Work Text:
He really could feel the pain when he was off his medication and he tried to convince him that was the only reason he had felt like this, throwing up, not being able to sleep and there were some side effects that he didn’t want others to know about, but they noticed him shaking and running to the toilet. He hated the fact shipment was late and could barely wait to get in the bath at home.
He shook and buried himself in the covers, but this wasn’t an issue of cold and he knew it - he’d dealt with addicts at the hospital before - when he emerged from the covers he felt something rise up in his throat and he threw up on his bed, he can’t be bothered to move like he would normally if he’d done this, and falls asleep with vomit in his bed and on his shirt, when he woke he felt something jelly-like stuck to his bed next to him, its seeped through the sheets, he prods at it before remembering last night and presses his face into his pillow. He rolls out of bed and stares at the mirror when he reaches the bathroom, his leg gives out under him just from doing that short walk without his cane and he clutches the sink and holds himself up.
He throws up at lunch when he’s at work, sees the wet substance in the bin and plays piano scales on his desk to soothe himself from the burning sensation of sick in his throat and the wetness of it on his lips, it’s a horrible texture, lumpy and wet. He wipes it off his lips and then notices his shirt is wet, he wasn’t sure if he’d chewed it after to deal with the experience of being sick, if he’d thrown up on it or both. The longer the day went on the worse it got, but he kept himself going, then he met a patient with ataxia and had to take in a deep breath as his leg jolted him with a lightning strike of pain when he was standing at the whiteboard.
When he got home he felt the meltdown stirring already, normally he’d pop a Vicodin or two and lay under the large weighted blanket Wilson had brought him one day, but without the Vicodin calming his leg the weighted beads in the blanket felt like mini daggers on them. He grips the ball in his piano and throws it in the air, he has one at work and one at home and one he takes out to travel. He manages to calm himself down with the ball and a little game session on his gameboy but as he does so the shirt he’s wearing feels scratchy so he peels it off, he feels another bout of sickness come along and he gets up, he needed to go to the toilet again anyway so he might as well do both. He mumbled a few of his choice words under his breath, he feels dizzy and tired and he might as well sleep on the cold and tiled floor of the bathroom.
He felt so joyful when the Vicodin was delivered, and he felt the pain lessen as he walks his way to his office, even cracking a tiny smile.