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An intellect the scale of that of the Holmes brothers doesn’t come without a price. No matter how hard they try, no matter how much they attempt to avoid it, the headaches will come at some point.
Sherlock’s are easy to spot. The dark haired detective knows when one is coming days in advance, and his behaviour becomes more frantic, more rushed, subject to mistake. Quickly corrected mistakes of course, but mistakes all the same. He becomes snappish at crime scenes and with clients, the biting remarks intended to cut into people’s emotions, push them away from him. He prefers to deal with the headache alone, and that means forcing those around him to give him a wide birth.
When the headache hits, Sherlock can go either one of two ways. The first; the better option, he lays in the flat with no intention of movement, dropping in one place and retreating into his mind palace. He doesn’t eat, doesn’t talk, and doesn’t sleep until the headache has run its course.
The second is much more severe. When the mind palace trick does not work, Sherlock becomes chaotic. This is when he’s at a higher risk of a relapse, or worse. He will destroy the flat in a matter of hours in a rage. Sherlock’s headaches consist of noise, a constant ringing in his ears and a dull ache across the whole of his skull. He can’t focus, and it drives him up the wall.
Before, Mycroft would be called in by Mrs Hudson to deal with it. Now, it’s best left to John Watson.
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When John returns home, Mrs Hudson is waiting for him in the hallway. She stands at the bottom of the stairs, one arm across her waist and the other hand at her lips. Her posture screams worry, and after the sound of smashing glass upstairs, John knows exactly what’s happening.
He gives her a sympathetic smile, handing her the shopping bag he had in one hand. “There’s the shopping you asked for. How long has that been going on?” He asks with a raise of his eyebrows towards the stairs.
She sighs heavily with the barest shrug of her shoulders. “I’ve only heard him in the last hour, but who knows. You’d better go see to him. Calm him down a bit. We don’t want to replace the window again like last time.”
John hums, clearly remembering the sound of smashing glass a moment ago that obviously hadn’t reached his land lady. “Mhm, might be a bit late for that. Right, well I’ll see you tomorrow Mrs Hudson.”
“Night.” She says in reply, watching as John makes his way upstairs. They’ve been expecting this; he’d been working up to a bad one for the last three days.
As soon as the doctor enters the flat of 221B there’s a feral sounding growl from the consulting detective pacing across the length of the room. Sweat is dripping down his pale chest, and the fine dark hair there is stuck to his skin. His eyes are wild, limbs jerking unpredictably as he continues to pace.
“Sherlock, stop pacing, what did you just smash?” John questioned, easing out of his jacket and hanging it up.
Sherlock’s lip curled as he slowed in his movement, gesturing wildly to the kitchen. “Beaker. Couldn’t see the measurements properly. The experiment…went wrong. It won’t stop!” He ended his sentence in a shout, his hands flying to his head and applying pressure, as if he could squeeze out the pain in his skull.
John was across the room in an instant, his hands closing around Sherlock’s wrists. “That’s not going to help, look at me.” His voice demanded co-operation, slipping into ‘Doctor Mode’ as he tried to pry Sherlock’s hands away from his head and get the taller man to face him. But Sherlock didn’t want a doctor, he didn’t need a doctor, he needed John.
“I don’t need a professional diagnosis. I know what’s wrong, and so do you. Are you really that slow?” Sherlock snarled, wrenching himself away from John and moving to pace between the living room and the kitchen, totally oblivious to the broken glass scattered about the floor. His hands were back in his hair, trying to force the ache from his head.
John ignored the comment. He knew Sherlock didn’t really mean it maliciously, when he got a headache like this he was always more violent and provocative with what he said. He stood waiting by his chair, knowing Sherlock would end up walking back towards him at some point. “Alright, just take a breath and calm down. Working yourself up only makes it worse. Breathe.” He said, his voice soft.
Sherlock’s pacing stilled, although the tension was still clear in his bare shoulders. He wheeled round to face John, his head still in his hands. “It hurts.”
John sighed, taking a step towards Sherlock, hands outstretched as if he was approaching a nervous animal. “I know, I know it does but everything you’re doing will not help. Come over here and sit on the sofa.” He coaxed, slowly approaching until his hands came into contact with sweat-slicked skin. He stood there for a moment just holding the distressed man, letting Sherlock’s brain catch up. Only once Sherlock let go of his head did John guide him back to the sofa, sitting the man down and kneeling in front of him.
“Have you taken anything?” John asked, both hands still resting on Sherlock’s waist as he tried to control his erratic breathing.
Sherlock shook his head, wincing slightly at the movement.
The man between his legs nodded, thumb tracing patterns across his hip. “Okay. I’m going to get up and get you some water and tablets. We’ll get a wet flannel for you too, yeah?”
John begins to rise, only for the movement to be protested by a quiet whine and long fingers closing around his arm. Sherlock’s breathing quickens, and his grip is tight but not strong.
Reaching forwards, John strokes one hand through Sherlock’s damp hair. “I’ll be back in a second, just sit and try not to smash anything, alright?”
John heads to the kitchen, collecting everything Sherlock needs as quickly as is humanly possible, closing all the curtains and switching off all the lights as he went. When he returns to the detective on the sofa, the man looks like he’s about to start a war.
“Hey, hey, it’s alright, come on take these.” He held out Sherlock’s migraine pills and watched as Sherlock took them without too much complaint, downing the water quickly after. John takes the glass and sets it aside, settling on the sofa next to his detective.
Sherlock lets out a low growl, his agitation showing through the constant bouncing of his leg. One hand is back in his hair, his eyes closed.
“Why don’t you lie down?” John suggested, one hand moving to rub comforting circles on Sherlock’s thigh.
The detective makes a vague noise of agreement after a moment and the two men shift around until John is lying on the sofa with Sherlock curled against his chest and his long legs tangled in his own. John shifts, grabbing something off the side table. He lays the cold damp flannel across Sherlock’s forehead, pressing it against the warm skin and Sherlock sighs at the slight relief. The ex-army doctor runs a hand along Sherlock’s back every now and again, to give Sherlock something he can focus on when the ache and the buzz starts to get too much. They sit in the darkness until Sherlock moves, the flannel cast aside as he leans up to press a hard kiss to John’s lips.
“Thank you.”
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It was quite a different story for the elder Holmes brother. His headaches came with no warning. There was no telling to when they would strike so he had no time to prepare, something that caused him problems more often than he would like to admit. It was difficult to stay focused in an important meeting when it felt like your head was about to explode.
For Mycroft, there was no-one to come and help before. He dealt with his headaches alone and in pain, dismissing whatever concern Anthea expressed until she no longer interfered. She simply delayed and re-scheduled until Mycroft had stopped vomiting and no longer felt like his head was going to burst.
Where Sherlock’s headaches included noise and a dull ache, Mycroft’s were a constant harsh throbbing and caused nausea that could last days. Once even a week.
Greg helped. Since Greg had been involved with Mycroft, the headaches had never lasted more than a night.
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It came as sudden as always, the sharp searing pain that lashed across his skull and down the base of his neck nearly caused his knees to give way. He sucked in a breath, his throat tight, as he stopped walking with the PM and at least five other Government officials. His usually perfect posture disappeared, leaning forward and against the wall, fighting the urge to curl up into a ball. It was a stupid urge, how would that help a headache? But he felt the need to anyway, and it took a lot of self control not to drop to the floor.
Anthea fought her way through the six men to get to her boss, taking hold of his elbow and keeping a light pressure to keep him on his feet. She didn’t say a word, simply fixing the PM with a hard stare and glancing to the left. He took the hint instantly, this wasn’t the first time Mycroft had suffered a headache in his presence. The man took the group and carried on without them, leaving the two standing in the hallway, Mycroft struggling to keep his breathing under control.
“Come on, sir, we need to get to the car.” Anthea said, nudging her boss’ elbow in an effort to get him moving.
Mycroft didn’t budge, instead sliding just a bit more down the wall, his chest beginning to rise and fall more rapidly. “I..” He started to say, only to have the words get caught in his throat. He recognised he was having a panic attack, but he couldn’t get his mind to work fast enough to tell Anthea, nor could he begin to deal with it on his own. He couldn’t breathe, his vision started to blur and the familiar sensation of bile working its way up his throat was stopping him from being able to function as he usually would. He couldn’t control. His head gave another helpful stab of pain, and Mycroft couldn’t stop the strained gasp from escaping his lips. He slid further down the wall, hunching over. He could vaguely hear Anthea’s voice, but he couldn’t distinguish what she said.
“Sir?” Her voice managed to get through to him as the throbbing of his brain lessened slightly. By no means was that a sign that the headache was passing, but he was grateful for it anyway.
He grunted, something he would usually refuse to do, and peeled an arm down from where it was curled around his head – he doesn’t remember doing that? The light makes more pain bolt down his neck, but he manages to keep his eyes open and his head angled up despite it. He’s sitting on the floor now, something else he doesn’t recall happening, and he can feel himself begin to panic more because of it.
“-way. Two minutes.” He heard Anthea say, catching the end of whatever it was she was telling him. He couldn’t work out what she had said, not while he was struggling to breathe.
Then there’s a strong pair of hands gripping his shoulders, and a familiar scent logging in his mind.
“Mycroft, My, hey, listen to my voice, can you do that for me? Just focus on my voice, ignore everything else, and take a deep breath, ready? Slow it down for me, okay?” The deep voice of Greg reaches his mind much easier than Anthea’s, and Mycroft finds himself obeying Greg’s instructions, slowing his breathing and exhaling, enabling him to take deep breaths and slow his heart rate. His eyes are still wide, and he can feel himself shaking, but he starts to calm down.
Greg smiles at him, though Mycroft could see the worry that was there. “Alright, good, just keep breathing like that for five minutes, yeah?” He says, a hand moving up from his shoulder to cup his jaw and Mycroft leans heavily into the touch, his eyes sliding shut as he continued with the breathing exercise he can now remember them practicing before.
The throbbing picks up again, and Mycroft visibly grimaces. Greg’s touch becomes a little firmer, to keep him grounded. The elder Holmes is grateful for that, otherwise he probably would have started to panic again. The presence of the DI helped calm him and he nodded very slightly to convey that.
“Alright, good, do you want to try standing up?” Greg asked, making no move to hurry the politician, despite the fact he was currently sitting in the middle of a commonly used hallway in the Houses of Parliament. Anthea hovered just a few steps away, glued to her phone, cancelling the rest of his schedule most likely. She looked worried, a frown gracing her features.
Mycroft shifted where he was on the floor, only to have his skull scream in protest at the movement. He let out an undignified whine of pain, and Greg’s hold on him tightened.
The elder Holmes leaned against the grey haired man, his breathing heavy but controlled. “I don’t think I can get up.” He murmured, barely loud enough for Greg to hear.
Greg sighed, though not in annoyance. He simply hated it when this happened, hated it when Mycroft became distressed and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Wrapping an arm round Mycroft’s shoulders, he motioned to Anthea to get the car ready. She nodded, sending off a last message that would render the corridors empty for the next thirty minutes. She’d get some snotty emails back for that but it was worth it if it meant no-one witnessed her boss in such a state.
“Alright, we’ll get you up, you need to go home, can’t sit here for the rest of the day.” Greg said, a light humorous tone to his voice that masked most of the worry he felt. Of course, Mycroft would see straight through it, but he did it all the same.
Greg started to lift Mycroft’s weight, only for him to hiss loudly as his body uncurled up off the floor. Once on his feet, Mycroft had to lean heavily on Greg for support, his legs trembling underneath him were in danger of giving way any second and he’d rather not fall if it could be avoided. Pain was shooting down his neck at the movement, and Mycroft whimpered quietly, his eyes screwed shut.
“Anthea’s got the car out back; it’s just a little way. We’ll get you home and tucked up in bed yeah?” Greg’s voice drifted into Mycroft’s mind and he made a small noise of agreement, but he didn’t speak. He felt lethargic; all he wanted to do was curl up and sleep for a year.
Greg led the way to the car, his arm wrapped securely around Mycroft, never loosening. They didn’t need to give directions to the driver, not only was he already informed by Anthea but he had also made the trip countless times before. He drove as smooth as possible as always, the less jerks the car suffered the less Mycroft’s head would throb. The radio was switched off, and only the sound of the engine purring and the clicks of Anthea’s phone in the front seat could be heard. The journey passed without a problem, Mycroft propped against Greg’s side with his head back and his hand across his eyes, blocking most of the light. As smoothly as his driver was going, the swaying of the car was making him feel sick, and he knew the contents of his stomach were going to empty as soon as he got his foot in the door when they arrived.
As usual, Mycroft was correct. As soon as the car pulled up and the three entered the house, Mycroft went pale.
“Myc?” Greg frowned, pulling away slightly from where he had his arm wrapped around his boyfriend.
Mycroft didn’t have time to answer. He bolted from the embrace, the quick action sending blind pain searing down the base of his skull. Barrelling into the downstairs bathroom, he barely managed to get the toilet seat up before he was retching up everything he’d eaten in the last few hours, the bitter taste sticking to his tongue. He didn’t realise he was crying until Greg caught up and jerked Mycroft’s attention from the pain in his head. The realisation he was crying on the floor of the bathroom with sick down his chin and on his suit sent a pang of humiliation through his chest. What must Greg think of him? Usually he was on his own when this happened. No-one saw this, not even Anthea.
He tried to get up, to reach for tissue and pretend this wasn’t happening. But the pain that followed sent his plan straight out of the window. A low sob forced its way from his throat, and he slumped back down against the kneeling detective inspector. He felt a hand on his back, rubbing in gentle soothing circles as the tears kept coming.
“Just let it out, Mycroft, it’ll be alright, I’ve got you.” Greg mumbled, his words separated by kisses to Mycroft’s hair. Despite every social code that was etched into his brain screaming to get out of this situation and get away from Greg, Mycroft found that he was caring less and less about his significant other seeing him in such a state. In fact, he was sort of… comforted by it.
Greg reached for some tissue, cradling Mycroft’s weak body in one arm and starting to clean him up with the other, wiping his chin and clothes clean. He was humming gently, a tune that wasn’t quite a song but not quite made up either. Mycroft had given up with being ‘proper’ and was letting Greg take care of him. Every now and then he’d lurch forwards, another wave of nausea having him retching up nothing, but every time Greg would still be there. Be it soothing words, a gentle hand running through his thin hair, soft touches to his back, Greg never once tried to leave.
Pressed up against Greg’s chest where they were both sitting on the bathroom floor, Mycroft mustered the energy to speak before Greg began trying to get him up and into bed.
“Thank you.”