Motion sickness
Oct. 15th, 2011 03:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
solrosanNotes: Written for this prompt. Not much more to say, I feel with Sherlock, I really do. Oh, and read the other fill to this promt as well.
Summary: Sherlock get motion sickness when riding the train.
***
It was too hot on this train. Too hot and it smelled like no-one had opened a window in years. Actually, Sherlock thought it was impossible to open these windows, which would make it approximately seven years since there had been a proper air flow in here. Not that it would be very popular to open a window in the middle of the winter. Well, not that he really cared about what the other people in the carriage would think, but John would. Had they ever heard of air-conditioning? No, no, the only thing working properly was the radiators.
With a plagued sound Sherlock shifted in his seat and for nth time in just a few minutes he ran his fingers through his hair. The hands then came to rest on his neck, trying to give himself a sorry excuse of a shoulder rub while closing his eyes and forcing air into his lungs. He deeply regretted dressing in one of his suits, not that he had that many alternatives but the shirt felt like a strait-jacket.
Breathing through the nose was a bad decision and he swallowed hard before changing to breathe through clenched teeth. The deep breaths became more and more stressed and shallow and he soon had to remind himself to try to breathe normal. Hyperventilation would just make everything worse. If that was even possible at this point.
“Sure you’re okay? You’re pale as a ghost.” John had an obvious concern in his voice. It was the third time he had asked that stupid question, obviously he wasn’t okay and John could very well see that. The previous times Sherlock had snapped at him to be quiet but this time he just nodded; mostly because nodding was a gentler movement than shaking his head and he knew John would understand it all the same.
Sherlock knew the physiology behind motion sickness, they both did, but it didn’t really help when you were in the middle of it. It didn’t hit him all that often and really just on trains and planes, but still it happened frequent enough for him to curse his own stupidity every time. He had never been good at taking the preventive actions recommended – rest and eat properly the days before. To his defence, this trip was schedule very last minute so he hadn’t had time to prepare even if he had wanted to. It didn’t improve anything right now either though.
“I can get you something to nibble on,” John offered.
The mere thought of putting something in his mouth forced Sherlock to swallow hard and it made his breath very shallow. His hands moved from his neck to press hard against his eyes just to force his body do focus on something else for a moment or two.
“I know it doesn’t sound like a good idea,” John tried, “but it can actually help against the nausea.”
“No,” Sherlock forced himself to breathe slower and deeper again, for a while supressing the cold sweat that covered his whole body already. He removed his hands from his face but when he saw – and felt – how they trembled, he closed his eyes again and placed his hands in his lap.
John took over to alternate between stroking and half-massaging Sherlock’s neck and shoulder. Had thinking not made everything worse Sherlock would have wondered if this was something John had actually been taught or if he was mimicking the motions he had done himself.
“We’re there in half an hour,” John said in vain encouragement. Half an hour, five months, it didn’t really matter. Time more or less came to a halt in these situations. There was no end in sight. Ever.
This would never work. It would never work. Sherlock swallowed repeatedly. It would never work. Why did he even try to fight it? It just didn’t work. He had to…. It…. He wished he could just crawl out of his skin. He shifted in his seat again and John’s hand paused for a moment. Honestly he didn’t know if John helped or just made it worse.
“You need to go to the toilet?” John wondered in a low voice. Sherlock nodded as much as he dared and he could hear John getting up from his seat to let him pass.
After taking a ridiculously deep breath and then holding it, Sherlock opened his eyes and forced himself to his feet. His legs were weak, his whole body faint and his trembling hands slipped on the handle once before he managed to open the door to the toilet.
It smelled like urine inside and the stench made his stomach twist, but still he swallowed it down. God, he hated to throw up…. Even if that was why he had come here. His absurd pride and reluctance against the action was a fairly simple match for the poorly cleaned room and the steady shaking and random jarring of the train and after two more desperate swallows his body forced him to retch over the toilet.
When it had started it was no use in trying to restrain it. The motion itself forced more to follow and the taste of half catabolised food mixed with gastric acid did nothing to ease his discomfort. He had his eyes closed the entire time, there was no part of him that was interested in seeing this. Science had to wait for moment.
As he fumbled for the flush button he repeatedly spitted into the toilet and first after he heard the flushing sound he opened his eyes. He spit yet another time, feeling weaker than he could ever remember feeling.
Trembling, he blew his nose and wiped his mouth. Well, that hadn’t made the room smell any better, but for the time being, at least he felt a bit better. The cold sweat had gone down, but he felt drained and vulnerable. He hated being vulnerable. The sight in the mirror was terrible. Pale. Red eyed. Tired.
“Feeling better?” John wondered, concern clear in his eyes. He had taken Sherlock’s seat at the window so he wouldn’t have to get up again. Sherlock didn’t mind and let himself more or less fall down into the seat.
“A bit, yes.”
“You have some….” John actually wet his thumb on his tongue and then wiped away some sick from Sherlock’s collar before handing him a water bottle and a paper cup, “So you can wash your mouth if you like.”
“Thank you,” Sherlock said faint, a bit unsure what John was doing, but he appreciated it. He gargled some water and spit it out in the mug before taking a sip from the bottle. The sour taste of gastric acid was hard to get rid of and as if John had heard his thoughts he held out a bag of chewing gum.
“Gum?” he offered.
“No, thank you,” Sherlock screwed the cap back on.
“Sure?”
Sherlock nodded slowly and leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes again.
“We’ll be there in seven minutes,” John informed.
Good. Seven minutes, he could do that. Just seven more minutes.
He could do that.
Summary: Sherlock get motion sickness when riding the train.
***
It was too hot on this train. Too hot and it smelled like no-one had opened a window in years. Actually, Sherlock thought it was impossible to open these windows, which would make it approximately seven years since there had been a proper air flow in here. Not that it would be very popular to open a window in the middle of the winter. Well, not that he really cared about what the other people in the carriage would think, but John would. Had they ever heard of air-conditioning? No, no, the only thing working properly was the radiators.
With a plagued sound Sherlock shifted in his seat and for nth time in just a few minutes he ran his fingers through his hair. The hands then came to rest on his neck, trying to give himself a sorry excuse of a shoulder rub while closing his eyes and forcing air into his lungs. He deeply regretted dressing in one of his suits, not that he had that many alternatives but the shirt felt like a strait-jacket.
Breathing through the nose was a bad decision and he swallowed hard before changing to breathe through clenched teeth. The deep breaths became more and more stressed and shallow and he soon had to remind himself to try to breathe normal. Hyperventilation would just make everything worse. If that was even possible at this point.
“Sure you’re okay? You’re pale as a ghost.” John had an obvious concern in his voice. It was the third time he had asked that stupid question, obviously he wasn’t okay and John could very well see that. The previous times Sherlock had snapped at him to be quiet but this time he just nodded; mostly because nodding was a gentler movement than shaking his head and he knew John would understand it all the same.
Sherlock knew the physiology behind motion sickness, they both did, but it didn’t really help when you were in the middle of it. It didn’t hit him all that often and really just on trains and planes, but still it happened frequent enough for him to curse his own stupidity every time. He had never been good at taking the preventive actions recommended – rest and eat properly the days before. To his defence, this trip was schedule very last minute so he hadn’t had time to prepare even if he had wanted to. It didn’t improve anything right now either though.
“I can get you something to nibble on,” John offered.
The mere thought of putting something in his mouth forced Sherlock to swallow hard and it made his breath very shallow. His hands moved from his neck to press hard against his eyes just to force his body do focus on something else for a moment or two.
“I know it doesn’t sound like a good idea,” John tried, “but it can actually help against the nausea.”
“No,” Sherlock forced himself to breathe slower and deeper again, for a while supressing the cold sweat that covered his whole body already. He removed his hands from his face but when he saw – and felt – how they trembled, he closed his eyes again and placed his hands in his lap.
John took over to alternate between stroking and half-massaging Sherlock’s neck and shoulder. Had thinking not made everything worse Sherlock would have wondered if this was something John had actually been taught or if he was mimicking the motions he had done himself.
“We’re there in half an hour,” John said in vain encouragement. Half an hour, five months, it didn’t really matter. Time more or less came to a halt in these situations. There was no end in sight. Ever.
This would never work. It would never work. Sherlock swallowed repeatedly. It would never work. Why did he even try to fight it? It just didn’t work. He had to…. It…. He wished he could just crawl out of his skin. He shifted in his seat again and John’s hand paused for a moment. Honestly he didn’t know if John helped or just made it worse.
“You need to go to the toilet?” John wondered in a low voice. Sherlock nodded as much as he dared and he could hear John getting up from his seat to let him pass.
After taking a ridiculously deep breath and then holding it, Sherlock opened his eyes and forced himself to his feet. His legs were weak, his whole body faint and his trembling hands slipped on the handle once before he managed to open the door to the toilet.
It smelled like urine inside and the stench made his stomach twist, but still he swallowed it down. God, he hated to throw up…. Even if that was why he had come here. His absurd pride and reluctance against the action was a fairly simple match for the poorly cleaned room and the steady shaking and random jarring of the train and after two more desperate swallows his body forced him to retch over the toilet.
When it had started it was no use in trying to restrain it. The motion itself forced more to follow and the taste of half catabolised food mixed with gastric acid did nothing to ease his discomfort. He had his eyes closed the entire time, there was no part of him that was interested in seeing this. Science had to wait for moment.
As he fumbled for the flush button he repeatedly spitted into the toilet and first after he heard the flushing sound he opened his eyes. He spit yet another time, feeling weaker than he could ever remember feeling.
Trembling, he blew his nose and wiped his mouth. Well, that hadn’t made the room smell any better, but for the time being, at least he felt a bit better. The cold sweat had gone down, but he felt drained and vulnerable. He hated being vulnerable. The sight in the mirror was terrible. Pale. Red eyed. Tired.
“Feeling better?” John wondered, concern clear in his eyes. He had taken Sherlock’s seat at the window so he wouldn’t have to get up again. Sherlock didn’t mind and let himself more or less fall down into the seat.
“A bit, yes.”
“You have some….” John actually wet his thumb on his tongue and then wiped away some sick from Sherlock’s collar before handing him a water bottle and a paper cup, “So you can wash your mouth if you like.”
“Thank you,” Sherlock said faint, a bit unsure what John was doing, but he appreciated it. He gargled some water and spit it out in the mug before taking a sip from the bottle. The sour taste of gastric acid was hard to get rid of and as if John had heard his thoughts he held out a bag of chewing gum.
“Gum?” he offered.
“No, thank you,” Sherlock screwed the cap back on.
“Sure?”
Sherlock nodded slowly and leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes again.
“We’ll be there in seven minutes,” John informed.
Good. Seven minutes, he could do that. Just seven more minutes.
He could do that.
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no subject
Date: 2011-10-15 07:11 pm (UTC)I never get motion sickness, but I remember getting sick on an aeroplane this May (for numerous reasons) and it felt very, very much like this.
no subject
Date: 2011-10-15 08:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-15 08:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-16 06:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-16 07:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-16 03:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-16 06:40 am (UTC)