Unacceptable!

This wasn't supposed to happen anymore. He was fine, perfectly healthy as far as he was concerned. He was home, safe and sound in Baker Street, not in a basement in Serbia. He was fine and this should not happen!

Sherlock snarled to himself, trying – pathetically failing – to ignore the pounding in his head.

He had a case – at least an eight, a delicious locked room mystery, one that wasn't yet contaminated by the Yard's incompetence – but his mind failed to make the connections that otherwise would be blatantly obvious. When he realised he had needed three glances over the crime scene photograph to notice the blood splatters on the western wall and another five minutes to understand what they meant, he knew something was horribly wrong. The all-consuming pounding headache made his first appearance ten seconds after that realization.

He had managed to make his way to his chair, curled in on himself, eyes shut, breaths coming from between clenched teeth, desperately trying to find a calm place in his mind where he could just sit and wait this misery out.

Sherlock had experienced these headaches before. Before John, before the cases, when he came down from the cocaine, he had them more often than not. But they were made up by the wonderful, beautiful, exquisite clarity that preceded them. Then he'd gotten clean – Lestrade refused to invite him back on cases if he didn't – he met John and the pains were beautifully absent.

After his Fall, they came back with a vengeance, leaving him crippled in a dingy hotel room or hidden in an abandoned part of whatever city he found himself in. His mind palace completely inaccessible – just static, a white nothingness where the halls and chambers used to be and it scares him to death, because what if it never comes back?! – no place to retreat, no drugs to calm the pain. Just agonizing pain.

Then he came back to London, job finished, John forgave him and the headaches were blissfully gone His mind was clear again.

So it made no sense, no sense whatsoever, that he would be suffering from this again. He was home, John was safe – not at Baker Street anymore, but he was safe – and all was right again. Sherlock dug the palm of his hands in his eye sockets to relieve the pressure behind them, but it was to no avail. Already the nausea was threatening to catch up with him and he groaned. This was unacceptable!

'Sherlock?'

John! Sherlock hadn't even heard him come in. He sat up straighter and opened his eyes. John stood in the doorway – just finished at the clinic, checking to see if there're any cases for him to help you with before he heads back to Mary – with a worried expression on his face. 'You okay?' His voice is soft yet Sherlock can almost hear him screaming in his ears and he involuntarily flinches.

Sherlock wants to tell him that he's fine, that John should go home and leave him be, but the only sound that comes from his mouth is a miserable groan. For a moment he is angry with his body for betraying him and he wants to push John away from him. Nobody, except Mycroft, ever saw him in this way and he certainly doesn't want John to see him like this, but then John swears under his breath and makes his way to him. John kneels down next to his chair and suddenly he feels the doctor's hands cradling his face. 'Look at me Sherlock, would you?'

Sherlock tries, but he can't focus and that's all John needs for him to spring into action. He jumps up and Sherlock hears the sound of the curtains drawn shut behind him shortly after. The room is engulfed into darkness and Sherlock finds it easier to keep his eyes open this time.

Stupid, why didn't he think of that?

Before he can articulate an intelligent question about what John is doing, he feels himself being lifted from his chair and supported by the strong frame of John Watson. 'Come on, mate, you need to lay down.'

Sherlock feels himself brought down on the couch and immediately he feels his limbs sigh in relief when the tensions of being cooped up in that chair leaves him. His eyes fall shut, too heavy to keep open. His head is laying on something warm and Sherlock nearly leans into the sudden calming hand on his temple. He tries to follow the movements of the fingers with his mind, but he is slow and the pain distracts him too much.

But, when he feels himself slip to the place in his mind where his palace resides, he isn't greeted with the white static noise of emptiness. He sees him, strong, reliable, loyal John Watson, with a warm smile on his lips, inside the living room of Baker Street, their chairs close together and the smell of tea and home and JohnJohnJohn! almost overwhelms him.

'John?'

The name escapes from his lips before he can stop it and the fingers stop for a moment. Sherlock opens his eyes and finds himself looking up at John's face wearing the same expression as the John in his mind palace. The fingers continue to message his temples and a sigh of relief escapes him as the pain falls away slowly. He feels his mind palace falls gradually back into place while John's voice surrounds him.

'I'm here Sherlock…'