A/N: Sorry this is a little rushed...hope you enjoy :)
John is stunned into silence only for a second – meanwhile the panic is still rising into a veritable cacophony – before he repeats himself.
"Sherlock?"
You realise through the fog that, while he may be concerned, he has no proper idea of what is going on. Relief floods your system (in an albeit stymied fashion) as you catalogue the possible lies: fever, lack of sleep, lack of food – hmmm, you'd better not push that one, John's been harping on about sustenance a lot lately – migraine, ah –
"Headache," you manage, willing your fingers to unclasp, glancing up at him.
The brightness outside hadn't properly occurred to you on first staggering outside. With the post-storm drizzle now giving away to a decent eyeful of sun, you haven't got the self-control not to groan. You bury your face in your hands, still trying vainly to breathe.
"Sudden onset, was it?"
John sounds doubtful, but you ignore him. Lestrade and Anderson have made it down the stairs now, too, Anderson puffing loudly. You withdraw your mental comment about J's limp before recalling that you never said it aloud, but nevertheless you had been wrong, and it galls you. Something about the mistake seems to have flicked a switch, though, because the Palace padlock has come undone.
"That's weird," you say, frowning.
Aside from the odd tremor, your hands have stopped shaking, and breathing is requiring a less concerted effort. Excellent. Breathing really is boring.
"What is it?"
You're hard pushed to work out from tone of voice alone if John is angry. You look up, and he seems more concerned than anything else. Autistic tendencies aside, you think for once you might have read his emotional map correctly.
"'ve told you," you mutter.
Hoisting yourself onto your feet, you offer prayers to every deity coming to mind that you can stay standing.
"People like to hear you're actually human, Sherlock!"
"No one likes hearing about someone's weaknesses," you scoff, even though you think his bravery in even considering the excuse is commendable.
"Tea?" you add hopefully, not looking at him.
He rolls his eyes and sets about filling the kettle, taking two mugs from the cupboard while he waits for the water to boil. You turn to contemplate the gutted rat on your desk from yesterday morning. Having returned from meeting Lestrade – John insisted you go explain the poisoning properly after your conduct yesterday the aunt, of course the aunt, no one would have suspected her – you're both back at Baker Street. Predictably, you're bored again.
"Honestly, though, people do," the doctor says, handing you the first mug of tea and setting down his own on the coffee table with a loud thunk.
"Mrs Hudson will have your head if that leaves a mark," you remind him, not without some enthusiasm.
"And not yours?"
A raised eyebrow on your part, and a sigh on his.
"Disgusting, that rat," he explains, waving a hand in the direction of your 'experiment', "and I've seen a lot worse, Sherlock. She'll flip," he adds, rather fondly.
You ignore him and wonder when the chlorine had first begun to take effect on the small intestine. The experiment had been interrupted by Lestrade;s call about the powder-woman: "Blonde, mid-thirties I think. Anyway she's chalk white and very dead. Floor of her bedroom. Will you come?"
John pulls himself away from eyeing the rat, though with mild trepidation.
"Anyway, as much as the size of your ego doesn't need it, people admire you. They read the 'stupid blog' – " he makes the air-quotes awkwardly with his left hand, his right now engaged in holding his tea, " – as you call it, because – "
"Not an angel," you spit out, pretending to tune out.
You are trying to pry the decomposing rat from the edge of a draft of your latest monograph, An Investigation Into The Effects of Cadaver Haemoglobin Levels At Various Stages Post-Mortem, using the handle of the spoon with which John had stirred your tea.
" – you're clever and they're impressed," he continues loudly, speaking over the top of you.
You suppress the urge to laugh, as well as the strange squirming of your stomach. Whether or not you'll admit it, having someone impressed by your genius (and simultaneously not bitter about it) is and always will be fuel to your sense of achievement. Your self-worth too, wouldn't you say? The voice in your head adds snidely. With an effort you pull yourself back to the present and your rambling housemate.
"When God forbid you should actually make a mistake – or, in this case, fail to remain quite so aloof for once in your life – people become excited by the simple fact that you're one of them."
Don't say it, your feeble conscience warns.
Too late. You slam the spoon against the desk with more force than necessary, and the metal scars to wooden surface.
"Normal people are nothing, that's an insult to my intelligence."
Cold. Collected and in control. Yes.
"Oh, that's right, I always forget the great Sherlock Holmes is above us all."
John is practically sneering and you realise you have offended him in turn.
"Oh don't be stupid, John. You're cleverer than most," you add, but your attempt to placate him has already backfired.
Standing, he strides from the room, leaving you beside his still-steaming cup of tea.
It is three days before you say another word. Well, you had sworn at the doorframe after stubbing your toe at some ungodly hour of the morning; J had threatened to knock you out with the butt of his revolver if you didn't stop scratching at your violin. Technicalities aside, it had been rather a quiet household in the lexical department. Chemistry and the violin had taken precedence in an effort to stifle that strange sense you were loath to identify as guilt.
Meanwhile, the attacks had struck twice more, reducing you to a shuddering mess - the first time you curled up on the couch around midnight (thank God J had slept well that night, or he might have found you), the lingering tremors keeping you awake until morning. It hardly compared to the second, though, tearing you awake from fever-dreams and all the while you fought the urge to yell, as tangled in the blankets as your cyclical anxiety.
You can no longer deny that it is becoming worse. Ignoring this, you continue in your usual veins of 'entertainment'. On the fourth day you text L in a particularly violent paroxysm of boredom, and spend the following hours scrolling mindlessly through your sent items. Wondering what on earth you had been thinking half the time, you begin deleting some of them, almost embarrassed by your own stupidity.
What's seventeen divided by three, when working in base eight? – SH
It occurs to you that your phone has been ringing unheeded over last few days. What with John still angry and your own stubborn silence, the messages and calls have been accumulating. Feebly you wonder if Lestrade has left you any interesting crimes to mull over.
You scroll through the inbox until you find your brother's reply:
MH – Go to bed
Interesting, you don't recall sending the initial message. You check the date, frown, and delete its uncomfortable association with the attack. The conversation appeared to have continued.
Four seven twelve ninety-three seventeen eleven bats in the belfry – SH
I thought John was against your little habit, never mind that you insist on being clean – MH
Locked – SH
Sometimes I wonder, dear brother , I really do – MH
The remaining messages you had sent are a mixture of letters and numbers, making little to no sense. You recall now when you must have sent them:
Close call, you cannot help thinking to yourself, watching with some unease the tiles between your shoes rippling unpleasantly as the panic rises…You pull your phone from your coat pocket at begin to punch buttons rather mindlessly…
John finds you later in rather a similar state; lucid, but scratching at your violin and particularly concerned with the process of breathing.
