Summary: Sherlock usually ignores warning signals from The Transport but this time, it's his precious brain that's in jeopardy. How will he and John cope?
Timeline/universe: After The Hound, before The Fall.
The point of view is John's apart from chapter 8. As for the shipping status of this fic, I quote Moffat: "It's always definitely a love story." Pre-slash would probably be the best description.
In civilian life I am a medical professional. After receiving some very positive feedback concerning the medical content in my previous works I realized that I really ought to utilize my professional knowledge more for this sort of deviousness. The medical facts depicted here are quite accurate (naturally some simplification and use of artistic licence was necessary) and this is a scenario that can and does happen to people. Some additional discussion about the medical issues featured can be found in the individual chapters' Author's notes.
Detailed literary and lyrics quote references will be listed in the Author's notes of the epilogue.
I am eternally grateful to the wonderful Chloe (mildlyamusingsoprano) for betareading.
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The Road of Bones
by J Baillier
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CHAPTER 1/9 - Lost for words
Chapter summary: Sherlock is forced to admit that his vast but mostly theoretical medical knowledge is no match for John's actual doctor training.
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Every moment is a boulder being fired
- Saint Saviour
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"No," Sherlock says and John sighs. He applauds Lestrade's bravery for even raising such a subject, but also marvels at the Detective Inspector's unfounded optimism.
"You know I don't do paperwork." Sherlock continues, crossing his arms and leaning on the doorway of DI Lestrade's office. From his expression, it's clear that he thinks this ought to be the end of the conversation.
Lestrade runs his hand through his hair. "Look at it my way. The higher-ups have made it very clear that scribbling down 'appendix 1: see John Watson's blog' in my reports will no longer cut it. We're not all geniuses like you."
"As I am well aware, yes," Sherlock replies dryly and John smiles into his cup of dreadful coffee.
"Oh haha. As I was saying, I don't always follow or remember the intuitive leaps you make - -"
"Not intuitive leaps. Deductions."
"Whatever. Look," Lestrade says, a note a pleading creeping into his voice, "Maybe you could at least pop in when I'm writing this crap so I could clarify some things. Fill in the gaps."
"Need I remind you that I'm a freelancer and therefore not bound to Yard bureaucracy?"
"And I need to keep my job. Which sort of means that I'm responsible for these deductions of yours, and have to be able to explain them to the higher-ups."
Sherlock rolls his eyes, but descends onto a chair in a whirl of coattails. "I see no reason why this could not be done via text or Skype."
John chucks his empty disposable cup into the waste bin. "If Greg here prefers to talk to you with your clothes on then Skype is probably not an option."
Lestrade shakes his head while Sherlock glares at John.
"I could say that your cooperation in reporting might be conducive to our working relationship actually continuing," Lestrade tries.
Sherlock's raises his brow. "Blackmail, Lestrade? Not very becoming of a police officer."
"But that's not a no," John remarks.
Sherlock sighs more exasperatedly than seems necessary. "Very well. I assume your report for the Gardiner case is long overdue. What do you wish to know?"
"You're being awfully well-behaved today," Lestrade comments while digging around his drawers for a pen.
"Don't push it," John remarks quietly.
Pen in hand, Lestrade straightens his writing pad. "First of all, what was the connection between the train schedule and murder weapon?"
"The weapon had to be delivered to Gardiner in a way that would not arouse suspicion but which would provide him with an alibi - being seen at a crowded - - Not - -" Sherlock pauses, frowning. He swallows and opens his mouth again. "I - - Once - - It's not," he turns to look at John, eyes wide.
"Sherlock?" John is studying his face, trying to understand.
"At. A. Seventy - -" he pauses again, shuts his mouth and looks at John with the most desperate expression the doctor has ever seen.
"What's going on?" Lestrade asks, dropping his pen onto the pad, his eyes darting from Holmes to Watson.
Sherlock closes his eyes momentarily, letting out the breath he'd been holding without realizing. "Lost my train of thought," he offers slowly, as though testing each word.
"Didn't sound like it." Didn't sound like you, John really wants to say but Sherlock is having none of it.
"I am quite fine," Sherlock says sternly and returns his attention to Lestrade. "As I was saying, the exchange probably happened on the eastbound platform." Sherlock explains further while Lestrade makes notes.
To John Sherlock now sounds like his usual brilliant self but there's something about what has happened that John just can't shake. He decides he needs to ask Sherlock when he'd last slept and eaten, since running on fumes was usually the reason when Sherlock sometimes acted more strangely than usual.
After the gaps in Lestrade's report have been filled they leave for home. Sherlock hadn't, surprisingly enough, blown a gasket from having to explain so many things. Things that probably had felt rather evident during the case.
It's not rush hour yet, so pedestrian traffic is slow.
"Any plans for this evening?" John enquires, sticking his hands into his pockets. Spring is only in its early stages and he has forgotten his gloves.
"No," is the curt reply he receives.
Sherlock quickens his pace.
"Hold on, my legs aren't as long as yours," John reminds him and hurries along. "I think there's still some of Mrs Hudson's stew left," he offers since he feels obligated to remind Sherlock of the existence of food now that the case is closed.
There's no reply. They pause at a red light and John gets to take a look at Sherlock. He looks quite normal, if a little pale and tired. "You alright there, mate?" John asks, carefully trying to keep his tone as light as possible.
"Yes." Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment and then opens them slowly, squinting as though sensitive to light. "Migraine, I guess."
"You get those?" The light turns green and Sherlock launches into his brisk pace again, clearly wanting to get home quickly.
"Not really, no. There is a family history of migraines with aura symptoms, so there's no need to be alarmed."
"Head hurts, then?"
"No. At least not yet," Sherlock replie, sounding annoyed. They round a corner and the front door of 221b Baker Street appears in view.
"Well, what then?"
Sherlock starts digging his pockets for the keys. "I believe they call it a scintillating scotoma. Half of my visual field is currently filled with a swirly sawtooth pattern."
It doesn't surprise John that Sherlock has such medical terminology down pat. "Right."
"I distinctly remember my mother suffering from something similar," Sherlock offers as further proof.
"Still, even if there was a family history, new migraines don't usually pop up in thirtysomething males," John comments.
Sherlock looks at him like he's spoiled all the fun. "What you experienced earlier might have been an aura symptom as well, you know. Some people mess up their words right before an attack."
"You have your diagnosis, then," Sherlock remarks dryly and John knows better than to push the issue.
They enter the flat, and John goes into his room to find some over-the-counter painkillers in preparation of the headache that's probably about to happen.
The pain never appears. Sherlock spends his evening fiddling with his microscope without any further complaints about his health. Not that the man tended to be honest about such issues anyway.
After John finishes his Le Carre novel sometime before midnight he tells Sherlock goodnight. There's no reply, which is not unusual. John gives Sherlock a discreet once-over while returning his book to the shelf. He seems fine, so John heads to his bedroom.
After awhile, the sound of Sherlock playing the violin begins drifting in. He's playing a Handel sonata, which John only recognizes because it is what Sherlock has been practicing for the past few weeks. Some passages have been so technically difficult that Sherlock has had to iterate them into smaller parts for easier repetition.
Tonight, the music flows gracefully.
It is somewhere during the early hours of the morning when John wakes up, startled when his bed suddenly begins to shake violently. Or not the bed exactly. Someone is shaking _him_ frantically.
"Alright, what?" John mumbles, pushing the duvet away and fumbling for the switch of the lamp on his bedside table. The light feels so bright he has to squint.
Sherlock lets go of his shoulder and stands frozen by the bed, looking as though he's seen a ghost and is trying to preserve some level of composure. "John."
"My name, yeah. What's this, then? Do we have a case?"
"I can't play."
"You said it yourself, it's a tricky piece you've been working on. What the hell am I supposed to do about it?" Couldn't he be granted just one night of peaceful sleep without Sherlock's shenanigans?
Sherlock looks frustrated like he usually does when people aren't following his bullet-train of thought. "I can't use the bow."
John is suddenly very much awake. He sits up. "What do you mean?"
Sherlock stretches out his right hand. "There's something wrong with me."
John swallows as the gravity of this statement sinks in. Sherlock never, ever says anything like this. To Sherlock, even a broken limb or a gunshot wound are only minor distractions.
John pulls Sherlock down to sit on the bed beside him. "You'll have to be a bit more specific," he tells Sherlock, trying his best to sound as calm and composed as he possible can. His doctor mode takes some moments to kick in - it's the middle of the night, after all. "Does anything hurt? Could it be a sprain? Tendinitis?"
He gingerly picks up Sherlock's right hand. The temperature feels normal, there's no swelling or redness.
Sherlock shakes his head. "Nothing of the sort. I was playing, and then began missing notes. Suddenly I couldn't sustain the pressure needed to create enough friction to produce any sound. Then I dropped the bow. I tried to pick it up but to no avail, fingers just wouldn't function. I then tried to grab hold of a teacup instead but somehow kept missing it."
"Muscle weakness, then. And some coordination difficulty. Any numbness, tingling?"
"No."
"Squeeze," John tells him, after grabbing both of Sherlock's palms in a handshake hold.
Sherlock obliges and John swallows nervously. There's a distinct lack of strenght in the grip of his right hand. John lets go and stretches out his own arms, positioning them horizontally. "Do this and then close your eyes. Try to keep your palms towards the ceiling."
Sherlock obeys. His right hand trembles slightly, as though lifting it requires great effort. It barely holds in place before it starts slowly descending.
John's throat is dry. "Try to hold your hands level."
"I am!" Sherlock replies indignantly, eyes closed, "They're perfectly level!"
John grabs his phone from the table and dials 999.
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Author's notes: What John says here is an important lesson: emerging migraines are a young person's game. Most familial migraines appear during adolescence or even earlier. More sinister reasons should always be ruled out in cases where the patient is considerably older than that. The form of expressive aphasia that Sherlock momentarily suffers here can sometimes appear as a migraine aura(=pre-symptom to the headache pat of a migraine attack) - words come out right but the words themselves are wrong - not what you were supposed to say. It's not a very common aura symptom - visual disturbances such as the scintillating scotoma mentioned here are usually the norm. Some people suffer from what is known as a hemiplegic migraine, the symptoms of which can closely mimic a stroke, so during a first-ever attack of that kind, more serious reasons should promptly be ruled out. However you look at it, John is in no way overreacting when he dials the emergency number.