A/N: you'll be pleased to know I'm still here. Certainly still writing when I actually can. Hope you enjoy. This is a recovery story to 'Crashed' storyline. Nothing too taxing but some nice caring doctor John.

Chapter 8: Migraine

A strangled cry brought John round from his thoughts deep in his novel. His heart rate shot up and he stared across the room to his best friend on the sofa.

Sherlock was awake, he had been sleeping fitfully, much as he had been ever since they had returned home less than a week ago. This afternoon though was worse than usual, tossing and moaning regularly, it made the doctor cringe with sorrow. Most times the detective would wake confused but shake off any queries about his wellbeing with a simple 'fine'. This time, it seemed he was having one of his amnesiac moments and these worried the doctor even more than the restless slumber. Not that it was uncommon for someone recovering from a traumatic brain injury to have these, but when it was his best friend, it send dread through him like a knife edge.

"Sherlock?" John put down his book, rising slowly from his seat with a stifled groan. His chest was still tight and sore, even after three weeks bed bound in hospital and now home, he was slowly, begrudgingly weaning himself off the pain killers. "Sherlock you alright?" He said as he reached the side of the sofa.

Even in the grey afternoon gloom he could see the detectives body was shaking lightly, his eyes were wide and distant and a light sheen of sweat graced his upper lip and forehead.

"Nightmares again?" John asked, unsure if he was about to get a barrage of abuse for asking.

"This isn't Montague street?" Sherlock said distantly, his brow furrowed and he blinked hurriedly as if to jog his shattered fractured memories back into place.

"No this is Baker Street, remember? 221B."

"No." he replied simply.

"Where's my skull?"

"The fireplace." The doctor pointed, "where it usually is."

"Oh."

John began to worry a little more at this. These memory loss moments were usually just that. Moments. After a quick jogging of the detectives memory then he seemed to get himself back in the present day. This was taking a little longer than it should. However, the next words which left his flat mates mouth made his steady and composed facade of calm crumble quickly.

"Who are you?"

John swallowed thickly. This hadn't happened before, this was a bit not good. His heart rate having calmed from the initial worry now sprung up and increased in rate.

"John." He said.

Sherlock frowned.

"John Watson. Army doctor, of the fifth Northumberland fusiliers. I live here with you. Remember?" He asked calmly, "I suppose you could say I'm your doctor."

"What kind of doctor would live with me?" Sherlock snorted in response, "did Mycroft send you?"

"No." John replied, "I'm not actually sure if he likes me to be honest."

"Really?" The edges of the detectives lips quirked up ever so slightly. "In that case I suppose you could stay."

"That's good then because all my things are here and it would take some packing to move them."

"Why are all your personal belongings in my flat?" Sherlock scratched the edges so his stitches on his scalp and ear.

"I live here with you." John said flatly, having to repeat himself.

"Oh." Sherlock blinked again.

A very awkward silence ensued and the doctor hoped to God that in the next few minutes his friend's mind would begin to piece his memory back together again and come round.

"Would you like some tea?" John offered and a traditional British fashion, tea always solved everything right?

"Yes."

"Darjeeling?" The doctor asked kindly, "I know it's one of your preferred, especially if your not feeling 100%, less strong, more soothing and easy on the senses."

"How do you know?" Sherlock grumbled.

John inhaled deeply, he needed to remain as calm as possible, the anxiety for his friend which was bubbling just beneath the surface could not break that surface. It would only prove to panic the detective in his disoriented state.

"I've lived here with you for the last five years Sherlock, I've sort of picked up on some of the things you like. Mrs Hudson's mince pies, sausage rolls and Victoria sponge to name a few." John smirked, knowing that all three had been cordially made in typical fussing Mr Hudson fashion. Knowing too well that the detective was unlikely to eat well during his recovery, she wasn't wrong.

"Well this is intriguing isn't it." The detective said, he voice was unreadable and John could not tell if he was angry or actually genuinely intrigued by his memory loss. He continued as the doctor went to put the kettle on to boil the water.

"Here I am, sitting in a flat I don't know with a man who I don't remember, yet claims to have known me for five years. And you seem to know Martha Hudson." He pulled himself up to sitting, letting out a short yelp from the movement. "And I also seem to have an external bone fixator on my ankle and foot."

The doctor eyed him. "Don't you dare put any weight on that." He warned darkly. "You've already had to have it adjusted twice, I promised them there would not be a third"

Sherlock sat forwards, poking at the areas where the metal rods disappeared into his skin and into the bone below. He pulled up one sleeve of his blue dressing gown and inspected his arm, noting the fading bruises and old puncture wounds as well as subtle marks in his skin. His brain began to process the information quickly. He pulled a hand up to his head again, feeling the hair regrowing hair on the side of his head and the stitches protruding still.

"Don't even think about that either." John was now standing with his hands on his hips in the kitchen doorway. "Do you have any idea how many times we've restitched that wound, if you'd left it, it would have been well on the way to healing by now."

"25 and a half days." Sherlock exclaimed then.

"What?"

"Since whatever accident that befell me. And you by the looks of it too. You walk stiffly and shuffle over the floor, your left arm is weaker than your right and you have it bandaged under your shirt."

John couldn't help let out a small smile, he was in there. Somewhere, the great mind of Sherlock Holmes was working hard to catch up again.

"Yes, I suppose it has been 25 days now. Do you want me to explain."

"No." the detective shot, bringing his steepled hands up beneath his chin he began to deduce.

"Your injury is to your shoulder, and by the looks of it in particular your collar bone and joint. Collar bone injuries are most commonly associated with a fall or a road traffic accident, usually because the seat belt breaks it stopping your head from hitting the windscreen instead. Since it looks like we were both in an accident it would say a fall is less likely so... RTC."

The kettle clicked off and John began to pour the water, adding the tea bags in to brew. "Yes, it was a car accident, you and me..."

"Quiet." Sherlock shushed him. "Must you always feel the need to fill silence. Are you sure you live here?" He said grumpily.

John chuckled but regretted it immediately as it jarred his healing ribs. He bent forwards and steadied himself on the counter, the colour drained from his complexion.

"Broken ribs." The detective said simply.

"Well done Einstein!" John came out the kitchen and rounded on his chair, sitting down for a moment, feeling breathless and dizzy from the pain. "Anything else you wish to add." Bugger weaning down his pain killers the doctor thought. He pulled up the tablet bottle from beside his chair, taking out two he swallowed them dry, pulling a look of disgust at their bitter taste.

"Morphine will do a much better job than Co-codamol, if you like?"

John's eyes darkened and he shot a look of both concern and disgust across the room.

A pregnant pause followed before Sherlock continued on his deductions.

"Seeing as you broke your ribs, collar bone, shoulder and had chest trauma coupled with my foot and probable traumatic brain injury then I say the collision didn't happen in central London. The cars really don't go fast enough for this sort of severity of injury. And we weren't hit by a car, otherwise both my legs would be broken and there would be more external wounds. No. I was driving, hence the broken ankle and you were passenger."

John returned to the kitchen to sort the tea out. He retrieved a plate and put two slices of Mrs Hudson's Victoria sponge out, in the hope to tempt his friend to eat something, his last attempts had failed.

"So what were you doing outside of London with me in a car travelling at high speeds?"

Sherlock accepted the tea handed to him and it was then John noticed the slight tremor in it. This was not new but seemed worse than earlier. The physiotherapist said it would improve with time.

"We were on a case." John took a long mouthful of tea to rid the bitter taste of the tablets.

"Oh." Sherlock's face completely blanked. His hand shook even more violently then and John had to quickly rescue the mug from it to save his friend from the scolding hot drink.

"Sherlock?" John put his own mug down, switching to doctor mode instantly. "Sherlock look at me?" He commanded.

The detective relaxed against the back of the sofa with a soft sigh, his head tilted slightly backward and he stared listlessly at the ceiling. His right hand still shaking.

John was on his feet. "Hello!" He said quickly, patting his friend's cheeks firmly. "Hello, look at me would you. Talk to me?" His voice remained calm but the edges of his tone quivered slightly.

"John." Sherlock said finally in a sluggish and slow speech, not changing position or moving his eyes. "I'm so tired."

"I know mate." The doctor exhaled at least some panic, "but your scaring me a little bit. Do you think you can sit up for me?"

There was no answer, his friend's eyelid dropped down.

"Sherlock?" John placed two fingers on his best friend's neck, checking his pulse. It was normal, no signs of shock or cardiovascular problems for now anyway. Steady strong pulse, good colour, this must be some sort of neurological episode.

It was the long distant look in his friend's eyes which made him worry the most. Completely devoid of any emotion or life.

"Jesus." The doctor swore, he waited.

"No, seriously, you're going to have to give me some sort of notification you're actually in there, otherwise I'm going to have to start ringing for some medical help."

Nothing.

"Sherlock?"

The detectives eyes slid shut.

"Shit." John pulled his phone out from his pocket.

"Sherlock?" He asked again, this time pulling one hand of his friend's into his own and pinching the skin on the back of the detectives hand, hard.

The younger man pulled his arm back and groaned. "What are you doing?"

Despite knowing it was not his friend's fault, John could have punched him. "I'm trying to make sure you're not slipping into a coma." He said with some degree of held back annoyance. "If you could be of assistance that would be great."

Sherlock cracked one eye open, his brows furrowed tightly and he let out a small moan.

"Headache?" John offered.

The detective shut his eyes and nodded gently.

"How long?"

"Since before I fell asleep, it's worse now."

Sherlock's honesty worried the doctor, he wasn't used to this placid and well behaved personality, it was not normal. On the plus side his friend seemed to have regained his memory again.

"You've been getting these a lot haven't you?" John pressed two fingers gently onto the side of his friend's head next to the healing surgical wound. There was still some swelling under the skin, not completely unexpected but Sherlock had interfered with the wound enough times that John was still somewhat concerned about the risk of a post operative infection taking hold. Not something you wanted on your brain either, meningitis was a real concern. The detective inhaled sharply as John touched what seemed to be a tender spot.

"Sorry." The doctor apologised. "Can I please have a look at your eyes?"

"If you're going to shine that light into them then no." He replied with an acerbic tone.

"Sorry, non negotiable. Which would you prefer first, the lights in the eyes or answering my daily questions?"

"It's Friday and who even cares who the prime minister is anyway!"

"Full name." John stood, his neck crunching in protest.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes." He replied. "It's Friday the 2nd of October, or so the Evening standard says on the coffee table."

"That's cheating." The doctor retrieved his medical bag, never far away.

"I don't know who the prime minister is and quite frankly I don't care. The square root of 64 is 8, I'm in flat 221B Baker Street and you are John Hamish Watson. Anything else?" He huffed, keeping his eyes closed.

"What's your job?"

"I'm a consulting detective."

"What's your brothers name?"

"Mycroft." A sniffle of distaste.

"Where were you 10 days ago?"

"In hospital."

John sat on the coffee table, rummaging through his bag for the pen torch. "Name me three words beginning with S."

"Spicy, selenium, mouse."

John paused. His friend did not seem to have realised his error.

"Okay, spell potassium backwards."

"Really John, have I not answered enough stupid questions for you by now?" Sherlock brought a hand up to cup his forehead, it was throbbing now.

"Please. Humour me, just once more." John's concern ebbed at him.

"M. I. S. A. T. O. P." Sherlock frowned and and then groaned again, a wave of pain causing lights to pulse behind his closed lids. "Please can I have some pain killers now?" He exhaled and then inhaled sharply.

The doctor looked at him sadly. "Just a second and then yes, I promise." This was really not like him. "Can you move your hand so I can examine you?"

Sherlock obliged without protest, and John checked his pulse again, a little elevated this time, but easily explained by the sudden onset of a migraine on the way. He gently slid a thermometer into his friend's mouth and waited for it to beep, frowning at this slightly high number here too.

"Where is the pain?" John asked.

"Everywhere." Sherlock moaned.

"Does your neck hurt?"

"I don't know."

A small list of symptoms of slowly being compiled in the doctors head and he didn't like it. "Open your eyes for me." He asked kindly.

"Please don't." Sherlock grimaced before his friend had even started.

"I'm sorry." John said. "I just need to." He very gently pried one eyelid of the detectives up with no protest in return. He slowly shone the pen torch into it clicking it on and off. Reactive and normal, just a little sluggish. He did the second eye, suddenly noting that his friend had gone deadly still. The second pupil was as the first, both equal, both reactive, he sighed with some relief.

Sherlock did not move, his ridged body remained like a statue.

"Are you alright?"

It was then the doctor recognised the signs, pulling across the nearby bin he held it forwards as the detective bent over, heaving into it violently.

"Sorry." John said again, he bit his lip in both concern and guilt, knowing he had, at least partly caused this.

He waited patiently for his friend to stop. Sherlock pushed the bin away rolling back onto the sofa and pulled his legs up paying little heed to his metalwork around his broken bones. John cringed as it dragged through the fabric, catching as it went. Sherlock's lanky body curled inwardly so he was now on his side, horizontal on the sofa.

"John.." The detective near whispered, his voice now hoarse, "pain relief?" He asked.

"Christ it must be bad. Hang on." The doctor frowned, this was so out of character, even for current unwell Sherlock, and that it made him worry more than anything. He slowly rose to his feet and went to the kitchen. Mycroft had helpfully (as usual) had more extensive medical supplies delivered to Baker Street. John had given a list of drugs and equipment which he may be in need of during the detectives, and his own, recovery. Several injectable pain relief drugs were in it. He had not told Sherlock, and knew that he would do well to not to just yet. Considering his options he finally selected Sumatriptan, a medication to treat migraines as well as metoclopramide for nausea.

"Okay, just a couple of injections." He said, returning to the prone form of his friend with two syringes.

Sherlock did not reply.

"Hey, you with me?"

Silence.

"Sherlock?"

A jumbled mumble of syllables replied finally but nothing else.

"I need to give you these okay?" John bent low, slowly studying his friend's face with concern. The detectives brows were so tightly knotted together he didn't even know if it were possible for them to be this get creased. "I need to just pull your clothes back ok?" Despite being unusually placid and accommodating at the current time John knew Sherlock did not like to have human contact. Unfortunately the last few weeks there had been nothing but this for the man.

John very gently pushed Sherlock's pyjama bottom slightly back to allow access to his upper leg. When he sunk the needles into his friend's muscle the detective didn't flinch or react in any way. This was not good.

"Shit." John pulled the second empty syringe out. "I think you're starting to run a fever maybe."

A short grunt replied.

"Maybe we should start some intravenous antibiotics to be on the safe side?" John questioned himself.

"...ever." Sherlock mumbled.

John paused. He did not want to jump to conclusions, and for a moment he really questioned his clinical medical judgement. When it came to Sherlock he knew he didn't always see straight. But no, John was a good doctor, in his own words 'a very good one'. All signs, swelling around the surgical wound, elevated temperature, severe migraine, neurological signs all pointed to a potential for infection. Starting intravenous antibiotics would be safer than not doing so, and he could seek further help should Sherlock's condition deteriorate any further.

"Hey, can you talk to me?"

"Mmhf."

"Actual words would be good."

The detective didn't answer, he brought a hand up to his head and his breathing hitched to shallow short inhales before he finally let out a stifled groan of pain.

"Okay." John said. "Give it 20 minutes, if this doesn't ease then I'm getting you some stronger analgesia and getting you taken in. But for now I'm getting a line into you and starting some cefotaxime. Ideally we should be getting you into hospital and doing a lumber puncture but I don't know if I'm jumping the guns here."

Sherlock didn't answer but somewhere in his head he had processed the words John had said. By the time the doctor had collected all the equipment he needed the detective had managed to roll out of his cocoon shape and pull up his dressing gowns sleeve. Presenting his arm to his friend.

"I'm sorry." John could only think to repeat himself again. "I wish your recoveries could be a little more smooth, but you know, your not the most compliant when it comes to nursing and looking after..."

Sherlocks shaking arm raised slightly and John silenced.

"S..op, t...lin." The detective just managed to slur. His eyes opened to cracks and in the dim lighting John could see they were bloodshot and filled with nothing but agony.

'Sorry' The Doctor only mouthed, making no noise. He begrudgingly turned on a light and set to sorting his friend out. He cringed at the marred skin, an endless amount of failed IV lines, mostly due to Sherlock's unruly behaviour for pulling them out but also years of drug use had made his veins scarred and difficult to access in places. John pulled the tourniquet on and tightened it, feeling gently for a suitable site for the cannula. After a little deliberation John finally inserted and secured a line in Sherlock's lower arm, deciding to pad it out with an extra dressing. No doubt the detective would attempt to pull it out once he began to feel better.

The doctor added a fluid line and bag, deciding that some intravenous fluids would be more beneficial than not. He then sat for the next 15 minutes infusing the antibiotics in, watching his friend with medical scrutiny. He was running a fine line, any other individual would be admitted for these signs, but Sherlock Holmes wasn't any other individual. He knew, despite being terribly ill and in pain the detective would not be as amenable as he had just been to treatment. In hospital with every step forward Sherlock took there was always two steps back, a tricky patient to say the least.

By the time the antibiotics were in the detective had fallen asleep. His head turned away to shield his eyes from the light. John was pleased to see the lines of pain in his face where dissipating slowly. Analgesia hitting the spot it seemed, at least partly.

John crept up into the kitchen, pulling out his phone he hit the speed dial.

"Doctor Watson?" The familiar voice answered. "How is my brother?"

"Mmm, he's seen better days that's for sure." John replied, biting his lip and looking back to his best friend's sleeping form.

"Do you need my assistance, or do you need to have him admitted?"

"An opinion of a neurologist wouldn't go amiss." The doctor whispered, "but you know how much we want to avoid him being admitted."

"I can arrange a home visit thats no problem." Mycroft said, his flippant tone sounded like it was as easy to call on a medical specialist as it was to order a pizza. "Is there anything I should be aware of?"

"Just that he's taken a bit of a turn, we're under control but just be aware that we may need to take him into hospital."

"Understood." There was a pause. John could imagine the man schooling his worried face into one of indifference. "I will be over in a couple of hours."

"Okay." John said, surprised.

"Thank you John, for taking care of him. I know how much he tests ones patience."

With that the phone call ended. The doctor let out a small smile. 'That man has more love for his brother in him than he would care to admit.' He thought. He wished Sherlock could see it.

He poured himself a second cup of tea, pulling up a chair and his book he perched himself next to the sleeping detective, keeping a keen doctors eye on him whilst reading. With any luck the antibiotics would start doing the job.