John pulled a blanket over Sherlock's shoulders, and felt his forehead. He was burning up.
"John? What is it?"
"You're sick. I suspect that it's food poisoning." John said, and then put a thermometer in Sherlock's mouth. After a few moments, it beeped, then he checked its reading.
"102.5 degrees."
"John, step away. I'll take care of myself. You could get sick."
"No, Sherlock. I'm going to take care of you, no matter what."
Sherlock weakly tried to push John away, but he was too sick to do anything. John stepped out of the room for a moment, and came back with a bottle of medicine.
"This should make you feel better." Sherlock tried to get out of bed, but fell over in the process. John rushed over, pulled him back into the bed and pulled the blankets over him. He checked the medicine bottle, determined the dosage, and gave some of the thick ochre liquid to his best friend. Sherlock swallowed it without complaint, despite the foul aftertaste. He smoothed back the unruly curls falling over Sherlock's forehead, then smiled gently as he sat down in the chair beside the bed to keep watch over him.
Sherlock was dreaming. He knew he hadn't dreamt in a long time. He was too busy for that. But now, oddly, he was. He was dreaming of falling. Flying, but with a destination. The ground was rushing at him, and someone was calling his name. John. John needed him. He needed John. So where was John? He wasn't next to him, he wasn't- Oh no. John was on the street, watching him fall. And Moriarty was in the background, laughing. He was laughing as Sherlock fell, laughing while John cried. Laughing. Sherlock wanted to hurt him, give him pain for all the pain he had given them. Then the ground was very close, inches away. The pavement was hard as he landed.
Sherlock awoke with a startled cry. John bolted awake next to him, and immediately rushed over to check on him. He stood up before John got to him, though, and knew he had recovered somewhat when he only felt slight nausea and dizziness. He threw on his robe, walked into their tiny kitchen, and began to make tea. John followed him, voicing his protest the whole way.
"Listen, John. I know I got a call from Lestrade, asking for help on the latest murder. I'm going."
"No, you most certainly are not. I personally called Lestrade, and told him you would not be on a case for at least a week. Doctor's orders. Oh, and by the way, Mrs. Hudson came in and took your skull again. She really is disgusted by that thing."
"John, I need milk for my tea, and you are out of your jam. So would you please go to the shop and get some?" Sherlock pleaded.
"Fine," John conceded, dragging Sherlock to the sofa and pushing him down. "But you are going to stay right here while I'm gone."
"Yes, John." Sherlock said with a frustrated sigh. John nodded, grabbed his coat and stepped out the door. What he didn't notice, though, was that Sherlock did the same thing a few minutes later.
When John came back to the flat, Sherlock was not in the sitting room, the kitchen, his bedroom, or anywhere. When he came back into the sitting room, he noticed a slip of paper with Sherlock's messy scrawl on it, tucked under a tea mug. It read:
John, I have to go on a case. I can't just sit around like an invalid. I get bored. Lestrade and I are in Greenwich, investigating the Kent murder.
P.S. enjoy the tea.
-SH
John's taxi pulled up outside a dilapidated house in east Greenwich. He understood why Sherlock would want to be here, judging by the police presence. What he didn't understand, though, was why Sherlock would come when he was so obviously sick. If the yarders had any sense, they would have sent him home immediately. But no, there he was, looking at the body, studying, thinking, and deducing everything, judging by that satisfied smirk. As he stepped out of the taxi, he could hear Sherlock saying, "Anderson, even you should be able to tell that our victim here died from asphyxiation, not strangulation. Notice the absence of internal bleeding in the neck and throat, and notice the faint bluish tinge to the skin, and the obvious tension in the limbs, which denotes either a muscular seizure due to suffocation, or paralysis, from the same cause." He noticed John's approach, and started to ask about his medical opinion, but abruptly stopped, staring over John's shoulder at something behind him.
Sherlock was busy explaining the murder to the idiots around him when John came up. He finished his explanation, and turned to ask John something, when he saw him. Professor Moriarty was here, watching him. Laughing. He was missing something. Why would Moriarty be here, at a simple murder? And why on earth was he laughing? The answer hit him like a ton of bricks. He was laughing because Sherlock cared. Because he went to great lengths for his friends. Because he wasn't heartless. Because he was dying, slowly, inch by inch, because he cared.
Sherlock blinked, and Moriarty was gone. He realized that he had been standing there, the whole time, not saying a word. Staring at something no one else could see. He blinked again, and Moriarty was back. He was standing right beside him, and time was frozen. Moriarty leaned over and whispered into Sherlock's ear.
"You're dying, Sherlock, and I'm killing you." He paused for a moment, then continued.
"This caring thing is killing you. Just let them go. They're killing you just as much as I am. And anyway, today is your day to die. So, Sherlock. Catch you later. You can't catch me." Then he was gone, and gunshots shattered the silence around them.
Sherlock woke up in the back of an ambulance. Two medics were in the back with him. He sat up; feeling very confused, and asked them several questions without taking a breath.
"Why am I here? Where is John? Is Moriarty behind this? Who are you?"
One of the medics, the taller one, answered slowly, as if he was afraid Sherlock would attack at the slightest provocation.
"You, sir, are here because you pushed your friend Dr. Watson out of the range of fire and got several bullets in you for that. And as for this Moriarty fellow you speak of, I have no idea. So try to lie down and rest, because we'll be at the hospital shortly to get those bullets out of your leg."
John paced in the hospital lobby, waiting for the doctors to release Sherlock from his surgery. He knew that Sherlock would most likely have a limp for a long time, which would annoy him to no end. He began to wonder what Sherlock had been seeing before the gunfire, because he knew his flatmate, and when Sherlock had that expression, something was going on. Sherlock had obviously seen something no one else had, but what exactly did he see? He was pulled from his speculations when one of the doctors stepped into the lobby to let him know that Sherlock was awake and at least partially coherent.
As John stepped into Sherlock's hospital room, the smells of medicine, rubbing alcohol and old flowers took him back. Back to a time before Sherlock took over his life. When life was normal, and not just one big game. When he was just Dr. John Watson, the injured army doctor. Before he was Dr. John Watson, best friend of the sociopathic genius, Sherlock Holmes. When he walked over to the bed, Sherlock's eyes opened and he watched as John began to cry. Between sobs, he asked Sherlock the one thing he never thought he would.
"Why did you do that? Why did you take those bullets for me? I've been shot before, I can handle it."
"Exactly, John, I don't want you to be hurt. Because I care about you. Because you're all I have, now that Mycroft is dead." Then he reached out and grasped John's hand.
"I know that you don't want me to be so self-deprecating, but face it. I have no heart." Inside his head, he heard Moriarty's voice. But we both know that isn't quite true.
And then they were both crying, each for the other's pain.
Lestrade was explaining the latest case to Sherlock and John when Sherlock saw Moriarty again. He was standing by the window, leering at Sherlock. Suddenly, everything clicked in his mind and it all made perfect sense. He knew why he was seeing Moriarty when no one else was. He muttered to himself.
"Salvia." When Lestrade and John heard his murmured revelation, they turned to face him."Salvia Divnorum." At their looks of stunned confusion, he continued.
"Salvia is a natural hallucinogen. Almost undetectable in drug tests and autopsies, it causes severe hallucinations. Moriarty has been using one of his helpers to slip me salvia. I've been seeing Moriarty everywhere I go. He's mocking me, showing me that caring is not an advantage. He knew that I would jump in front of you, John, when they started shooting. But he didn't expect me to survive."
There was a moment's pause before Lestrade said began to speak.
"But Sherlock, that's not possible. You saw him shoot himself, on the rooftop that day. We took his body to the morgue and filed all the paperwork. He's dead, Sherlock. There's no way that he could-" his words were cut of when his phone rang. He went to answer it, spoke to the person on the other end for a moment, the hung up. He looked at Sherlock and said, "You were right. Moriarty is back, and he's ready to play."
To be continued…