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It started in the afternoon, when one of Sherlock's experiments fizzled out and left a dreadful and odorous smoke that lingered in the kitchen. John hadn't noticed at first, as he'd been on the sofa enjoying his tea. A minute later, he sat with his brow furrowed and his eyes in a squint. He pressed his fingers to the center of his forehead, and let out a small groan. He switched his fingers out with the heel of his hand and pressed harder. Not long after that, Sherlock left the kitchen, waving a towel behind him, only to find John with his head bent down and his hands covering his ears and eyes.
Sherlock frowned and slowly approached. He tapped John on the shoulder.
“John?” He tapped again, and John lifted his head to squint at Sherlock. “John, what's wrong?”
“Headache,” he grumbled in response, ducking his head again. “From your damn experiment.”
“Ah. I've opened the window, the smoke should clear in minutes. Would you like some tea? Er, hot tea?” he added when he spotted John's half-full cup on the end table.
“No, s' fine, should be fine as soon as the air clears.” He waved his hands in a shooing gesture. “Go on, clean it up, I'm fine.”
“If you're sure.”
“I'll be fine, Sherlock,” he mumbled.
But he wasn't. After the smoke had cleared and the kitchen was cleaned of any experiment evidence, John's headache hadn't disappeared. It hadn't worsened, but it was still banging on his skull and jack-hammering behind his eyes. He was beginning to suspect that if he didn't treat it soon, it was going to become a full-blown migraine.
Evidently, Sherlock thought the same thing, because when he emerged from the kitchen once again, he had a bottle of Tylenol and a glass of water.
“Take two,” instructed Sherlock, setting the glass down and picking the cold tea up. “Should help you in no time.”
“Ta,” replied John, then swallowed two of the pills and gulped the water. “How did you...?”
“You didn't follow me in to scold me for making a mess.”
“Ah, got it.”
“Perhaps you should have a lie-down while you wait for the medicine to kick in.”
“If it kicks in about 10 minutes from now, I should be perfectly fine. Stop fussing.”
“You're in pain, John,” he replied coolly, but gently.
“Yes, I am fully aware of that. Stop fussing, I'll be fine. D'you hear that? I'll be fine,” he said. “I will be just fine.”
“I'll be keeping an eye on you, then. With a stopwatch, just in case it's worse than a headache.
“It's nothing, Sherlock, really.” But he didn't protest when he leaned down to kiss John on the forehead.
“If you say so. I will still be keeping an eye on you.”
Half an hour later, when the Tylenol was supposed to send him into blissful, pain-free relaxation, John found himself still holding his head and curled up on the sofa. Sherlock watched, almost anxiously, as John let out a small whimper.
“Still not working?” he asked carefully.
“Does it look like it's working, Sherlock?” he growled, pulling a pillow over his eyes.
“Perhaps you need to try something else. I'll mix you some fish oil and orange ju-”
“You will do no such thing, Sherlock Holmes, unless you plan on drinking it yourself.”
“I'm certain it will help you though!”
“No. Sherlock. No.”
“Perhaps you should have a rest?”
“Yes, perhaps,” he grunted in response, taking a swig out of his water glass.
“You're not going to, are you?”
“Not even considering it at the moment, I am trying to ignore it.”
“And even though it is probably better that you don't ignore it?”
“I'll be fine,” he said again, but winced. “Really.”
“No, you won't. Will you please let me help you? It's rather unpleasant for me to see you like this.”
“Oh, 'unpleasant', certainly,” grumbled John. But he didn't argue any further.
“So, no fish oil, then? What about a heating pad? I can fetch one from Mrs. Hudson in a moment. In fact-” Sherlock strode towards the door, “-I'll do that now.”
He returned less than a minute later with the heating pad and a small bag full of ground green leaves. He held it up. “Mrs. Hudson's special tea. Would it help?”
“I'd lose my job if they found out,” he responded, reaching blindly for the heating pad Sherlock had in his outstretched hands. John clicked a few buttons and pressed the warming pad to his forehead.
“Twenty minutes on, and if that doesn't help, twenty minutes of cold compress. And if neither of those work, promise me you'll rest immediately.”
“I...yeah, alright, fine,” he sighed.
“I'll keep track of the time.”
Forty minutes later, and the headache had not disappeared. To John's great relief, it hadn't gotten worse, but it still hurt him badly. John had no choice, then, but to acquiesce to Sherlock lifting him by the arm and leading him to his room. Sherlock closed the blinds and clicked all the lights off. John kicked off his shoes and trousers and slid under the blankets. Sherlock stood to leave but John grabbed him by the trouser leg.
“Stay?” he mumbled, trying to open his eyes and look at him. It hurt, so he settled for tugging on the fabric again.
“Oh...of course, John,” he said slowly, removing his shoes and curling up beside him. He held him around his waist and massaged his right hand through John's blond hair. The tugging movement brought little twinges of relief to his pounding headache. He hummed contentedly, glad that something was lifting the debilitating pain. But when Sherlock stopped, the throbbing was still there, and John's fists tightened around the blankets. He turned to face Sherlock, to ask him why he'd stopped, only to be met with a face full of blinding screen light. He flinched visibly, turning himself back over and ducking his head under the covers.
“What the hell was that for?” he hissed.
“I'm merely looking up more solutions to your headache, John.”
“Yes, but why does it hurt so much?” he moaned.
“Because something has gone a little awry and you're having a headache. Let's see,” he continued, as if John hadn't asked him anything, “You said fish oil was not an option. Ginger root?
“Don't have any.”
“More water?”
“Perhaps.”
“Acupuncture? I've been trained.”
“I am not letting you stick anything in me, Sherlock Holmes, and do not even attempt.”
“Oh?” he replied, and John could hear the eyebrow rise and the smirk despite not seeing it. “Not anything, you say? I'm sure you're wrong about that, John. I stick things in you all the time.”
“The one thing,” he corrected, “And besides, you're not doing that now.
“Ah, yes, but as luck would have it, one of the solutions for a headache is to have sex.” He paused. “I was considering it a possibility to explore.”
“Sex? Now? Are you absolutely serious?” he grumbled, “Can you think of something other than your dick right now?”
“I can, John, but it does clearly say that sex and orgasms release certain chemicals that make us feel fantastic. I think we should try it.”
“Oh, sure, let me just get out of my jumper and open the curtains,” he said sarcastically.
“Hmm, no, just the jumper,” he responded, helping John tug at the sleeves. He slid it over John's head and kissed him behind the ear and on the neck, and though John could still feel the pain in his head, he arched into Sherlock and curled his body against him. His lips traveled to his throat, sucking lightly. Sherlock gently rolled John onto his back and straddled him, undoing his buttons as he did so. He slid up and down John's body, rubbing him sensuously and pulling pleasured purrs out of John. Sherlock kissed his way down to his pants, where John's cock had popped halfway up from Sherlock's touch. He hummed and chuckled a little, pulling John's pants down to between his ankles.
“Just for you, love, lie back and relax.” And then he slid his lips over John's cock.
John gasped and felt himself hardening in Sherlock's mouth, and he groaned when his cock slid against the roof of his mouth. Sherlock's head bobbed up and down, sucking and sliding along the shaft in quick strokes, and then slowing to smooth and more focused licks. Meanwhile, John clutched at his blankets again, but this time with dizzying pleasure. He dragged his hands across his naked body, tweaking his own nipples and then grabbing Sherlock by his curls. He pulled him down to the base, sighing as his cock hit the back of his throat.
“Oh, that's lovely, Sherlock,” he moaned softly, guiding his lover's head up and down again. He was able to glance down long enough to see Sherlock slide a hand into his own pants and grab at his bulging erection. He moaned around John's cock as he began to pump himself. The vibrations were enough to make John gasp aloud and release his grip on Sherlock. Sherlock quickly began sucking again, eager to bring John higher to a dizzying climax.
He lifted his head and murmured to John, “Feels good, then?”
“Like you wouldn't believe,” he groaned, wanting to push his cock back between Sherlock's lips.
“Mmm, very good then.” And Sherlock pulled John's cock back into his mouth.
Sherlock's mouth was warm, and tight, and completely welcoming to John's member. His tongue wiggled around the shaft and along the edges of the head with the bobbing of his mouth. He flattened it and enveloped his cock in warm strokes, and pointed the tip of his tongue to trace right over the sensitive head. John particularly liked Sherlock's swirl at the top, and he let out a high-pitched moan. John's fists were tight in the sheets, and Sherlock began to move faster, bobbing his head at lightning speed and using one hand to stroke himself. John had no time to warn him as he came, but Sherlock swallowed without a problem. His orgasm was long, and accompanied by a loud, pleasure-soaked yell. John arched himself off the bed until every drop was gone, then fell back into the pillows with a huff. Sherlock leaned himself back and pulled his pants down, and he came into his hand with a groan. His cum leaked from his clenched fist a bit, but he didn't seem to mind. He went to wash his hands and returned with a wet cloth. He began to wipe John down, and he tried to bat him away with a giggle. Sherlock grabbed his hand and kept it held down.
“Ticklish as you may be, John, you still need to clean up.” He wiped him down and set the cloth aside. He pressed a kiss to John's cheek. “How do you feel now?”
“Mmm, still a bit achy. But much better.” He kissed Sherlock's nose. “Thanks, love.” He paused, then added. “Remind me that this actually works next time I get another terrible headache. I'll likely forget.”
“I'll put it at the top of the list of cures,” he murmured.