Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock.
This is just something which came to my mind while impatiently waiting for "His Last Vow" (that teaser trailer is driving me crazy!). I'm not a native English speaker, therefore I apologize for any mistakes.
Enjoy!
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The Dying Detective
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The neon lights and pale-coloured plastics around him melt together into a meaningless blur; he registers the typical sterile smell of the hospital and immediately forgets about it again. It doesn't matter, none of it. All that matters and the only thing Dr John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, can focus on is the motionless figure in the bed in front of him.
He's always suspected that Sherlock secretly takes pride in the fact that he received death threats on a monthly basis- some by people he helped to convict, others by random lunatics or so it seemed. Neither Sherlock nor John took those threats serious enough to worry about them, which was helped along further by the knowledge that Mycroft was bound to have Baker Street 221B under scrutiny, one way or another, despite his brother's protests.
Still, it hasn't been enough to prevent this, John thinks, unable to fight off the despair which threatens to overwhelm him. A contact poison of sorts, probably having been administered slowly but steadily during the past few days. Mycroft's men are all over 221B already and have put poor Mrs Hudson under quarantine somewhere posh; she was upset and outraged, but at least she didn't become a collateral, a thought which makes John's stomach churn. Yet whatever contained the poison had apparently not come into contact with her.
John briefly closes his eyes. He should have noticed something was odd, after meeting Sherlock two days ago; he had looked pale and drawn and had reluctantly admitted to be suffering from a bad headache.
His name, spoken in a barely audible voice pulls him out of his thoughts, surprising him because Sherlock doesn't look particularly conscious. He lies half on his side, huddled in on himself, a pitiful appearance.
The detective does indeed open his eyes, if with a visible effort, when John touches his shoulder. His gaze lacks its usual sharpness and is glazed over; the fever adds unnatural red hues to his otherwise ashen face.
"Have some water," John says gently, and it's difficult to pretend to be calm. He's not left Sherlock's side ever since he arrived here, has only once called Mary to tell her not to wait up for him. It was hard, hearing her own worry about their friend, and John nearly broke down on the phone. For once, he's glad she isn't there, for her additional pain would have made it even more real, more terrible. He couldn't deal with that.
Sherlock takes only two sips from the proffered straw and then turns his head away. John puts the cup down somewhat numbly. It's alarming, on top of it all, that Sherlock isn't talking. He does reach out however, with a shaking hand, for John, who gently wraps his warm fingers around Sherlock's cold ones; his skin is clammy and there's no strength in his grip.
"How bad is the pain?" John asks, "on a scale of one to ten?"
"Twenty." Sherlock's voice is only just above a whisper, because the pain is everywhere; he can't even locate a precise source anymore. The answer is as close to admitting defeat as Sherlock will ever come.
John takes a cloth from the nightstand and wipes the sweat off Sherlock's brow, mainly because he feels so utterly helpless. Not for the first time he wishes that the lab was faster. At least they are top priority, thanks to Mycroft, but that doesn't change the fact that Sherlock's condition is deteriorating far too quickly. The medication he's receiving intravenously for the pain is not helping much, but the risk of giving him something wrong, something which might add to the poison's effects rather than reducing the pain, is too high.
"It won't be long now," John says, after a glance at his watch; nine hours. Plenty of time to analyse the blood samples and find an antidote.
Or maybe not. John can't help it; a dry sob escapes him. Sherlock however doesn't seem to notice; his face is white as a sheet all of a sudden, and he struggles to sit up a bit, barely managing to avoid the mattress when he leans forward and vomits, a short, violent bout which expels the little bit of water he just had. John quickly moves to help him; when he eases Sherlock back down, he seems frail and insubstantial. He can't stop trembling, and John notices that he is trembling as well, unable to let go of his friend.
"John," Sherlock breathes, "I'm dying." His words are clipped, mutilated by the pain.
"No." John's answer is immediate. "No, you're not. I won't let you this time."
Something flickers in Sherlock's eyes, briefly and possibly only visible to someone who knows him well. "You're... good," he mutters before his eyes close. With quickly rising panic, John registers that the changing beeping of the machines is signalling alarm. This is worse than the seizures Sherlock had earlier, worse than the small sounds of pain he had made in his sleep, worse than seeing his lifeless eyes staring unseeingly into the sky.
Horror, cold and unadultered, creeps up John's spine.
"No, Sherlock, no," he pleads, unaware that his voice is breaking, "stay with me." He can't do this, can't watch him go for a second time.
The door swings open and a flock of people rushes in, heightening John's panic because they, in opposite to him, seem to know what to do even though they really are as helpless as he is as long as the lab doesn't come forth with an antidote.
And then Mycroft is there, prising John's hands away from Sherlock with remarkable gentleness.
"We're going to wait outside," he says so firmly it's evident he's not far from breaking either.
John struggles: "I don't want-"
"The lab results have just come through," Mycroft answers, "treatment is to begin immediately."
John sags.
There's no reason for relief so soon; Sherlock's condition remains critical after the antidote has been administered.
It is the longest night John can remember. He can't even say who's off worse, he or Mycroft; the older man's posture is tense, he bears little resemblance with his usual calm self. No one would call him 'Iceman' if they saw him like this, John thinks. Both of them are keeping vigil by Sherlock's bed, none of them sitting because it seems wrong; keeping vigil means staying alert.
John has taken Sherlock's hand again, despite the machines which are beeping in the background needing to reassure himself that there is still a pulse, that he doesn't quietly slip away unnoticed. Mycroft just looks at his brother, his face as still as stone.
The fever abates in the early morning, which is a good sign, and really, Sherlock steadily improves during the morning until the responsible doctor declares him stable and out of danger.
John, overwhelmed by relief and fatigue, feels himself go weak in the knees. When he calls Mary to tell her, he can hear that she's actually crying, and he doesn't feel so far from tears himself.
He does nap a little in one of the chairs, but he can't bring himself to leave, not yet. Not as long as he hasn't talked to Sherlock. Who takes his time to wake up; when he comes to, it's already late afternoon. He still looks and probably also feels dreadful, but his eyes are less glazed, and his features are rather relaxed.
His gaze focuses on John, who feels another wave of relief surging through him: "God, Sherlock," he says softly. He didn't expect his voice to tremble and give out like it did just now; in fact, his eyes are brimming as well.
Sherlock is too wrung out to speak, exhausted from the physical pain and the ordeal his body has gone through, but his eyes never leave John, who clears his throat: "As soon as you're ready to be discharged, I'll take you home with me," he promises.
His friend manages to produce a sound which might have been an agreeing hum or else a way of protest; it's not really clear. But John, who has taken hold of Sherlock's hand again, feels a very slight pressure against his palm at that.
"Sleep, Sherlock," he says, "and once you've rested a bit, you can try to deduce who did it, and why."
There's another feeble pressure, then Sherlock closes his eyes.
This time, it's not frightening at all.
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The End
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