Warning: this chapter contains a few French words. I'll put translations at the end of the chapter for you. On mistake i wrote italian, my fault. I'm so sorry. I've been practicing my italian and I got totally mixed up. But I fixed it!


Chapter 17: Migraine

"Sherlock are you sure you're feeling alright?"

Sherlock turned on Lestrade, sizing up the Detective Inspector. "I'm fine, of course I'm fine. I'm always fine," he snapped feeling rather annoyed. In truth he felt bloody awful, he was shaky and exhausted all the way down to the bone -a week without sleep could do that to you. His head pounded a constant rhythm from behind his eyes, slowly driving him up the wall. His entire head ached fiercely. But he refused to show such weakness in front of the Scotland Yarders, specifically Sargent Donovan who was practically attached to Lestrade's hip. She would absolutely love to use his illness as fuel against him.

"Right, because if you're not feeling up to this I can always call you a cab or take you home myself." Despite himself, Lestrade found he actually cared for Sherlock's well being. He always found himself worrying over him. If he wasn't feeling well he wished he'd just come out and admit it all ready, the fa├žade was getting old. And an ill Consulting Detective was of no use at a crime scene.

"I'm fine Lestrade, just a headache." Sherlock knelt down beside the corpse, brushing the detective's concern off and getting to work. He didn't need his pity, he was just fine. Absolutely fine. Or at least he would be as soon as he got out of here and back to Baker Street. As much as he hated to admit it, he too was vulnerable to common illnesses.

Doing all he could in his current state, Sherlock quickly finished with what needed to be done, relaying what he found to Lestrade. Leaving the crime scene all to Anderson and his crew.

"You're sure you're alright Holmes?" Lestrade asked, catching up to Sherlock as he started off the crime scene. "You seem kind of, I don't know, out of it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but couldn't keep back the wince as the pressure in his skull increased. It was dark out by now, but the street lamps usually welcomed glow seemed to cause his head to pound even worse. The small light attacking his retinas mercilessly.

"I'm fine Lestrade."

He wasn't fooled, they didn't just make anyone Detective Inspector after all. And despite what Sherlock thought, Greg Lestrade was an excellent policeman. "You want me to call John to pick you up?"

Sherlock shook his head, his eyes screwed shut against the pain as he pinched the bridge of his nose. As if that was supposed to stem the pain somehow. "Can't. He's in Dublin for the weekend."

Swallowing against the nausea Sherlock looked at Lestrade. Like really looked at him. Why did he care? No one else but John and Mrs. Hudson ever showed that they cared for him at all. So why did Lestrade always seem to? He was the only one at the Yard who did, Donovan and Anderson sure didn't. And as far as the rest of the Yard went, they really didn't care for him either.

"You know what, I'll take you home," the DI decided. And no Sherlock stinking Holmes was going to change his mind, his decision was final.

Sherlock scowled at him seemingly affronted by the idea. "No you will not. I am a grown man perfectly capable of calling a cab." He tried to sound defiant and in control, but to Lestrade he looked more like a pouty teenager.

Lestrade smirked, "either I take you home or I'll have Sargent Donovan do it."

Sherlock froze -you evil, evil man- and after a moments thought gave a defeated sigh, realising there really was no way of getting around this. "After you," he said quietly, gestured to the DI's car.

Smiling triumphantly to himself Lestrade bound over to his car, sliding into the drivers seat. He couldn't help but notice how Sherlock seemed to fumble with the door handle before finally pulling it open and sliding in. He rubbed his aching head as he absently pulled the safety-belt on. Completely aware that Lestrade was watching him with a careful eye throughout the entire ride to Baker Street.

"Well come on then," Lestrade climbed out of his care and came around to help Sherlock, opening the car door for him.

Sherlock scowled at Lestrade. He was perfectly capable of getting out of a care damn it! But if Lestrade insisted on helping then what the hell, right? Now if only he could get his blasted key in the lock.

Sensing the trouble Sherlock was having with the usually simple task of unlocking his front door Lestrade felt obligated to step in. Snatching the key from his pale, shaky hands and simply doing it himself muttering, "give me that." Swinging the door open and stepping aside.

Sherlock scowled. He may have needed the assistance, but that didn't mean he had to like it, least of all want it. This migraine was really getting the best of him, he couldn't even open a bloody door! That was just down right pathetic in his book. Which was the only one that really mattered seeing as the rest of the world was full of idiots.

Now only if he could get up the seventeen steps to his flat. He wouldn't have even made it up the first three if it wasn't for Lestrade's help. Again.

He nearly fell back while on the top step, losing his balance he nearly tripped over his long, gangly legs. "Merde!" Sherlock cursed under his breath -French being his second language it just sort of came out on its own accord- as he nearly tumbled down the steps. Lestrade reaching out at the last second, grabbing him by his shirt collar and roughly pulling him back up.

"Okay, you- sit."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as the DI instructed him to sit down. On his own couch. In his own home. Man, Lestrade was so bossy sometimes. But never the less he did as he was told, not really in the mood to argue. And sitting did sound fantastic to Sherlock's aching head and swimming vision. The whole way up the stairs he was seeing three Lestrade's. Which was horrifying to say the least.

"Here, take this." Sherlock looked up from where he sat with his head in his hands to see Lestrade handing him two pills and a glass of water. "They'll help with the head," he encouraged.

Sherlock nodded, "merci," and took the pills and water gratefully.

"You think you're going to be able to work this case?" Lestrade asked. He didn't want to make Sherlock if be didn't feel up to it, but he was desperate after all and could really use his help on this. They had zero leads and he'd prefer to wrap this up as soon as possible.

"Je vais bien, Lestrade, j'ai juste besoin de repos."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. Either Sherlock was worse than he thought or he was messing with him. Which wasn't a very Sherlock like thing to do. "Sorry what? Sherlock, I don't know if you realise this, but you're speaking in French."

Sherlock looked puzzled. "vraiment?" Sherlock paused and cleared his throat, finally catching his mistake. "Sorry."

Lestrade just laughed and rolled his eyes, taking Sherlock's now empty water glass.

"I'll be fine, just need some sleep." Sherlock leaned back on the couch kicking his shoes off and pulling a pillow over his head, blocking out he sunlight that leaked through the windows. "I'll text you in the morning if I can't make it."

Lestrade nodded understanding. Less than a two days ago they had just closed a case. One that kept Sherlock up and at it for over a week, giving him little chances for sleep. There was no way he wasn't exhausted. And in his state of weakness his mind retaliated on his maltreated body giving him the mother of all migraines. One that, apparently, mixed up his languages.

"Well then, I'll see you later Holmes. Get some sleep," and with that Lestrade was gone, out the door and back to work. Leaving Sherlock alone in the dark flat to finally get some well needed rest. It was a matter of seconds before he let the darkness pull him under into a blissful, dreamless sleep.


Je vais bien, Lestrade, j'ai juste besoin de repos.: I'll be fine, Lestrade, just need some rest.

merci: Thanks