Authors Note: I started this story intending it to be a short 500 to 600-word thing, but the muse had other ideas and this is what happened.
"Did you get the new queen settled into the hive?" John glanced over at Sherlock where he was bent over and rummaging through the refrigerator.
"I did," Sherlock replied excitedly over his shoulder. "Just think, John, in a few months we will have our very own honey to put in our tea. On the subject of honey, I know I had some Honey Soy Chicken left over from our last trip to that Japanese place you like so much. Did you throw it out?"
"That was a week and a half ago, Sherlock," John chuckled. "Mrs Hudson has cleaned out the refrigerator since then. There's some Matar Paneer from Adhira's Garden on the top shelf if you want it."
"John, while I respect your choice to eat vegetarian, I myself don't have an aversion to— what's this?" Sherlock stood and turned to hold out something that was the size and shape of an eyeglasses case.
John folded up the newspaper and placed it on the table top, before coming to Sherlock's side. "I prescribed that for you after I talked with your Mum on Tuesday. You can't be too careful when it comes to anaphylaxis."
"Anaphylaxis?" Sherlock gave John a bewildered look. "What is anaphylaxis?"
"Must have deleted that, yeah?" John couldn't help but smile. It was so rare that he knew something that Sherlock didn't. "Anaphylaxis is a severe, life-threatening allergic reaction that can occur minutes or even seconds after being exposed to an allergen. Peanuts are often known to cause such hypersensitive reactions, as are bee stings. And this," John took the case from Sherlock and opened it to display its content, "is an EpiPen. It contains the drug epinephrine and it works to counteract anaphylactic shock by relaxing the airways and constricting blood vessels."
"Yes, I know what the drug epinephrine does. But, John, I'm allergic to Yellow Jackets, not Honey Bees."
John closed the case over the pre-filled syringe and reached past Sherlock to place it back in the refrigerator. "Yes, I know, but cross-reactions can occur and the more times you are stung, the more likely you are to become sensitized, even to your beloved Honey Bees. I'd rather have it on hand now that you've got hives on the roof. Your mother said they almost didn't get you to the hospital in time when you were five."
"So— you— wrote me a prescription for an EpiPen?" Sherlock stammered.
John nodded, "I did. And I picked it up from Boot's on the way home from work yesterday."
The line between Sherlock's brow deepened and he looked John in the eye. "You always refuse to write me prescriptions, John."
"Yeah, because you are usually asking me to give you antibiotics when you've got a viral illness. This is a bit of a different situation. If you are stung and react, you could die before an ambulance could get here, Sherlock. With the epinephrine on hand, I can treat you while we are waiting for them."
"You would be saving my life?"
John laughed, "Yeah, genius, I would. That's what friends do." He closed the refrigerator door and didn't think about the EpiPen again until the following weekend.
The case was a five at best, but Lestrade had begged, and as Sherlock was teetering on the edge of boredom anyway, they accepted. It went like most cases until it didn't.
Sherlock was brilliant as always. Within fifteen minutes of arriving at the scene of the crime, he deduced that the perpetrator was a homeless man named Nathan Owensby and that he had murdered the victim for his coat, the fifteen quid in the left pocket, and an Oyster Card. They tracked him to an area below Waterloo Bridge where he was known to sleep rough. Nathan declined to come peaceably, and a chase ensued. John, who could run surprisingly fast for a man of his height, caught up with Nathan first and tackled him to the ground, but Nathan, using his considerably greater height to his advantage, twisted out of John's hold. He grabbed the truncheon John had dropped and swung it in a wide arc, connecting with John's temple and knocking him unconscious. In an attempt to divert his pursuers, Nathan heaved John's limp form up and over the rail. Sherlock's shout of "NOOOO! JOHHHNNN!" could be heard by Lestrade and three of his finest officers as they waited at the other end of the bridge, unbeknownst to Mr Owensby, who was sprinting towards them without a look back.
Sherlock dodged the oncoming traffic and raced to the spot opposite where John had gone over. He scanned the surface of the water with a desperate eye. When he spotted an irregular form moving downstream, he shouted, "John, I'm coming," and hurled the Belstaff at Donovan before catapulting over the rail. Donovan waived the two PCs behind her to keep going then sprinted back the way she had come as she called dispatch to request an ambulance. By the time she climbed her way down to the shore, Sherlock was dragging a waterlogged and seemingly boneless John Watson out of the water.
"John! John! Oh my god, he's not breathing," he shouted. "Sally, he's not breathing!" Sherlock appeared utterly wrecked as he looked helplessly up at Sally.
"Sherlock, do you know CPR?" Sally knelt in the mud on the opposite side of John. "SHERLOCK?" She shoved at Sherlock's shoulder when he didn't respond. "Do you know CPR?"
Sherlock's eyes were wild with fear as he looked up and shook his head, "No, I never— I haven't—"
"Get out of the way then!" Shoving the Belstaff in Sherlock's general direction, she opened John's airway and placed her mouth over his, giving two rescue breaths. She slid two fingers into the grove of his neck, just to the side of his Adam's apple. She swore when she couldn't feel a pulse. "I've called for an ambulance. You need to go back up to the road and lead them down to us when they get here. GO, SHERLOCK! GO!"
Sherlock stumbled to his feet as Sally ripped open John's shirt. He took one last look at John's blue lips and turned, fear churning in his gut.
Back at John's side, Sally found the landmarks, placed one hand on top of the other, intertwined her fingers, and began chest compressions. "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven…" she counted aloud as she pressed fast and deep, circulating John's blood for him. At the end of the second cycle of thirty compressions and two breaths, she stopped to check a pulse. "Damn it, John. Don't do this to him!" she growled. Moving back to his chest, she began to push again. It was midway through the fourth cycle, that John gasped, spewed up a stomach full of river water and began breathing on his own. Sally sighed in relief. Behind her, she glimpsed a green-uniformed paramedic hopping over the wall in Sherlock's wake. She had been so intent on saving Sherlock's friend that she had been oblivious to anything but what was in front of her. Further down the water's edge, two more individuals manoeuvred a trolley over the rock-strewn shore.
Sally gave the paramedics a quick report of what had happened and stepped aside. They immediately took over, one of them applying a blood pressure cuff while another placed electrodes on John's bare chest and connected him to the cardiac monitor. The third talked softly in John's ear as she fitted an oxygen mask to his face. John's only response was a feeble effort to swat the mask aside.
Sally walked over to where Sherlock stood several paces back from the flurry of activity. He stared in utter horror at the scene before him. His hands shook as he pressed them to his lips and Sally swore she could see tears in the corners of his eyes. She picked his coat up from where it lay at his feet and shook it out. "He's going to live. You got to him in time. You saved him." She wrapped the wool around his shoulders and stood close, her shoulder brushing his. She couldn't help but wonder if any dry cleaner in the city would be able to salvage his suit. But she doubted he would care as long as he got his blogger back.
Sherlock nodded, but he didn't take his eyes off his friend. Sally didn't know whether he believed her or not, but his silence worried her. She slid her arm around his shoulders and turned him towards the steps further along the shore. "Come on. If we leave now, you can be waiting for him when they get him to hospital."
Thanks to Sally, Sherlock was waiting at the A&E entrance as John arrived. He was awake, although a little confused and Sherlock squeezed his hand to let him know he wasn't alone.
After an initial assessment by the nurse and then the doctor, John was whisked away for one test after another: X-rays of his chest and neck followed by MRI's of his head, an EKG, arterial blood gases, and electrolyte panels—the list went on and on. The more alert John became, the deeper he frowned. He was fine. The nagging ache in the centre of his chest meant nothing and the headache and dizziness would go away as soon as he got a bite to eat. Or, at least that's what he told himself. And, from the moment they had unstrapped him from that damn spine board, that was what he told anyone that came near. He found it quite frustrating that everyone just smiled and ignored his demands to be left alone. Not even his Captain's voice got more than a patronizing nod.
Sherlock held John's hand and crooned in his ear, "Shut up, John. You wouldn't take this kind of abuse from one of your patients. Now, would you?"
John gave a resigned sigh and shut his eyes. He didn't utter another word unless it was to answer a question and then it was with as much respect as he could muster. His doctor, one of his med school classmates, came and sat at John's bedside to review his test results with him. "Everything looks good, but I'm concerned about you developing pneumonia what with the rib fractures and half of the Thames in your lungs. I want to keep you overnight to monitor your oxygen levels and give you some IV antibiotics."
John tried to argue with her, but Kate shut him down quite quickly, threatening to sedate him for his own safety. John glared at her back as she left the room and began disconnecting himself from the monitors. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and Sherlock had to grab his arm as he began to sway. "I am going home," John growled in response to Sherlock's protestations. The act must have triggered something because John was taken by a fit of coughing that resulted in him vomiting up more brackish fluid into the basin Sherlock shoved under his chin. Sherlock patiently handed him a cup of water to rinse his mouth and observed the way John clutched at his chest. Sally had cracked three ribs in the process of restarting John's heart. Too winded to make his escape, John reluctantly let Sherlock help him back on the trolley. He slipped off into a doze and was quiet until they came in to wheel him up to the observation ward.
As soon as he was assisted from the trolley to the bed and they were again alone, John continued to grumble and threaten to leave against medical advice. Sherlock could see the lingering disorientation in John's eyes but was fed up with the whinging. He tried to reason with John, but his friend was still being belligerent. He pulled John up into a sitting position, got right in his face and told him to shut up and deal with the situation as best he could. That wasn't actually what Sherlock said, but John, unaccustomed to hearing anything but the mildest expletives cross Sherlock's lips, was too stunned to resist. He sat back and resigned himself to an overnight stay.
Later that evening, after John had eaten a hot meal and been able to wipe a bit of the river scum from his face and limbs, Lestrade and Donovan popped in to check on him. "Sorry about the ribs, John," Sally said, handing him a cup of tea from his favourite café.
A more relaxed and lucid John grinned up at Sally after half the cup was devoured. He pointedly rubbed his sore chest, "That certainly was high-quality CPR, Sally. I'm going to remember you next time I must code a patient at work. No, seriously, I appreciate all you did for me and for taking care of Sherlock." John frowned and let his gaze roam over the room. "Where did he go anyway?"
Lestrade nodded to the door, "He said something about needing to find the Ward Sister's office, so he could reserve a spot for tomorrow."
Sherlock came back fifteen minutes later only to announce that John was tired, and the detectives needed to leave. Laughing, Sally kissed John's cheek and wished him a speedy recovery. Lestrade shook John's hand and whispered conspiratorially that if John got tired of Sherlock's mothering John could call him and he would arrange a nice locked room murder to keep Sherlock entertained until John was feeling better. Sherlock's cheeks flushed crimson when Sally stretched up and kissed his cheek on her way out the door.
As soon as they were alone again, Sherlock closed the blinds, dimmed the lights and lowered the head of John's bed. "You have a head injury and are recovering from nearly drowning. You need to sleep."
John didn't have the strength to protest, nor did he want to. His head was pounding, his chest hurt every time he took a deep breath and he was exhausted. He rang for the nurse to bring him a pain pill and an extra blanket. He asked her to give the blanket to his friend, and he settled in for the night.
Because of the head injury, the staff woke him briefly every two hours to assess his neurological status. And each time just before John fell back to sleep he would look to see if Sherlock was still in the chair by the window. He was not disappointed, although he wished Sherlock would shut his eyes if only for an hour or two. Instead, Sherlock would look up from the textbook he had filched from the hospital library, and nod before going back to studying the pages in front of him.
Morning came all too soon for John's taste and was punctuated by visits from the daytime nurse, his neurologist, and his pulmonologist, during which Sherlock listened with rapt interest to what each and every one had to say about John. After a bowl of bland porridge, John was treated to a trip to radiology to repeat his chest x-rays.
Sherlock was nowhere to be found when John got back from radiology. Kelly, his nurse took out his intravenous catheter, discontinued his oxygen cannula and assisted him to the loo where there was a small stool for him to sit and shower. She placed his toiletry bag and his clothes, all of which had mysteriously appeared on the foot of the bed while he was downstairs getting his x-rays, close to hand and went to change the bed while John showered.
He stepped out of the bathroom, feeling refreshed with only a slight ache in his chest. Kelly was waiting for him with discharge papers and his antibiotic prescription in hand. "I know you are a doctor and I don't mean to tell you things you probably already know, but I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't review the instructions with you." John was a good sport about it and listened attentively as she reviewed the care notes. "Let me know when you are ready to go, and I'll get a pushchair to wheel you out."
John thanked her and even apologized for his grumbling the previous day, which he barely remembered. He hoped he hadn't been too much of an arse. He gathered up his things and shot a text to Sherlock. "I've been officially discharged. Call us a cab and get me out of here. JW"
Half an hour later John walked out to the desk. "I'm ready to go, but my friend seems to have disappeared. You wouldn't happen to know where he went, would you, Kelly?"
She smiled, "He called the ward a few minutes ago and asked me to bring you to him when you were ready. Let me get that pushchair."
It wasn't unusual for Sherlock to go wondering off when something caught his eye, but John was a little surprised at the timing. Sherlock knew how much John wanted to go home. His head was starting to ache again, and he didn't really feel like analyzing Sherlock's motivations, so John climbed into the chair, piled his belonging in his lap and closed his eyes as Kelly set off for the lift. John was bewildered when instead of pushing the button for the ground floor, she hit the number one. John, who had done some of his training in this hospital, knew that the first floor was administrative offices and classrooms. God help him if Sherlock was berating some poor administrator for a perceived failure to provide the utmost best of care for his friend.
Kelly interrupted his thoughts when she opened the door to the first classroom and wheeled John inside.
"…twenty-nine and thirty. Give your patient a slow breath. Be sure you are looking for chest rise. Once more and then get back on the chest with thirty more compressions. One, two, three. Come on people, remember to push hard and fast, you've got to get at least 100 compressions in a minute," the instructor shouted above the sound of twenty students counting over their mannequins as they practised the skill.
Kelly set the brake and leant to whisper in John's ear. "Will you be alright if I leave you here? I've got to get back to my other patients." John assured her he would be fine and thanked her and her colleagues for putting up with his antics the day before. She smiled and shook John's hand. "It's been my pleasure, Dr Watson. I'm a fan of your blog, you know. I look forward to seeing your latest entry. What will you call it? 'Waterlogged at Waterloo'?"
John laughed outright, earning a frown from the Paramedic leading the class. "That's not bad, but I was thinking of 'The Adventure of the Drowning Doctor'"
"I like that. I think that might do just fine." Kelly grinned and bade him farewell. "Goodbye, and take care, Dr Watson."
From his vantage point at the back of the room John looked over the crowd. It was like any other CPR refresher course John had ever taken. There were people of all ages kneeling on the floor, young teens just entering the medical field to silver seniors whose muscles knew the drill by rote. This was a diverse crowd. Some students were in jeans, although most were in scrubs. Two of the participants wore Hijub, one a Sikh turban and another wore Prada's attached to a very lovely set of legs. Several more sported full sleeve tattoos, and one was pregnant. But, the one that drew his eye was the one front and centre of the class. Sherlock's curls, bobbing in time to his movements, were hard to miss.
John watched Sherlock as the class went through two more cycles of compressions and rescue breaths. He suspected Sherlock's timing and technique were near to perfect if not perfect. Knowing of Sherlock's knowledge of anatomy, chemistry and pharmacology along with his observational skills and deductive reasoning, John thought the medical profession missed out the day Sherlock Holmes decided to be a detective instead of a doctor.
John settled back in his chair and dropped off into a much-needed doze. He was awoken not more than twenty minutes later, according to the clock on the wall, by a hand on his shoulder.
"Ready to go home, John?"
John blinked sleepily and looked up into Sherlock's smiling face. "More than ready."
Sherlock handed John a small stack of papers and took up position behind the chair. He manoeuvred them out the door and to the lift. While waiting for the doors to open, Sherlock took out his phone and used the mobile app of his favourite cab company to summon a ride back to Baker Street.
The lift was crowded, and the ride was too short to start a conversation, so John nosed through the papers in his hands. He couldn't help but notice that Sherlock had scored a perfect grade on both the written and the practical part of the test. The bloody genius was good at everything. Only once they were seated in the back of the cab with John's belongings on the seat between them, did he address Sherlock. "Pretty impressive. You pinch a CPR manual from God only knows where, study it in the half dark of a hospital room, waltz into class and ace the test with only— What? One? Two hours of sleep at the most?"
"Two hours. Oh, and five minutes. I fell asleep waiting for the instructor to unlock the classroom door." Sherlock yawned and leant his head against the window.
"You got a perfect score after only two hours and five minutes of sleep." John shook his head. "Amazing, absolutely amazing. So what song did you sing in your head to keep time for your compressions?"
Sherlock scowled. "John, I hardly need assistance keeping time by humming some inane pop song, although Bach's Violin Concerto in E Major would work nicely if I was so inclined."
"Oh, I thought you might have used the Bee Gees Stayin' Alive," John teased. "It's kind of appropriate for the situation."
Sherlock snickered, "I think we'll let Moriarty claim that one, John."
"Yeah, it didn't work very well for him. Did it?" John said breaking out in giggles again.
"No, it didn't," Sherlock giggled.
A few minutes later, after the laughter had run its course, John nudged Sherlock's foot with his own. "Thank you for saving my life, Sherlock. Thank you for all the times you have saved my life."
Sherlock pressed his foot back against John's. "I've been told it's the thing to do when one has a friend."
Notes: Anaphylaxis is a severe allergic reaction that can be life-threatening if not treated quickly.
Epinephrine is another name for adrenaline and is used to treat anaphylaxis or to start the heart in the instance of cardiac arrest.
Drowning can have some serious consequences even if the individual survives. Some of those consequences are pneumonia, pulmonary edema, cardiac arrhythmias, electrolyte imbalances, stroke, and more.
CPR saves lives. Chest compressions are done at a rate of at least 100 per minute. The Bee Gees Staying Alive and Queen's Another One Bites the Dust have 100 bpm and are often played in class to assist students in maintaining the correct rate.
And, yes, rib fractures are an unfortunate complication of effective chest compressions.