The Dying Detective
After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then… Something is definitely wrong with Sherlock. Will John find out the reason in time? Post-Reichenbach Fic for the Let's write Sherlock Challenge 1
„You could have gotten yourself killed, you do know that right? Sherlock?" John let out a deep sigh. Sherlock bloody Holmes did not respond preferred to stare out of the cab's window at the barely lit streets they were passing through. „He got a knife, for gods sake. And you had nothing better to do than wrestling him down instead of waiting for Lestrade, as I have told you to do. Sherlock? Oh fuck, are you even listening?"
John was not a man to ramble or swear but his friend always brought out the worst in him. More so since his mysterious reappearance from death half a year ago – Sherlock still owned him a full explanation for that.
"Please at least tell me if you are ok." Sherlock seemed more stiff than usual, his arms pressed against his body, he was hiding in his dark coat. His head was slightly bowed and one of his errand curls fell in his face hiding it from John's watchful eye.
"What do you care?" Sherlock snapped. "Why are you even here?"
"What the hell…"
"You should be with you wife, not taking a cab home with a nuisance like me" Sherlock nearly spit the word "wife" while the rest of the sentence was barely a whisper. "You shouldn't be here, John. I will do fine without you." Even though John knew the words were meant to be hurtful they lacked their usual spite and strength as Sherlock again tried to push him away, out of his life. He had done that often enough, especially in the last half a year. John knew something had snapped in Sherlock even though the man did hide it well enough most of the times. It only ever came to surface in days like this – a case nearly gone completely wrong. The suspect had died, shot by a policemen when he had tried to stab Sherlock in the throat, missing him only by millimetres.
The cab came to a halt at 221B Baker Street and like always Sherlock left the cab without a blink and John to pay. But this time he did not glide out of his seat like he normally did. John noticed how tired the man looked. Did he sleep at all in the last three and a half years? John noticed the light shiver along his spine. More than worry, more than fear. God, how he had missed that man. A void even the beautiful Mary could never have filled.
Sherlock nestled with the key, so untypical. But when John tried to help, Sherlock pushed his hand away. "For god's sake I told you to go to your wife and leave me alone" Sherlock snapped again. His eyes gleamed with menace.
"Why are you doing this, Sherlock" John tried to stay calm. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Everything of this situation seemed wrong. Not only the case, everything in Sherlock's behaviour was lacking something… what? "Why are you so cruel to Mary, why to me?" Despair left a trace in John's voice. "I thought you even liked her…"
"Only because I once said she was the most decent of all your stupid women does not mean…" Sherlock just stared at his hand, holding the key, shaking lightly while he finally managed to push it into the keyhole. "Please just leave, John. I can't. Not tonight."
And with that he closed the door into John's face. "Sherlock!"
John shook his head in something between anger and fear. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Everything had gone wrong. And for the first time in the last half a year he really wished he still had a key to the flat he once had called home. Home. Home. Oh, Sherlock.
With a sigh John hailed another cab. Mary it was then.
Sherlock watched trough the window as John entered the cab. Finally. Finally the man was gone. Finally peace. He slumped down to the floor, leaning his head on the wall. He did not bother to shed out of his coat as a released a breath. A tear fell from his eye and his breathing became a light sobbing. Once. Twice. All this pain. John had not seen. God bless John had not seen. If he had seen he would have tried to help, he would have tried to touch. No touching. Not John. Sherlock tried to steady his breathing. How he hated to be so weak. With a painful sigh he took his hand from his side where he had pressed it firmly since the encounter with the knife. It was not a deep cut he told himself as he looked at his bloodied hand. Sleep would help. Sleep and rest. And all would be fine. And with another sigh he closed his eyes.
Two days later
John had really fought with himself. Whether he should go or stay away from the only real friend he had ever had. Mrs Hudson finally made the decision for him when she called to tell him she had just come back from holiday only to find Sherlock's flat firmly locked and no sound from the inside. She was fairly sure Sherlock was home, because she had heard something falling down an hour ago. But he did not answer, not to calls, not to his phone.
Nothing to worry about, John told himself while he nearly ran down the steps to the tube station to get to Baker Street. Again he looked at his phone, still no answer to the 14 text messages he had sent. Then he lost connection diving deep down into the London underground. God Sherlock, what have you done this time? John hoped Sherlock was only in one of his musings, lost to the world while rummaging through his mind palace. But what if not… what if there was something wrong? Sherlock had been so strange after the last case… Do not go that way of thinking, John told himself, do not.
When he finally got out of the tube at Baker Street he was shivering with anticipation. Mrs Hudson was waiting for him at the doorstep looking a bit pale. "Oh thank good you are here John, how's Mary?"
"Fine. Thanks. What about Sherlock?"
"Oh I don't know John. He does not answer my calls. He never does that for such a long time. I've been calling his name for hours. I think there is something wrong… He nicked my key John, I can't even get in."
"When did that happen?"
"Two months ago" Mrs Hudson blushed a bit. "Oh don't look at me like that, you two have been at each others throat all the time since he came back. I didn't want to make it worse… I know I should have told you."
John was heading up the stairs as fast as his legs did move. "Sherlock!" No response. "Open the door, you idiot!" No response. "SHERLOCK!" John banged against the door.
Mrs Hudson had come up the stairs after him. "Can you break it, John? The door?"
John smashed his body against the door. Once. Twice. His shoulder ached. With the third blow the door gave in and John stumbled in the flat.
No sign of the man. "Sherlock?" Still no response. John's eyes fell on Sherlock's coat discarded on the floor, he already wanted to pass it when he saw the stain. Dark and threatening. John touched the fabric, he knew what made stains like this. Dried blood. "No", he whispered. "No, Sherlock, no." Mrs Hudson was even paler than before.
The room to Sherlock's bedroom was only half closed and John started to move towards it. He dreaded every step. What if? What if? He could not loose him again.
Sherlock was lying in his bed, wearing nothing but his pyjama trousers and a badly made, stained bandage on his torso. John flew to his side, to touch Sherlock's hand that hung out of the bed. Like a dying angel. No, he corrected himself. A dying detective.
He already expected the skin to be cold, no pulse in his wrist. But instead he found a pulse beating far to fast, skin burning hot. And then John recognized the other signs, the sweat on Sherlock's skin, the shallow breathing. Sherlock had clearly been stabbed and like always refused to let anybody care for him. The wound must have become infected over the last days causing a life threatning fever. "Oh Sherlock", John breathed while grabbing his hand harder.
"J..J…John.." Sherlock stirred still only half awake in his feverish slumber.
"I am here, you idiot. I am here."
"John can't know…" Fever was speaking not Sherlock.
"Know what, Sherlock?" He looked back at Mrs Hudson. "Can you call Mary? She should bring my bag. I will look if I can do anything here or if we have to call the ambulance. Oh how he will hate that… and if you are at it, Mrs Hudson: Call Mycroft as well. We might need him."
Sherlock's breathing was racked. "John… don't go, John. John."
"Shhhh", John lovingly touched Sherlock's temple and his heart made a flip. So young. So vulnerable. So beautiful. Stop. Stop. Stop. John berated himself. Mary.
"John", Sherlock was now sobbing in his fever. "I… John… I… I love you, John."
Three days later
"Have I said anything stupid while I had this fever thing?" Sherlock asked while he pushed himself up again even though John have told him at least 42 times he had to rest a little longer.
John blushed and moved so that Sherlock couldn't see his face.
"John?"
John mustered a fake smile and turned back to the very man he held so dear, the very man he loved with all his heart and was still forbidden to get any closer to. "No, why would you. You are a genius, aren't you?"
Sherlock stared at him, then nodded. "Ok", he said and fell back into his pillows.
Oh how easily it was to fool that man sometimes, John thought as he left the room to fetch a cup of tea.
He never saw that Sherlock grabbed the sheet tightly only to make himself not to scream. John knew. John knew. Oh dear, he was going to die of embarrassment. He knew. Oh god. He knew. JOHN! And with that Sherlock closed his eyes hoping to never open them again. Death seemed so sweet. So much sweeter than a life full of embarrassment and shame, better than this turmoil of stupid feelings he could no longer control.
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock did not answer only hoping John would go away if he thought him to be asleep.
"Good" John said. "Sleeping is good."
Sherlock heard John moving in the room, and suddenly there was this soft hand on his face. Sherlock's heart nearly stopped.
"Sleep well, love", John breathed into his ear and planted a soft kiss on his hair.
And than John was gone. Sherlock heard his steps on the floor and then his light mutter: "It's better this way. He does not have to know… God, John it's better…"
And with a sigh John closed the door. Not only to a room but also to a maybe that will never become a "we are".
The End!