Title: Q 1 HR
Author: Still Waters
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Just playing, with love and respect to those who brought these characters to life.
Summary: On New Year's Eve, Sherlock discovers that sometimes it's the seemingly innocuous, rather than life-threatening, conditions that can keep John from The Work. And John is reminded just how deeply their friendship runs.
Notes: As 2012 came to a close, I wanted to try and write one more 'you will not endlessly edit this for an entire week' fic. Having just started a new medication for my eye condition, I began to think of the early days of my diagnosis and how Sherlock and John's lifestyle would be affected by medication that needs to be done every hour. This dialogue-focused piece, largely consisting of the two men snarking at each other, was the result. The title stands for how "every one hour" is noted on a medical order. Prednisolone acetate 1% ophthalmic suspension is a steroid eye drop used to treat inflammation inside the eye. Cyclopentolate is a dilating eye drop used to relax the muscles in the iris and relieve pain caused by those muscles spasming. It is also used to prevent the iris from sticking to the lens, a condition called "posterior synechiae." For those who have followed the author's notes of my previous stories, I have given John a mild, self-limiting case of the same eye condition I have been battling for the last three years. I decided to be kind to John and give him the version that occurs in one eye, is easily treated, and never comes back, rather than my own chronic, complicated version that's taken up residence in both eyes. It is due to uveitis's effects that I have not always been able to respond to the lovely feedback I have received on my work. Please continue to know that I truly appreciate every review, PM, favorite, alert, and kudos. I hope 2013 brings everyone peace, health, and happiness. As always, I truly hope I did the characters justice. Thank you for reading.
"Every hour, Sherlock."
"You've been putting them in hourly for six days. Surely that sort of frequency is no longer necessary."
John's right hand reached for the medication on the coffee table as his other one came up to adjust the cool flannel on his left eye. "What does this say?" he demanded, holding up the bottle.
He could feel the annoyed frown as Sherlock coolly replied, "I've seen what the prescription says."
"Yet you haven't observed its necessity," John said mildly, gesturing at his supine position on the couch, closed eyes, cool flannel, and neat line of prednisolone, cyclopentolate, paracetamol, and hand sanitizer on the coffee table.
Sherlock huffed as his own words were thrown back at him and began pacing. "The prescription should detail when the loading dose ends and the maintenance dose begins."
"Been at the NHS websites again, have you?" John muttered.
"The protocols and recommendations are easy to find. Your doctor is clearly an idiot."
"Right," John sighed, fighting the urge to massage his aching left temple and hoping that Sherlock would just let it go.
Like he'd ever be that lucky.
"If she had read the NPSA's reports on preventing fatalities from medication loading doses…." Sherlock continued.
"If you had read them, you'd notice that prednisolone acetate ophthalmic suspension wasn't mentioned. Know why? Because this isn't a bloody loading dose. It's the proper frequency for the initial treatment of acute, non-infectious anterior uveitis, which you'd already know if your research had involved simply typing 'uveitis' into NHS Direct like a normal person."
Sherlock glowered. "Every hour, at this stage, is -"
"Appropriate," John cut him off. "As I just told you."
"The redness and tearing have significantly decreased and you've only used paracetamol once today. You're obviously improving…."
"Yes. All the more reason to continue following my doctor's orders." John moved the flannel again, looking for a cooler part of the cloth.
"Improvement suggests reevaluation of the current medication regimen."
"Hmmm. Familiar words, those. Weren't you in hospital last time I heard them?" John paused, pretending to think. "Ah, yes, of course you were."
"John…." Sherlock growled.
"You were there because I admitted you for severe dyspnoea. You couldn't breathe because your pneumonia got worse. Now why did it get so bad? Oh, that's right. Because someone decided to ignore the label on his antibiotics saying to finish the entire course even if you felt better." John arched an eyebrow over his one visible, still closed eye.
"Is this how you treat your patients at the surgery? Marvelous bedside manner," Sherlock scoffed.
"I'm the one lying down," John pointed out. "And, no. I reserve this treatment for idiot consulting detectives who think they're bloody doctors."
"That's my point. You are a bloody doctor," Sherlock nearly shouted. "You can evaluate your progress and make medication changes as properly indicated."
"I'm not an ophthalmologist, Sherlock," John sighed heavily.
"No, you're working as a GP and went to a GP first," Sherlock reminded him.
"Who immediately sent me to an ophthalmologist, just as I would have done if a patient presented with my condition," John shot back.
"Surely you can see the difference -"
"Subjectively? Sure, I feel a bit better. But I can't do my own slit-lamp assessment. I can't look into my eye and evaluate the number of white blood cells or the dozen other inflammatory signs that only a specialist is familiar with. My follow-up is in two days, Sherlock. I'm sure she'll decrease the frequency of the drops then, so long as it's indicated."
"But -"
"Did you become an ophthalmologist in the last five minutes?" John cracked his good eye open and turned his head to look at Sherlock.
Sherlock's response was a frosty 'I won't even dignify that with an answer' glare.
"Didn't think so. Now shut up."
"It's ridiculous, really. That it can't just be -"
"You do realize that medicine is a science, right? That we don't just randomly choose how long and how often medications should be used?"
"Oh, shut up," Sherlock tossed back, dressing gown flaring dramatically as he strode over to stare out the window.
The room was silent.
John sighed at the utterly Sherlockian tantrum. "You can still go check it out, you know."
"You went to the surgery today," Sherlock replied, as if the connection should have been obvious.
Oddly enough, it was.
"Sherlock," John desperately tried not to sound like he was talking to a stubborn child, no matter how much Sherlock could sometimes act like one, "Putting in eye drops every hour in between patients and dimming the lights if I don't need them are reasonable accommodations that can be made at the surgery. The dilating drops make the light sensitivity even worse and I can't avoid bright lights while chasing a criminal through central London – a cab's headlights alone can nearly incapacitate me right now." John swallowed back the rest of the sentence – and I won't put you at risk like that – before clearing his throat and continuing, "Nor can I expect a suspect being chased by some combination of us and Scotland Yard to stop shooting at us when my medication alarm goes off."
"Hmmm." The tension in Sherlock's back lessened; a minute change that meant he was starting to smile.
John's lips twitched as he imitated their potential criminal, pitching his voice back to the same sarcasm he'd used outside the Baskerville gates. "Sorry, mate. You go right ahead and put your eye drops in. I'll wait. Can't stand an easy target."
Sherlock chuckled, low and deep. "True. I doubt a man who would steal from his dying fiancée in order to elope with a newly paroled murderer forty years his elder would be quite so considerate."
John found himself chuckling along with Sherlock, the laughter contagious, before pausing to respond to the actual words, lips pursed, but eyes sparkling. "How long ago did you solve it?"
"Halfway through Lestrade's request for my assistance."
"He phoned you early this morning," John recalled with a frown before pushing himself into a sitting position, the now lukewarm flannel falling into his lap. "Please tell me you haven't been withholding answers from Lestrade on New Year's Eve of all nights," he groaned.
Sherlock arched an eyebrow - a silent 'why would tonight be different than any other night?' – and pulled out his mobile, firing off a quick text. "They weren't leaving London until morning. Plenty of time to arrest him," he justified the delay while waving a hand dismissively. "Hardly worth our time, anyway."
Oh.
John may have been down to one non-blurry eye in a still too bright room, but he was one of the only people – if not the only one – to know Sherlock well enough to see that this had gone beyond the usual boredom and frustration at John's inability to work cases for the last week.
Our time.
There had been a point in John's life when he'd had the sort of friends who would invite him to a pub on New Year's Eve for a laugh and a pint, to pay tribute to the passing year's highs and lows and greet the new one among good company.
But that was before Sherlock, his mad genius of a best friend, who withheld a criminal's identity and location from the investigating DI until he was absolutely certain that John wasn't well enough to join in the game. Because there was nowhere Sherlock would rather greet the New Year than chasing after criminals, courting danger, and solving puzzles – even the dullest ones - with John at his side.
It had been nothing more than a passing clarity in Sherlock's eyes; an honest truth gone before it had ever really been there. But John not only saw it, he understood.
Because sod it all, he felt exactly the same way.
"She'll probably taper the prednisolone to every six hours at the follow-up," John offered, as if thinking out loud.
"I suppose Lestrade will still have a job in two days," Sherlock mused. "Unlikely that all of London resolved to start the New Year as law-abiding citizens."
John snickered. "About as unlikely as you getting on with ordering the bloody dinner," he nodded at his watch.
"Chinese?"
"Starving."
Sherlock flipped his mobile in the air, secretly relieved to see John's appetite returning after the initial painful days of his diagnosis, and phoned their favorite restaurant.
Later that evening, when the clock struck midnight and John's mobile alarm signaled his next dose of medication, Sherlock paused on the way to picking up his violin and handed John the bottle of prednisolone.
"Despite being uncommon, uveitis is a leading cause of blindness in England," Sherlock said quietly, quoting from the NHS Choices website he'd read after dinner.
"Which is why I'm taking this seriously," John blinked his squinting left eye in an attempt to open it a bit wider. "Even though there's no reason to suspect it won't clear right up."
Sherlock nodded minutely. "Lestrade has the thief in custody," he moved on.
John washed his hands with hand sanitizer, tipped his head back, pulled down his lower eyelid and instilled the medication. "And just how badly does he want to strangle you right now for making him wait?" he asked, bringing his head back to face Sherlock, left eye closed and index finger lightly pressing on his inner eye.
"I didn't tell him when I solved it," Sherlock said.
"Yet he knew it was well before you sent that text."
"Did he text you to complain about me?" Sherlock's voice rose, incredulous, recalling John's muted chuckle when his mobile chirped an hour ago.
"Possibly."
"Childish," Sherlock muttered.
"No more childish than withholding information because you wanted to go criminal chasing tonight."
"You would have enjoyed it too had you not acquired…..this," Sherlock waved a hand at John's face and medications.
"True," John admitted, dropping his hand and opening his eye again. "When did he know?" he persisted.
"Just before I rang off earlier. Apparently he could tell by my breathing," Sherlock rolled his eyes.
John grinned knowingly and lined the prednisolone bottle back up next to the cyclopentolate.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed at his flatmate's underhanded commiseration with Lestrade. "He'll be fine," he dismissed, watching John's lingering militaristic precision in action.
John looked up as the silence stretched to see a rare, open shine of concern in Sherlock's eyes. "So will this," John nodded at the prescription bottles. "Really, Sherlock. It'll all be fine."
"Of course it will," Sherlock shook himself out of the moment. "Happy New Year, John."
"Happy New Year, Sherlock," John smiled.
Medication bottles and ocular diagnoses were soon lost to the fire's flickering shadows as Sherlock took up his violin at the frost-framed window and Auld Lang Syne filled 221B.