jarah one shots 💓

in sickness and in health

TW TW TW
⚠️PLEASE NOTE THIS CONTAINS DETAILS OF THROW UP AND CAN BE TRIGGERING TOWARDS THOSE WITH EMETOPHOBIA⚠️

Sarah rolled over in bed, stretching her arm across the mattress only to find cool sheets where John B should've been. Her brows knit in confusion. That's weird, she thought. He was definitely in bed last night. She sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, and padded softly into the hallway.

The sound hit her before she even reached the bathroom. Violent retching echoed off the tile walls, urgent and raw. Her stomach dropped. "John B?" she called out, picking up her pace.

She pushed open the door to find him hunched over the toilet, drenched in sweat and gripping the bowl like it was the only thing keeping him from collapsing entirely. His entire body lurched as he threw up again, the sound making Sarah wince.

"Oh, babe..." she murmured, kneeling beside him and gently rubbing circles into his back. He was pale, shaking, and clearly had nothing left to throw up—but his body didn't seem to know that yet.

When the vomiting finally stopped, he leaned back against the wall, exhausted. Still, he tried to play it off.

"Are you okay, babe?" Sarah asked, concern written all over her face.

"All good," John B said weakly, offering a small smile and pushing himself to his feet. It lasted all of two seconds before a wave of dizziness hit him like a truck. He stumbled, and Sarah caught him just in time, easing him back down before he collapsed entirely.

"You're not okay, are you?" she asked, one eyebrow raised.

John B just looked up at her, completely defeated. He didn't need to answer. His silence said everything.

"Come on, stubborn boy," she said, voice soft but teasing. She helped him to his feet again, slowly this time, and guided him back to the bedroom. As soon as he sat down, Sarah saw it—that sudden panic in his eyes and the way his hand clamped over his mouth.

"Shit," she muttered, sprinting to grab the bin. She shoved it under him just in time.

He threw up again. And again. It was nothing but bile and stomach acid now, burning and bitter. Sarah stayed with him, rubbing his back, whispering soothing things while he emptied what little he had left. Ten minutes later, it was over—for now.

"You done?" she asked gently.

John B could barely nod. His eyes were glassy, his skin clammy. He didn't say a word.

"You need to rest, JB," Sarah whispered. "Sleep. I'll clean the bathroom." But as she started to move, his hand gripped her wrist.

"Don't leave me," he croaked, his voice barely audible and dry like sandpaper.

Sarah's heart broke a little. "Okay," she said without hesitation, crawling in beside him. She pulled the blanket over them and let him rest his head on her chest until his breathing slowed and sleep took him.

Once he was out cold, she gently changed the bin, rolled him onto his side, and placed a glass of water on the nightstand. Then she tiptoed out to clean the bathroom, scrubbing it down from top to bottom to avoid spreading any more germs.

About two hours later, the coughing started. Loud, chest-rattling hacking from the bedroom.

Sarah dropped the disinfectant and rushed back to find him hunched over, clutching his chest. "Easy, easy," she soothed, hand rubbing his back again.

When the fit passed, she offered the glass of water, but the moment it touched his stomach, he threw it right back up.

"Oh dear..." she sighed. We've got one hell of a sick patient on our hands.