The Illness Chapter 1, a sherlock fanfic

A/N: This story was the very begining of a drama my friend and I are kinda writing. It's a fanfic that we writing whenever we want.

-This is also the first story i've written on here

Enjoy!

Illness

We approached the lake, lead by DI Lestrade, our feet sinking in to the soft brown soil of the damp earth.
My friend, Sherlock Holmes, seemed rather happy about this since the last few days have been boring, since there hadn't been a case. I had gotten used to this by now, and was starting to enjoy it a bit more, but not as much as Sherlock.
The body was laying face down in the lake, but something urged Sherlock that this wasn't a drowning, and that in fact this had been an accident, which he didn't like what so ever.
"Watson! Help me get the body out," He said to me. He waided in to the calm gray water if the lake.
"Fine," I sighed, "but you take the head, i'll get the legs." He nodded.
We slowly pulled the corpse out, laying it on the soft sand.

-
Sherlock had a glance over it, looking at all the important details; age, job, ect. He even picked up some of the unnoticed details; bits of sand, a bulging bump in the throat of the victim. He kept that to himself until it seemed necessary.
-

"This wasn't murder," he announced. He walked nearer to me.
I knew better by now not to interfere in any of Sherlock's antics, or there would be a fight, and they would take turns screaming insults at each other; while one spoke, the other thought of the worst comments they could.
"It was an accident," Sherlock said.
"The killer saw that the man was chocking and tried to help. He used the Himlimch Maneuver..."
He grabbed me and performed it.
"...But he ending up snapping his back." I fell over on the floor gasping for breath, wrapping my arms around my torso, groaned in pain, and sqmy eyes shut.
" What was that for?! I really wish you would stop using me as expirament!" he chocked out.
"Here..." Sherlock extended his hand. I took it and he helped me up.
"Well, could it still be murder?" John asked.
"It could, but that's doubtable. Just look at the tracks on the ground, this man obvisouly didn't drown, but he was dragged into the lake. A killer would have dragged him with a straight line, but this one curves, showing signs of greivince," Sherlock said. I sighed, yet again amazed by my flatemate.
Sherlock cleared his throat and went to take a closer look at the bulge in the mans' throat. A small wadded piece of paper had been jammed there.
Sherlock pried it from the ripples of skin. He smiled as he unfolded it. I have become a custom to that smile. One of jublee, which was one you never really saw on his features.
"What is it?" I asked a bit courious.
"A riddle, my dear John, a riddle!" Sherlock said, with an obscene thrill. He hailed a cab. "Meet me at St. Barts!" he yelled as he climbed in and shut the door. I watched in amazment as the cab speed away.
He was always doing this. Sherlock had always gotten off on those sort of things. Crime scenes, murders, stolen idems, ect...
I trudged through the soft sand with a long sigh. I called a cab and hopped in.

-
Sherlock had finished the first riddles on the way to St. Barts. Rather easy. They were in Latin, which was a second language of his, one he was quite fond of.
The first riddle depicted an address. The next was a bit more challenging.

"What the blind may see, but the others may not..."

-
I had arrived just a few minutes after Sherlock, and I was quite confused with all of this.
Sherlock explained the riddle, what they ment, and read the last riddle.

"What does it mean?" I asked.
"It could either be sound, or sight itself," Sherlock boasted.
"But when one sense is lost, the another is amplyed. Like someone who is blind. Their hearing is usually the sence hightened."
"It would be sight," Sherlock said, more to himself than me. "Now scan the address, and I guess the name is sight, search those up for me, will u?"
Sherlock coughed, but nobody seemed to noticed.
I did as I was told and searched up the name and address. And as I was doing so, a thought occurred to me: What if Sight is a nick name? I told Sherlock my theory, and all the information I had gained from my search.
Sherlock nodded his head in acknowledgement, but ignoring it, until it seemed useful.
Sherlock used John's phone to call the number that was given by the website.

"Hello?" he said clearing his throat.
"Hello, this Sight. How may I help you?" A woman's voice answered.
"I would like to make an appointment," he said. "You are a psychic, yes?"
"Yes..."
Sherlock made an appointment for 12:30 the next day.
Something wasn't right, though. I looked at Sherlock as once again, he cleared his throat.
"Are you well?" I asked.
"Yes, fine," he spat. "Just need water." He went out of the morgue to the hall to a water spout.
When he came back, I, again became concerned. Something wasn't right with Sherlock, he looked ill. His already pale skin, shown to be sickly paler and he had dark circles under his eyes.

Sherlock had been feeling a bit like rubbish, but he ignored it. He focused his thoughts on the case, not really noticed. He went to grab the handle of the door, and jiggled the handle. He couldn't seem to open it, and it wasn't locked, he knew that for a fact.

"Watson, open the door," he said, a bit put off at himself.
"Why can't you use your own bloody hands? the door is not locked!" I declared.

-
Sherlock didn't want to admit it, but he couldn't open the door...
-

"John, just open the damn door!" he tried to sound intimidating, but it came across as almost weak.
"It's not locked, or are you too lazy to do this, as well?" I was a bit put off by Sherlock's antics. I opened the door. I heard a loud crash behind me that caused me to turn around. What I found alarmed me: Sherlock had passed out!

I ran to his side and felt for a pulse... Barely, but it was there none the less.

I carried Sherlock into the morgue and set him down on the cold, silver, examining table.

Minuets past and Sherlock came to. He seemed confused, but still very ill. He saw me sitting next to him. Then he saw where he was laying. "Why do you have me on a bloody mortuary table?! I'm not dead yet!"
"What happened back there?" he asked, genuinely concerned.

"I…" for a second, I thought Sherlock was going to say something I never thought he would ever say. And the words were finally uttered from his mouth in a monotone voice, "...I don't know…." He was confused, and when that happened, you knew you were screwed. "All I do know is, i need to be in quarentine, so," he pointed to the door. "Leave."
"Why?" I asked, almost as confused as Sherlock looked.
"If this is what I think it is, then I need to be in isolation, quarentine, and even if it's not, then still, you can't be too carful..." he uttered, smally.

Sherlock coughed very violently, then, and I walked out, slowly, not wanting to leave him alone in fear of what might happen, so I camped outside the door.

Sherlock wasn't even sure what this was, and really didn't remember a thing before he passed out. And he didn't like it one bit. He locked himself in the morgue, hopeful to avoid spreading the virus anymore.
He went through some books, the internet, and other papers Molly had lying around in her office, but the coughing got worse. At points he would find himself unable to breath, as a result of coughing so hard, and a few times, he coughed up blood.
he tried to focus, but found himself unable. One thing, though, was certain:

This was definately more than a cold...

I was worried, I hadn't seen my friend like this before. I carefully waited outside the door, on the other side of the hall, so I couldn't contract whatever was alling Sherlock.

Sherlock searched, but was becoming weaker by the moment. His strength slowly fading, he was unable to open jars, lift things, and was losing any power he had left.

After a few hours, Sherlock yelled through the door. "John?" he yelled, weakly.
"Yes?" I said, awaking from a light sleep.
"I think I have found the virus," he muttered, coughing his head off.
"what is it?" I asked.
"Blochulimsinadium."
"What?" Being a doctor, I knew what that was and the intitled symoptoms. "Did you run any tests?" I asked.
"Yes...," said a weak Sherlock, he was unable to keep up the conversation with me for much longer, without it leading to a horrible danger.
"And that's the desease you have?" I asked.
"...Yes..." Sherlock said in an almost whisper. "I am creating the antidote now at the moment. It will take a while, but I'm not sure how long I have..." he said using up the last bit of strength.

Sherlock laided his back propped up against the door, using his mobile to text John instead of mustering up enough strength to get a few words out:

"There are Four stages...

stage one:
. coughing\clearing of throught
. fainting

Stage Two:
. coughing up blood

.hulicnations

stage three
. vomiting
. stronger hulicnations
.coma

Stage four
. Death"

He typed slowly, and John replied:

"What stage are you on?"

Sherlock didn't get to answering that quickly, since he had fainted once more.

After that, I became even more worried, since I wasn't allowed in to help my friend.
It was about 10:45 the next morning when Sherlock finally got up enough strength to move.

"Tell Molly I need some equipment..." he listed what he needed, and I went down to Molly, where she had all she needed for Sherlock.
Molly met up with me in the hall, planning how they were to get the equipment to Sherlock without contracting the virus ourselves.
We decided on lighting tossing the bag in from down the hall.
Sherlock got started as quickly as he could.
"Don't forget you have the meeting with the psychic at 12:30" he reminded me.
"I'm not going alone," I replied.
"And I can't go without spreading the virus to more people," he conjected.
"Well," I started, "Do you have your laptop?"
"Yes."
"You have to set up a video link," I said, "but if you have to be 'sick', could you turn the camera and sound off, please?"
"Well, I don't think there will be much of a warning, but fine. I'll try," he said.
A little while later, I left for the meeting and Sherlock got to work on what he could for the antidote.

-
Sherlock hadn't felt quite like this since he was a small child and had contracted the chicken pocks, but this was NOTHING like it.