Incapacitation

It started with the pain.

Sherlock was someone who had a high pain tolerance. Given his occupation, he did not find himself regularly feeling pain. He could run out in front of a car and find that he had bruises later, although he didn't remember feeling pain due to the thrill of the chase. He could burn the top layer of skin off of his fingers, via chemical experiments, and not notice that his hands had been doused until later, when the burns stung under water. He could sit for hours on end, not noticing as his back protested the treatment and his neck developed a crick.

Sherlock was working on an experiment when he noticed the stomach pain.

It was bad enough to make him notice, so it immediately caught his interest. When was the last time he'd had something to eat? But it wasn't a hunger pain. Drink? He had just had tea in the past hour. Bathroom? Not his bladder and it wasn't stomach cramps.

Sherlock deemed it unimportant and went back to his experiment, although he did briefly splay his fingers across his stomach. The warmth and the pressure seemed to help, although he didn't wait to see if it would go away. He needed to make notes on this experiment, not deal with a stomach-ache.

"Sherlock? Did you eat dinner?" John asked, several hours later, as he stepped into the flat. "What is that awful- ugh. Please don't tell me you had that in our refrigerator."

Sherlock glanced up from the intestines that he was inspecting. "What? Of course I didn't eat. Of course I had this in our refrigerator; where else would I put it?"

John sighed. "I told you not to tell me." He opened the refrigerator. "Anything in?"

"There's leftover take-away," Sherlock replied uninterestedly, turning back to the intestines strung out in front of him.

"Is it safe?"

"Tupperware safe," Sherlock replied sarcastically, only wincing afterwards.

The stomach pain hadn't gone away, only seemed to get more defined as the hours had stretched on. He tried to ignore it, but it was getting progressively worse. It seemed to have localized, however, so Sherlock was glad. Applying pressure, though, did not help anymore, and only made it hurt worse.

"That's good enough for me," John said, closing the fridge. He had, apparently, missed the wince.

Sherlock was glad. The last thing he needed was John trying to force medical advice upon him. Sherlock was fine without the medical advice.

By the time that he fell into bed- literally- Sherlock wasn't so sure.

The pain, while definitely localized, was definitely growing stronger. He was starting to feel nauseous. He knew that, if this didn't heal itself soon, he was going to end up vomiting. He felt like that would be more detrimental than beneficial and he wanted to avoid it at all costs.

So, he had swallowed down some paracetamol after brushing his teeth and collapsed into bed, feeling not entirely exhausted but very much in pain. He drew his legs to his stomach and snuggled into the blankets, hoping that the problem would fix itself by the time that he woke up.


It didn't.

Sherlock woke up around seven in the morning, gasping from a bout of pain that had forced its way into his unconsciousness.

Nausea swelled deep in his stomach and slowly travelled up, leaving him to break out in a cold sweat. Vomiting was imminent. He kicked the blankets away- a terrible mistake- and gasped as an invisible knife twisted in his stomach.

Deciding that, while kicking the blankets away had been terrible, having to clean vomit up off of his floor would be infinitely worse, and he carefully shuffled into the bathroom, closing the door quietly.

John wouldn't be awake yet. Good.

Sherlock kneeled in front of the toilet, gripping his hands into fists as he vomited. He was right about one thing, at least: vomiting hurt.

He was shaking when his stomach settled, if that was perhaps the word that he should use. He pushed himself to his feet, poured himself a glass of water, and sighed shakily. He felt miserable, which was something he rarely ever thought. He was constantly miserable without a case, but he didn't think he could even handle a case right now. He was that miserable.

He opened the bathroom door painfully and shuffled to the kitchen, drawing his dressing gown close. He walked to the fridge and found a bottle of ice cold water, taking it back to his bedroom with him.

He fell asleep without taking any more paracetamol.


"Sherlock?"

Sherlock swallowed back nausea, forcing his eyes to open. He hadn't been out of bed since seven this morning and he still didn't want to get out of bed, now at eleven.

"Yes?" he answered.

His bedroom door creaked open and John's face peered in at him, frowning. "You okay?"

Sherlock swallowed again. "Why wouldn't I be?"

John pushed open the door the rest of the way. "Well, for one, you rarely sleep late. Secondly, we haven't had a case, so you shouldn't be exhausted..." he trailed off, frowning. "You look peaky. Are you alright?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, willing it- John, the stomach pain, and the nausea- all away. "I am fine," he said.

There were a few footfalls before a hand landed on Sherlock's forehead. He flinched in spite of himself, but didn't groan at the pain that ensued.

"You're not warm... Sherlock, if something's wrong, you need to tell me."

Sherlock made an effort, then. He untangled his fists from the blankets and reached up to brush John's hand off of his forehead. "I am fine," he repeated.

John did not look convinced. "Alright... Did you want breakfast? Or something to drink, at least? If you're coming down with something, it can't hurt."

"No," Sherlock muttered. "Leave me alone."


By two p.m., Sherlock could barely swallow back the sick taste of bile in the back of his throat before it returned. Trying to swallow back the building vomit made him want to vomit all the more, but John was in the sitting room and one vomiting escapade would cause him to panic.

Unfortunately for Sherlock, he could hold out no longer.

Making a split decision, Sherlock went for the bucket of flash torches that was sitting in his room. The flash torches had been for an experiment. The bucket was now going to be for vomiting.

He upended the bucket, the torches clanking noisily to the floor, and just before he was sick again.

It didn't take long for John's footsteps to be heard.

"What's going on?"

Sherlock didn't look up, just sank into a sitting position on the edge of his bed and clutched the bucket close to his chest. He kept his eyes closed and focussed on his breathing, rather the nausea that was already re-building.

"I knew you didn't feel well," John said, crossing the room. "Tell me what's wrong. You don't have a fever. Did you do something? Sherlock?"

Sherlock groaned, pressing his hand to his forehead. He wished John would shut up.

"Just... nauseous," he ground out, determined not to make this into a big deal. "Probably from... an experiment. Go away."

"An experiment? Were you experimenting with something poisonous? Sherlock, did you ingest something? You need to tell me if you think there's any chance."

Sherlock shook his head slightly, before he vomited again.

John jumped and swore all in one motion, his anxiety level seeming to spike. Sherlock didn't even have his eyes open and he noted the change.

"Sherlock-"

"Just need to vomit," Sherlock interjected. "I'll be okay. Leave me alone."

He hoped that vomiting would help eventually, because it sure as hell hurt right now.

"Sherlock-"

"Now, thank you," Sherlock snapped.

John was silent for a moment before sighing. "I don't know whether or not I should call Poison Control or just leave you to vomit."

"I did not... ingest anything. I promise," Sherlock said impatiently. "Now leave me alone."

"I'm taking your word on this, Sherlock. I can't imagine you would let yourself die of poison over deciding to tell me, so, I hope you're telling me the truth."

Sherlock couldn't answer- he was subjected to another bout of vomiting- but he waved his hand dismissively as John looked at him.

John sighed but walked away. As Sherlock vomited for the fifth time that morning, John paused, but, maybe to protect Sherlock's declining pride and privacy, he didn't turn around.


John did check up on him every so often, though, which nearly drove Sherlock straight up the wall. Eventually, when he worked up enough strength and urge to need the loo, he shuffled to the bathroom gratefully. At least under the confines of the toilet, John couldn't hover.

All sense of gratitude vanished soon after he used the toilet.

There was blood in his urine.

Sherlock leaned back against the countertop, closing his eyes. For all of his stubborn attitude, he also knew how to read the facts when they were placed in front of him. And blood in the urine was never a good sign.

Think.

He was working through a list of illnesses that he knew of when his stomach gave a particularly nasty jolt. His legs collapsed from under him- the pain so bad it had sent the feeling straight out of his legs- which left him gasping in pain and nearly choking on his vomit. He couldn't quite bring himself to move, to lean forward so he was in vomiting distance of the toilet bowl, so he added vomiting on the floor to the list of the things that were going wrong today.

"John... John!" he gasped, vomiting immediately after he had drawn in a breath.

There was no knock on the bathroom door, but John burst in not seconds later. He took one glance at the situation in front of him and rushed to Sherlock.

"Hey, lean forward, come on," John mumbled, placing his hand against Sherlock's sweat-drenched back. "Come on, the toilet's right here," he said, sounding a bit agitated, as he tried to coax Sherlock forward the foot and a half to the toilet.

"Ow!" Sherlock gasped, reflexively drawing both of his arms around his stomach.

John immediately dropped his hands. "What's wrong with you?"

Sherlock doubled over, the best he could in his kneeling position, anyway, drawing in shallow breaths and struggling not to vomit.

"Sherlock? Sher- Sherlock! Your stomach? Sherlock, talk to me!"

Sherlock nodded weakly, not moving. He screwed his eyes closed and tried not to vomit again. He felt like he was going to pass out. There were black dots dancing across his vision, he was covered in sweat, and goosebumps had risen on his bare arms. While he was sure that he hadn't had a fever before, he knew that he did now.

"Sherlock?" John asked, sounding very worried. "Sherlock, can you sit up?"

Sherlock vomited again in response, barely managing to not be sick on his trousers.

"I'm calling the hospital. Stay here," John said, starting to stand.

"No!" Sherlock gasped, gripping John's arm. "No... Call... Call Lestrade or my brother. No ambulances..."

He didn't know what was wrong with him.

It started with the pain.

It coupled with the nausea.

It reached a peak with a fever.

What, what? Think!

He couldn't conceal the slight whimper as pain took his stomach again.

"I need to call an ambulance! You have to go to the hospital, Sherlock!"

"I will!" he gasped, his voice pitched high with pain. "But no ambulances!"

"Fine, then! Whatever gets you to hospital; I don't care!"

Sherlock became aware of John dialling his mobile, of John talking. From the snippets of conversation Sherlock could make out, it appeared that John had called his brother. Sherlock didn't know why he had suggested that, or why he had agreed to go to hospital. Actually, he did know why. He couldn't handle the pain-

He vomited up bile.

"Now, Mycroft!" John snapped, before he crouched next to Sherlock again. "Breathe. Just breathe. A car will be here in a few minutes. Breathe, alright?"

Sherlock wanted to say that breathing was boring, but he couldn't find the words. Nor did he have the ambition to say the words, because he could barely draw in a breath at all and it was frightening. His heart was racing out of control, he was shaking uncontrollably, and sweat was rolling down his temples.

From his previous state of not having time to deal with a stomach-ache, Sherlock realized that he had fallen very far to be here, doubled over on the bathroom floor, surrounded by vomit and drenched in sweat, gasping for his breath and struggling to not let his eyes tear up. John's hand was comforting on his shoulder, but the doctor's hand was shaking, and Sherlock was marginally sure that it wasn't because of the intermittent tremor.

"Just hang on, Sherlock... You're going to be alright. I promise. Just a few minutes... Alright?"

Sherlock couldn't respond in favour of struggling to catch his breath.


After working through four chapters of wondering if I was going to be dedicated enough to keep working on this story, I decided that I am...

I didn't intend for his ailment not to be diagnosed in this chapter, but after two thousand words of not getting to that point, the diagnosis (first Sherlock figuring it out and then the doctors diagnosing him) will be in the next chapter. Along with a lot more doctor jargon and Sherlock being in serious pain. I assure you that this is not the normal flu that Sherlock is being attacked by.

I do not own Sherlock.

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