John didn't even wait until he heard Sherlock's footsteps descending down the stairs when he barged through the door and ran out into the hall.
"God dammit Sherlock!" John shouted, practically leaping down the stairs. The tall man had already reached the door and motioned to open it until the sudden shouts of his blogger interrupted him. Sherlock looked behind him to see John running towards him.
"What now?" Sherlock groaned, "I've got a case, John."
"You said Lestrade wanted to start on it first thing tomorrow. Now, you aren't going anywhere until you tell me your actual destination." John argued.
"Or what?" Sherlock scoffed. John pursed his lips tightly and harshly tugged his coat off the coat rack nearby without breaking eye contact with the taller man.
"Or else I'm coming with you." Sherlock scowled and glared at John for a moment before he quickly dashed out of the door. John cursed and ran after the man but stopped short at the door leading outside into the contaminated air. Sherlock dashed to the curb and hailed a cab before John was able to protest. In a mere few seconds, the detective was gone. John grit his teeth, slammed the door shut, and started to stomp up the stairs.
"I do appreciate you taking up the case earlier than asked, but it would've been nicer if you had at least called or notified me of your choice." Greg Lestrade stated tiredly. Sherlock simply nodded.
The detective pursed his lips tightly and crouched closer to the corpse. The woman was obviously beautiful before the bugs got to her. High cheekbones, flawless complexion, naturally blonde, hourglass figure and toned body. There was nothing physically wrong with the woman. Sherlock's eyes scanned her hot pink blouse and knee-length skirt, as well as her bare arms and legs. He caught a glimpse of a gold band around the woman's ring finger with a small silver gem planted in the center. Immediately the detective's brain whizzed to life and the deductions came.
"I thought you said this was an interesting case?" Sherlock groaned and stood up, glaring at a frustrated Lestrade. Greg scratched his head and stared at the pale, well-dressed woman sprawled on the ground in front of them, a swarm of flies already eating away at her ear cartilage and tongue. "Dead six days. 34 years old. Married. Is a lawyer. Has two dogs and one cat. One child, around 12 to 14 years old."
"Reason of death?" Greg asked, choosing to ask how Sherlock got the information from a mere glance at the corpse later.
"No obvious aberrations of any sort. Perfect job. Married, a child, and pets. Obviously there's something from the past that haunts her in her mind that has become difficult to cope with. The only solution is suicide." Sherlock yawned.
"Doctors that has examined her state that she didn't take in anything toxic in the last 24 hours. No pills, no abnormalities, no history of anything strange. Perfect health." Greg countered. Sherlock cleared his throat uneasily and shook his head, trying to regain an understanding of the situation from another aspect.
"Homicide. Jealous co-worker."
"There are no suspects." Lestrade stated. The detective stared at his colleague, baffled.
"What?" Sherlock questioned, his eyebrows furrowed and his voice faltering for a moment before he regained his original expression, "No suspects? Are you mad?"
"We checked her background. She's an orphan. Biological parents died in an accident when she was barely a year old. She never had an actual family except for her own. She was happily married for 15 years. Has 1 child from the marriage. Husband and child deceased. Husband died in a train crash last year, while the child died recently from the strange disease going around. " Lestrade said. Sherlock sighed heavily and rolled his eyes.
"Obviously suicide now. Too much to cope with, so death is the solution. She probably took something with her food for a couple of months now that could come across as simple medications or even simple things such as sweeteners or pain killers. Something that wouldn't come across as suspicious or strange, but normal. She was slowly killing herself on the inside over the course of time." Sherlock offered, his voice less certain now. Strange, the detective always had at least 10 solutions at the top of his head. He couldn't come up with 1 or 2 at the given moment.
"Already told you. Tests taken on the spot showed nothing wrong."
"Run more tests then. Take the body or samples to Bart's."
"Sherlock! Come on. Cooperate." Lestrade demanded, his eyes disapproving. Sherlock stifled a groan, but then a strange wave of pain overcame his head and the detective gripped his temples. "Woah, you alright there?" Greg asked, his expression softer now.
"I'm..." Sherlock rubbed his temples uneasily and shut his eyes tightly, trying to regain his balance and thoughts, "...fine."
"You sure? Did you by any chance get the vaccination for that strange hell of a virus going around?" Lestrade questioned, clearly concerned.
"N-No..." Sherlock managed to say through clenched teeth.
"That explains a lot. Go on and get one then! This thing isn't a joke. I got the shot right when word spread around that something was in the air," Greg continued, "Come on, go. I'll even hold the case for you until you get the shot." Sherlock shook his head, though that resulted in a larger wave of pain. The detective yelped and teetered to the side.
"Lestrade, I really...don't-"
"Taxi!" Greg shouted before Sherlock could protest. The older man firmly grabbed Sherlock's arm and dragged him to the curb of the nearby road. In a few seconds a cab appeared and the door swung open. Lestrade ushered the detective into the cab and Sherlock stared up at him, his gaze distant and his eyes glazed over.
"Go back home. Ask John to take you to a clinic. Please. Do that for me, will you? Don't come back until you do." Sherlock opened his mouth to reply but the cab door was already shut and the detective's head was ringing loudly.
"Address?" The cabby asked in a gruff manner.
"22...1...B...Baker Street, " Sherlock slurred. God, his head hurt. It was annoying; he couldn't think. With the roar of an engine, the cab took off into the crowded streets.
John had finished drinking a cup of tea when the flat door burst open and Sherlock trudged inside, his appearance unsettling. His scarf was wrapped really loosely around the tall man's neck, and his trench coat collar was turned up in only some places. His appearance resembled that of a drunk man's. It was strange seeing Sherlock Holmes acting like a drunk man, though John noticed how deathly pale the detective was before the whole issue seemed funny.
"Bloody hell Sherlock, what happened?" John rose from the recliner and approached his flat mate carefully.
"N-Nothing. Just a f-f-fever and head-headache. It'll pa-pass." The detective managed to sputter before he collapsed on the couch, completely passed out. He hadn't even managed to take the time to take off his coat and scarf.
"Jesus Christ. We need to get you to a clinic."
"N-No...John...please...no...I-I'm fine. Just tired." Sherlock trailed off, covering his eyes with his elbow and arm, waving the doctor off with his other hand sloppily.
"'Fine', my bum. Get up." John commanded. Sherlock didn't stir, and after a moment his breathing grew slower. His chest rose up and down slowly, in the pace of someone who was sleeping. "Oh bother." The doctor clenched his fists and headed to his room upstairs, slamming the flat door shut behind him before he sprawled onto the large queen bed and thought for a moment as the news report crawled back into his head.
'Many first-stage symptoms are the ones of a common cold. But don't be fooled, for that's only the beginning. Only 2 to 3 days after diagnosis, the disease progresses into the more advanced stages of the virus which consist of symptoms such as violent coughing, trouble breathing and tightening of airways, terrible stomach aches, constant migraines, and strange bulges appearing along the scalp.'
John shook the report out of his head uneasily and stared at his flat door. He thought about his friend lying on the couch in the room downstairs and his condition. Maybe he was just tired. Maybe it was just a mild headache. Maybe he just wasn't feeling well. Or maybe he just caught a small bug. If anything, John was a doctor; he could manage the strange outbreak.
It'll just pass, don't worry. John reassured himself, and with that, he drifted off to sleep.
