"John, John! I'm am in need *hup* of your medical advice!" Sherlock was standing over John's bed at five o'clock in the morning, his eyes bloodshot.

John stared at him. "How did you get in my bedroom? I locked the door…" he said suspiciously.

"I *hup* scaled the wall and got in through the window. Listen *hup!*, there's something wrong with me," Sherlock said, his panic evident from his erratic movements around the bed. "I think I'm having *hup!* a localized seizure, John!"

"A wh-a what?" John sputtered, sitting up from his bed. He buttoned his flannel sleep shirt and staggered to his feet beside Sherlock.

"Hup!* A seizure, John! Restricted to my chest *hup!*!" Sherlock sat down on the bed, the better to be examined.

John sighed and followed him back to the bed. He placed his hand on Sherlock's chest and waited as he felt three spasms at irregular intervals.

Sherlock stared at him with impossibly dilated eyes. His pulse was racing under John's steady fingers, the thin nightshirt he was wearing was damp with sweat.

John sat down beside him with a grim expression. He turned and faced his flat mate, looking as though he was about to give a deadly diagnosis. "Sherlock…" he said quietly. Sherlock stared at him, one eyebrow quirked in distress. "You've got hiccups."

Sherlock frowned. "Oh that's ridic*hic*ulous!" He coughed, clearing his irritated throat.

"Yes, it's more likely that you're having a localized seizure," John agreed, sarcastically. "Haven't you ever had a case of the hiccups before?"

Sherlock spasmed again while he thought. "No, I suppose I have not. But this is certainly not as simple as hiccups," he insisted. "It is uncomfortable, painful. I feel as though I *hup!* cannot breathe. Also," he brandished his Blackberry's screen, "all my symptoms can be explained by *hup!* epileptic convulsions."

"All right, Sherlock, I'm sure you're right," John said in a serious tone. "Go to your room and get dressed. I'll take you to the hospital."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, *hup!* thank you."

Sherlock carried off to his room, spasms in tow, thinking that he was right as always. Definitely knew a lot more about his own body than his doctor friend. He was putting on a button-up shirt when a loud noise cracked right behind him. Sherlock jumped a foot in the air, spinning around madly, prepared to fight.

John stood before him, a pert grin on his face, his hands casually behind his back.

Sherlock was infuriated. "Jesus, John, what the hell were you thinking?" he cried.

"That is the best known cure for localized seizures," he replied, smugly.

"What are you talking a*hup!*bout?" Sherlock demanded, cut off by another hiccup.

"Aw, dammit!" John exclaimed. "Didn't work…don't worry, there are hundreds of home remedies we can try."

"Home remedies-" Sherlock stared at him, mouth agape. "We are not gypsies, John, we have medical *hup!* science to aid us."

"Outside of anti-psychotic medication, medical science has not yet proven effective for hiccups," John quipped.

"Anti-psychotic *hup!* medication," Sherlock mused. "Yes. Yes, that will be fine."

John gave him an incredulous look. "Come on, everything we need is in the kitchen."


"I am not *hup!* going to swallow a tablespoon of vinegar. It's disgusting," Sherlock frowned. He folded his arms over his chest and shut his mouth defiantly, suffering from silent hiccups every few seconds.

"I've seen you eat dirt in the middle of a dog park," John retorted, opening the bottle of distilled vinegar.

"That was for *hup!* evidence. I had to taste the *hup!* dirt to find out if it was from Northampton or *hup!* Portsmouth. God, these infernal spasms!" he screamed, exasperated.

"Come on, open up," John said, holding out the spoonful of vinegar for him.

"I am not a child," Sherlock pouted.

"Right," John said, "would you like to try the peanut butter instead?"

"Oh, *hup!* yes," Sherlock said, excited.

John went over to their kitchen cabinets to search for a jar of peanut butter. Sherlock suddenly sighed through a hiccup, turning his head toward the door. "Someone is here *hup!* It's Lestrade. Dammit! Tell him I'm *hup!* not here. Tell him I'm dead," Sherlock said, rising from the table.

Before he could hide, however, Lestrade was standing in the kitchen doorway. "Good morning," he greeted Sherlock and John. "I'm sorry to come over so early, but I really need to look at what you've found on the Driscoll case."

Sherlock stared him down, unwilling to open his mouth. As it was, Lestrade was eying him strangely as the detective stood their convulsing every so often. An eternity of seconds passed between them, nobody moving or saying a word.

Finally, Sherlock could not contain himself any longer. "I have the bloody *hup!* hiccups, all right?" he yelled. He flung himself into his heavy armchair, sulking.

Lestrade exchanged a glance with John, both of them barely containing humorous grins. "Has anyone tried scaring you?" Lestrade asked, innocently.

"Yes," Sherlock snapped. "Didn't *hup!* work, obviously."

"Try holding your breath," Lestrade suggested. "Try holding it until they go away."

Sherlock contemplated this for a second before a violent hiccup burst out of his throat. "Fine," he seethed. John and Lestrade watched him take in a large gulp of air. He then sat still, gripping the arms of the chair. The hiccups still shook his upper body every so often.

One minute passed. Sherlock remained silent and still. No one was terribly concerned.

Two minutes passed. Sherlock was twitching and moving his arms indiscriminately. John and Lestrade exchanged a look of disbelief and alarm.

Three minutes had almost passed when Sherlock keeled over onto the floor, having been sitting up on his knees in a desperate attempt at control over his breathing instinct. John almost laughed when he watched Sherlock sputtering on the floor, the color returning to his face.

Lestrade did laugh.

"I've done it!" Sherlock gasped, struggling to right himself. John and Lestrade aided him in standing. "Thank God. Now I can get back to *HUP!* DAMMIT!"

The end. ^^

That was so much fun to write!