Sherlock Holmes was the worlds greatest mind, and he knew things nobody else did...except when he was sick. He couldn't even distinguish a headache or sore throat. He knew his body was slower, but he passed it off as an experiment.

John looked at his flatmate, and sighed.

Sherlock glared at him, and put on his coat, and ran halfway across London, to a case. John quickly followed.
L
When they arrived, Sherlock looked at the crime scene.

"Murder. John, call a cab, I have no use being at such a simple crime scene!"

He swallowed, and leaned against the wall. John looked at him.

"Sherlock? Are you-"

"Fine."

"You don't look fine..."

Sherlock hailed a cab, then climbed in. The hot cab made him dizzy. John looked at him, and sighed. John knew sherlock was ill.

The cab moved, and Sherlock paled. He started sweating and John knew they had to get out. The cab pulled up to 221B Baker Street. They got out, and Sherlock leaned against the lamppost.

"Sherlock?"

John looked at him, and checked for a fever.

"Sod it sherlock! You're running around London with a fever! Why didn't you /tell/ me you were ill?!"

Sherlock shivered, and walked up the stairs, and collapsed on the floor.

"Sherl, you need to stand up, love."

Sherlock choked out a sob.

John pulled his lover's lanky body up, and helped him to the loo.

Sherlock stumbled, and collapsed on the floor again.

"Well, Sherlock, look who is playing sick again!" Mycroft spat. "Hoping mummy believes you."

"Sod off Mycroft!" John snapped. "He isn't faking it!"

Sherlock looked at his brother, "I'm not faking it! I am legitimately ill!"

"If you aren't faking it, prove it!"

Sherlock was about to make a snide remark, when his stomach clenched. He choked on bile, and swallowed. John was telling him to just let it go. Sherlock felt the bile slide up his throat, and he didn't suppress it this time. He opened his mouth...and promptly threw up on Mycroft.
John stifled a laugh, and helped Sherlock sit up, so he could throw up in the bathtub if he needed to.

"Jawn, I'm gonna be sick!" He whined.

Sherlock threw up again, and glared at Mycroft.

"Sherlock, you are a git." Mycroft smirked.

"Leave."

John came in and helped sherlock sit up. He gave him some water.

"Don't drink it too fast, it'll make you be sick again if you do."
Sherlock sipped on the water, and John called Lestraude.

"Jawwwwnn! I think I'm going to be sick!"

Sherlock started to dry heave, and gagged.

John sat by Sherlock, and waited for Lestrade.

"Sherlock?"

Lestrade stepped into the small bathroom, and kneeled by him.

"Oh, Sherlock. You need to go to the A&E..."

Sherlock fell back, holding his stomach.

Lestrade looked at the bile, and blood.

Blood?!

"John, I think you'd better come here." Lestrade panicked.

"I need to call the A&E, we need to get him to an emergency unit." John said frantically.

"Sherlock, can you hear me? Stay with me." Lestrade panicked.

Sherlock blinked slowly. His stomach wrenched, and he doubled over, holding his stomach in pain. He choked out a sob. John knew Sherlock never acted this way, something was wrong with his friend.
Sherlock vomited again, his throat raw. He had tears in his eyes.

"Sherlock, I'm calling an ambulance." Lestrade said, pulling out his mobile phone.

Sherlock curled into himself, holding his stomach. John drew circles on Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock coughed, and looked at John.

"My stomach hurts."

John rubbed his back.

"I know."

John picked Sherlock up, and carried him to the couch.

Sherlock looked at him.

"Jawn, what'ss goinnn onnnn?" He slurred, from dizziness.

"You're sick, love."

"I'm not sick! I never get sick!"

"You're sick Sherlock."

Sherlock felt his stomach twist and he tried to get John. He lurched forward and vomited on the floor.
John stroked his spine. Sherlock shook, as he felt a large wave of nausea hit him. He rolled over, groaning.
John gave him a worried look.
The flat was spinning rapidly around him. He lifted his head, only to fall back on the pillows, groaning. His stomach leapt into his throat, and he tried to say John's name, but the overwhelming nausea covered him. He threw up as his throat burned.
Sherlock looked at John, and moaned. John looked at him, and kissed matted curls. Sherlock vomited again, as medics lifted him onto a stretcher. He felt restraints holding him, and a bedpan was placed by his head,, in case he would throw up.

John begged then to let him ride with Sherlock. He was allowed, as Sherlock started to gag. John rubbed Sherlocks stomach. John rubbed his eyes, looking at the body of his sick friend. Sherlock had stopped throwing up, but was still green.

"I'm hungry, John."

"I don't think you're up to eating just yet, you're still pretty green Sherl. You've been vomiting all day."

Sherlock tasted a film of stomach acid, and swallowed a sickening amount of saliva. He put a hand on his stomach, and jolted forward, feeling his stomach contents fill his mouth. He looked at John desperately. John patted his back, as Sherlock sort of coughed, and vomited at the same time. The mess splattered on the bedsheets, as Sherlock heaved. John grabbed some saltines and powerade from the bedside table. He got Sherlock in a seated position, as he swallowed the powerade. John looked at Sherlock, whose skin was a pale green tone.

"God, what did I eat to get this sick?"

"You were experimenting with mould, and you ate a seven month old sandwich, and twelve day old milk..."

Sherlock put a hand on his stomach, nausea bubbling under his skin.

"...you also were using human eyes in water to see if they became rubbery."

Sherlock groaned.

"You've been attacked with mould, and bacteria from sour milk, salmonella most likely."

Sherlock looked around, and took in his surroundings, he was in the hospital. He felt vomit fill his mouth again, as the lights blinded him.

"Sherl? You okay?"

Sherlock vomited again.

"You are throwing your guts up. You need to eat something like yogurt to combat the bacteria."

John took some yogurt and soon fed it to Sherlock. The younger man gagged, and almost upchucked his stomach contents.

John kept stroking his stomach, willing Sherlocks sick stomach to hold the food.

"Jawn, I don't feel well."

"I know, love. I'm going to get some medicine pumped in your intravenous line."

"Jawn, stay. Please."

"I'm getting a nurse. Love, you are running a fever."

John heard Sherlocks stomach gurgle, and massaged it.

"John. Stop, I think I'm going to... Going to..."

Sherlock brought up another round of vomit.

John looked at the nurse.

She ran a hand through Sherlocks hair.

"Mr. Holmes, you are very ill. Your stomach can barely keep itself from eating itself up. I need to give you some ipecac. It will make you sick, meaning it will cause you to vomit. We are going to then test your vomit for bacteria, okay?"

Sherlock nodded, and was given a cupful of brown liquid. He downed the cup, scowling. His eyes widened as he felt the familiar tug of nausea. He retched, and quickly alerted John to his stomach contents rising in his throat. John grabbed a bucket, and gave it to Sherlock.

Sherlock heaved into the bucket, cringing at the sound of his vomit hitting the bin. John rubbed his back. Sherlock spewed as he felt his stomach reel sickeningly.

"John... I don't feel well at all. I want to go back to Baker Street!"

"Oh, love. I know you don't feel well, but you're extremely ill. Please just let them take a look." John pleaded.

"John, I'm going to be sick! I need to just sleep!"

Sleep?

John took a butterfly needle from the table and looked at Sherlock.

"Sherl. I need you to make a fist, I'm gonna check for a blood sample."

Sherlock weakly made a fist, as John tapped at a blue vein.

"Okay, love. I'm putting the needle in. Stay calm."

Sherlock hissed, as the needle pierced his vein. The vial filled with blood, and Sherlock shivered as the needle was taken out.

"There, there Sherlock, I'm almost done."

John put a bandage on Sherlocks arm, and held pressure until the blood clotted. Sherlock coughed as his stomach roiled.

"Sherl! You don't look so good. You're paler than a ghost."

"Jawn, my stomach keeps jumping around. I'm going to be sick!"

"I'm trying to help love! I know you have a stomachache."

Sherlock threw up, feeling his stomach churn, as if he was on a ship with a choppy river.

"Oh God, Sherl... I'm getting more ipecac, you need to get everything out."

Sherlock whined.

John gave him another cup of the brown liquid. Sherlock choked it down, feeling his head spin.

He was soon hunched over the bed, vomiting again.

He dry heaved after about twenty minutes of emptying his stomach.

"I'm going to give you a fever reducer. It's going to taste funny, but I don't think it'll make you throw up."

Sherlock took the pill and fell on the covers, shivering.

The nurses came in with the test results, "severe food borne illness" Sherlock had the worst case of food poisoning.

He was going to be okay, but he would become very ill if he didn't take the antibiotic.

Sherlock looked at John, "My stomach feels funny."

"You just had two doses of ipecac, you are bound to have a stomachache."

"Am I going to be able to eat ever again?"

"You're asking to eat?! You must've been really sick, or really insane!"

Sherlock felt a smile tug on his pallid face.

John gave him a banana, to get his potassium levels up. Sherlock choked it down, almost regurgitating it back up.

John kept feeding him light food, and hoped Sherlock's sensitive stomach would accept it.
By four am, John had fallen asleep on Sherlocks floor, since he had been discharged on the condition John took care of his flatmate.

"Jawnnn?"

He snapped awake, at the faint call of his friend.

"Sherl, what hurts?"

"Jawnnn..."

"Do you feel nauseous?"

"I feel extremely nauseous, and my stomach is bubbling and moving.:.."

"Have you thrown up since we got home?"

Sherlock pointed to the carpet stains. John sighed. Sherlock curled into a ball. He grabbed some medicine for Sherlock, and put two tablets in his hand. Sherlock swallowed the drug, and fell back. John smoothed matted curls, and whispered goodnight. Maybe he could get some shut eye.

-:/-

"Jawn? Jawn! Jawn!" Sherlock called, his voice hoarse from throwing up.
John came in.

"What's wrong Sherl?"

"I just threw up again. I feel like the flat is spinning, and my head is pounding."

John took in consideration. He rubbed Sherlocks hand.

"Do you have photosensitivity? Do sounds bother you?"

"My head hurts when I look at light, and usually nothing bothers me. Nothing. My head pounds when I hear even the slightest noise. I can't go to my mind palace! Everything is jumbled around!"

Sherlock was close to tears, a state no one had seen in him, not even Mycroft! John rubbed soothing circles in Sherlocks hand.

"Sounds like you're suffering from migraines. You just have to wait it out, and I can order some medicine, but for now I have to give you Tylenol."

Sherlock groaned.

"I know love."

"I can't even think. My greatest asset is failing me..." Sherlock whispered. He choked back a sob.

"I'm useless. I can't even think logically. I can't stand being like this John!" He sobbed.

John traced Sherlocks shoulder blades, and hugged him.

"Oh, Sherl."

"Jawn, can you get mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asked feebly.

"Okay."

"Oh, you poor dear!" Mrs. Hudson gasped. She stroked Sherlocks hair, causing him to recoil in pain. He was ashen, and shivering like a leaf. She offered him a cuppa, but he pushed the warm cup away from his nose, knowing that the mere smell of food would cause him to retch.

She looked at John, and said something unknown to Sherlock, and left.

"What did she say?" Sherlock whispered, pulling his knees to his chest.

"She wants me to write a prescription for your migraine. I told her I would do a checkup in this room, and then if you need it I will write it."

"Let's begin, Doctor." Sherlock said with a faint smile on his otherwise dead face.

John took Sherlocks temperature, thirty-nine degrees Celsius, a slight fever. He shone a light in Sherlocks eyes, causing Sherlock to moan and close his eyes. He moved Sherlock around the room, to see if he had vertigo. Sherlock swayed on the spot, and collapsed, shaking to keep from passing out.

He put out some dry toast for Sherlock, but he refused to eat, because the mere sight of food made his stomach knot up.
His face had gotten waxy, and a bit of green was showing. John took the toast and threw it away.

He was right, Sherlock had a migraine. The only thing he could do was wait it out...
Easier thought than done...

-:/-/

John spent his off time from the surgery, tending to Sherlock. He would come back, and would check on the lump of blankets in his room. He called Mycroft, despite the pang of guilt for going against Sherlocks wishes.

"Sherlock has a migraine. I don't know how long they last for him. It's been days since his last meal. Did he ever get migraines?"

"John, those migraines are a result of his old addiction. He's been sober for years. He only gets those migraines after a big case, he doesn't take care of his body. Has he been delirious yet?"

"Delirious?! What-no!"

"Good. When his migraines reach the delirious level, he can get...bad."

"How bad?"

"He starts seeing things, hallucinating. He feels like there's this invisible force holding him down. Once he thought he saw a ghost. And he's the most sound mind London has the pleasure of housing."

"Can't we do anything?!" John begged.

"His episodes last for about a week, and the constant vomiting gets him very dehydrated. You need to hook up a saline drip, and give him nutrients through an intravenous line."

"I figured he would need some fluids, so I grabbed them from the surgery."

"John! John! Come! Quickly! It's Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson gasped.

"Shit, Mycroft, I need to go. Sherlock is ill again. I'm sorry and thank you."

He tapped the 'end' button on his phone, and ran upstairs.

Sherlock was in his bed, shaking and crying. John looked at him.

"Sherlock? What's wrong? What's going on?"

"There...there are cuts everywhere!"

John pulled up Sherlocks sleeve, and saw no cuts up and down his arm. John looked at him.

"You're hallucinating, love."

"What's wrong?"

Sherlock dug into the sheets. Tears fell down his face. John patched up Sherlock. Sherlock looked at him.

"Turn the lights and blinds off! I think I'm going to vomit!" Sherlock begged.

John shut the blinds, and dimmed the lights, as Sherlock started to gag.

"I'm gonna go through and have you rate each symptom from one to ten."

Sherlock whined.

"One is not hurting at all, ten is send me to the A&E."

"Dizziness?"

"Five."

"Photophobia?"

"Ten!"

"Phonophobia?"

"Eight."

"Nausea?"

"Nine."

"Head pain?"

"Ten."

"Stomachache?"

"Six and a half."

John added the numbers which was 47.5. Almost fifty points for a migraine.

"I'm calling Greg, we're going to the emergency room." John stepped downstairs, and called Lestrade. He then took Sherlock downstairs, with a towel to shield his eyes, and took him to the ER.

Sherlock felt horrible. The noises of people coughing, or vomiting made him wince. The bright fluorescent lights lit up his pale face. He shut his eyes, and tugged on John's jumper. John petted his head.

"Sherlock Holmes?"

John picked up Sherlock, and carried him to the exam room. Sherlock was feeling like he was going to throw up again. He alerted the nurse by covering John in his stomach contents. John took off the jumper, and rubbed Sherlocks back. Sherlock retched, then remembered his head hurt. He clutched his stomach, moaning as he felt his stomach bubble with nausea. John grabbed a sick bag for him, and gave it to Sherlock, who had started to have probably the worst case of vomiting ever. He filled two of the bags, and threw up all over himself as well. John stroked his back. He cringed as his body heaved forward, in extreme pain.

"Sherl?"

John picked up Sherlock, and waited for the intravenous line to be put in. Sherlock started shaking, and his breakfast of eggs started sloshing in his belly. He burped, trying to calm his sick stomach. John looked at him.
Lightning lit up the room. Sherlock dived under the duvet, shaking. John looked perplexed. The great Sherlock Holmes, terrified of a thunderstorm?! He stifled a laugh.
Sherlock looked at him.

"Jawn? I don't feel good."

"I know. You need to eat something."

"No. I don't feel like it!"

"You're gonna make yourself sicker!"

Sherlock closed his mouth, and swallowed.

"Sherl?"

Sherlocks jaw twitched, and John grabbed a bucket. Sherlock opened his mouth, and threw up all over himself. He blinked a few times.

"Jawn, I'm sick. I just threw up."

"I know. Go to the loo, it's easier to clean."

"But Jaaawwwnnnn! I'm sick!"

"I know."

Sherlock pouted, and closed his eyes, listening to the beeps of the heart monitor as it put him to sleep...

/-/-/-:

Sherlock woke up, groaning. John rubbed his eyes, and looked at him.

"Good morning, sleepyhead!"

"What...time is it?"

"Noon."

"I'm hungry!"

"What do you want?"

"Chocolate cake, and cannolis."

"You sure you can handle that? You have been pretty sick lately."

Sherlock nodded, and waited for the food.

When it arrived, he ate it, and smiled.

John scoffed.

"What?"

"You're eating food... Are you feeling okay?"

Sherlock smiled, "I'm fine... I actually am oka-"

He stopped.

"Sherlock?"

"Jawn. I'm going to be sick!"

He bolted to the bathroom.

"Ah. Sherlock. You don't look well."

"I'm fine. I probably have a 24-hour bug."

He threw up again.

John sat by him and rubbed his back.

-/-

John woke up to Sherlock retching. He padded over to the loo and saw Sherlock curled around the toilet, shaking .

"John. I don't feel good."

John kissed matted curls.

He fell asleep in the bathroom, holding Sherlock close. He woke up at about 2, to Sherlock retching again.

"Sherl, I need to get a nurse."

The nurse looked at him, and ruled out cancer, brain trauma, and a fractured skull.

"You might have the flu. We are going to release you."

Sherlock and John checked out.

The next morning John woke up to sherlock vomiting.

"John!" He screamed.

John ran in, and looked at him, he looked at the thing on the counter, a fucking pregnancy test.

"Sherlock? You're a man. It's impossible to well, you know-"

"Yes. I know!"

John picked it up and looked at the screen.
A fucking pink plus.

Sherlock Holmes was fucking preggers.

Sherlock felt tears in his eyes.

John looked at him, equally shocked.

"H-How?! Why... Why me?!" Sherlock stammered. He felt a tear fall from his eye.

"I have no idea how this is possible. I'm gonna go to the surgery and get some tests for you." John absentmindedly said.

"John, I'm scared... I don't even..."

Sherlock started crying. John held him, and looked at his cell. Three texts from Lestrade.

"Sherlock? I need you to come with me to the surgery."

"No. Donavan was right, I'm a freak!"
Sherlock whispered.

"Look,Sherl, I need to confirm if there's a feotus. I need to do an ultrasound."

"No."

"It's okay. I'll be right beside you."

Sherlock stood up, and ambled to change.

He returned with his purple shirt, and some trousers.

"Let's go."

They walked to the surgery, and whipped up a story about Sherlock having gallbladder problems to use the ultrasound.

John pulled out the machine and put some cold gel on Sherlock's abdomen.

He moved the wand and gasped at the screen. He was right, there was a feotus. Sherlock looked at the screen, and picked that time to lose consciousness as he fell to the ground.

-:-

"Sherlock... Sherlock! Wake up! You need to wake up love."

He groaned, his head spinning. Johns face came into focus, and tears were in his eyes.

"Oh, Sherlock. We're going to be parents." He smiled looking at Sherlock.
Sherlock nodded slowly, his brain racing.
John looked at him, "Sherlock? What's wrong? Aren't you happy? You're at six weeks!"

"I...I don't know... I just can't think... I'm sc-" sherlock stopped, and threw up on himself again.
John rubbed his back. Sherlock wiped his mouth, and looked at him.

"This is extremely unpleasant." Sherlock grumbled.

"Morning sickness? Yeah, it usually only lasts through the 1st trimester. I'm going to have a cup of tea for you, yeah?"

Sherlock grimaced.

John rubbed his back.

"I know this doesn't feel good, but you'll be good in about two months."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Two months?!"

"I know. You'll just have to suck it up. I'm sorry love."

Sherlock groaned.

They arrived back at 221B Baker Street, and Mrs. Hudson looked at them.

"So boys, what's the diagnosis?" She asked.

"It's complicated, Mrs. H. We are going to call Mycroft and Lestrade over." John said quickly. "Sherlock isn't really in a right state at the moment."

She looked at Sherlock, who was holding his stomach, and rubbing it gingerly.

-/:/

"Okay, this might be hard for you all to take in. So I'm gonna explain it simply.."

Everyone sat in the common room, and looked at John. Mycroft looked at Sherlock, who was fidgeting with his sheet.

"Sherlock's pregnant. I did an ultrasound to confirm it, and there was a small feotus on the screen. He will not be solving any cases for quite a while. You can Skype, text, call, whatever, but I do not want him running about London in this delicate state."

Everyone nodded. Then Donavon looked at them.

"Freak's going to be a father."

Sherlock felt tears in his eyes. He choked back a sob.

"I'm not a freak!" He wailed.

John wrapped his arms protectively around Sherlock, and glared at Donavon.

Mycroft escorted everyone out of the flat, and left.

/;:-