Sherlock lay upon his sofa. (His because not one of his acquaintances was stupid enough to suggest otherwise.) Today, as always, he was performing an experiment- upon himself. He stared blankly up at the ceiling as the sixth nicotine patch began to take effect, reaching for his patch-laden slipper, which had been dropped unceremoniously next to the sofa when he had flopped down- gracefully, but with even less though devoted to the flop than to the slipper's descent.
His fingers ghosted over the edge of the slipper, slowly dragging it closer and dexterously extracting yet another nicotine patch, peeling off the backing, and placing it on his left arm, over his brachial artery. He then removed his eighth patch from the slipper, and placed it on the brachial artery of his right arm.
Several hours later, the door clattered open, revealing a drenched Watson, weighed down by numerous grocery bags and drained by the achiness of his wounds which reappeared only in low-pressure conditions.
He winced, dropping the bags as his leg pain spiked.
"SHERLOCK!"
Sherlock did not stir from his sprawled-out position on the sofa, limbs beginning to adhere to the surface of said object.
In spite of the intense pain, Watson dragged himself to Sherlock's side, knowing that something was amiss.
"Sherlock?" Watson pleaded, shaking his flat mate's right shoulder.
Still getting no response, he shook him harder, checking his pulse, which was abnormally high. At closer inspection, Watson noticed that Sherlock really wasn't unconscious, merely unresponsive.
As Sherlock became aware of Watson staring at him, he chuckled slightly.
"Don't look so scared. I'm perfectly alright."
Watson obviously didn't believe him. Sherlock's pale skin had turned paper-white, sweat dripping from his face, and drool dripping down his chin. Sherlock was slightly curled in upon himself, making his cramps very apparent to Watson. He rolled Sherlock's sleeves up and cursed under his breath.
"Sherlock, you could have killed yourself!"
"Well, as with everything, there was a certain risk taken."
Watson sighed in exasperation.
"One of these days, no one will notice when you do this and you will die. Do I make myself clear? Mycroft and I won't always be looking out for you. Actually, I'm surprised that he hasn't intervened! Unless he's equally oblivious as you are, in which case you might just take too much of a gamble, with no one to assist you if something goes awry, and you will lose- not only the gamble, but your life."
Holmes took little notice as Watson rambled on, seizing.
"Sherlock?"
He couldn't respond.
Watson held Holmes down, trying to prevent him from injuring himself.
Finally, the seizure ended.
"Dear God, man! That's it- I'm taking you to hospital."
"Watson-" Holmes attempted to protest, in spite of the overwhelming weakness.
"Shut it, Holmes."
Watson hooked one arm around Sherlock's back, the under the detective's knees, grunting with effort. Although Sherlock was not a plump man by any means (rake-thin, in fact), he still weighed a considerable bit due to his height.
Watson nudged the door open, carrying the detective bridal-style, down to the flat's main entrance.
"Mrs. Hudson!"
She shuffled in, gasping at the sight of her poor lodger in such a sight.
"Mrs. Hudson, could you please hail a cab? I need to get Sherlock to hospital."
She nodded, opening the door and flagging one down in a matter of seconds.
John didn't have time to marvel at this, however. The cabbie raised an eyebrow, but Watson ignored this, shouting.
"Charing Cross Hospital! Please! I'll give you a hundred quid if you get there in ten minutes!"
He meant it- he had cashed the five thousand pound check, and had pocketed the bulk of what he hadn't spent on necessities. Currently, he had about a thousand quid on his person.
The cabbie nodded, accelerating and arriving very quickly.
For Watson, however, each second passed like hours as his friend's head lay in his lap. He brushed the matter curls away from the self-diagnosed sociopath's face. He knew that Sherlock was semi-conscious, and that the curls were annoying him slightly, as well as his inability to move them due to the profound weariness caused by the nicotine poisoning, compounding the effects of the usual abuse his body received.
"'Ere we are, sir. 'At's gunna be-"
"Just take it."
Watson handed him the promised 100 quid, and dashed out.
Sherlock gasped- it felt like his throat was constricting. He clutched at John as it worsened.
Watson froze in terror, calling out for help.
Several doctors rushed to Sherlock's aid, putting him on a gurney. One of the nurses was questioning Watson. In his daze, he hardly noticed, the nurse having to shout to get his attention.
"Sir- what happened?"
He was completely out of his senses, chewing her out.
"Is it not obvious that he has nicotine poisoning? Goodness, woman, go back to university! Now just-"
He choked, trying to hold back the tears. He had never been so scared. Not knowing what to do, he texted Mycroft.
Brother in AE.- JW
Already there.- MH
Oh.- JW
Mycroft soon approached John, umbrella swinging by his side.
"So he overdosed on nicotine again, didn't he? That wasn't a question. I'm perfectly aware of my brother's situation, as well as his current status. I always monitor him."
John gritted his teeth in anger.
"Then why didn't you DO ANYTHING?"
Mycroft smiled.
"I won't always be there to protect him. This was a test."
"A test. Oh, I see, so you're willing to risk your own brother's life, just to see how I'll react?"
"Yes, actually."
Watson, beyond caring about the consequences punched Mycroft in the jaw. He staggered back slightly, wincing, then smiled.
"Well, we are very protective, aren't we?"
Mycroft leaned slightly on his umbrella, crossing his legs.
Watson just stomped off in frustration, sitting down in the waiting room.
What seemed like hours later, a nurse finally came to him.
"Dr. Watson?"
"Yes?"
"You can see him now, if you want."
John jumped out of his chair.
"Follow me."
Watson followed her like a love-sick puppy, staying only about a foot behind her.
When he finally arrived, he found Holmes laying on his right side, trying to ignore his brother, who sat at his bedside, worry evident on his face.
When Sherlock dismissed Mycroft, his face scrunched in frustration, but he still left.
As soon as Mycroft was out of earshot and down the hall, John finally approached Sherlock, sitting in the chair that Mycroft had just vacated.
"I hate this hospital gown."
John gave a weak smile. Only Sherlock... He looked the younger Holmes over. The sweat had been mopped from his brow, and although the IV and catheter line that led to the bag at the foot of the bed (Watson winced in sympathy. Holmes certainly hadn't enjoyed the insertion of either, and Watson knew he had been quite conscious and aware at the time), inserted in his body, looked out of place, otherwise he looked quite normal, beyond the clear discontent on his pale features.
"Scratch that- actually, I hate being in hospital. Every single bloody nurse is female, and they're all such idiots... Worse than the normal, I mean."
"They're gonna wanna keep you for observation."
"Oh, I'm sure. I'm asking Mycroft about getting better accomodations. More privacy would definitely be appreciated... Actually, no, he would've fixed that already if he intended to do so. He is the British government. So he wants to punish me for my stupidity... Or so-called stupidity. It was an experiment- I knew what I was doing. It wasn't going to kill me, as long as you came, and I knew you would."
"Holmes, that isn't good enough. You are my friend- I can't accept that you don't care, and would so willingly throw your life away. I can't stand seeing you this way."
Sherlock sighed in weariness.
"Get out." He deadpanned.
Watson vacated as well, leaving Holmes with his thoughts. Then, reconsidering, he stormed back in.
"No, I will not. I'm staying with you."
Holmes simply turned his back to him, dozing off.
Watson stayed there all night, watching over Sherlock. He didn't wake until 11- at which time they were given discharge papers- (not hospital policy- Mycroft had pulled some strings). Holmes hurriedly signed them, removing each offending object as quickly as possible, Watson bringing him his clothes (clean ones that Mycroft must have procured from the flat).
Once dressed, Holmes stormed out, hailing a cab and rushing to the flat, making John pay the cabbie.
When they walked into the flat, both men noticed that it was much cleaner- with the exception of Sherlock's experiments, which remained undisturbed.
"Mycroft."
The remaining nicotine patches (including the hidden ones) had been removed from the flat (Mycroft was as adept at the science of deduction as Sherlock was- more so, in fact.).
The next day, things became slightly more normal. John actually had slept somewhat soundly and Sherlock had barely slept at all, mulling over everything that John had said, and then running through recent memories, deleting what he must, then rising and making tea, even delivering a cup to a bleary-eyed Watson- with a smile, of all things, as an expression of gratitude for saving his life.
Holmes may drive him insane at times, but Watson knew that he would stick with him for quite some time to come.