So, brief explanation of Harrison. He's basically just another villain, but he is sort of similar to Moriarty in that he likes giving Sherlock challenges and puzzles. I hope you like it also, I have almost zero medical knowledge, so I'll apologize for anything incorrect upfront. Oh, and I don't own Sherlock. ENJOY!
Sherlock was lounging on the couch, his eyes closed with a book in his hands. He had finished it a few minutes ago and was already feeling restless. He listened for John, who was in the kitchen making tea. Did he ever do anything else? BORED! The word echoed through his mind. Life could be so dull sometimes.
"John, hurry up. I'm bored," he called. There was a pause before John replied, trying his best not to sound angry.
"It's coming Sherlock, but I can't make the water boil any faster." Sherlock sighed.
"You could. It's not impossible by any means. By lowering the pressure of the air you - " he was cut of by a loud thump, and the sound of yet another mug shattering. Sherlock was off the couch in an instant.
"John!" he called frantically. Upon entering the kitchen, Sherlock momentarily froze. John was lying on the ground, surrounded by ceramic shards. What scared Sherlock the most though were the empty syringe, and the fact that its needle was stuck into the back of John's neck.
Sherlock bent down and checked his friends pulse. It was still there, but John's breathing was ragged and uneven. He gently pulled the needle out, and examined the liquid dripping from the tip. It was dark blue, and Sherlock cursed as he realized that he had never seen it before. He started to turn John onto his side, just in case he was going to vomit, when it hit him. He had been in front of the door and no one had passed by which meant that whoever had attacked John was still in the flat. The only logical place for the attacker to be was Sherlock's room. He hated to leave, but Sherlock was no use to John dead. He grabbed John's gun from the side table before slowly heading towards the door to his room.
The door wasn't closed all the way, and Sherlock pushed it open. In the split second it took him to recognize the man perched haughtily on the end of his bed, he made up his mind. The bullet propelled itself from the gun with a loud bang. Sherlock watched as the blood trickled down Harrison's forehead before he went limp. Sherlock wasted no time in going through Harrison's pockets to find an antidote. He suspected that Harrison had wanted to talk. He overestimated Sherlock's need for action, and puzzles. The plan was probably to negotiate. If Sherlock played Harrison's new game he would've been provided with an antidote to the poison that was now coursing through John's veins. Sherlock took a smile vial from Harrison's motionless body. It was a different color from whatever had been in the syringe, and Sherlock could only hope it would not harm John more. Sherlock texted Lestrade asking for an ambulance as he sprinted back to the kitchen, where John was still lying on the cool tiles.
Sherlock scrambled to fill the syringe with the liquid from the vial, and then bent down next to John. He was contemplating where to inject the mysterious drug when John began shaking. His face was pale, and his brow glistened with sweat. Sherlock grabbed John as he began to jerk violently. After a minute or two, but what felt like hours, John started to relax. Sherlock seized the opportunity to inject the syringe into the back of John's neck, where it had been before. The drug was slowly released into John's system, and Sherlock feared for a moment that he had made it worse, and the contents of the vial were not the antidote that John so desperately needed. However, slowly, but surely John's breathing steadied, and some of the color returned to his face.
"John?" Sherlock said tentatively, holding his friend's hand, and looking at him hopefully. John groaned, and took a shuddering breath.
"Sher . . ." a cough, "Sherlock?" came a small whisper.
"It's alright John. I'm right here, you're going to be fine," Sherlock muttered as John slowly opened his eyes, and began to do a search of the room. He coughed again, and Sherlock put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "It's alright. Lestrade's on his way with an ambulance." John relaxed a bit, and his eyes dropped closed. Sherlock was about to wake him, when he realized that John must be tired, and if he had been given the antidote sleep was probably the best thing now. He made to get up, but a quiet voice stopped him.
"Please stay, I . . . I'm scared." Sherlock smiled a bit, and brushed John's hair back.
"Of course I'll stay. You have nothing to be afraid of." John reached out weakly and took Sherlock's hand. They sat there for a while, neither saying anything until the sound of sirens approached. They were quickly followed by a crash, and the pounding of footsteps as Lestrade slammed the door open, and came racing up the stairs.
"Oh Jesus . . ." he whispered as he caught sight of John. "Are you alright?" he asked loudly, an edge of panic in his voice.
"Yes, for the most part. John will need an ambulance, I'm fine, and a body bag for Harrison would be nice," came Sherlock's reply, his gaze never leaving John's face. Lestrade had taken a small step back.
"Body bag? Harrison . . . but, oh! So you got him then?"
"Yes Lestrade, I thought I made that clear, now where's the ambulance?" Not a second later two paramedics rushed in, and headed for John. It was difficult, but Sherlock managed to keep a hold on John's hand as he was taken to the ambulance.
A day later John woke in the hospital, his breathing normal, and the drugs cleared from his system. He was greeted by Sherlock, who had been staring at him intently only moments before.
"Hello, John. How are you feeling?" John yawned a little and then spoke.
"To be honest, I feel fine, and I would love to get out of here." Sherlock smiled at that and let go of John's hand. John stared for a moment, how had he not felt that? John stood up a bit clumsily, but caught his balance. He began to head for the door when Sherlock stopped him. As he was turned around John tried to retain his smile. He knew what was going to happen, and he had been waiting for sometime now. Sherlock opened his mouth,
"John, I . . . I'm not sure how this works, or what I say, but John, . . . I," Sherlock trailed off looking unsure for once in his life. John grinned,
"I know," and with that he pulled Sherlock into the kiss; the kiss that they had both been waiting for since the beginning.