Summary: This is definitely not how John imagined their Saturday night.
Notes: I was NOT supposed to be writing anything until my big work project is done. Then this thing pops into my head in the night like Trogdor.
Strange abbreviations and other medical terms are explained of the Author's notes in individual chapters.
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Harmless Things
by J Baillier
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Chapter 1/7
"I'd never have thought that insect enthusiasts might be such a murderous bunch," Lestrade comments as the three of them stand by the front door of the victim's house, waiting for forensics to wrap up their part.
Sherlock shoots shim an indignant look. "Scorpions are not insects, they're arachnids, a subgroup of arthropods. Even John knows this, I'm sure."
John crosses his arms. "'Even me?'"
Sherlock flashes him a smile which is enough to shut him up. "Anyway, all you need to do is to round up those in the victim's social circles that share an interest in scorpions, and find out which one has the biggest beef with him. No other kind of perpetrator would have gone to such trouble to sabotage his menagerie and leave his valuables undisturbed."
Lestrade sticks his hands into his pockets. "Makes sense. No one else than another creepy-crawly fan would ever dare let any of those damned things out of their boxes. Sorry you got stung by the last one, mate."
The victim had been found in the room that housed his pets, and some of the plastic boxes the scorpions were being kept in had been opened and their contents spread all over the room. Pest controllers had failed to notice one small specimen still lurking around. Sherlock had found it when inspecting the victim's clothing when it had plunged its stinger into the palmar side of his wrist.
Sherlock raises his left hand as though admiring a ring to inspect the red blotch that has appeared. "Quite like a bee sting, nothing worse."
John shifts his weight and the gravel grinds under his shoe. "Are you sure it was a harmless one that got you?"
Sherlock gives him an exasperated look. "I am very familiar with all arachnid species capable of producing clinically relevant toxins. The Tityus stigmurus, which I'm quite positive that thing was, is a popular bark scorpion to be kept as a pet. 66% of such stings only produce mild local symptoms and 20% are asymptomatic. Harmless things, really."
Their ride arrives in the form of a patrol car and Lestrade opens the back door for John and Sherlock.
Sherlock frowns. "I want to remind you that I dislike riding in these things."
"Yeah, but as John pointed out, it's Saturday night so good luck getting a cab. It's the least I can do since I don't actually pay you for these things."
John and Sherlock settle into the back seat while Lestrade rides shotgun, making some calls pertaining to their case while their driver, a uniformed constable, negotiates the evening traffic.
"I don't think it's surprising that stuff like this could happen in some sort of a hobby circle. I think the scariest people flock to those. My mum grew roses and it was a wonder there weren't any murders committed during their horticultural society ladies' luncheons," John muses.
He notices Sherlock idly massaging his left arm.
John leans closer to get a look. Sherlock drapes the hand into his coat lapel. "It just itches. I'll put a bag of peas on it once we get home."
"Your nose is running," John points out.
"That's hardly alarming, since it's November," Sherlock scoffs.
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John carefully watches Sherlock while they settle into their usual post-case evening routine. He sits in his armchair and pretends to read a novel. Despite Sherlock's reassuring lecture at the victim's house, something is making him uneasy.
Sherlock seems nervous as well. He spends an hour just walking from room to room, banging around the kitchen cabinets, stares furiously at someting he's pulled up on his laptop, finally changing into his dressing gown a little before ten p.m. Then he settles in front of his microscope.
"You look a bit pale and sweaty," John points out from behind a newspaper as Sherlock adjusts the coarse and fine focuses.
"Nonsense," Sherlock replies and fiddles with some slides he fishes out of a small box.
John puts his now empty mug on a saucer on the coffee table and puts down the newspaper entirely. He then turns to get a proper look at Sherlock.
Short of a better term, the man looks like an addict in full-on withdrawal. He is ashen grey, his hands are shaking, he keeps blinking as tears are appearing at the corners of his eyes even though he is clearly not crying in the traditional sense. He keeps wiping his nose on the sleeve of his dressing gown and is making a fist with his left hand when it isn't required to turn a slide. as though the hand is bothering him somehow.
John straightens his spine. Time to put the foot down. He grips the armrests of his chair for a moment for fortification.
"Sherlock," he calls out.
"Yes, John?" Sherlock doesn't look away from the microscope.
"You all right?" John asks, carefully trying to keep his tone light.
"Yes, yes," comes the dismissive reply. Sherlock then swallows visibly and draws a deep, ragged breath.
"You look like you're about to have a panic attack or something. Do you want me to guess what's wrong, or...?"
Sherlock lays his right palm on the dining table. His left one he's letting hang limp against his thigh. Even through John is a good four metres away from the kitchen, he can make out that the wrist looks a bit swollen.
Sherlock decidedly isn't looking at him. "I may have made a slight mistake," Sherlock admits while intently peering into the microscope. He is clearly choosing his words carefully.
John blinks. It's very unlike Sherlock to ever admit anything like that. "Go on."
Sherlock leans back on his chair. He sniffs as his nose is running rampant again. He then stands up and grabs his laptop from the kitchen counter and flips the lid open. He carries the laptop over and balances it onto the armrest his John's armchair. "This," he points at the image of a scorpion on the screen, "Is what I was certain was the one that Mr Hausman was keeping and what had been let loose following his murder."
The picture on the screen depicts a smallish, yellow scorpion with a black head, a black stripe along its back and a black-tinted stinger.
"Sure," John says. He hadn't gotten a very good look at the creature before it had gotten crushed under Anderson's rubber boot.
Sherlock wipes his damp palm onto his dressing gown and then quickly switches to another tab on his browser. "Whereas it was actually this one," he says, in a tone that's slightly bitter.
This image is of a strikingly similar scorpion, but this one's back is all black instead of just a stripe.
"Should I be worried?" John asks carefully.
Sherlock takes a deep breath. "This is the Tityus Serrulatus, the Brazilian yellow scorpion. Did you treat any scorpion bites in Afghanistan?"
"Did I ever. We hated those little fuckers. Had to airlift one of our guys out of Kandahar in critical condition after getting stung by what I think is called the Deathstalker."
Sherlock looks impressed. "The Leiurus quinquestriatus. Common to many desert areas. Quite a nasty one, I'll admit."
John suddenly puts two and two together. "Please tell me it wasn't one of those?"
Sherlock coughs and shifts to stand next to John's chair. "Fortunately, no. But this one does have a bit of a reputation for containing quite a potent venom. Usually with adult humans it causes some degree of pain, some parasympthetic activation and nausea."
"You sound pretty cavalier about it."
"I barely felt the sting. Probably wasn't a substantial envenomation."
"Still. Sherlock, we need to look into this. Make sure you'll be all right."
"I live with a doctor. Why wouldn't I be alright?"
John moves the laptop from the armrest to the coffee table. He grabs Sherlock's wrist gently and turns it so that he can see the sting mark. It doesn't look too bad - Sherlock's comparison to a bee sting seems apt. It's red, there's a swollen blotch the size of a penny and a wider, more faint ring of redness surrounding it with a diameter of about ten centimetres but that's mostly it. No blisters, no bruising. It's hard to even make out the exact spot where the stinger had hit.
Sherlock hisses when John pokes the centre of the redness with his finger. "Painful?" John asks.
"Very," Sherlock admits.
John's fingers move to the radial side of the wrist. "Christ. Your heart rate's got to be at least 120. Sit down. I'll get you something for the pain," he says and gets up from his chair.
Sherlock slumps down onto the sofa. "No need. Took an ibuprofein already."
"All right. I still need to get my kit."
Sherlock looks indignant but John is clearly not listening to protests. John gets up and goes upstairs to rummage around his room.
Sherlock wraps his dressing gown tighter around him and leans onto the backrest of the sofa, closing his eyes. He fights the urge to scratch his wrist - it itches, but touching it sets off a searing, burning pain that will wreck all attemps to focus on anything else.
In a few minutes John returns with his medical bag and Sherlock opens his eyes, wiping the now ever more floridly flowing tears from his eyes. They just keep coming, even though he's not sad and there's nothing irritating his eyes. Parasymphatic activation, Sherlock reminds himself.
John digs out some instruments from the worn old leather bag of his. He sits down on the sofa next to Sherlock and lays a palm on his friend's knee, looking him in the eye. "Sherlock. You need to tell me right now what's going on. No details spared." His tone invites no arguments.
Sherlock draws in a ragged breath. "I'm cold and feel a bit nauseated. Heart rate up a bit, as you noticed. Difficult to focus - which is the newest development. For instance, can't really make out that headline-" He points his finger at John's newspaper that's on the floor, "Excessive lacrimation and production of saliva. Most annoying."
"Chest pain?" John asks while lifting Sherlock's eyelids one after the other with his thumb and pointing a penlight in, looking at the pupil reactions.
"None as such." Droplets of sweat are now forming on Sherlock's hairline. John touches the back of his hand on Sherlock's forehead. "You're a bit warm but not properly feverish, I'd say."
"Ibuprofein must've done something then."
John rubs his stethoscope onto his palm to warm it up with friction and then gingerly pulls aside the right lapel of Sherlock's dressing gown, pushing down the T-shirt underneath in the process. "Might be a bit cold, this thing, sorry. He listens to some spots and Sherlock tries his best to breathe normally, even though it's getting increasingly difficult. His heart is racing, and he can't make out whether it's that or his rising panic that's causing his to breathe faster.
"Any difficulty breathing?" John asks, taking off the earpieces of the stethoscope.
"Not really."
"Not really as in 'don't want to tell John' or not really as in no?"
"Don't know." Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment as another wave of nausea hits.
"Lie down, for Chrissakes, until you pass out," John commands, standing up so that Sherlock can have all of the sofa to himself.
"Brazilian yellow bark scorpion, was that the one?" John asks sternly.
Sherlock nods, shivering.
John walks to the foyer to get his phone out of his jacket pocket. "Right. I need to call Gracie."
"Gracie?" Sherlock frowns.
"Gracie Harris was my uni girlfriend's flatmate. Bit of a nutter but turned into a damned good infectious and tropical disease specialist. Works at the Hospital for Tropical Diseases on Tottenham Court Road and consults all over London hospitals. I used to call her from Afghanistan if I couldn't figure out what to do such patients."
"Why is she a nutter?"
"She keeps spiders. Dozens and dozes of them. Poisonous ones. Don't think she's got any scorpions but she seemed to know quite a bit about them due to her training."
Sherlock waves a hand dismissively at John from the sofa. "Do what you must."
John selects a contact, presses the call button and manages to get through. "Hey yourself. And sorry for calling so late. I know it's fine but still. Yeah, long time no see but listen, I need your help. Flatmate's gotten stung by this thing-".
Sherlock tries to focus on breathing while John takes his time on the phone. Sherlock tries to listen in, but the throbbing of his hand and the general feeling of like the worst case of flu in history are slowly taking over his body, which is making it very hard to focus. If he opens his eyes, everything shifts and blurs but if he keeps his eyes closed it feels like he's in freefall, sense of balance disappearing, head spinning even though he's certain he's still quite stationary.
John ends the call, slides his phone into his coat pocket and grabs his and Sherlock's coats. He brings them over to the sofa and gently wraps Sherlock's heavy woollen coat around the man's torso.
"Try and put this on. We need to go."
Sherlock squints. "What?" he manages and tries to keep John in focus. This is hateful. It's like being extremely inebriated, which he never is. "Why?"
"You never let me call 999 no matter what's going on, so if you can get dressed, we're getting a cab to Barts. Gracie's agreed to meet us there even though she's officially on research leave."
Sherlock tries to sit up but his head spins even worse and he dry-heaves. John's hand circles around his shoulders and gently pulls his upright. "Why can't we stay here?" he stammers even though he can deduce the answer.
"Gracie made it clear that we need to get you to an ICU bed right now. Can you stand up?"
Sherlock's cheeks are already tinted red from the nausea and the fever but there's a hint of embarrassment now mixed in as well. "Not sure."
"I can work with that," John replies determinedly and wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist, pulling him up. "Unless you'll let me call emergency services, that is."
John gently lets go and Sherlock tries to keep upright on his own to no avail. John's quick reflexes prevent him from collapsing onto the coffee table.
John wrangles him back onto the sofa. Sherlock closes his eyes again.
"Talk to me," John orders.
"A bucket and an ambulance would be nice right about now, John."