Title: Of Secrets and Sherlock
Summary: John asks Sherlock if he has any particular medical conditions he should know about. He learns of one in a very flamboyant way. Of course, this is Sherlock we're talking about after all.
Rating: K+, for mild swearing and fits.
Genre: Friendship, Comedy
Length: 3.6k words
Disclaimer: Sherlock the TV series in which I am writing from is in no way mine or affiliated with me. Sherlock is property of the BBC, and Sherlock Holmes is the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I make no profit from anything relating to this or this itself.
A/N: Hello all! This is my fifth Sherlock BBC fic, and my first (real) one shot! It's been really fun writing, so I hope you enjoy! I know I should be working on my other stories, The Way I Cared For You and the song fics, but this popped into my head last night and the muse didn't leave me until I finished it 3 1/2 hours later…Please please leave a review of you can, thanks! 3 Gabby
John Watson was a very reasonable man. He accepted Sherlock's body parts in the fridge and skull on the mantle piece without much question. He didn't press Sherlock on what he did while he didn't sleep at night, or why. He had never asked about Sherlock's peculiarities very much; Never accused him of being mental, though the people around them did that enough anyway.
However there were things John wondered about Sherlock. Things he considered were important facts about his flatmate that he should know. Things like, how old Sherlock was, or when was his birthday at least. Or, if John would ever be allowed to meet the infamous "Mummy". Or if Sherlock had any medical conditions that would be helpful to know the next time John was in an ambulance with an unconscious Sherlock and the medical officials were yelling at him for answers he didn't know. For example, it would have been very beneficial to know that Sherlock was allergic to honey before John had given him cereal with honey topping that Sherlock had collapsed as a result of eating without paying attention to the blatantly sticky substance that coated the food.
One Sunday afternoon, Sherlock and John were sitting in their flat. John was one the couch reading the newspaper with very little interest, and Sherlock was performing some experiment that had to do with foul smelling, purple tinted smoke that John had the good graces not to ask about. After about twenty minutes of reading the dull articles, most of which were bland in comparison to what he went to see with Sherlock (really, the most interesting articles were on things he had witnessed with his own eyes already), he set the paper down and glanced backwards at Sherlock, an idea suddenly coming to mind. He was hesitant to ask what he was thinking, but gathered a small bit of courage and started,
"Sherlock, can I, er, ask you a question?" He asked awkwardly. He tried to come off casual, though he hadn't done a very good job of it.
It took about ten seconds before Sherlock finally looked up. "You just did, but I suppose it'd be alright for you to ask another," he said, his voice monotone and uninterested sounding.
John sighed. Of course Sherlock would pull the 'you just did' on him and still be completely serious. "You - never mind, ah, yes, I was wondering…Do you have any, I dunno, medical conditions?"
Sherlock gave John a cold stare that made John shift in his seat uncomfortably. "Are you suggesting that I am an ill-minded person, John?" Sherlock said menacingly.
"What? I - no! I just meant…Well, I was wondering if you had any medical conditions I should know about, like you know about my shoulder and limp." He ignored the mutter of 'psychosomatic'. "Just, you know, in case anything happened to you, and it was important. For example, being allergic to certain foods," he stressed the last sentence.
Sherlock frowned. "Lestrade has my medical records, he required me to give them to him when I began to work with the police force. So does Mycroft, and Mumm - my mum. I hardly find it necessary that you should have them too."
John twitched nervously. "I just…Well, I'm with you all the time, and I live with you. I think flatmates should know-"
"Some flatmates never even talk to each other," Sherlock interrupted coldly.
"But we're friends, Sherlock!" John exclaimed, his voice raising. "And friends should know…" He trailed off, looking away. Sherlock noted the light pink tint rising in John's cheeks.
"Well, you'll find out anything about me medically sooner or later, you are a doctor and, well, a near acceptable detective." Sherlock said calmly, though his lips twitched at the sides ever so slightly.
John scowled and leaned back on the couch, pouting. A moment later, he realized, "Wait, you said I'd find out!" He realized aloud.
Sherlock, who had gone back to work, gave a short, "Yes, and…?"
"And, that means there is actually something wrong with you!" John deduced happily, then quickly corrected himself. "Well, no, not wrong, I meant…"
"I know what you meant," Sherlock said. Then, "You're limp's still psychosomatic." It was a pathetic and awkward attempt to get back at John's aforementioned sentence.
John laughed, "Yes, Sherlock, it is. But I'll find out what you're hiding sooner or later. Without Mycroft's or Lestrade's or your mum's help!"
Sherlock looked up at John, who was beaming proudly like a child now. The consulting detective gave a small smile. "The game is on, John Watson."
The game was not destined to last long. John, of course, had been to work nearly every day that week. It was cold and flu season, and a recent influx of people had started to come in to the clinic. Working overtime and being called in often left him little time out of the surgery to find out what Sherlock was hiding.
They hadn't mentioned their little game since the morning after it had been created, when John had paused before going out of the door to his work place. "I'm going to win, you know," he had said, grinning.
Sherlock, who was lying on the couch playing the violin (well, plucking at it), had smirked. "I'll watch you try."
That had been last week. It was only on this certain Saturday morning that John had finally gotten a properly-lengthened lunch break, and was munching on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich when he remembered his will to win his and Sherlock's game. He paused, contemplating whether or not to disrupt his peaceful lunch break with Sherlock, but shrugged, smiling, and got out his phone. He sent a text to Sheryl, the RN in charge of filing, 'Could you see if there are any files under the name of Sherlock Holmes for me please? Thanks. JW.'
He resumed eating, though it was not two minutes later when the woman texted back, 'A man named Sherlock called three days ago to say do not let Dr. Watson look at his medical files and to say "nice try but no" in a haughty voice. I have no idea, but he seemed really serious about it. Is it life threatening that you have to see them?"
Joh stared at his phone in surprise and exasperation. Of course Sherlock would have figured out just who to tell to not let him see his files. And of course he would give the poor woman an exact tone of voice to use when she relayed his message of rejection. It was so very Sherlock. John sighed, but found himself smiling. 'No, it's fine, thank you. JW' he texted back.
When he got home that night, he found Sherlock laying on the couch in the same position he had left him in that morning. Granted, he was sure Sherlock had gotten up at some point, if not just to go to the bathroom. He knew the man didn't really stay statued to the couch all day, not usually anyways, even if Sherlock wanted him to think that for whatever reason. However today was different, because Sherlock, Sherlock of all people, was sleeping. John had never come home to Sherlock lying on the couch doing something so…domestic. Usually he was responding to emails about murder cases or shooting the wall.
John looked at Sherlock's relaxed expression. He looked so peaceful, just lying there. It gave him an air of innocence. John smiled at his resting flatmate before glancing down at his watch to check the time. 6:30 - he decided to order something to eat. Usually when Sherlock woke up, he actually ate right after.
He dialed up a close Indian restaurant and ordered two take-outs. He made sure to get extra for Sherlock - John saw the few times when Sherlock actually ate willingly as opportunities to shove as much food down Sherlock throat as possible. The man was incredibly thin and much too light for a man of his height, John thought.
Thirty-two minutes later, a short, blonde young man delivered the food. John tipped him and sent the lad on his way before moving to the kitchen to find bowls and glasses that weren't in contact with something toxic or potentially life-threatening. In truth, it took him much longer that society should allow for him to do so.
When Sherlock and John ordered take out, John liked to make it feel a bit more personal by dishing it out with proper dining ware. Sherlock thought it was stupid (though kept his tongue after John's explanation the first time they ordered take out), but John had always dined with his whole family and ate home-cooked meals for dinner every night when he was younger until his mother died (unfortunately, John was only 15 at the time), so he liked the idea of family meals. He had decided that eating with proper bowls and silverware made it seem more family-like and had held to the tradition since meeting Sherlock. That is, when they actually ate at a normal dinner time.
He hummed a tune quietly as he spooned out his and Sherlock's take out into bowls and filled the cups, his with water and Sherlock's with milk. He was just finishing when he heard Sherlock soft voice from across the room, "What song is that?"
John jumped slightly, a trifle startled, but quickly regained his composure. "Um, I believe it's called Ungodly Hour, by Snow…No, by The Fray. Did it wake you up? Sorry mate, didn't mean to."
"No, I was just waking up…" Sherlock trailed off, sounding distracted.
"Oh, well, that's good, I suppose. Hungry? Got Indian food tonight." John said cheerfully.
Sherlock didn't answer, and John sighed. He left the bowls of food on the kitchen table and walked over to Sherlock, kneeling in front of the couch.
"Oy, did you hear me? Said there's food." John stopped when he got a good look at Sherlock. The man was pale, paler than usual, and his eyes were unfocussed, though open. "Sherlock?" He asked. "Are you alright?"
Sherlock blinked suddenly, and stared at John a moment more before saying, "Yes, John, sorry. Right, let's eat."
"…Alright." John said hesitantly, before standing to fetch the Indian from the kitchen table. He gave Sherlock's bowl to him and set his own on the side of the chair he was going to sit on. He went back to the kitchen to get the drinks, gave the milk to Sherlock, and say down on the chair. He smiled, "Let's eat then!"
Sherlock nodded, and there was quiet as the two started to eat. "Asked the nurse for your medical records today, and got a particularly…Interesting message in return."
Sherlock smiled for the first time since John had come home. "Yes, she was good at following my instructions."
John smirked, "I'm sure she did, she's a good girl, Sheryl." John said fondly.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I thought you were dating Sarah?"
John shrugged. "Well, yeah, doesn't mean I can't like other women at a platonic level."
Sherlock nodded, and the two fell back into silence. When John was done, he stood to return his bowl to the sink. "You done?" He asked.
"Yes." Sherlock said, and John took the bowl. He was halfway across the room when he realized -
"Sherlock, you've barely eaten!" He exclaimed. He was surprised, as Sherlock usually ate at least a normal portion after a nap.
Sherlock shrugged. "I'm not very hungry is all." He said, though John could almost hear what sounded like a defensive edge to Sherlock's tone. John thought to argue, but he knew he would loose. He sighed and stuck Sherlock's unfinished meal in the freezer, making sure not to let it touch the head.
He put his empty bowl in the sink and returned to his chair next to Sherlock. He studied the detective's face carefully. Pale face, though that was normal. His eyes still seemed a bit unfocused though, and despite sleeping, he still looked tired. "Sherlock…You look…ill." John said levelly. "Do you feel alright?"
"Hm? Yes, I'm fine." Sherlock brushed John off and when John gave a disbelieving snort - "I just…Have a headache is all."
John could tell it was a bit more than that, though he was pleasantly surprised that Sherlock had even admitted to anything and at all. "Want some medicine for that, then?" John asked. He had questions, but he wasn't going to push it.
"Why John, by now you should know I have enough resilience built up that prevents me from finding any relief in such petty household drugs," Sherlock scoffed. John wasn't sure what to say to that, so he turned on the tele after five minutes of tense silence.
They watched reruns of Doctor Who for an hour before John realized Sherlock was sleeping. He was shocked - Sherlock rarely napped, so for him to sleep twice in one day was just unnatural. John frowned and leaned forward. He gently felt the back of his hand to his flatmates cheek, feeling not abnormally high, though warmer than usual heat. Sherlock stirred slightly but did not wake.
He's probably just overtired, worked himself to a fever, John though grimly. He found a cloth and wetted it, returning to place it on Sherlock forehead.
The man's eyes opened slightly. "John, what're you…"
"Shut up and go back to sleep, you have a fever," John muttered quickly, embarrassed at Sherlock's waking to find him hovering over him.
Sherlock blinked, then closed his eyes again. "Oh," was all he said before he drifted back to sleep.
John fell asleep about half an hour later in the chair next to Sherlock. He jolted awake at about 4:00, called in to work. He sighed, but supposed it was better than having to go at midnight. And it was only an hour earlier than he would have normally gotten up anyways. He glanced over at the still-sleeping Sherlock, and saw, with satisfaction, that the cloth was still on his face. John gently put his hand to Sherlock's cheek once more and was pleased to feel a normal heat. He took the now dry cloth off and put it on the table beside the couch before quietly readying himself for work.
He left half an hour later, with Sherlock still sleeping.
John finished work at 15:30, tired and ready to sleep. He hailed a cab, called 221B Baker Street, and drifted off slightly. Raindrops slowly raced down the window panes, and John shivered from the damp. It had stated to rain that afternoon and hadn't stopped since then. John was just starting to nap when he got a text.
He almost ignored it, but remembered Sherlock's slight fever last night and worried it might be important. He checked his phone, sighing with relief and annoyance at the words 'Lestrade called with a case. Come to the pier now. SH'. John almost ignored the summons. After all, he didn't have to go to every case, and he was tired, and it was raining, and he wasn't Sherlock's bloody servant, for God's sake. "Change of address, sorry, the pier please," John found himself saying. No, he was not Sherlock servant - he was his assistant, and friend.
About twenty minutes later, John had arrived at his destination and payed the cabbie before stepping out into pouring rain. He squinted up at the sky, putting his hand over his eyes like a visor and mentally cursing the damp. He walked towards flashing blue and red lights, coming up on Sally and an area surrounded by crime tape in no time.
"Dr. Watson," she acknowledged gruffly, and let him pass. She had long stopped trying to say anything to John, for she finally got that he would never listen to her ideas of normal pastimes he should pursue.
"Sargent Donovan," he replied before walking towards the blurred figure of Lestrade and Sherlock. A body, stab wound to the left leg, was laying in a considerable pool of his own blood under a haphazardly positioned tent above. The investigations team had probably been caught in the rain.
"Sherlock!" John called out, and the tall man looked up from the body. His expression brightened.
"Hello John," he said, smiling.
"Lestrade, hello," John said.
"Hello Dr. Watson," Lestrade greeted him back.
"So, what is it?" John asked.
"Laurence Dawson. 32 year old male, stab wound to the left leg. About 3 1/2 hours ago, was coming back from the airport from Phoenix, Arizona when he was assumably assaulted, and…Sherlock are you alright?" Lestrade said, looking concerned for the now twitching detective.
John, too, had stopped listening to Lestrade half-way through his analysis of the crime and was now watching Sherlock with confusion and worry. The man's eyes were blinking considerably too much, and he was shaking. John stepped forward and set his hands on Sherlock's shoulder, trying to look the man in the eyes, but it was impossible with his continuous awkward blinking and twitching.
"Sherlock, are you having a fit?" Lestrade said calmly, but urgently.
John looked at the DI, confused. "A fit?"
Lestrade moved closer to Sherlock and said, louder, pronouncing each word clearly. "Sherlock, are you having a fit."
Sherlock managed to nod, despite his tightly constricted muscles and shaking. John could see his eyes were wide - he looked scared. Lestrade sighed gently and tenderly held on to Sherlock's shoulder. "Alright, lay down, come on, that's it - Dr. Watson, put your coat under his head, please."
John nodded, now scared. "What's going on? Sherlock, have you - are you having a seizure? Do you have epilepsy?" His eyes widened and he kneeled next to his convulsing companion. Sherlock gave John a sloppy grin.
"G-good j-j-job, you w-win," Sherlock said weakly, the edges of his chattering mouth lifting as if he was trying to smile. He started to shake more violently, and grabbed on to John's sleeve.
Sherlock began to fully seize, and John watched in horror. He knew that Sherlock would be fine, that despite how it looked, Sherlock was not dying and was not possessed, even if it bitterly looked so. Lestrade squeezed John's shoulder comfortingly.
"Don't worry, it won't last very long. He hasn't had one in a while though, I've called 999. Has he been ill?" Lestrade was calm, and it made John relax.
"He had a fever last night," John gulped.
Lestrade nodded knowingly. "Yes, it seems to act up when he has a cold." Lestrade smiled grimly. "But don't worry. In 20 minutes he'll be giving everyone the answer to this mystery, and anybody who tries to treat him abnormally hell."
John nodded, and looked back down at Sherlock. A minute passed, and Sherlock's convulsions started to die down. It had been the longest 2 minutes of John's life in ages. Finally, Sherlock's body stilled, and he looked up at John weakly.
"Good job," he managed, before passing out in exhaustion.
Within the next three hours, Sherlock refused to stay in the hospital when he woke up, gave Lestrade the answer to the case, and forced John to take him home. Now, the two men sat in their flat, John in his chair and Sherlock on the couch.
"You should've told me," John said softly, when the two were settled back at home. "About the epilepsy."
"It's not nearly as fun that way," Sherlock said, his eyes glinting dangerously. He had still been a bit groggy and confused when he woke up, but it had only lasted about 20 minutes before he was demanding to return home to 221B Baker Street.
"Not as fun - Sherlock epilepsy's a serious medical condition!" John exclaimed, before sighing. "So, anything else I should know about you?"
Sherlock smiled, "Things you should know, as far as being a doctor and my emergency contact, then yes. I'm sure you'll be able to find something helpful in my records," he added, when John gave him a helpless glare. However John's face softened when he realized the ulterior meaning of those words. He was Sherlock emergency contact. Not Mycroft, not Lestrade, not even Mummy. He was. It made him strangely giddy.
"I'm your…Well, I," John put his hand to his mouth, concealing a large smile and blush. "Thanks mate, glad to know you trust me that much."
Sherlock smiled. "Of course," he smiled. "After all, I'd he lost without my blogger."
A/N: Did you like it? Thanks SO much for reading to the end!^^ This was started at about 22:30 PM and finished at about 2:00 AM and written on my ipod, so excuse any odd errors. Please feel free for constructive criticism (I love it!) or correcting any Americanisms. I think 999 is the British 911, isn't it…? Sorry, I'm a born and raised American (actually I'm a born Chinese but…Yeah I'm raised American XD).