Title: Error of Judgement

Rating: T (deals with drug abuse, so I'm not sure if the rating will skip up to M at some point)

Summary: A holiday to Cornwall brings much more than Dr Watson had hoped for. Adaptation of 'The Devil's Foot'

Disclaimer: I do not own anything do with 'Sherlock', no matter how happy it would make me. Maybe one day I shall ask The Moff and Godtiss if I can have them for a day?

Author's Note: This has been knocking around on my computer for a year or so now; it was going to be posted a while ago but then I read that 'The Devil's Foot' is a very popular story for fanfic writers to adapt and so I was slightly worried that this would bore people or wouldn't compare to others. I haven't read any other 'Sherlock' versions of this story, so I haven't been influenced by anything other than the original canon. This story is one of my favourites (just below 'The Speckled Band') and so I thought I'd have a go at putting it in the new universe of Holmes. Please do let me know what you think so far. I've got a couple of chapters already written, so I will try to keep on top of it.

The Personal Blog of John H. Watson

Apologies for the lack of any substantial post recently; life has been pretty dull around here, which I'm sure you'll understand is rather bad for Sherlock. He likes to be occupied, having cases gives his brain something to work at and he hates being idle. You'll no doubt remember the incident of him shooting the wall; well thankfully he hasn't resorted to that yet, but there are times when it's somewhat dangerous to leave him unoccupied for long periods of time.

This is the reason for this post, it's simply to say that we will be not be contactable (yes, Lestrade, please don't try to ring him up and get him on another case! That's doctor's orders!) for the next few weeks. We are heading for a…holiday and I doubt internet access will be brilliant there. I just wanted to post this to reassure you that we are both alive and that write-ups of more cases will no doubt follow once we're both fully rested.

Yours,

John H. Watson

John pushed his chair back from the computer slightly, staring at the message he'd just typed. He hadn't wanted to make any hint towards the seriousness of the situation; after all he was sure Lestrade for one would simply arrive for yet another drugs bust but this time there was a greater likelihood he'd find something. With a sigh he clicked the 'post' button on the page, before clicking off the internet and closing down his laptop. He still couldn't believe what had happened over the last few days; it all seemed like some sort of horrible nightmare.

The male pushed his chair away from the desk he had placed his laptop on and stood, turning his attention to his bedroom and doing a quick check that he'd packed everything of significance already. He was quite sure that when he went downstairs Sherlock wouldn't be anywhere near ready, but maybe this time he had something of an excuse.

"Idiot." He breathed, shaking his head slightly as he thought of his friend. He couldn't believe the stupidity of that man, you would have thought with an intellect like Sherlock's he'd know how to take care of himself, but alas that was not the case. Finally John moved towards his suitcase it wasn't particularly big, but seeing as Mycroft had managed to rent them a small cottage he was quite sure he'd be able to wash his clothes and reuse them. He left his bags by the bed, deciding that it was probably best to check on the detective below first. It was a testament to how much he'd learnt about Sherlock after nearly a year of living with him when he wasn't surprised to see his friend still curled up in his chair by the fire. It didn't look like he'd moved at all since John had instructed him to pack because they would have to leave soon in order to catch the train.

"Sherlock, are you packed?" He knew what the answer would be, but he could pray that he would be mistaken. However, the look Sherlock shot him told him that he shouldn't have bothered with prayers.

"Of course not, John. We're not going." John rolled his eyes, letting his suitcase drop to the floor with a thud.

"Yes we are."

"No we're not."

"Yes we…Sherlock we are not going to argue over this. You need a break, so do I. We're going to Cornwall to have a holiday."

"I don't need a holiday." John's eyes narrowed at this, they had had this discussion before and for some reason Sherlock constantly thought he was fine.

"Yes you do and that's final. I don't want to come back from work to find you dead on the sofa." His tone was matter of fact but he had to supress a shudder at the memory of last week. He'd slowly learnt about Sherlock's past but he hadn't been confronted with it until recently and so it had been more than a shock to arrive home to…that.

Sherlock waved his hand airily, as though to say that he shouldn't worry about such things. It was a gesture that only prompted John to bristle with agitation, how could his friend not care about what they'd gone through recently? Did he not give a damn that he could have died? Apparently not. Apparently he wanted to sit in London regardless of his health or what the three doctors they'd seen had said.

"Sherlock, if you don't pack I will do it for you." With that John made his way towards Sherlock's room, behind him he could hear muttering and he thought he caught the odd word that sounded like it might have been a threat but he ignored it. He was not going to sit by and watch his friend's health deteriorate again when he had a chance at finally giving him a proper break. That thought encouraged him to turn the door knob and enter the bedroom; he'd never been in here before, it had always seemed an almost unspoken rule that they would never enter one another's small sanctums. As he gazed around the strangely pristine room he wondered if the detective had ever been in here either.

The room held almost the same proportions as his above; the bed's headboard was against the wall to his right, a bedside table next to it and a wardrobe opposite. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, maybe clothes strewn everywhere, the odd severed limb hanging from the ceiling maybe but definitely not a very clean, very Spartan bedroom.

It didn't take him long to find a suitcase and begin to pack some clothes, a toothbrush and toothpaste along with other things he classed as essentials. It was entirely possible he'd forget something that Sherlock thought was vital, but if the man wasn't going to get up and pack for himself then he'd just have to make do with John's attempts.

When the last item had been placed carefully in the bag and the zip had been pulled closed, he straightened up and stretched slightly. As he did so he heard a small cough from behind him, he turned slowly and raised an eyebrow as he saw Sherlock watching him intently. He wondered how long the detective had been there, whether he'd watched him do all the work or had just appeared to see if John had destroyed anything.

"You're packed now; do you want me to take your bag downstairs?" Sherlock gave a small grunt that John took to mean 'yes please', and so he bent down to grab the handle of the suitcase.

"Why do we have to go?" It was the childish whine he had been expecting, but somewhere deep down he understood why his friend was having trouble comprehending the reason why they had to leave London for a while.

"We're going because you need some time away, time to rest and you're never going to get that here. Lestrade, Bradstreet or even Mycroft will come round demanding your attention and you'll be off running around for them –"

"I never run around for them, John –"

"Whatever. You'll end up making yourself worse because you're not taking the time to recover. We'll take a few weeks out, enjoy the countryside and then when you're better we'll come back home. Not before." His tone would have made long-serving soldiers bow their heads in compliance but with Sherlock it simply earned him a glare, as the younger man turned and walked back to the living room. John was pleased to note that he seemed to have a bit more energy, although he was sure that was partly due to the fact that he was angry and not that he'd been spending more time in bed.

With another sigh he grabbed the extendable handle of the suitcase and began to drag it downstairs, he was already beginning to dread the train journey but once Sherlock was in the countryside he was hoping he'd settle down and actually take time to recuperate. As he reached the bottom of the stairs he saw Mrs Hudson peering out from her own rooms, he shot her a reassuring smile that he was quite sure didn't reach all the way to his eyes but he didn't want her to worry about them. She'd done enough of that recently.

"He'll be fine, Mrs Hudson, and we'll be back before you know it." He placed the suitcase by the door before turning to head back up the stairs for his own bags.

"You'll take good care of him, John. I know you will." Another smile graced his lips, although this time it was tinged with sadness and regret. He gave a quick nod before he started up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Below he heard Mrs Hudson moving towards the stairs and sure enough he heard her voice calling after him, "And remind him I'm not his housekeeper, I don't want to keep on cleaning up after him." He chuckled softly as he remembered the mess Sherlock had left for Mrs Hudson just the other day, her eyes had bulged as he lay on the sofa and had managed to twist her round his finger as he complained about being too weak to move very far. In the end she'd cleaned up for him and cooked him dinner, all the while reminding him that he shouldn't expect this all the time. John had returned to find the detective looking rather smug as he sipped some home-made soup and their landlady muttering about toes in the toaster.

"Come on Sherlock, we're going in a minute." He called into the living room before he ran up to his own rooms, behind him he could hear vague curses being shot at his back but he ignored them. This was going to be an interesting holiday; he'd probably have to spend most of it forcing the blasted man to stay in bed. As he reached his rooms he double checked his medical kit, he had taken out as many pain relieving drugs as possible, taking only the bare essentials just in case they found themselves in a tricky situation yet again. He'd dealt with addicts before but never had he lived with one before, this was all new territory for him but Mycroft had assured him that padlocks and the like would have no effect, it was better to just remove as much as possible and keep a beady eye on him.

Below he could hear Sherlock banging things in the vague hope that John would decide that because of the childish tantrum they wouldn't be going away; all it did was steel his resolve and remind him of the reasons why they had to get away. He grasped his bags and headed out of his room, closing and locking the door before he moved down the stairs and had to duck as a slipper was thrown at his head.

"We're not going!" The cry followed the slipper but John ignored it, took the bags to join Sherlock's by the front door and ran back up to the living room. Without a word he moved towards the fridge, opened it and pulled out a rather gruesome looking foot on a platter. He held it up so Sherlock could see and moved towards the window; his friend's eyes followed him, horror slowly dawning on his face.

"What are you doing? John, put it down! You can't mess with that experiment!" The doctor ignored him, instead he opened the window managing to keep the platter out of the way of the fresh air for the moment but he had every intention of throwing it out if Sherlock didn't do as he was told.

"If you don't get downstairs to that taxi then I will make sure every last experiment in this flat is destroyed." His tone was deadly serious, never before had he threatened such a thing but this time he was only thinking of his friend's health and if this was the only way of assuring Sherlock's cooperation then he would do it.

"You wouldn't." The tone was confident but the eyes betrayed real fear for all his work that could be lost. John didn't respond, he simply stared at his friend and waited to see what his response would be. Slowly the platter moved closer to the open air until eventually,

"Fine, I'm going. Just put it back in the fridge." Suddenly Sherlock was on his feet and heading out of the door; John heaved a slight sigh of relief as he moved back to the fridge and placed the foot back on its shelf. With one last glance around the room he followed the detective down the stairs, picked up the first lot of bags, opened the front door and placed them in the boot of the taxi. It had been sat there for the past five minutes and the driver was most definitely not amused. Once all the bags were loaded they said 'goodbye' to Mrs Hudson, or rather John did whilst Sherlock sat morosely in the back of the cab. Before long they were trundling towards Paddington station with Sherlock staring resolutely out of the window and refusing to make any sort of conversation with either John or the cabbie.