Sickness.

Chapter 2.

Sherlock strode confidently towards the crime scene, making himself take quiet long breaths. His head was hammering, his legs felt unsteady, and occasionally a shiver would threaten to expose itself even though he'd noticed by casually moving his hair out of his eyes that his forehead was burning.

Sherlock took one look at the body on the floor and looked back at Lestrade.

"Domestic, the Husband did it because of an affair."

"But he's not here." Lestrade frowned. "We can't find him anywhere."

"Well, if the murderer didn't know or care about the woman, it would have been a straight shot, but this hit at an angle, and it's not clean, so he was probably shaking. Plus, her ring has been removed by him." He crouched next to the woman, nausea threatening to overrun him again. He paused, closing his eyes and forcing his breathing to stay as normal as possible.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade prompted. Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

"Oh, yes. Well, she died on impact, but whoever removed the ring had blood on them, her finger is slightly red. Difficult to see in the half-light, I take it Anderson's on Forensics?" He looked up as the man entered. "That explains things." He murmured.

Sherlock stood up, and turned away casually, as if looking at the other objects in the room, as he schooled his features from the slight pain of headaches to his favourite 'bored' expression.

Anderson was scowling at him, hatred pouring from his figure. "So, where is he then?"

Sherlock looked up. "Directly above us, and scared out of his wits now he knows we know."

They were silent and heard scuffling a few feet above them, as if someone was trying to hide.

Lestrade watched as Sherlock stretched up, closing his eyes discretely against the pull of his stomach, and pulled down the toggle on the attic entrance, stepping back to allow the stairs to crash down.

Sherlock looked at Lestrade pointedly, and the DI walked forward, pulling Sally and Anderson with him.

Once they were up, Sherlock jumped up the stairs to, closely followed by John.

Lestrade was clapping handcuffs onto the man, who was laughing almost to the point of insanity.

Sherlock came to a halt just in a few feet in front of the stairs he had just climbed up. He was aware of Anderson saying something, but drowned it out, deciding it wasn't important. He had more important things on his mind.

The fact that his vision had blurred and he felt very unbalanced all of a sudden, for instance. Or the fact that his breath had hitched in his throat.

He was aware of John calling his name again, but had no time to register as he allowed his knees to crash to the floor, and his stomach decided that although he'd hardly eaten, it was about time for him to dispose of anything that was left.

It had been years since Sherlock had been properly ill, and he'd manage to sort it alone, well. He'd had to. This time though, he had John rubbing soothing circles on his back, telling him it was okay, and Lestrade on his other side, a hand on his shoulder.

A few moments later, his body just stopped working, and his vision went dark as he collapsed.