Joan went to check on Sherlock the next morning. The very idea of Joan being awake before Sherlock seemed farfetched, since her initial arrival to the brownstone Sherlock had always been awake before Joan and would often wait patiently in Joan's room until she herself had woken up. Fortunately this situation only arose when there was a case that required his consultation. She opened his door to find him sleeping quietly in his bed, his exposed back to the opened doorway. The consulting detective remained unaware of her presence and continued to doze. Satisfied that Sherlock was resting well, Joan gently pulled closed the door until it was only partially opened and went down stairs to get a cup of coffee.
Joan Watson's time with Sherlock Holmes had been hectic and unpredictable. Her first impression upon meeting him was that he was utterly mad but after accompanying him for a few of his cases she came to realize that Sherlock was in fact a mad genius. He was so different from any other person she had met whether they were a friend or a client. In fact, she seemed to fall prey to his charismatic energy for solving crimes and elected to remain with him, no longer as his sober companion but as his apprentice and maybe even as his friend.
It seemed however that despite choosing an alternate career path, Joan would never be able to set aside her instincts as a doctor. Sherlock was a strong individual; he overcame his addiction and picked up his career where he left off. Once he even continued to assist the police with their murder investigation while he was ill, ignoring Joan's advice to rest. As an act of good will he did accept her homeopathic tea. The kind gesture gave her a sense of acknowledgement in the eyes of a genius.
But it was for these very reasons that Joan had an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.
The afternoon before while reaching for Joan's ringing phone, Sherlock had accidentally placed the heel of his hand on the needle of a thumbtack causing the small offending object to puncture his palm. Without hesitating Sherlock pulled the thumbtack from his palm and tossed it aside, it bounced twice before rolling to a stop against the wall opposite the fireplace. Joan insisted that he let her to treat his hand to prevent infection and for a fear of tetanus, but he would not allow it.
The remaining evening wore on slowly, too slowly for Sherlock it seemed. Without a case to stimulate his mind, he found himself bored. Boredom was potentially the worst possible experience Sherlock could ever endure, it wasn't any better for Joan who had to deal with the repercussions of his bored state. When he wasn't playing a seemingly endless medley on his scorched violin, he was setting up traps and surprising Joan with random attacks in order to test and re-test her abilities to defend herself. Whenever the violin would cease to sing its song, Joan would tense up with the nerve racking air of another 'surprise'. She found some form of sanctuary by hiding up in her bedroom.
But when the violin fell silent for the remainder of the day with no sign of Sherlock scurrying about the brownstone setting up a trap Joan became worried. Cautiously she left the relative safety of her room, walked slowly down the stairs while checking ever step she took for a wire or trigger and looking over her shoulder to see if he was sneaking up behind her. She reached the landing unscathed and looked over into the sitting room. Sitting morosely in his chair, the violin in its case at the chair's side was Sherlock.
He looked pale; he was rubbing the site of his injury with thumb of his opposite hand. He didn't notice Joan enter the room and approach him.
"Sherlock?"
He looked up and into her eyes with a start. "Yes Watson?"
"Are you alright?"
"Quite fine."
She folded her arms across her chest. "Really? You don't look fine."
"I assure you Watson, I am indeed, fine." Sherlock looked back down at his hands, then up again at Watson. "Tell me Watson, why would you believe that I am, as we have already discussed, not fine?"
"Well, for starters you haven't attacked me in about three hours, not that I'm complaining about the lack of excitement. And you're no longer playing your violin; in fact, it looks like you've aggravated your hands while playing. Also you're looking pale."
"Excellent deductive reasoning my dear Watson, however, I assure you that I am fine despite all evidence to the contrary."
"You're sure?" She moved her hand to check his forehead but he dodged it by quickly standing up from his chair and backing away from her.
"I am quite sure."
"If that's true, then that means if I were to check to see if you were running a temperature then I'd find nothing out of the ordinary, right?"
Sherlock stood idle for a moment before answering his apprentice. "I suppose that would ring true but you could also take me at my word and drop the matter entirely."
"Sorry Sherlock, I've been a doctor and sober companion too long. I know better than to simply take the word of an addict, whether they've recovered or not."
"A wise decision Watson. I must commend you on both your logic and overall reasoning."
"Thank you. Now, hold still." Once more, Joan reached to put her hand to Sherlock's forehead.
Despite his child like response of trying to duck away from her hand again, Joan succeeded. His skin was clammy and he felt warmer than normal.
"You feel feverish."
"I gather from your response the fever is low-grade. Is it not?"
"Yes, for now." She made sure put emphasis in her statement hoping it'd sink in better.
"I'm going to get the thermometer; I want a more accurate reading."
"No need Watson, my fever is not of a dangerous degree therefore a more accurate reading is unnecessary."
"Remember when I said 'for now'?"
"Indeed I do. You uttered that very phrase 17 seconds ago while staring off toward the left. That is of course a sign that person is attempting to access a memory; you had delved back into your knowledge of medicine, no doubt."
Joan just stared at Sherlock with an expression of disbelief plastered across her face. In one final attempt to get Sherlock to admit he was unwell, she grabbed his injured hand with her finger tips, she forced his hand to flex and stretch outward exposing his reddening palm.
"Sherlock, you have a fever, a symptom of an infection. Now look at your hand: See how the skin is inflamed? It's even starting to swell up. In other words, you do have an infection."
Sherlock studied and stared at the palm of his hand silently. He couldn't argue with the fact that his hand was starting to hurt him; the signs of infection were also unmistakable.
"All right Watson. What do you suggest?"
"I suggest that you allow me to clean and bandage your hand, then give you something for your fever and get you to actually rest. As in lie down and sleep!"
"This seems elaborate for a small inconvenience such as a pin-prick or low-grade fever."
"What you call 'elaborate', I call 'medicine'." Joan motioned for him to sit back in is chair. "I'm going to get the first aid kit. Just sit there."
Sherlock stood his ground momentarily as he watched Joan disappear down the hallway, his good hand still rubbing the injury site in a feeble attempt to soothe away the pain. He turned to take his seat as he had been ordered, when the very motion of turning made him suddenly dizzy. Sherlock fell forward only keeping himself from striking the ground by catching his weight with his good hand against the arm of the heavy chair. He covered his eyes with his bad hand, using his fingers to rub at his eyes and bridge of his nose in a frustrated manner as he used his good hand to slowly lower himself to the ground until he was resting on one knee.
Joan returned to the room with first aid kit in her hands and saw Sherlock kneeling on the floor. She immediately rushed to his side and placed her hands on his shoulder and the side of his face. Instantly she felt how much warmer his skin had become within only a few minutes.
"Sherlock, what happened? Are you alright?"
"What happened Watson was I became dizzy and began to fall. I managed to utilize the chair to brace myself against the merciless nature of gravity and elected to remain closer to the ground until said dizziness has passed. As for you second question of 'being alright', I believe at this point in time it is appropriate to answer in the negative."
"I think you're right, you feel even warmer. Look at me." She took her hand from his shoulder and placed it on the opposite side of his face trying to turn his gaze toward hers.
Sherlock took his own hand from his face and resumed his focus on the injury of his opposite hand. Joan could see that he had grown a few shades paler and dark circles were starting to form around his eyes. A fine sheen of sweat was beginning to form on his brow indicating a spike in his body temperature.
"You have a fever; there is no doubt about it. Can you get up or do you want me to treat you right here on the floor?"
"The option that involves the least amount of voluntary movement is greatly preferable."
Joan opened up the first kit and placed the thermometer in Sherlock's mouth. While the device began its task of registering his temperature Joan began work on cleaning up the suspected wound and its accompanying infection. She took Sherlock's hand in her own to re-examine the injury. It was clearly inflamed, the surrounding skin was red and swollen and the injury itself had signs of foreign matter imbedded inside. Taking a cotton ball that had been dipped in rubbing alcohol, Joan began swabbing over the aching wound will great care and precision.
Sherlock bit his lip as the alcohol began to sting his already aggravated skin. "Watson, if you would be so kind; finish up and allow me to endure this remaining pain without the indignity of whimpering."
"I'm sorry but it has to be disinfected properly." She tightened her grip on his hand as he started to retract away from her touch. "Hold still, I'm almost done."
"Your bedside manner is impeccable, do you know this Watson?"
Joan rolled her eyes at the comment while she finished cleaning the wound. As she reached back into the first aid kit for the sterile dressing the thermometer beeped signaling that it had finished taking Sherlock's temperature. She took the device from Sherlock's mouth and read aloud the reading to her reluctant patient.
"102.2. This is a little strange, Sherlock."
"What makes this situation strange as compared to your typical cases of infection Watson?"
"Because you spiked a fever after only a few hours of hurting your hand. Infections that take hold so quickly are usually the result of potent viral infections, not common bacteria. I think we should take you to the hospital and run some blood tests."
"No. No hospital Watson."
Joan furrowed her brow at Sherlock's reaction. "May I ask why?"
"I've spent more than enough time under the microscope of doctors. Each one having their own theory as to why I am the way that I am. All of them were wrong, by the way. Besides, to my good fortune my current apprentice, which I will remind you is you Watson, are in fact a medical doctor and thus I am already under a doctor's care. Therefore the proposed trip the hospital has been rendered moot."
"Yes, except for the fact that I didn't bring my own personal lab for testing blood with me when I moved into the brownstone."
"True. However, I do possess multiple devices for case deduction that are of medical engineering. If it becomes absolutely vital, I can allow you to use said devices to further treat my condition."
"I know this question is rhetorical but I must ask anyway: Are you seriously this stubborn?"
"I shall answer your rhetorical question with a fitting rhetorical response: Do you really have to ask?"
"Okay, fine. No hospital. But I am going to finish dressing your hand, then I'm going to give you a fever reducer and then you are going to go upstairs and rest."
"As I currently have no cases which requires my utmost attention, your conditions are acceptable at the moment."
Part of Joan felt relived that she was getting some level of cooperation from Sherlock but the other part felt that if he was actually cooperating then he must really be feeling unwell. He no longer had the endurance to be stubborn or to even argue.
After applying the proper dressing to Sherlock's hand, she motioned for him to go upstairs.
Sherlock cautiously rose to his feet, still using the armchair as leverage for his bodyweight and he started to walk toward the stairs. His steps were heavy and clumsy, Joan watched as the once ever precise detective stumbled toward the staircase. Worried that he'd hurt himself or worse fall down the stairs she walked over to her friend and wrapped his 'bad' arm around her shoulder before wrapping her own arm around his waist to help support his weight.
"Come on, let's get you upstairs."
"It's a shame Watson."
"What is?" Joan was trying to keep Sherlock steady as they climbed the staircase in a slow, uneasy manner.
"You are wasting all your kindness and compassion on someone who puts very little merit on the concept of 'faith in humanity', let alone the fact that I had intentionally and successfully managed to isolate myself from society as a whole."
"That's not true." They reached the top of the staircase and in unison turned to head for Sherlock's bedroom. "You dedicate yourself to protecting society by making sure as many bad guys as possible are caught and locked away from the good guys. You're a part of society, whether you like it or not and it's because of people like you that the idea of 'faith in humanity' could even exist."
Sherlock remained silent as Joan helped him over to his bed. Joan could see that he was physically exhausted. Despite the short distance between walking from the sitting room to his bedroom, he seemed out of breath. He was beginning to sweat more as well.
"Lay down. I'll get the medicine and a cold compress."
Feeling himself becoming drowsy Sherlock struggled to pull his sweaty t-shirt off over his head. He tossed the shirt aside and then laid back on his bed and sighed heavily feeling the soft, cool pillow beneath his head. He closed his eyes and tried to mentally picture what Joan was doing at the very moment. But fatigue clouded his thinking; he was becoming less aware of his surroundings and remained oblivious to Joan returning to his bedside until he felt the welcoming sensation of the cool compress being placed on his forehead.
"Sherlock?"
His eyes were heavily shut but he managed to briefly open them and look at her.
"Sit up. Take these and then rest." In one outstretched hand she held two pills and in the other was a glass of water.
Unable to find the words let alone any actual reason to refuse to take the non-narcotic laced medicine, he obliged her request.
He laid back down and rested his head against his pillow before turning onto his side, away from Joan. She positioned the cold compress back onto his forehead in a manner that would keep it from slipping off before she left him alone. Fatigue allowed his mind to shut off and his body to submit to sleep.
She exited his room, closing the door quietly behind her. She looked down at her watch noting the time: 7:14pm. She'd return to check on him by 10pm. Until then, she resided herself back in her own room reading one of the many books Sherlock had left for her to study.
Just before 10pm that night Joan had finished reading her book and closed the hard covered text with a satisfactory slam. Noting the time on her alarm clock she carefully crept back into Sherlock's room letting the light from the hallway guide her so she wouldn't disturb Sherlock's rest. She gently lifted the compress from his forehead and checked his fever with her hand. He was still warm but at least the fever hadn't increased, it appeared the medication was working on some level. Taking a moment to replace the warmed compress with afresh, cold one and reapplying it to his forehead, Joan was satisfied that Sherlock wasn't in any immediate danger.
Leaving his room as quietly as she entered, she returned to her own bedroom to turn in for the night.
Joan finished her coffee, placing the emptied mug in the sink. Even though she'd prefer to allow Sherlock to rest as long as possible she decided to try and rouse him to get him to take another dose of medication.
With a fresh glass of water in her hand and two more pills Joan returned to Sherlock's room. She placed the items on the nearby nightstand once she was near his bedside. Joan put her hand on Sherlock's shoulder, his back was still toward her, and gently shook his arm. His skin was still very warm beneath her hand.
"Sherlock. Sherlock?"
There was no response to her voice or touch. Joan spoke a little louder.
"Sherlock? Wake up."
The ill detective remained asleep, blissfully unaware of his colleague's presence.
Joan was getting worried at his lack of reaction. She put her hands on his shoulder and side and rolled him onto his back, the compress falling away from its place. As his body lolled limply over Joan held back a gasp when she saw how pale his face was, the dark circles beneath his eyes emphasizing the severity of his pallor. Joan's instincts as a doctor kicked in and she began immediately assessing his overall condition.
She placed her fingertips against his neck checking his carotid pulse to find that his heart was racing. Joan also noted that he seemed to be breathing very rapidly, almost struggling to catch his breath. She placed her ear to his chest to listened to his breathing, even without the aid of a stethoscope she could hear that he was suffering from significant congestion in both of his lungs. Next she gently lifted his heavy eye lids and saw that both of his pupils were dialated.
As she placed her hand to his forehead, Joan once more tried to awaken the ailing man.
"Sherlock? Please, wake up! I need you to wake up!"
Beneath her palm she could feel that during the night his fever had increased. With no response from Sherlock, Joan felt that his health was in serious freefall. Remembering the wound in his palm, she lifted up his bandaged hand and unwrapped the dressing to examine the injury once more. As the white fabric fell away, she could see that the initial injury site was showing signs of a severe infection despite the sterilized treatment the night before.
As Joan's finger's neared the tender injury site, the pain caused Sherlock to rouse. He weakly tried to pull his hand away from her grip but his overall body weakness prevented it. Relieved that he was showing signs of life Joan placed her hands on either side of his face to try and bring him fully around.
"Sherlock, can you hear me?"
Through partly opened eye lids, Sherlock's eyes locked into Joan's. "Watson?" He coughed harshly.
"Yeah, it's me. You're really sick; I need to take you to the hospital."
"No." He paused briefly, desperate to catch his breath. "A hospital won't… Won't do any good."
"What? Why? If you're sick they can help you!"
"Because Watson…" He paused to catch his breath once more. "I'm not… sick." Sherlock coughed again, longer than before. "I've been… poisoned."
"Poisoned? You have to be kidding me!"
"No, Watson. I'm not."
"If you really have been poisoned, why would you refuse medical treatment?"
"There is no… antidote. Not for… this…"
"No antidote? So you know what you've been poisoned with?"
"Ricin." He paused once more, his frail body shaking with the violent spasms of his coughs and struggling breaths. "Through the… thumbtack."
His words were slurring, fatigue and setting delirium made it increasingly difficult for Sherlock to think straight.
Joan's eyes widened with fear, she knew that is Sherlock was correct about being poisoned then that meant she allowed the toxin to invade his body undetected for over 18 hours.
In her mind she began to blame herself: 'I was a doctor, I knew that there was something wrong with him but I didn't follow through on my hunch and now it could cost a man's life. Another life lost… because of me.'
Using his incredible gift of deduction and ability to read any person of whom he encounters, Sherlock sensed Joan's inner turmoil and impending guilt.
"Watson, you have… done nothing… wrong."
She stared at her friend in quiet disbelief. 'How can he say that?'
"I recognized… the symptoms… earlier. But I did not… say anything to you." Sherlock was breathing faster, attempting to take in the oxygen that seemed to evade him.
"Symptoms? What exactly as your symptoms?" Joan took the tablet from Sherlock's nightstand and quickly found a website to confirm Sherlock's suspected diagnosis.
"Aside from the… pain and swelling… at the… injection… site." Sherlock's words were slowing; each time he spoke he had to fight to get his words out. "Fever… nausea… shortness of… breath… tightening in my… chest."
Joan's concern mounted. His symptoms matched being poisoned by Ricin percutaneously. She also found the bleak confirmation of no antidote being available to treat the actual poisoning, the same poison that can kill an infected person within 36 to 72 hours.
"Sherlock, all I can do for you is supportive medicine. Even if you were admitted to the hospital they could nothing more than I could, right here. Do you still want to stay?"
Using what little strength he could muster, Sherlock nodded to his colleague.
"Okay, then I'll start by giving you your next dose of fever reducer."
She retrieved the water and pills from the nightstand. Sherlock attempted to sit up but his strength failed. Joan put the water back down and helped pull Sherlock upward by his shoulders until he was in a sitting position. Regardless of his personal ego there was no denying that he would require assistance if he wanted to recover. With great distain marring his face Sherlock allowed Joan to place the pills in his mouth and assist him in drinking the water, all of it.
Afterward, Joan gently helped Sherlock lie back down, her hands guiding his shoulders and head. His eyes shut tight and his breathing slowly evened out, but kept its shallow rhythm. Joan sat on the edge of his bed and watched him as he fell into a deep sleep, his eyes moving frantically beneath the darkened lids.
Joan was compelled to stay by his side. Sherlock's words of understanding echoed in her mind, but not even Sherlock Holmes' words of wisdom were enough to smother out her guilt. She continued to mentally re-play each event as it unfolded over and over again, convinced that she should've seen something out of the ordinary that could've prevented this whole scenario.
'We were only away from the brownstone for a few hours, who got in while we were out? Who knew we'd be gone in the first place? We walked in, nothing was amiss, the doors and windows were locked, no foreign footprints or cologne in the air, everything seemed normal. The only thing odd that happened the whole day was Sherlock putting his hand on the thumbtack in the first place…'
"The thumbtack…" Joan realized that the would-be (could-be) murder weapon was still in the brownstone. She needed to find it and tell Captain Gregson what happened.
Joan darted out of Sherlock's sickroom to grab her phone from her own room. She texted Gregson's number as she ran down the stairs and began to search for the offending thumbtack in the sitting room. Joan was crawling around on her hands and knees, carefully checking for any misplaced object on the wooden floor. She spied the offending object resting inconspicuously against the wall, as she reached to pick it up her instincts as a 'detective' overcame her and she stopped.
"Wait, this is evidence." She took a deep breath, resting on her knees. "If I touch it I could smudge any possible fingerprint. I need to show this to Gregson or Bell or anyone else who is a real detective."
As if on cue, there was a knock at the door of the brownstone. Cautious of any potential physical threat that could harm her or worse, Sherlock, Joan approached the front windows quietly to see who was at the door. A squad car was parked out front; she sighed with immense relief and greeted the awaiting officers.
"Detective Bell, I'm glad you're here." Joan opened the door wide and motioned for Bell and an officer she had never met before, to enter.
"Miss Watson, Captain Gregson told me that Sherlock has been poisoned. I hate to ask but, did he do that to himself with one of his bizarre methods of deduction?"
Joan smirked a little at the question. "Unfortunately no, this wasn't self-inflicted." She pointed to the location where the thumbtack still lay. "Someone snuck into the brownstone and planted that thumbtack laced with a poison that Sherlock determined to be Ricin."
As the unnamed officer proceeded to document the crime scene, Bell gave a stunned look to Joan.
"Sherlock figured out what he was poisoned with? While he was poisoned?"
"Yes. He recognized the symptoms and I confirmed the diagnosis."
Bell shrugged his shoulders. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised that one of his many talents include identifying toxins." He rubbed at his chin and watched the officer taking charge of the scene and evidence. "Look, we'll handle this. You go check on Holmes and we'll call if anything turns up, okay?"
"Yeah, thanks."
Remembering the first aid kit still sitting on the floor, Joan picked up the case and walked back up the stairs watching over the railing as the two officer's began their investigation into what could only be called 'Sherlock's attempted murder'. The very thought made her uncomfortable.
She returned to Sherlock's room and closed the door behind her. She sat on the edge of his bed again and observed his frail condition. It pained her to see him in such a pitiful state. Taking the thermometer from the kit, she managed to slip the device in Sherlock's mouth; she needed to get an accurate read on the severity of Sherlock's infection. As she placed her hand to his forehead, Sherlock woke up once more.
"Don't talk; I want to check your temperature." She wanted him to be as still and quiet as possible.
Sherlock stared at her confused for a moment before he realized that he had a thermometer in his mouth again.
"Detective Bell and another officer are downstairs taking care of things for you. He said he'd call if they found any information."
As Joan took the thermometer from Sherlock's mouth, he swallowed hard trying to force himself to speak.
"Watson. What you said earlier… about me… Did you mean it?"
Joan looked up from the thermometer's gauge back to Sherlock.
"Did I mean what, exactly?"
"That I contribute… to faith… in humanity." His breathing was becoming labored.
She placed her hand on his chest in both a comforting fashion and to check on how difficult his breathing had become. "You're fever rose to 103.4, you need to rest."
"Did you… mean it?" His intense eyes focused on her face.
"Yes, I did."
Sherlock's eyes fell shut once more, his body relaxing while his breathing remained rapid and shallow. Joan took her hand away from his chest and she picked up the discarded compress from his bedside. While walking out of the room toward the bathroom, she was met by Bell in the hallway.
"We've called in additional assistance to examine the crime scene, so you're going to hear a lot of voices downstairs. How's Holmes doing?"
Joan ran the compress under the running water of the bathroom faucet; she looked over her shoulder at Bell. "He's holding his own. He has a fever and is having trouble breathing but he's regained consciousness a few times and he's aware of what's going on."
"Man, I don't envy you. But if anyone can take of a man as stubborn as Sherlock Holmes, it's you."
"Thanks. I just hope his stubbornness is enough to keep him around." Wringing out the excess water, Joan returned to Sherlock's room.
After placing the fresh compress onto his forehead, Joan watched from the armchair across the room as the consulting detective slept. As a doctor she knew all too well the odds of anyone recovering from poison without an antidote were slim, but throw in an infection and lung congestion and the slim odds become nearly indeterminable.
Joan glanced at the clock on her phone; it was just past 9:30am. The day had just begun and it was already dragging on; the suspense of not knowing Sherlock's fate seemed to make time itself stand still. She leaned back in the armchair and listened to the muffled voices of the police officers and detective Bell downstairs. A few camera clicks and car doors slamming gave her an idea of how far along the attending officer's had advanced into the investigation.
There was a gentle knock on the bedroom door as it opened slightly by detective Bell.
"We're done downstairs, for now. We might be back later but we couldn't find anything to go on."
"You didn't find anything?"
"Sorry, no fingerprints or signs of a break-in or trace of an invader of any kind at the doors or windows."
"Did you check the security footage from Sherlock's laptop?"
"Yeah, we had one our tech-guys check it out, took him a while to get the password but it looks like someone knocked out all your surveillance equipment."
"So, you have nothing?"
"Yeah, sorry."
"Don't be, it's not your fault."
"I'll call later after we take that thumbtack in for testing. Do you need anything?"
"No, we're fine."
"Okay, but if you do don't hesitate to call."
"I won't, thank you."
Bell nodded politely before leaving the room and closing the door behind him.
Alone again with Sherlock in the brownstone, Joan felt obliged to stay at his side.
Hours passed by slowly, Sherlock's fever only intensified while his breathing continued to suffer. Joan used every technique she knew to assist his recovery and to lessen the strain on his lungs. She propped several pillows behind his shoulders and neck forcing him to rest in an elevated position. By placing ice packs behind his neck, over his abdomen and against his groin, she hoped the cold would reduce his fever. Draping a heavy quilt over his body would ensure that the cooling effects from the ice remained focused on his prone form.
Joan remained vigil as the morning sun rose to high noon, and remained even longer as the sun finally set in the distance. Every four hours she would replace the icy compresses with fresh ones until at last as midnight approached, Sherlock's fever had broken and his heart was no longer racing. But Joan's optimism quickly faltered. His breathing was less labored but it was still erratic and congested.
She refused to leave her patient, her friend alone. If he were to die she'd never be able to forgive herself. She had made an error in a judgment call before and it not only ended her career, it ended an innocent man's life.
Curling up in the armchair, Joan watched Sherlock breathe while he slept. It was a struggle to keep her own eyes open.
It wasn't until Joan felt the distinct impression of someone watching her that she realized she had fallen asleep in the chair. As she sat up and looked at the bed, she was greeted by Sherlock who was sitting on the edge of his bed watching her.
"Sherlock! You're awake." She sat up quickly.
"Very astute Watson. It appears that I am going to live, so bully for common sense medicine."
"Wait, when did you- when did I-"
"I regained consciousness at exactly 6:17 this am. Judging from the heavy bags beneath your eyes and the obvious stiffness in your neck that you're trying so desperately to ignore, I'd estimate that you had fallen asleep just after 2am, which means you've been sleeping for only four and a half hours."
"Hold on…" Joan struggled to sit up straight, her neck was indeed stiff and hurting her. "How can you go from near-death to... this?" She spoke with her hands after be unable to find the proper words to express her surprise.
"Simple my dear Watson. I have made a full recovery."
"I seriously doubt that even you could recovery completely so quickly."
"You're right Watson. All me to opportunity to correct myself: I am in the process of a full recovery. It's now abundantly clear that I had taken the full dose from the thumbtack but the dose itself was not potent enough to be considered fatal."
"Lucky for you the would-be-assassin miscalculated your weight when they dosed the thumbtack." She leaned back in the chair relieved.
"Was the dosage actually a miscalculation?" His eyes focused intently on Joan.
"What?" Joan was running her fingers through her hair; the question froze her hands in place. "What do you mean 'actually'?"
"Let us review the facts we have uncovered thus far, shall we?: The thumbtack was dosed and left in the brownstone in plain sight, I became its victim by sheer happenstance. The dose itself could arguably have been diluted due to prolonged exposure to the air or unable to retain the full potency of the poison due to the limited size of the needle, but I feel that it is more likely that if a would-be-assassin were to so brilliantly conceal a murder with such an insignificant object, that the object in question would be placed in a precise manner to eliminate the target. Would they make such a reckless error as dosage miscalculation?"
"That sounds… I guess they wouldn't be careless in such an obvious manner."
"Also, please note that the location of the thumbtack was on the desk, needle-side up and very near the location where you consistently place your phone after returning to the brownstone."
Joan's eyes widened with fear. "Sherlock, what are you trying to tell me?"
"I'm sorry Watson but it appears that I was never the intended target. You were."
-The End?
Author's Note: Ricin is a potent toxin derived from the beans of the castor plant (Ricinus communis), used in the production of castor oil, a brake and hydraulic fluid constituent. Ricin makes up 3% to 5% of the "waste mash" that is produced during this process. Separating out this protein is not difficult; it only requires chromatography, a common undergraduate chemistry skill. Ricin is native to Africa and common in warm climates worldwide. More than 1 million tons of castor beans are processed every year worldwide; Ricin is part of the waste material that remains after castor beans are processed. It is easily and inexpensively produced, highly toxic, and is stable in aerosolized form. Ricin has no treatment or vaccine. Ricin poisoning is not spread from person to person. Death from Ricin poisoning could take place within 36 to 72 hours of exposure, depending on the route of exposure (inhalation, ingestion, or injection) and the dose received. Ricin can be disseminated as an aerosol, by injection, or as a food and water contaminant.