This is for my dear friend Prothoe, who has a love of sick fics. Happy birthday, my dear!
000
He made his way slowly up the steps to his flat, in no hurry, basking in the moment. The case he had solved today—their first case since John had returned from his honeymoon cruise—had been a triumph of deductive reasoning. Sherlock felt extraordinarily pleased with himself, and John's praise had warmed his soul. Three weeks, John had been gone: such a long time for a consulting detective to starve for a bit of appreciation!
And there was the added bonus of the copious amounts of cigarette smoke.
Always tiresome about Sherlock's smoking habit, John had been for the past six months or so even more obnoxious about it than ever. The slightest whiff of smoke sent the doctor into a rant of anti-smoking propaganda that rivalled anything published by the British Association for Cancer Research. He was a tyrant, and Sherlock had suffered for it.
But today, he and John had found themselves in the office of a suspect who was (apart from being a cold-blooded killer) an unapologetic chain-smoker. All windows were closed during their interrogation of the man, and the small room was blue with the most wondrous fumes. Sherlock, long starved for nicotine, had nearly forgotten the purpose of his visit there; he spent a long moment just breathing as he marinated in the smoke-filled atmosphere. John, politely trying not to cough, had tried to rush him along, finally simply leaving the room with red, streaming eyes. It seemed that his partner, while stoic and stalwart in the most dangerous of situations, was a complete namby pamby when it came to facing a bit of tobacco smoke.
Case solved, John had rushed back to his flat, eager to change into less-objectionably-smelling clothing—and, incidentally, also eager to see his new bride, whom he'd been mooning over in the most wearying fashion all day. Sherlock debated whether to shower and change immediately or savour the deliciously forbidden scent of cigarettes bit longer. Entering the door to his sitting room, he stopped and stared in astonishment. There, sleeping on his couch like Goldilocks in a fairy-tale, was Mary Watson, nee' Morstan. Scattered about her were the left-overs of Chinese takeaway and an empty carton of ice cream. On the floor by her outstretched hand lay her phone, battery dead.
What could it mean? Why was John's new wife not in her own flat, doing wifely things with her new husband? Sherlock mused over this new mystery. Of all the mysterious things on the earth, he often found that Mary Watson was truly the most unfathomable.
Then he remembered that, after she had cooked his breakfast that morning, he had invited her to his flat for Chinese takeaway after she got off of her shift at the clinic. And it was now. . . .Oh! Two a.m.! So, she had waited as long as she could, at last ordering their dinner herself, finally eating it all (had there been enough for them all? Yes, from the looks of the empty containers, Mary had eaten enough food for three people!) and then had found and helped herself to Sherlock's own secret stash of ice cream. And then, at last, she had fallen asleep, still faithfully waiting for her boys to come home. No doubt John was at their flat now, frantically calling her dead mobile phone.
Sherlock's phone sang into life. He walked into the kitchen to answer it in order not to disturb Goldilocks.
"She's here, John," Sherlock stated without preamble. "She fell asleep on the sofa."
"Thank god," John breathed, sounding overly-wired. "I thought she'd been kidnapped or something. . . . She hasn't been answering my texts for hours, so I'd assumed she'd given up on us, gone home and gone to bed."
"Apparently your wife has more fortitude than you credit her for," Sherlock said dryly. "Also, she is capable of eating a great deal more food than I would have thought possible for such a small person."
John snorted. "You should have seen her on the cruise. I don't know where she puts it all."
"Should I wake her?"
"Nah, let her sleep. I'll shower and change and be over soon. Don't wait up for me," John yawned.
Sherlock stalked back into the sitting room and stared down at his unexpected guest. It was not odd that Mary was here—she had lived on Baker Street with him and John whilst John had been recuperating from his knife wound. But it was odd for her to be here without John. She looked, if possible, even smaller than usual, huddled on the sofa, her face pulled into a little frown as she lay shivering. Shivering! Ah! One customarily placed a blanket over a sleeping person, didn't one? Sherlock cast about for the afghan and then realized that, in the most inconvenient manner, Mary had spread it out underneath herself. He considered all the mysterious stains on his sofa and felt he could hardly blame her. Should he get her a blanket from his own bed? But then HE would be cold, and she wouldn't want that.
At last, he took off his Belstaff and spread it out over her sleeping form. It was strange, how his heart contracted with affection when she sighed contentedly and snuggled under his coat like a child.
It was after two in the morning, and even consulting detectives grow weary, especially when there is nothing interesting going on. Sherlock took the shortest of showers and dressed quickly in pyjamas and dressing gown. All the while, he was aware of Mary, coughing. At first, it was just a sharp, choking sound, as if there were a tickle in her throat. But as he went into the kitchen to fix himself a final cup of tea, he realized her cough had swiftly grown deeper and harsher and had now become a rather breathless wheezing. Perhaps Mary had caught pneumonia on the cruise! But she had seemed fine this morning. Frankly, she had seemed fine ten minutes ago. Sherlock wondered what to do. Should he offer her some tea with honey? He walked into the sitting room just as she fell off the sofa with a crash. He rushed to her, dropping to his knees at her side, his heart thudding with concern.
"Bag!" Mary gasped weakly, barely able to speak, and realized she was trying to pull herself a few feet away to where her handbag lay beside the coffee table. Sherlock fetched it for her, and she clumsily tried to dump out the contents onto the floor, her body racked with coughing. "EpiPen," she managed to wheeze, her eyes rolling back in her head as she collapsed, all her energy focused on pulling in the next breath.
He froze. EpiPen! A sudden terror gripped him. Now a memory flooded back into his mind of John showing him how to use an EpiPen and explaining how important it was never to expose Mary to . . . tobacco smoke! Sherlock had dismissed it at the time as an overly-hysterical dislike of cigarettes. Apparently, Mary really DID have an allergy! Frantically, he rummaged through the contents of Mary's bag (why did women carry so much useless junk?) until he found the epinephrine hypo, wishing all while he dared take the time to call John for directions. But every second counted. Mary was nearly unconscious now, and her breathing was laboured and dangerously slow. Administering the medication was simple and took but a second, but Sherlock's hand shook and he was finding breathing to be nearly as difficult as Mary was. The rale in her lungs sounded to him like a death-rattle. His heart sank.
It frightened him, how fond he'd grown of this astonishing young woman. If anything should happen to her, what would he do? He realized now that losing her would be as painful as losing John. And this was his fault. This was all his fault. He'd put that smoke-soaked coat over her. John would never forgive him. He would never forgive himself. He had killed his best friend's wife with his carelessness, his heedlessness. He had killed his friend. Mary was his friend, and he had killed her. How could he have done such a thoughtless thing?
"Mary!" he called sharply, inexplicably angry. "Mary! You must breathe! I forbid you to die! I just won't have it! Do you hear me? John and I can't do without you. Do as I tell you and breathe! Listen to me! Breathe!"
Her wheezing increased alarmingly, and for a moment of time he was horrified, imagining she was in her final death-throes. But then he slowly realized that she was laughing- fighting for air, but laughing.
"I," she puffed. "Love. You. Too." Inexplicably, Mary always knew what he meant, whatever he said. Then, "Phone!" she gasped, gesturing, and went into a coughing fit.
Yes, of course! He should call for help! Punching the speed dial, he waiting impatiently for an answer. A sleepy, but carefully controlled voice said cautiously, "What is it at this time of night, Sherlock?"
"Mycroft, Mary is dying! An ambulance won't be fast enough—send a helicopter. Now!" he barked urgently.
"Good lord!" Mary croaked out, pushing herself into a half-sitting position and snatching the phone from his hand. "Not dying!" She drew a strangled breath and coughed. "Ambulance fine."
"Then I shall call one for you," Mycroft said in what was a strangely comforting manner. "Where are you? Baker Street?"
"Yeah," Mary rasped. "Thanks." And she dropped back onto the floor, panting.
Sherlock frowned. Mary was not dying. This was a good thing. But he still felt a dreadful remorse.
"I'm sorry I nearly killed you," he told her soberly. "I ought to have remembered your allergy."
She smiled up at him affectionately. "You saved me," she reminded him, pointing at the spent EpiPen. "My hero!" She closed her eyes, exhausted.
Sherlock sat silently, flooded with relief, and watched her breathe. It was the most wonderful thing he'd ever seen in his life, he was sure. He had not killed Mary. She was not angry with him. She still loved him. Mary was alive, and John wouldn't have to kill him.
He hoped.