John never knew a simple sneeze could lead his best friend into a hospital.
John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were about one corner away from the crime scene when that happened. The sneeze. One little thing that told him there was something going on with the clever consulting detective. It wasn't even a vicious one. Just a tiny sneeze. Muffled in his coat sleeve. Sherlock sniffled once after it and that was basically it. John blamed himself for not noticing the problem earlier that moment. Maybe things were a lot easier if he just took his Doctor sensors to maximum, that afternoon. Instead he did the opposite.
"Cheers," John replied only half aware of what just happened. Everyone sneezes sometimes, no big deal.
"Hm, dull," Sherlock replied not interested in such a common use of words.
…
But there was more where that came from.
Sherlock was starting to run a fever after that small incident. It was only slightly visible on the genius face, but his cheeks started to turn rosy.
"John, my phone…" the absent man commanded. John actually wasn't aware of the fever until he accidently noticed the heat radiating from him as he grabbed the cellphone out the inside coat pocket. Sherlock just stared through the cab's window. One elbow resting on the window frame as his fist was neatly folded under his chin. The cab drove slowly towards their place. And now to think of it, Sherlock was a bit quiet now. This was not how it usually started. This new double murder case. Sherlock would normally be more excited. Rambling amazing stuff about the victim's feet and special hairspray from Spain, or something like that. John didn't want to think about it any further.
"There you go," the doctor said instead as he handed him the phone. Sherlock hummed his thanks, his warm clammy hand briefly touched his. They shared a swift look (did Sherlock know he knows about the fever?) and Sherlock immediately started texting his brother about something.
"Who are you texting?" John had tried, though he already knew it was Mycroft from the way Sherlock frowned. Although he wasn't a detective like his best friend was but every time he was with his big brother that exact same ignorant frown grew on his slender face.
"Nobody. But we need to go back to St. Bart's, now. Molly would be slashing up the victims within this hour. I have to be there just in case she misses out on something important." John didn't have a chance to have a saying into this, like always.
"Cabdriver, go to the St. Bart's hospital, instead," Sherlock yelled.
…
It wasn't long until the whole crew, as in Lestrade, Molly and Anderson, were gathered around the first found victim. A young female had been strangled to death. There was a strange compound on the inside of her mouth that could say a lot about the killer. It has to be poison of some kind. Sherlock was very determent about that. Until he slightly lost his balance and secretly grabbed a hold of the examine table. No one else noticed it but John. He also noticed how deeply tired his voice had gotten since the last time he had a talk with Lestrade and Anderson. Back in the alley Sherlock had sniffed the victim and immediately started his theory that this was in fact a murder. Somehow Anderson always began his theory with the possibility that it was maybe suicide. Sherlock somehow always manage to tell him otherwise. But that was then. Now, Sherlock seemed absent. Off his pin.
He didn't even act all clever and sarcastic against his rival like he normally would. In fact he was very quiet and didn't even put his coat collar back up when he got out of the cab. His words to Lestrade and Anderson came out wrong, stumbling out on words and even slightly indecisive. Things like these where really hard to miss. Now even Lestrade noticed the difference.
"You alright, Sherlock?" he asked concerned. Molly bit her lip as she started to cut the woman, she tried hard not to look at the consulting detective face. Sherlock never replied. But that was when John came in. He was a doctor after all.
"Yes, well. Everything seems to be in order, right, Sherlock? Let's go back to Bakerstreet and let Molly do her work. Hm?" He grabbed ahold of Sherlock's upper arm and to everyone's surprise, Sherlock nodded as an agreement and followed the doctor to the exit without a word.
…
When they finally got home, Sherlock got straight to the loo. And that was when John got a call from Anderson. Apparently their exit had left a great impact to all of them.
"Everything alright with Sherlock, there? He did look a bit off his rocker. Has he been using again and forgot to mention it? Is that it?" John felt an angry flame burning up the bottom of his stomach every time someone accused Sherlock for such of things. But he let it slide while answering he noticed the fever and then some.
"Yeah, well. Let him get some rest. I can handle the rest of it. Tell him he pointed me at the right direction. That will sooth him, don't you think?"
"Yes, I think that would be a good idea. But I don't know if I can hold him off for long. But I will figure something out."
"Just doctor him, Doctor Watson. Nobody can ignore the integrity of doctor's orders."
When Sherlock retrieved to the living room John ended the call immediately because it did not feel right to talk behind his best friend's back like a little schoolgirl. That was not how friendships work. At least, not for them.
Another sneeze. Followed with a moan of discomfort. That was all Sherlock let him see before every other flu symptoms suddenly disappeared. If it was even the flu.
"Something isn't right, John. We missed something. Something important. We probably missed it while we were talking to Lestrade and his dumb genome. Think John! What was right affront of our noses this whole time? Her shoes where untied! Dried mud under the soles and stuck under her fingernails. The powdery compound on the insides of her cheeks could definitely be some kind of drug. Narcotics? No… Devilsbreath? Maybe. It all depends on the amount of adrenaline left in her bloodstream. Molly would do the test. But what was she doing there in the alley before the killer choked her till death? Aaahhhgggr! I can't figure this out, now." A second growl followed. Sherlock was angry. Frustrated. Worked up for some reason. Why now?
Sherlock walked towards the window probably to look outside, maybe. But he didn't look. His eyes were closed. Then he shook his head and walked back to his former spot, with hands on his head.
"Calm down, Sherlock. I know what's going on. You are ill. That's what you'll get when have been working nonstop for days. Days, without a proper dinner or any food consumption; or a good night of sleep."
There, John said it. Although, he wasn't going to. It sort of happened.
Meanwhile the great consulting detective was stroking his temples.
"I had a muffin this morning, John. I am fine."
John huffed some air at that.
"Like that is going to make things better." His younger friend was being an ass, again.
"That Anderson fellow is giving me a headache. Why did he ever wanted to be a detective when he grew up? He doesn't even want to use his brain for one time. Ahhhggrr this case, John. Why are we even back at bakerstreet?" The thin and slightly sweating man suddenly looked up at the doctor who took place behind his laptop. He had to answer fast and convincing. Otherwise, the man would take off again. And Sherlock's body definitely needed some rest.
"Well, there wasn't much to go on. Molly is doing her thing and you were about to fall over. And of course it's always good to take a break once in a while. We can go back with an open mind. And that's only going to happen if you took your nap, first. Doctor's orders."
"Hm," the detective mumbled.
It got Sherlock thinking for a while. His feet stumbled up on each other as the consulting detective sought the comforts of his own leader chair; finally admitting to his total obvious exhaustion.
"Damn Anderson. He will probably say this was suicide as soon as he finds out about the illegal sleeping pills that she was carrying around in her purse. Oh. Or the note that was in her pocket. And when he does, I have to tell him that it wasn't her who wrote it. It's just a façade. The victim was left handed, not right handed. She was carrying her purse on the other side of her shoulder. Her fingernails on the right hand where perfectly painted, although the left one did look a bit messy. The letter is written with a strong hand. She is not even 5 feet tall her hands were small and considering the amounts of paper cuts and bruises the victim wasn't athletic, in fact she was just very clumsy. Office worker, maybe. Perhaps. But not the night that she was murdered. She didn't come from work so she maybe didn't even go to work this day. Sickday? Maybe. Or maybe because it's Saturday… how silly of me. People are usually free on Saturday's. How dull. How I amazingly came to this conclusion, John? Well… she wore an old jeans who was slightly one size too small assuming she put on a bit of weight since then. Maybe because she was not happy, but still… that doesn't mean she wanted to kill herself. Besides, her cellphone was in her left coat pocket. I saw the personalized screensaver of a cute fluffy puppy so I'm just assuming it was her's. Her baby, hardly something to abandon. So that has to tell Anderson something at some point that this was a murder, right? Hmm. Probably not. He is just as smart as the feet of a horse." Sherlock had to stop blurring out mean word to take a long deep breath; because he was probably feeling faint again. Now his cheeks started to flush even more. At least he was sitting down. Otherwise John would've assume this was the moment Sherlock would fall over for sure.
This was getting ridiculous.
John took a deep breath as well after he noticed he was holding it in. He had to admit, Sherlock was being amazing again. But still, this so called 'rush' was eating the detective alive. It wasn't even difficult to notice the increasing fever anymore, so he had to lay him down before it got out of hand.
"We call him as soon as you promise not to storm out on me for two hours, alright? You need to close your eyes for a bit and rest. I am not as much as a detective like you, but I can tell you're having trouble staying upright for the last few minutes and it's getting worse now, does it?"
"Bravo, Doctor Watson. Great deduction. Yes, I did in fact develop a fever along the way. Have a headache with the size of this entire building and I do feel very tired at the moment. That's why I need to focus. Get my mind together at once. So be a marvelous sport and be quiet for a while. I will be in my mind palace now, thank you."
Holding up his hand like an 'alright fine, be an ass, Sherlock,' gesture John got back to his table, working on his story. So he could secretly keep an eye on him.
About a couple of minutes Sherlock started to snore softly, and that was when the doctor was certain his friend finally had fallen asleep. With a victorious smile the doctor walked over to Sherlock's bedroom to retrieve a blanket and he carefully draped it around his friend's thin frame.
…
About two hours later the consulting detective started to get a bit restless. He was puffing out air like he was getting burned alive. John had been swallowed up in his story for this long and nearly jumped out of his skin when Sherlock suddenly cried out in discomfort.
His arms flaying around it was certain that Sherlock was having a fever induced nightmare.
As fast as he could, John removed the blanket from Sherlock's shivering body. Even though the sick man was still in a sitting-like position he could see Sherlock was obviously trying to run away from something, or someone.
"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?" John tried while taking his pulse. "Oh, that's not really good, now is it, Sherlock? Your blood pressure is way too high." His hand stayed on the man's forehead for a while. 'Sherlock is burning up. What was happening to him? This isn't a normal cold. It's like he is having some sort of allergic reaction. Maybe an infection. That will explain the fever,' John thought.
"I need you to wake up now, Sherlock!" Slapping his feverish face didn't work as well as John hoped. The sick man only just briefly opened his eyes before closing them again. At least the flaying panic had stopped. But now the man was panting.
His dark curls were sticking on his sweaty forehead and John started to worry this 'thing' might be getting worse by the minute if he didn't do something about it. But what?
"Stay calm, dear friend. I need to take your temperature." He didn't miss the tiny nod. So Sherlock was actually more awake as suspected. Although, his eyes remained close and his entire shivering frame did not move at all, despite from the shivers no less.
"Jawn…I-I think the killer is a chemist. He k-knows h-his way with d-d-d-drugs…" Sherlock tried to form more words but it came out more like a cry of total misery. Too bad John hadn't heard him. He was upstairs getting his medical equipment. Sherlock didn't even notice he was left alone for two minutes.
"Feel'so ffffloaty, Palace is melting, Jawn…" 'John has to know what is going on. Nobody understands the importance of this. He might be drugged. That was the only explanation. John has to know. Mycroft. He knows what to do. He knows the right people. Has to tell this. But my words are not forming properly. Have to try again.'
"Jawnn… M-my brother…" His head lulled from side to side. Eyes did not focus on anything. His body was betraying him. Left him behind like a ghost.
"Can't stay…d-distant, Jawn… Jo-hn."
Meanwhile John was back with the ear-thermometer. "It's alright, now, Sherlock. I am here. Now let me take you're temperature." Three seconds he put the device in his left ear until it beeped. The outcome was shocking.
"Dear God, Sherlock. You have a fever of 41°c. I-I think we need to go to a hospital."
'Hospital! Of course!' Sherlock thought. 'Good thinking, John.'
Sherlock nodded at that. Suddenly he found the strength to open his glazed eyes and glanced at his best friend. With a moan he got his upper body off from the chair, making himself ready to get up. But his body was still too shivery and out of control to do any more.
"Yes, good. Hopes for you yet. W-we need to go to M-Molly. S-she must've found… out about the poison by now. Get m-my coat."
"What? Why? No… Sherlock. We are not going back to Molly. Forget about the case. You're very ill. We need to find out what's wrong with you."
If only Sherlock was able to tell him what was happening to him, right at this moment. He was poisoned by the same drugs as the first victim.
It has to be it!
This inner struggle within Sherlock's mind wasn't visible on the outside. All John saw was a rambling confused, and very sick man who couldn't even get up on his own, anymore. Sherlock didn't make a lot of sense.
"B-but the compound, Jawn. P-p-p-please! I… I need to know," Sherlock pleaded, his head had sunken onto John's shoulder. It was heartbreaking, John wasn't able to fight the urge to hug the man for comfort. The man was so lost. After all, Sherlock was just a human being.
The man was delirious and desperate for a gently touch. John was willing to give him some.
To Sherlock's surprise. He was only half wrong.
Sherlock did need a bit of love right now. But the importance of that information would probably save his life, depending on which poison they were dealing with. Although, John's warmth felt good. As soon as the contact broke Sherlock got his addled mind back together.
John only saw the man's eyes water a bit. His mouth was moving but no words came out.
"What is it, Sherlock?" He kneeled beside him.
"H-how could I've been infected? I did not touch a thing," Sherlock rambled barely audible. His warm head lulled aside when John wanted to check his pulse again. Sherlock was getting worse. His heart rhythm was fluttering. The sick man had closed his eyes again. He was about to fall asleep. Not good. Not good at all. Hospital it was, then. But there was no chance he could get the man upright and in a cab. He needed a ride.
Without giving it a thought he called 999.
'I must've inhaled it while I was investigating the body. Powder of a blowfish could paralyze you within seconds and make you feel weak. But not sick. So we have to rule that one out,' Sherlock thought. Some of the words came out of his mouth. He heard himself ramble. But it wasn't helpful at all.
John made the call, quickly. When he was done he got back to his best friend.
He heard him say something about ruling something out. But that was it.
"Sherlock. The ambulance is coming. You need to stop working on the case. Try to stay awake. I need you to focus on me, this apartment. Can you do that? No mind palace, okay?"
Sherlock's glazed over eyes where all over the place but he could not focus on anything. He wasn't looking. He wasn't even here in this apartment.
"I'mafraid…"
Now John was getting even more worried. "I know, Sherlock. Just stay calm." He caressed through his dark hair for comfort while waiting for an ambulance.
'Who else need to know this? Sherlock's parents? Oh!'
"Mrs. Hudson!" John yelled as he realized she had to know what was going on.
Luckily, she was just about to come up with a cup of tea.
"John? What's wrong?" she put the tray down on the ground and walked into the living room. Immediately as she saw the younger man slumped down in his chair with crazy eyes, she knew it was bad.
"Oh, good gracious. What happened?" The old lady did care a lot about Sherlock. John could tell by seeing the look on her face. She hurried to the chair, next to the younger man and felt his forehead.
"He is burning up, john!"
"Sherlock thinks he's poisoned, I think. Although I doubt it. He has a fever of 41°C. Already called for an ambulance."
Then Sherlock's eyes popped open again, looking frantic and awake.
"John. An heretofore unidentified poison. That's probably how far Molly Hooper can get without my help. Call my brother, John. Otherwise… I-I might die," the sick man mumbled suddenly. His short moment of clarity didn't last longer than that. Eyes started to close again. He was falling back asleep by the time John could get his mind straight again.
"What?"
Mrs. Hudson frowned.
"Call him, John. His brother. I think he is on to something."
John hesitated only a moment, before the doorbell rang. The paramedics were here. "I call Mycroft as soon as I let them in. Mrs. Hudson, would you stay with him for a moment?" The elderly lady nodded.
"Of course," she promised while grabbing Sherlock's hand for comfort.
John ran down the stairs when Sherlock suddenly opened his eyes again. He looked for his best friend. Instead he was with Mrs. Hudson who was holding his hand.
"Tell Mycroft. Kaliumcyanide. It has to be it. My breath is stocking. Tell him." It was the only thing he could say before he passed out again. Sherlock was sweating and trembling at the same time. His eyes kept rolling from under the eyelids. He was terribly sick. And it kept getting worse. Mrs. Hudson could feel the man convulsing. His face written with pain.
"John! It's Kaliumcyanide, he says. He just announced it and fainted again. Can they do something about that?" She could hear de boy's climbing up the stairs with a stretcher.
John, who just had leaded the paramedics to the sick one, bit his lip.
"No, it can't be it. That's would stop his breathing in seconds. It has been roughly an hour and a half since he came in contact with the victim. Is it even possible to get poisoned by sniffing someone's breath?" John asked the older paramedic nearest Sherlock's face.
"Oh, it's possible, alright. But it's not Kaliumcyanide. His pulse is too high. His lungs are working fine. I doubt this has got to do something with that sort of stuff. But he is definitely sick. We have to take him to the hospital."
"But he said it was. This is Sherlock Holmes. He knows these things," Mrs. Hudson insisted. Instead of listening to her the biggest paramedic pushed her aside.
"Look, Maim, with a fever this high it is most likely that the poor bastard is delusional. But we will do our best to get him to the doctors, safely," the younger man said; a lot friendlier.
"Let us go through," the 'not so friendly man' said. They lay Sherlock carefully onto the stretcher and strapped his arms and legs to it, for the journey down the stairs. The poor man stayed unconscious this whole time.
…
John had followed the ambulance to the nearest hospital. One of the paramedics told that Sherlock has gotten unresponsive. At some point is lungs stopped working and that was when things got really scary. Sherlock was seizing and convulsing and it was a good thing they already strapped him to the stretcher. But it was definitely one of the terrifying moments in John's life.
So he may be poisoned after all.
Dear God!
…
Mycroft somehow already knew what was going on and met John at the ICU.
"Got the results from Molly Hooper. It was poison. An heretofore unidentified poison. Homemade I presumed. The killer has to be some sort of chemist. However I assure you that my brother dear will recover after this." Mycroft handed the doctor a small vial with a clear fluid inside.
John took it but was very confused about how quickly Mycroft had an solution for this problem when he, as Sherlock's best friend didn't even know he was poisoned for real.
"Well… thanks, Mycroft. How…"
"He texted me this afternoon. Although his text was a bit cryptic. 'You're going to have to do some legwork tonight-SH.'"
"The text. So he knew something was wrong at that point?" John's mouth fell open to that. The ignorant bastard. If Sherlock knew something back then it didn't had to go this far.
Mycroft cleared his throat.
"The British nation knows a lot about chemical weapons in all sorts and sizes. Naturally we oversee every possibility of people purchased all kinds of them. Sherlock just happens to be in bad luck finding another one before us who didn't buy a thing, but made it on his own. It was a lot less stronger than the original Kaliumcyanide they use to choke people. That's probably how the victim got strangled afterwards. It didn't work fast enough." His usually flat tone got a bit deeper in the end. That was probably the only sign of emotion John could find.
"So he was right. Sherlock was right about everything. I –I thought he was just babbling." John felt like a dumbass.
"Oh nonsense, John. Don't beat yourself up on this. I still think Sherlock is babbling most of the time. Well now. Go ahead and inform his doctors, Dr. Watson." With that the metallic point of his umbrella ticked three times on the tile floor.
…
"It is a good thing to have Mycroft as a brother, Sherlock. Otherwise, you would have died yesterday," John whispered when the thin man finally awoke.
Sherlock had been in and out consciousness the whole night, asking for his mother and John. He rambled some more incoherent things but it was hard to follow such an incredible mind on drugs.
When the antidote was dripping through his IV, the poor man started to breathe a lot slower and deeper. He was still a bit feverish but the worst part was over.
"What? Was he here?" Sherlock croaked. It was the first time he used his voice this morning. John saw the hopeful looking the man's eyes as he scanned the room. Fond of this John lay a hand on the man's ankle.
"He is not here, Sherlock. He was here last night when they brought you in. Can you remember?" Sherlock tried to remember but his body was left weakened after this scary adventure.
"No," he whispered after a moment of trying.
"Let me help you, then. You were poisoned, yesterday. You must've inhaled some of the poison from the victim's mouth. It didn't occurred to us until you started to show some signs of fever and delirium. And even when I thought you were ranting up silly stuff you were actually telling me and Mrs. Hudson what was happening to you. That's pretty amazing." Sherlock smiled at that as his eyelids started to flutter shut.
"I only remember one thing. You… hugged me."
Luckily for John, Sherlock was already on his way to a restful sleep when he started blushing.
"Yeah… that's the only part you should've forget, dear friend." John grinned when he heard the feverish man snoring peacefully. He petted his ankle before letting him go.
"We're taking a few days off, Sherlock. Doctor's orders."
John knew the man heard him because a frown was forming on his forehead but was too far away to actually object to this.
~End~
…
AN: I am very new to this Sherlock stories. I like the BBC series of Sherlock and the interaction with John and Sherlock. Naturally I had to write a story with a flare of bromance in it. Because I role that way. Please review this story. I am not a good writer. But at least I try.
X
Josie