First off, a GIGANTIC thank-you to sevenpercent for being a great beta; Pickwick12 for putting up with and giving insightful answers to my long list of questions; keepcalmsmile for great advice; and gauchadeutsche for giving me permission to borrow her idea about algebra! This story was made possible thanks to all of you, and for everyone else reading this: CHECK OUT THEIR STORIES! THEY'RE AWESOME!

Disclaimer for the whole story: I do not own anything having to do with Sherlock, Arthur Conan Doyle, The Adventure of the Reigate Squire and The Adventure of the Musgrave Ritual (the two short stories this fanfic is based upon) or anything Holmes-related that I binged on (interviews, blogs, etc.).

The Adventure of the Reigate Ritual

By, John H. Watson

(Really, John. You couldn't invent a title that doesn't sound like we're in a cult?)

(Whose blog has over two thousand views, again?)

(There's no accounting for poor taste.)

221b ASAP. Dying.

SH

PS: Need milk.

That was the text that sent me from Lyons, France to Baker Street, London in twenty-four hours. The punctuation and post-script should have been enough to warn me not to overreact, but I was focused more on the third word. Also, asking for milk while on his deathbed seemed like the dickish thing that Sherlock Bloody Holmes would do.

I texted: What happened?!

I waited, but no new message popped on the screen. I had four numbers on speed dial: Sherlock, Mary, Lestrade, and one other. I dialed the least used one. Mid-ring, the phone picked up.

"What did he do now?" came Mycroft's dry reply.

I repeated the text word for word. Then I said, "Do you really think he's—"

A beep.

"John," came a woman's voice; not with the inflection of a question, but as a matter-of-fact statement.

"Anthea?"

"Go to Lyon–Saint-Exupéry Airport. A jet will be waiting for you there."

"But where is—"

Beep.

The phone disconnected.

During the flight, I had time to gather my thoughts (and make plans to asphyxiate a certain consulting detective if this was an elaborate prank). If Sherlock was actually dying, he could've texted our code word, [REDACTED]. I would have instantly known there was trouble. The word 'dying' was vague. It could be anything from an acronym, a terminally ill suspect's password, or news that he's dying his hair. Anything's possible with Sherlock.

But then why would Mycroft send a jet if he thought his brother wasn't in danger? He could just be showing his dramatic side. Kidnapping me with a jet isn't that different than kidnapping me with a car. But if something was actually wrong…I patted my pocket, reassured by the familiar weight of my handgun. I reached the conclusion that if the problem was insignificant or nonexistent, then I'd have full justifications to choke Sherlock in his sleep. I have to be careful, though; Mary would want to finish him off when she came home.

Dread still weighed in my gut. When the taxi drove up to Baker Street, I expected to see the flashing lights of cop cars and ambulances from a mile away, but the streets were no more congested than usual. A good sign. Mycroft, even the git he is, would call for medical help if he knew his brother's life was on the line.

It was doubly reassuring that our door was clear of any notes. No break-ins, then. But that wasn't enough for me to let go of the pistol's grip. I climbed up the staircase, and could hear muffled voices. I steeled myself for anything. But when I opened the door…

The flat looked like someone had scattered fake snow over every bare surface, as if it were Christmas. Except instead of white fuzz, the snow consisted of…used tissues. The only spots with no white were the three chairs in the center of the room, two of which were occupied.

Sherlock leapt up when he saw me. "John, it's about—CHOO!" He snatched a random tissue from the floor and blew into it. "Time," he sniffed, his voice even deeper than usual. That's when I noticed his red nose and watery eyes.

"You're sick," I said.

"Unwell," he corrected. "Did you get the—"

"No, I did not get the bloody milk!"

I gripped the back of my armchair; the first thing closest to me that wasn't Sherlock's neck. Seriously considering that choking plan. "You trashed our flat," I said with deliberation, "called me here from France, and forced me to leave Mary with my alcoholic sister…because you have a runny nose." I pointed at the client's chair, where a distressed-looking woman was sitting. "And yet you feel well enough for a case. Hi, by the way." I waved curtly to the woman.

"Hello…" She waved nervously back.

"You should be grateful," Sherlock said. "If anyone can dry your sister out, it's Mary."

"Not the point, Sherlock!"

Sherlock sniffed. "What did you expect me to do when you were away? Lie in bed and have my brain cells commit suicide because of crap telly?"

"No, because that would be too reasonable, wouldn't it?"

"Reasonable is boring. Besides, this is your fault."

"Mine?"

"Yes, yours. If you hadn't left, you would have done that silly doctor-thing you're doing right now and force me to rest so my sickness would not have persisted as long as it has."

"As if you ever listen—"

"I listen, if it's worth my attention."

"—and actually do what I say when it comes to your health."

"I do!"

"Do you? Really? Name an instance."

"July 27, 2010: You told me it was unsafe to store hazardous chemicals next to food."

"You still keep mercury in the refrigerator."

"Only after I removed the food, which fulfilled your requirement. August 1, 2011: Said I risked heatstroke if I wore my coat when the temperature is above-average. I take issue with that since average temperatures vary depending on location."

"I think England agrees that twenty-nine degrees Celsius is too hot for you to wear a coat just because you want to look cool."

"And England needs to raise its fashion standards. January 7, 2012—"

"I said to list one instance, Sherlock, not write a bloody essay."

"I am providing evidence."

"You're being a dickhead."

That shut up Sherlock long enough for me to inhale through my nose, my hands clenching and unclenching the edge of the armchair as I tried to regain control. "You said you were dying."

"It was a close call. For a moment." Sherlock cleared his throat, his hands crossing behind his back. "But of course, no virus could stop me. About ninety-seven per cent of symptoms have already disappeared."

I counted several medical errors in that speech, but I didn't press them. Knowing Sherlock, he'd find an absurdly logical (yes, Sherlock, I know that's an oxymoron) counter to each one.

I sighed. "At least you remembered to take your medicine." I grabbed a bottle of Tylenol from the table and shook it. When I didn't hear a rattle, I twisted off the lid and flipped it over my palm. A single tissue fell out.

"I bought this a week ago," I exclaimed. "How long have you been sick?"

"Two days."

"Sherlock!"

"They weren't working fast enough."

The bottle clattered to the ground, and I seized my phone. "You complete idiot! Paracetamol hepatotoxicity is the most common cause of liver failure in the United Kingdom!"

Before I had even dialed the first nine, Sherlock had snatched my phone away and threw it into the client's lap. "Signs of overdose include vomiting, sweating, nausea, and right upper quadrant pain. The only sign of sickness I have is a throat that burns like hell and a runny nose." He sniffed to make his point. "Please. I'm not an amateur."

I pinched the bridge of my nose. For once it was blissfully silent; it took some conditioning, but Sherlock learned that when I was like this, he should leave me alone or risk getting punched in the face. Again.

I counted to twenty-five before I spoke. "You promised me. No. Cases. When you're sick."

"And then we came to the compromise that I would only take cases that wouldn't require me leaving the flat. And this—" he gestured at the client, "doesn't."

"When did we agree on that?"

"Oh. That must have been the other John."

"The other John?"

"An illusory model of you so I can deduce your opinions when you prefer boring trips over my company."

That made me pause. "So… along with continuing a conversation with me after I leave… you also pretend I'm here even when you know I'm not?"

Sherlock shrugged. "The mental exercise is better than talking to my skull."

I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised. Sherlock already held conversations with me when I wasn't there; an imaginary friend wasn't much of a stretch.

"If I wasn't so confused," I said, "I think I'd be flattered."

"Um, Mr. Holmes?" the client interrupted. Both of us blinked at her, having forgotten she existed as anything more than a piece of furniture in the background. "My case, Mr. Holmes?"

"Ah, yes. That." Sherlock bounded over. He snatched my phone from her lap and tossed it back to me. "Hardly a six."

He yanked her to her feet and started shoving her out the door, but she pushed back, shouting, "But the band, Mr. Holmes, the band!"

"Hire a snake remover."

SLAM.

Sherlock dusted off his hands.

"A snake remover?" I asked.

He waved away the question like it was an irritating fly. "Her stepfather murdered her sister because he wanted to keep the sisters' inheritance by killing them with a highly venomous snake."

"But I thought you said in the case with the speckled blonde—"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, still irritated at the name of one of the cases I had typed up.

"—that a snake couldn't kill someone without being seen."

"Which is true," he said. "The sister was blind."

"Oh."

I glanced at Sherlock, then back at the door where the woman had been forced out of. "Shouldn't we help her?" I insisted. "Even if the snake's gone, the stepfather can find another way to finish the job."

"Already texted Lestrade. Even the police should be able to convict the illegal owner of an exotic reptile."

"How venomous are we talking about, here?"

"Very." Sherlock's eyes lit up. "I have somebody in the Network who will collect a sample for me."

I stared at him. "And you just happen to know a homeless bloke who can harvest snake venom."

"Of course," Sherlock retorted, as if offended that I should doubt it.

My lips quirked up in spite of myself, as they often do when I'm with Sherlock. I drummed my fingers on the chair back. "So…just another day, then?"

"Yep." With the pop of the 'p', he plopped down on his chair. Sliding his fingers together, he smiled that lipless smile at me.

"How's Mary?"

l*l*l*l

Mary was enjoying the use of my bank account while I was away. She had taken a picture of her and Harry in a very fancy restaurant wearing very fancy clothes that I don't recall buying. They were having a toast, Mary with a glass of champagne and Harry, surprisingly, with a glass of water. (I can just hear Sherlock's pompous voice: "I told you so." Probably because he's saying it in my ear while I type this. Git). The text message that came with it said she'd be enjoying herself in France for another week. My poor wallet…

Seeing as how my house would be empty and Sherlock would not doubt work himself to death if I wasn't there babysitting him, I stayed at the flat. Shockingly, my room was just as I had left it, with a lone bed, an empty desk, and a mini-refrigerator that miraculously did not preserve any body parts. Sherlock hadn't let Mrs. Hudson clean the room, so the only real difference was the thick layer of dust coating the surfaces. A shame that Sherlock wasn't as undisturbed.

While I was surprised that he had kept my room as nice as he had, I was unsurprised that he was sicker than he let on. After I threatened him that if he didn't stick the thermometer in his mouth then I'd find another place to shove it, I learned he had a fever of thirty-eight Celsius (100.4 F for the Americans out there). An average fever lasts about three days. If Sherlock was telling the truth about when it started, his fever ran on for four days, and lingered because he had got up to God knows what while I was away. The only reason it didn't last longer was because I made him stay in bed (pouting, if I might add), with the understanding that I had already warned Molly not to let him into the morgue and Lestrade that he was not to send him anything more than cold cases—reports only.

I believed the only reason Sherlock didn't sneak out when I was asleep was because of my warning that I wouldn't be there when he returned. Under normal circumstances I would have called that a success. But nothing about Sherlock is normal.

The next two days were a living hell.

Note to self: never call Sherlock a nurse. If forcing pill bottles out of his hands or pouring chicken broth down his throat wasn't humiliating enough, I was also designated to be his makeshift genie. If he was bad before about fetching things himself, he was the devil now. Despite his insistence that he needed to start a real case, he somehow thought himself sick enough to summon me whenever he needed so much as the tissue box a mere foot away. If I had a pound for every time he shouted my name, I'd spend double on Mary than what she had splurged in France.

You could imagine my relief when Sherlock's fever finally broke. I still ordered him to rest so it wouldn't rebound. Another time when he didn't take my advice. After I had run to the market for tissues and milk (of course he'd find a way out of buying milk himself), I returned to catch him at the kitchen table dissecting a human torso.

"I said, could you get me a tissue?" he sniffled through a surgical mask.

"The other John must've forgotten." I set down the grocery bag. The stink of chemicals stung my eyes and nostrils. Pulling my shirt collar over my nose, I pointed to the dismembered body part. "Who's he?"

"Fred."

"And what are you looking for inside of Fred?"

"I'm not looking, John, I'm researching. The corrosive damage of sodium hypochlorite versus zinc and manganese to human innards, to be precise."

"I thought I told you not to bother Molly."

"Which I didn't."

I counted to ten before asking, "So where did you find Fred?"

"Homeless Network."

"You're telling me a bum found a dead—" I stopped, backing up and throwing my hands in the air. "Never mind, don't tell me! I don't want to know."

"Good. Ignorance is innocence. And stupidity."

"Not making me feel any better," I sighed, and got out my phone.

Sherlock looked up for the first time since I came home. "What are you doing?"

"Calling a friend."

"What friend? All your other friends hate you."

"Wonder why," I muttered, calculating how much bleach it will take to disinfect anything that Fred might be carrying.

8 Comments:

It is hardly my fault if my doctor doesn't give me an official note on what I should or should not do while ill.

Sherlock Holmes

One: As if you would follow my doctor's note even if I wrote one. Two: You were already reading over my shoulder when I wrote this. You really have to comment, too?

John Watson

I see I'm not speaking again, as per usual.

Mrs Hudson

Next time, Mrs H, next time.

John Watson

Great story, mates! Can't wait to see what happens next, and hope you're feeling better, Sherlock!

Mike Stamford

Seeing as how this story was written months after the actual events, yes, I am 'feeling better.'

Sherlock Holmes

Just say 'thank you,' Sherlock.

John Watson

Thank you. And quit saying 'mate' already.

Sherlock Holmes

Note: The airport for Lyon, France is Lyon–Saint-Exupéry Airport, but whether or not you can actually take a jet that will take you to 221b Baker Street within 24hrs, I have no idea. Then again, this is Mycroft and Anthea we're talking about—anything's possible.