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Although it isn’t unusual for Sherlock to test chemicals on his friends by sneaking them into food products, John doubts that’s what the funny feeling in his stomach is. He’d eaten a little bit (okay a lot-a bit) of everything Sherlock had made for this special season and already the detective is grousing playfully about having to bake more. John smiles and plays along, all the while clutching at the belief that this is probably just a sugar buzz, and that’s he’s perfectly fine.
“I didn’t think you had such a sweet tooth, John,” Mrs. Hudson crows, laughing as she takes away a tray of empty tea cups and saucers. “You’ll take your tea black but everything else was full of all sorts of sugar and cream! Such a funny one.” She disappears around the corner into the kitchen with a warm smile shining in her eyes.
“He’s a sweetheart, Mrs. Hudson, it stands to reason that he’d like a little sugar in his life,” Sherlock responds. Even from the other room, John can practically hear him smirking.
“Well that’s why he has you, isn’t it?” Mrs. Hudson responds. By the sound of it, she’s setting down the tray and emptying its contents into the sink.
John’s palms grow sweaty and suddenly he notices that it seems much harder to breathe than it did before. His brain feels fuzzy, and he wonders whether he would even know if there was an emergency right now. Emergency? He wonders whether that’s just a funny feeling telling him that, or the part of him that went to medical school.
“Please,” Sherlock replies. “I’m hardly sweet.”
Mrs. Hudson giggles and kisses Sherlock’s cheek. John wheezes as he pushes himself from his chair, reasoning that it would be better not to be out of sight in case his situation worsens. The effort is monumental.
“Sweet enough, I think,” she laughs, although her tone is proud. “John knows that better than anyone, don’t you, John?”
He tries to respond. He tries to push his voice past the panic that swells in his throat and closes off his access to air. Later, he’ll wonder whether he actually managed any sound or whether it’s the sound of him crashing to the floor that draws their attention. His vision fades as Mrs. Hudson looms over him and then Sherlock, fear plain on the man’s face. John tries to brush his fingers through his hair but only manages a limp twitch.
“You absolute dolt,” Sherlock’s voice rumbles from somewhere nearby. It sounds shaky and sad, despite his angry words.
A deep breath fills John’s lungs and he gulps it desperately, irritated at the sterile flavor it digs into his mouth and nose. Hospital.
It takes a moment for him to open his eyes, but when he does, he finds Sherlock staring back at him. The man’s eyes are wide and worried, swirling like liquid sky, and he’s posed as if he had been expecting John’s to wake up at any moment. There’s a deep furor between Sherlock’s eyebrows and a smudge of flour on his temple.
“Good morning, sugar,” John says, making his tone as light as possible.
Sherlock raises an eyebrow, doing his best to look angry, despite the fear still plain on his face. “So you were conscious for that part, that’s good.”
John shrinks, guilt crashing over him. Some part of him knows that an allergic reaction isn’t really his own fault, and he shouldn’t feel guilty, but at the same time, he probably should’ve told Sherlock about—
“Peanuts?” the detective demands. “Not very observant on my part, I suppose I could’ve seen this coming. Regardless, I want to know why you never said anything. Do you have an epi pen?” His voice is sharp but trails off, becoming softer and sadder as he goes on. “What would I do without you?” John looks up, prepared to respond until he sees tears drip down Sherlock’s face, like the gentlest rain drops off the forest canopy. “It’s Christmas.”
His voice breaks and so does John.
“I’m sorry,” the army doctor murmurs. “I’m so so sorry, Sherlock. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
To his surprise, Sherlock laughs, bursting into stiff giggles. “Hurt me? I am worried about you.”
John stares at him for a moment, processing this. Some part of his brain is trying to reconcile these two things, since him getting hurt inevitably also hurts Sherlock and vice versa. Somehow, he finds this whole dynamic utterly hilarious.
“Jim Moriarty, Charles Magnussen, and Culverton Smith,” he giggles, “and I’m brought down by a damn peanut.”
“Well technically you were brought down by a peanut butter snickerdoodle,” Sherlock chuckles, rubbing his thumb across John’s forehead and peering into his eyes. Humor glints in his own expression and they end up laughing much harder.
“Oh, brought down by a snickerdoodle! Even better,” John smirks.
They’re still laughing when the doctor returns and somehow all Sherlock can think to say is something about catching the Christmas cheer. “Better than the Christmas cold, I suppose,” the doctor responds, somehow finding the situation only marginally as funny as John and Sherlock.