Lestrade had called him in for a case, but it was hardly worth his time, but both of them knew it was more for Lestrade to keep an eye on him than anything else. Sherlock was just waiting for Lestrade to untangle the final details of the case that he'd given him when it began. There they were, fireworks, lighting up the air like the fifth of November, but a personal show just for him.
He shook his head at whatever Lestrade was saying.
"Lestrade," he said more urgently. "I can't. I have to go."
Lestrade frowned and grabbed him gently by the arm. "Sherlock," he chided. "You can't just leave. Are you feeling alright?"
Sherlock looked up at him and could tell Lestrade was studying him for signs of using, current or recent. But his sleeves were pushed up above his elbows, and his arms were clean, so Sherlock stared him down.
"I'm not high Lestrade. Let me go," he ordered.
Lestrade released his grip, nodding at him. "Alright then."
Sherlock turned to go, but realized with a sinking sensation that it would be too late.
He froze where he was, not having much choice in the matter, and managed to choke out a few words to Lestrade.
"No ambulance. S'okay."
"Sherlock? What do you mean? Sherlock?" his voice became more urgent as Sherlock realized it had begun, his hand twitching uncontrollably, and managed to sink to the floor before losing consciousness, only hoping that Lestrade would listen to him and not be stupid.
Lestrade could only stand frozen in shock for the first few seconds after Sherlock had muttered something to him about not calling an ambulance before collapsing to the floor and going into a seizure. Of course, his first instinct was to call an ambulance, but considering Sherlock had just told him not to, he would be pissed to wake up and find Lestrade hadn't listened to him.
So he did what he had learned in their first aid classes, making sure Sherlock wasn't at risk of lashing out against anything, and cushioned his head with a spare jacket. He wouldn't say he'd been anything other than uneasy as he sat by watching helplessly as Sherlock twitched on the floor, but he was strangely calm.
Another thing Lestrade remembered was timing the seizure. Even for people with epilepsy (was that it? Was Sherlock epileptic?) a seizure that went past five minutes required medical attention. And even though it ended up being just under four minutes, those were the four longest minutes of Lestrade's life.
But finally Sherlock stilled and his breathing calmed. Lestrade could vaguely recall something about people being exhausted after seizures, which was obviously for a good reason, and rolled Sherlock on his side a bit before getting to his feet and returning to his chair.
He wondered if Sherlock's medical files were in the computer somehow. And even if they weren't, he was owed a favour.
Five minutes later and he was thanking his contact at medical records. "You're a star," he told her before hanging up and checking his email.
The medical files of Sherlock Holmes.
Considering the unusual welcome he'd received the first time he'd met Sherlock, he could only assume he was about to break a dozen laws, but he'd prefer to deal with the fall out later. And besides, there couldn't even be a dozen laws for him to break, right? He pushed the thought of the man in the car away and focused his attention on the reading.
Lestrade skimmed over the consultation notes from the neurologists Sherlock had been to see, all detailing the same thing. Epilepsy. Primary generalized epilepsy, idiopathic in nature. Sherlock's seizures covered the whole spectrum, ranging from the occasional absence seizure to the more frequent partial complex seizures, which were often followed by a full body tonic clonic seizure. It had gotten better after he'd reached his teens, when the doctors finally balanced his meds, and the seizures decreased to once a week or so.
Still, in the year since Lestrade had known Sherlock, this was the first time he'd seen him have a seizure, something that Sherlock had obviously worked very hard to prevent.
He rubbed his eyes thinking of the times Sherlock had abruptly left the crime scene or shooed Lestrade out of his flat despite presenting a case that he was sure Sherlock would deem at least a six. All those times must have been when Sherlock had sensed a seizure coming on and hadn't wanted anyone else to witness it.
Lestrade couldn't blame him. It wasn't something fun to watch, and he assumed it could only be worse for Sherlock.
As if he knew what Lestrade was going, Sherlock sighed and stirred slightly on the floor. He closed Sherlock's medical files.
Was Sherlock going to be embarrassed? Was he going to pretend like nothing ever happened? Would he yell and make a scene? Would he somehow black mail him into pretending it hadn't happened?
Despite all the scenarios Lestrade came up with, he was sure that none of them were what was actually going to happen.
Of course, he was right about that.
Lestrade sat next to Sherlock on the floor as he woke up, not so close as to frighten him, but just enough so that he could tell someone was there.
Sherlock groaned before opening his eyes and slowly focusing them, glancing over the room before coming to rest on Lestrade.
They closed again.
"Crap," he muttered. Lestrade didn't know what to say to that. "How long?" he mumbled, eyes still closed.
"Oh... um... four minutes. You've been out for nearly fifteen. I don't know if that's normal or not."
Sherlock nodded slightly, but didn't open his eyes.
Lestrade shifted uncomfortably, not sure of what to say, if he should even say anything.
Sherlock licked his lips before speaking again.
"Thirsty," he muttered.
"Oh," Lestrade said, nearly tripping in his efforts to get to his feet. "I've got... an orange juice box. And that's it. Sorry," he said apologetically, returning to Sherlock's side.
He sighed in an accepting way, which Lestrade took as permission to stick the straw in for him. Sherlock was still barely conscious, and there was no way he currently possessed the fine motor skills required to do that on his own.
Sherlock managed to prop his head up on one arm and accepted the juice box Lestrade offered him, sipping at it silently for a few minutes.
"Okay, you've got questions."
"Oh. Yeah. So epileptic then?"
Sherlock nodded, a strand of hair falling into his eyes. Lestrade had the sudden urge to tuck it away, but restrained himself, knowing that Sherlock could very well snap his head off for that.
"I can get you my medical records if you want to see them."
Lestrade nodded, attempting to keep a straight face.
Unfortunately, even groggy, that didn't get past Sherlock.
His face broke out in a grin. "Well, you've been busy then."
"Shut up," Lestrade said, but he didn't mean it.
It was quiet again for another moment until Sherlock reached the last of the juice, slurping with his straw until Lestrade finally felt like saying something.
"I think it's empty," he teased.
Sherlock scowled at him, and that's when Lestrade knew everything was going to be alight.
"Want me to take you home?" he offered, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, but allowed himself to be helped up, and nearly fell asleep on the ride back to his current flat.
"I told you I was clean," he murmured as Lestrade manhandled him into bed.
"Yeah," Lestrade admitted. "And let's hope you stay that way."
He stood in the doorway for a second before leaving.
"I'll call you tomorrow, yeah?"
Sherlock hummed, and with that, Lestrade left.
And Lestrade did call him. And continued to call him when Sherlock left a crime scene abruptly, whenever he showed up to Lestrade's office looking exhausted and walking like his bones were ancient and weary.
And he kept a supply of orange juice boxes on hand, just in case.
AN- 'Ibi Omnium Primum' means 'There's a first time for everything'.