CHAPTER 1

It started with a kiss. Or it would have, had Sherlock Holmes just once in his life been like normal people. In the end, John never could figure out how he'd managed to contract mononucleosis – colloquially known as the kissing disease – despite his misgivings about physical contact with strangers. Sherlock, on the other hand, was quite convinced it was due to that incident when John had grown tired of queuing for a taxi on a Friday night in Coventry and made Sherlock take the tube with him.

Usually Sherlock was quite adept at hiding his symptoms until the point of collapsing from blood loss or something else equally life-threatening. This time the truth was evident right from when they arrived at the latest crime scene – as soon as Holmes had opened his mouth to spout out his usual condescending lecture about police incompetence all present noticed that his regular, sharp tenor voice had turned into something resembling an old vinyl recording being played at half speed. Also, he was looking a bit pale and light-headed. And his eyes were glassy. Later that evening, after a triumphant apprehension of a murder suspect and the subsequent resolution of a case, Sherlock was not his usual giddy self. Instead, when John enquired about a late night cardgame, he'd merely stated that he'd decided to retire to bed early. He didn't look too bad, though, so even if alarm bells were going off in John's mind he decided he would wait until the morning before engaging Sherlock in a match of wits to get him to consent to coming to the surgery with him.

It was as alarming as his sudden need for slumber that had Sherlock quite easily agreed to a clinic visit. He'd graciously submitted his arm to the lab technician for the blood tests and then proceeded to pass out on the waiting room floor. After the feat of getting nearly two metres of clammy and feverish consultant detective onto a gurney, he came to and frantically removed most of his clothing, indignantly complaining that he the thermostat was on too hot a setting. John occupied himself with starting an iv while Sarah took a cursory look.

"Any history of liver problems or hematological issues?" she enquired after a bit of poking and prodding.

Sherlock blinked, trying to get his eyes to focus. "Not that I am aware of."

Sarah turned to John who was wiping sweat of his own forehead. He looked a bit rattled. Sarah knew of John's flatmate's tendency to ignore bodily functions until they threatened his work. "Spleen's big. And I mean big as twenty centimetres and the liver's come down to well below the ribcage."

John eyed Sherlock carefully and then proceeded to feel his neck. The patient swatted his hand away, grunting in apparent agony. "Huge lymph nodes, too. I think it's Epstein-Barr. Throat been acting up lately?" he asked, tone betraying that he knew the answer already. He felt Sherlock's forehead. "You're burning up. We'd better get you home."

Sherlock looked annoyed. "Home? Are you not going to fix it?"

Sarah smiled. "We can't 'fix it', as you so eloquently put it. It's a virus. It'll run its course. Fever'll probably last you a couple of weeks."

Sherlock stood up, now thoroughly indignant. "Weeks? That's unacceptable. The trial for the Warrington case is next Monday, and Lestrade's asked me to -"

John crossed his arms. "Oh, no you don't. You're not leaving the flat and running after criminals until you've beat this. I'm not taking any risks while your spleen's like a balloon of blood about to burst into your abdominal cavity."

Sherlock did what any mature, reasonable adult would have done, faced with a similar predicament. He pouted and sulked all the way home and then banged his bedroom door theatrically after refusing John's offering of tea and an anti-inflammatory.

For a few days Sherlock was mostly docile, swaddled in an assortment of blankets in front of the television and yelling – or more accurately, rasping and barking – at soap opera plotlines. John was quite impressed with his self-control for a change. A fever reaching to forty degrees, and a generalized fatigue must have played a part. It was on the fourth day that the manic fiddling with things, whining and claustrophobia began setting in. It was quite clear that fever or no fever, Sherlock was waiting for a moment when John was away to slip into his coat, go outside, and wreak havoc.

Sherlock having a hiatus on cases would dig into their pockets quite severely. John couldn't keep away from the surgery for the whole duration of this pestilence so he decided to inform Mycroft of his brother's plight. Usually he answered after a few rings – or his secretary did. This time, however, John got his voicemail. There was a prerecorded message in Mycroft Holmes' droll tone and John was about to put down the receiver, but paused when he heard himself being addressed.

"And if this is Mr Watson calling concerning a Mr Sherlock Holmes, do await further instructions which will arrive quite shortly at your present location."

Some sort of contingency plan, then. Activated by John's mobile number. He couldn't bring himself to be surprised. Nor could he be bothered to get riled up over this invasion of privacy. It was amazing, the things he'd gotten used to since moving to Baker Street. The least of them was definitely not the whiny voice coming from Sherlock's bedroom, demanding John to come and pick up the socks Sherlock had thrown on the floor.

The further instructions did arrive shortly – in the form of Mrs Hudson leading up a visitor. "You boys decent?" she hollered, not bothering to wait for an answer before opening the door and showing in a woman in her late thirties. She wore a pantsuit, conservative jewellery, her heels on the bit of a high side. She was attractive, decided John, not in a traditional beauty queen sense, but in a sharp, formidable way. She was tall, with facial features that reminded John of someone. Usually it was Anthea who delivered Mycroft's messages. This was no secretary, John deduced. The air surrounding her was way more 'take charge' than 'take orders'.

John stepped closer. From the upstairs bedroom there was a loud thump as if something had been thrown against the wall. John decided to ignore it for once.

Mrs Hudson slipped out, muttering about something being on the stove. She knew Sherlock was ill, and knew perfectly well the servitude that demanded from all parties present. The woman did have a sense of self-preservation. John sighed.

The dark-haired woman stepped properly into the living room and placed her handbag onto the floor. She extended her hand. "John Watson, I presume?" She seemed curious, not actually smiling but looking inquisitive.

John nodded and shook her hand. "And you are?"

"Octavia Holmes."

John raised her eyebrows. "Holmes? Sherrinford's wife, then?"

The woman laughed. "Not exactly. I'm Octavia Alice Sherrinford Holmes. Sherlock's my little brother."