When John arrived home from shopping, Sherlock was sleeping on the couch.

This made John pause for a minute, because when he'd left not even an hour ago, Sherlock had been deeply involved in an experiment involving burning things. Sherlock didn't often give up experiments for nap time on the couch.

His first thought was fire, because it would be typical of Sherlock to forget about the bunsen burner, leaving it to light the flat on fire.

But it was turned off.

John's second thought was seizure, but Sherlock had gotten good about sending John a text warning him it was about to happen. There had been no text today.

Still, John hovered over Sherlock, pondering whether to wake him or not, when Sherlock stirred and mumbled at him.

"Go 'way," he said into the pillow.

John sighed. "Are you okay?"


John pondered that one. "Why?"

"Didn't have a seizure," Sherlock replied, effectively ruining John's line of questioning.

"Are you going to?"

Sherlock snorted. "Ask Gladstone," he replied, waving a hand at the dog perched quite comfortably on his legs.

John examined Gladstone, who looked back at him with equal interest. She seemed quite content.

"Alright," John relented. Sherlock rolled over slightly, Gladstone sighing with displeasure as she was moved.

John headed to the kitchen where he left the grocery bags, wondering what he would find in the fridge.

Before he could open it and find a head staring at him, or perhaps some thumbs, or maybe even a foot, he spotted the cup of juice and pills he'd left out for Sherlock before he left with strict orders to take them.

Sighing loudly to ensure Sherlock would hear him, John picked them both up and stood over Sherlock.

"Forget something?" he asked pointedly.

Sherlock growled at him but held out a hand for the pills. He threw them in his mouth and held his hand out for the juice, swallowing a mouthful of it and making a face.

"Do I need to check and make sure you actually swallowed them?" John teased.

Sherlock only glared at him.

"Alright then," John replied, turning to actually put the groceries away this time.

Surprisingly enough, there was nothing major in the fridge, only some petri dishes filled with mould, which John pushed to one side, loading in the milk that always seemed to disappear.

There was stirring from the couch, and the sound of Gladstone complaining as she was displaced yet again.

Footsteps padded beside John as he tried to fit in the apples amongst the various... fruits that were also growing fuzz.

There was the slam of a door, and the unmistakeable sound of someone throwing up.

John groaned, resting his head against the door of the fridge.

Sherlock emerged a moment later, looking pale and dishevelled.

"I may be sick," he informed John morosely.

John sighed. "So you threw up your meds?"

Sherlock nodded, crawling back onto the couch with Gladstone, who looked worried.

John rubbed his face with his hands, thinking.

"Can you try and take them without juice? Let them dissolve under your tongue or something?"

Sherlock stared at him like he was stupid. Perhaps he was. "Try it?" John pleaded.

"Fine," he grumbled.

John sighed, searching the cupboards for a bin for Sherlock to throw up in, just in case. It was going to be a long day. Sick and grumpy Sherlocks made for tired and impatient Johns.

It was then that Gladstone began to paw at Sherlock, whining insistently.


Sherlock looked absolutely miserable.

He'd had three seizures in the past eight hours.

He couldn't keep his meds down, or anything else for that matter.

John was growing very, very, concerned, as was Gladstone. With Sherlock having that many seizures, she was practically frantic all the time, only settling down after the seizure was over. Which never lasted long.

John was debating taking him to the hospital

Sherlock was sleeping, utterly exhausted after the last seizure, which had lasted close to the five minute mark. Gladstone was perched on his lap, observing him carefully, but was relatively calm. Sherlock had awoken from the seizure and demanded his usual orange juice, which promptly came back up, as it had done the two times prior.

Thankfully, Sherlock had relatively good aim and managed not to throw up on himself or John, but the floor had been taking a beating.

John hoped Mrs Hudson would be understanding.