had keeled over at one point, with his back to Sherlock and his legs half-dangling off the edge. Sherlock involuntarily smiled. He would have gotten up to try and make John more comfortable, but he knew he didn´t have the strength; he would very likely end up in a heap on the floor.

Slowly, Sherlock put his hand on John´s shoulder: "John."

With a start, the doctor sat up: "Sherlock? Are you all right?"

"Yes." Sherlock´s voice was quiet, but much less feeble than before. "I just thought you looked uncomfortable."

John did indeed have a crick in the neck. "Thank you," he murmured, tilting his head to both sides a few times before looking Sherlock over: "How are you?"

"Getting there," his friend murmured. "I think we can try the Ginger Ale once more."

"Right," John got up, took the glass and shuffled into the kitchen to refresh the beverage. If Sherlock asked for it out of his own volition, things seemed to be looking up.

He drank half of the glass without feeling queasy afterwards, which was another good sign.

"Okay?" John took the glass from him and put it back on the nightstand: "Do you need anything else?"

"No... Thank you."

Sherlock, who had been sitting up, could already feel the strain of it; gingerly, he lay down again, relief evident on his features as he eased himself into the pillows. "You don´t need to stay," he murmured, struggling to keep his eyes open. "I´ll be fine. Worst is over."

John smiled sympathetically: "I´ll stay for a bit, just to make sure. Your phone´s right next to your pillow if something´s wrong, and the bucket is by your left."

Sherlock hummed in agreement, eyes already closing.

o

John waited until his friend´s breathing had evened out before he got up again and quietly walked out of the room, leaving the door ajar.

He doubted that the detective would need him during the night, but then, with a flatmate like Sherlock, you certainly never knew.

o o o

The End

o

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