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painpainbrightsoLOUDpain
It was bound to happen sooner or later. There was only so much a body could take when it was constantly pushed to the extremes of endurance before exhaustion set in and forcibly shut it down. Skipped meals, nights spent awake instead of sleeping, constant running and searching and examining the minutia of the world for the tiniest clue all took their toll eventually. And when Sherlock had been awake for five days straight investigating one of the most difficult cases he had tackled in years, his body had had enough.
painburningsearingtearingrippingtwistingpain
The migraines didn’t happen often, but when they did come, they were debilitating. He couldn’t see, couldn’t move, couldn’t even think in anything but increasingly delirious circles when the world had been reduced to nothing but a burning mass of twisted pain brought on by the slightest provocation. Light hurt. Sound hurt. Everything, even breathing hurt. Sherlock was a man who lived on the strength of this brain and his senses, and both had turned against him. It was unbearable, and there was nothing he could do.
stopohgodpleasestopcan’tseecan’tbreatheneedtothinkneedto…need to…need…
John stood in the doorway, frozen in wordless horror. Every light in the flat was off, every window was covered with a blanket, he hardly even dared to breathe for fear of making a sound, and still Sherlock was in pain. It tore at him to see Sherlock, Sherlock, the man who could shrug off the most grievous injury curled into a ball on his bed, whimpering at the slightest creak of the floorboards and murmur of traffic because of how it shattered his skull to pieces. John had known in the abstract that Sherlock sometimes worked himself into migraines when things got particularly bad, but he had never seen it before, never seen the evidence for himself and witnessed the collapse of the strongest man he had ever known. And there was nothing John could do. He was helpless.
pleasenomorepleasestopohgodwhy
Well, if John could not actually stop the pain for Sherlock, he could at least be here. It was true that Sherlock was probably past the point of knowing whether or not anyone was even in the room with him, but John needed to do something, even if it was just for himself. He certainly could not just sit alone in the living room while the only person who mattered was suffering so horrifically. Stepping delicately and slowly forward, John picked his way across the room around the creaky floorboards to make his way as silently as he was able towards the bed where Sherlock lay trembling. He froze several times when a groan rent the air at a misstep or quiet shift of the building, but finally he was there and settled himself gingerly onto the bed next to a body that was huddled so small it did not even look like Sherlock anymore. Truthfully, he wasn’t. Not now.
pleasenosoundnolightnoIcan’t…I…touch?
Softly, so softly it was the barest whisper of motion, John laid his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Muscles shuddered and tensed in reaction, quivering like leaves in a gale, but he did not jerk away. In fact, after a moment of uncertain stillness, he leaned into the touch with the tiniest whimper. John did not dare to move, simply keeping his hand in place and holding so still he could not even bring himself to breathe. And slowly, fraction by fraction, with a sound that was at once both whimper and sigh, Sherlock leaned into him.
painburningpainsoftsearingpaintouchJohn
Long minutes, or perhaps it was hours later, Sherlock had shifted himself so that his head was cradled with the gentlest tenderness in John’s lap. He was still curled into a defensive ball, eyes still held shut with fierce intensity, still radiating pain with heartbreaking ferocity, but he had stopped shaking. As John’s hands ghosted through his tangled curls, tracing with the barest touch over his scalp in soothing circles, his trembling softened, gentled, stilled. His breathing normalized as well, no longer coming in agonized gasps but instead rasping out in time with John’s carefully controlled inhalations. He was not better, not by a long shot, but he was perhaps beginning to come down from the height of his agony. And that was a small victory that John would cherish. He bent down slowly to press a feather-light kiss into messy curls, sending a prayer to whoever would listen that the beautiful brain he so treasured could find some measure of peace. I’m here, love. For however long you need me, I’m here until the pain leaves. And after. I’m here.
Johntouchsoftpaincomfort...touch…John…
It was bound to happen sooner or later. There was only so much a body could take when it was constantly pushed to the extremes of endurance before exhaustion set in and forcibly shut it down. Skipped meals, nights spent awake instead of sleeping, constant running and searching and examining the minutia of the world for the tiniest clue all took their toll eventually. And when Sherlock had been awake for five days straight investigating one of the most difficult cases he had tackled in years, his body had had enough.
painburningsearingtearingrippingtwistingpain
The migraines didn’t happen often, but when they did come, they were debilitating. He couldn’t see, couldn’t move, couldn’t even think in anything but increasingly delirious circles when the world had been reduced to nothing but a burning mass of twisted pain brought on by the slightest provocation. Light hurt. Sound hurt. Everything, even breathing hurt. Sherlock was a man who lived on the strength of this brain and his senses, and both had turned against him. It was unbearable, and there was nothing he could do.
stopohgodpleasestopcan’tseecan’tbreatheneedtothinkneedto…need to…need…
John stood in the doorway, frozen in wordless horror. Every light in the flat was off, every window was covered with a blanket, he hardly even dared to breathe for fear of making a sound, and still Sherlock was in pain. It tore at him to see Sherlock, Sherlock, the man who could shrug off the most grievous injury curled into a ball on his bed, whimpering at the slightest creak of the floorboards and murmur of traffic because of how it shattered his skull to pieces. John had known in the abstract that Sherlock sometimes worked himself into migraines when things got particularly bad, but he had never seen it before, never seen the evidence for himself and witnessed the collapse of the strongest man he had ever known. And there was nothing John could do. He was helpless.
pleasenomorepleasestopohgodwhy
Well, if John could not actually stop the pain for Sherlock, he could at least be here. It was true that Sherlock was probably past the point of knowing whether or not anyone was even in the room with him, but John needed to do something, even if it was just for himself. He certainly could not just sit alone in the living room while the only person who mattered was suffering so horrifically. Stepping delicately and slowly forward, John picked his way across the room around the creaky floorboards to make his way as silently as he was able towards the bed where Sherlock lay trembling. He froze several times when a groan rent the air at a misstep or quiet shift of the building, but finally he was there and settled himself gingerly onto the bed next to a body that was huddled so small it did not even look like Sherlock anymore. Truthfully, he wasn’t. Not now.
pleasenosoundnolightnoIcan’t…I…touch?
Softly, so softly it was the barest whisper of motion, John laid his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Muscles shuddered and tensed in reaction, quivering like leaves in a gale, but he did not jerk away. In fact, after a moment of uncertain stillness, he leaned into the touch with the tiniest whimper. John did not dare to move, simply keeping his hand in place and holding so still he could not even bring himself to breathe. And slowly, fraction by fraction, with a sound that was at once both whimper and sigh, Sherlock leaned into him.
painburningpainsoftsearingpaintouchJohn
Long minutes, or perhaps it was hours later, Sherlock had shifted himself so that his head was cradled with the gentlest tenderness in John’s lap. He was still curled into a defensive ball, eyes still held shut with fierce intensity, still radiating pain with heartbreaking ferocity, but he had stopped shaking. As John’s hands ghosted through his tangled curls, tracing with the barest touch over his scalp in soothing circles, his trembling softened, gentled, stilled. His breathing normalized as well, no longer coming in agonized gasps but instead rasping out in time with John’s carefully controlled inhalations. He was not better, not by a long shot, but he was perhaps beginning to come down from the height of his agony. And that was a small victory that John would cherish. He bent down slowly to press a feather-light kiss into messy curls, sending a prayer to whoever would listen that the beautiful brain he so treasured could find some measure of peace. I’m here, love. For however long you need me, I’m here until the pain leaves. And after. I’m here.
Johntouchsoftpaincomfort...touch…John…
