The Venomous Watson

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters from that TV series or books mentioned.

Sherlock was used to the mutters and shouts coming from John's room; he had grown accustomed to it those first few nights. The first night it had occurred, Sherlock hadn't been sleeping anyway. He had been sitting in his armchair, thinking about a case. Who could kidnap someone in public, without being seen or reported?

His fingers had been rubbing his temples, trying to alleviate the inevitable headache that was brought on by countless cups of tea. Well, not countless. It had been almost 8 and three-fourths. He hadn't been able to finish the last one, but had thrown it against the wall in frustration, smashing the porcelain cup to bits, drops of tea sliding down the wall. For a brief moment, Sherlock had remembered his recently acquired flatmate and had cringed inwardly, preparing himself to make some sort of half hearted apology for the crash.

But John had not come out of his room as Sherlock expected. Instead, in the absolute silence, Sherlock could hear mutterings and strange noises coming from John's room. Quickly thinking, Sherlock knew there hadn't been time for John to pick up a girl to bring back to the flat, that John would be too polite to do that, and that, at 4 A.M., he certainly wouldn't be having sex with her.

So, his curiosity had been piqued and he had padded over to John's door, his feet making soft sounds on the rug. As he'd reached the door, he could hear mutterings and pick out a few words. "Afghanistan… go…. run… won't tell…" Sherlock had nodded, mystery solved. John Watson was talking in his sleep, responding to a dream. He'd then turned, and began going back to his chair to sit and think, when he'd heard a shout. Well, not really a shout, more like a scream, coming from the room he had just turned away from.

Sherlock had tensed, the shout causing him to whirl around and face the door again. Was this John reacting to the dream or was he in danger? Sherlock didn't want a murder in his second bedroom; it would make finding another flatmate so tiring and difficult. So, Sherlock had cracked open the door, poked his head through, and been greeted with the sound of a gun cocking and that very gun pointed directly at his face from a tousle-haired weary man lying in the bed.

That was the first night. Sherlock had been lucky John hadn't fired, and more so that John hadn't really remembered much in the morning. Now, so many nights later, Sherlock lay in his own bed, listening to the frantic murmurs. Each night was the same, murmurs and then sudden shouts, accompanied by John going to the kitchen for a cup of tea and then returning to bed. Each morning Sherlock would pretend he heard nothing and they would continue to solve cases.

After the pool, John's dreams had become worse and there were new words like "Sherlock… bomb… sorry...," and he was waking up sometimes twice a night. Sherlock eased back on the cases, and John never showed any fear or resistance when running through the darkened streets of London, dangerous though they were. John Watson, doctor, soldier, friend, ran when there was danger, not away, but towards. He followed Sherlock Holmes and woke up at night screaming.

Sherlock didn't think much of it, but he started noticing little things. John shifted his armchair slightly so it was turned more toward the door. John started leaning on things when he walked, as if his leg was bothering him again. His hand would twitch and clench at crime scenes. He became more irritable, snapping at Mrs. Hudson when she would misplace things around the flat. Of course, being John, he would apologize soon after and get all red in the face and embarrassed. But Mrs. Hudson was more careful around the flat after that and didn't come round nearly as often with tea and biscuits, which Sherlock missed.

Things came to a head on a particular case, The Brown Recluse, as John had named it on his ever so imaginative blog. There was a serial killer in London, one who murdered by the venom of poisonous spiders. The Recluse's killing pattern was always the same, but there was no connection between the victims.

They did not share gender; they came from a variety of age ranges, from young adults to elderly. So far there had been 4 kills, two men, one woman, and one transgender woman. The two men had been 34 and 58, the two women 20 and 46. They all had different jobs: lawyer, nurse, secretary, and chef. One was married, three had children, and two were in a relationship. They were all from different areas, one all the way from America. Of course, Scotland Yard was stumped, so Sherlock Holmes swept into the most recent crime scene, collar up and face slightly flushed with the excitement of a possible serial killer.

This was the 4th kill, a 34 year old man with sandy blond hair, one son, a chef, and engaged to his fiancé. He had been killed in the same way as the others, two small holes on the top of his left shoulder, right where the axillary artery would be. The holes went through the thick white fabric of his chef's coat. The body had not been taken to the lab yet, but they presumed it was the same as the others, spider venom that the victim was allergic too, in a mixture of conium, or hemlock, injected into a large blood vessel.

Hemlock paralyzes the victim, leaving the killer time to cut six small circles into the victims' foreheads in the pattern of a brown recluse spider, which is where the nickname came from. There are always two puncture marks, very close together going through any clothing or protection the victim might be wearing. In the midst of all of this poison and yellow tape, Sherlock Holmes had a deduction to make.

"These wounds are not made by the fangs of a spider, not a lot of spiders can bite through clothes, not unless they have particularly large fangs, and I think you might notice a man carrying around a large spider with massive fangs walking through downtown London." Sherlock rattled off, not pausing to take a breath. Seeing Detective Lestrade's confused expression, he sighed and continued, "Yes, I say the killer is a man, I'll get there. Now, in order to inject the intended victim with this sort of makeshift poison, you would have to use a syringe. Two syringes to be more precise. Since there are two punctures in the coat, it is more statistically probable that the killer used two syringes, as using one would be two injections and more work."

Sherlock paused for a moment and then barreled on. "So, the killer used two syringes to inject the deceased with hemlock and spider poison. It takes around 100 mg to paralyze an adult, so it would be easier to carry around two small syringes rather than one large one. Hemlock is only easily found in around 8 cities in the proximity of London. Norwich, London itself, Brighton, Luton, Milton Keynes, Slough, Oxford, and Southampton. It is likely that the killer does not live in London, where a garden of hemlock would cause suspicion, but rather in a smaller city. Norwich is too far north and Brighton and Southampton too far south. Slough is too conspicuous and too close to London, Oxford is too touristy. Milton Keynes and Luton are the top two choices. I, myself, prefer Luton of the two. It's slightly farther away, which I think our killer would like. Helps them avoid suspicion."

"It takes about 47 minutes to get from Luton to London, which is an inconvenient amount of time for any Londoner, but not for an American, who sometimes would drive that to work. It makes sense that the killer would be from America, probably the Midwest, as that is where the Brown Recluse spider is most common. The killer knew what dose each person would need and which kind of spider venom each person was allergic too, leading to believe he was some kind of doctor, most likely an allergist. Why else would the people let him inject them willingly? There is no sign of a struggle here, so it was a willing injection which they thought would contain some sort of allergy medication. They probably also thought he would take their shirts off first, but he's an efficient man." Sherlock took a moment to hand his phone to Lestrade, where a hospital staff website glowed faintly.

"Now, who was the allergist of all of these people? Dr. Steven J. Stokes, M.D., originally from Omaha, Nebraska. He moved here to England around 2 years ago after his house became infested with brown recluse spiders, which bit his wife when he was away for a short time on a business trip. When he returned, she had died from the bites, which sometimes happens, though rare." Sherlock paused here for dramatic effect. "So, if you go to 212 Marsh Road in Luton, you'll find your killer, venom from American spiders, and a garden of hemlock."

Lestrade cursed and turned around to bark orders at his men and corral them back to the offices to get searching for this man. Sherlock waited, slightly expectant, for John's usual praising and semi-subconscious remarks, but only silence greeted him. He turned toward the door where John had stood when they'd entered the room. John still stood there, but he wasn't the same.

Gone was the stoic soldier who stood with great posture and hands clasped behind his back. Gone was the caring doctor who would have complimented his best friend and patted him on the back. In his place stood- or rather, leaned- a pale-faced, shaking, boy, slumped against the doorframe. His hand gripped his left shoulder, the color draining from his knuckles. His steel blue eyes were rapidly flicking around the room.

"John?" Sherlock asked tentatively, crossing the room to stand near his friend. "John, what's wrong? If you tell me what's wrong I can help you. John, focus on me. Keep your eyes fixed on me."

John reeled at his words as if he'd thrown a punch. He stumbled backwards and fell to his knees. Sherlock knelt next to him and gently tilted John's face up, trying to get him to focus and remember that he was in no danger. "John, let's return to Baker Street. We can talk there. Okay?" John gave a short nod but pushed Sherlock's hand away with a small grunt of impatience and frustration.