Disclaimer: All characters are property of ACD, Marvelous Mark Gatiss, Steven "The Moff" Moffat, the BBC, Fox, David Shore, Katie Jacobs, Bryan Singer, et al. No copyright infringement intended.
Author's Note: Blending a 90-minute show with a 60-minute show is really playing havoc with my plot structure, so this may be a little longer than I originally intended, sorry!


In The Genes: Interphase

By Alice Day


Wilson blinked, confused. "Wait - explosion?" he said to House. "I thought you said he'd been poisoned."

House rubbed his mouth, giving Mycroft a grudging look. "How much can I tell him?"

Mycroft cocked his head slightly as he considered the oncologist. "Oh, I think Dr. Wilson is quite trustworthy, judging by his dossier," he said.

"Dossier?"

"Gentlemen, please," Emily said with a firm smile, taking a seat and waving for the men to do the same. "It's quite simple, really. My son Sherlock works with the Met - the London Metropolitan Police Service - as a consulting detective. The explosion happened while he was investigating a case - he'd made arrangements to meet a certain individual two nights ago at a local swimming pool."

Mycroft cleared his throat, looking oddly guilty. "The person Mummy is referring to is a very well-connected criminal named James Moriarty," he said. "Sherlock's been fencing with him for the better part of a month, trying to map the structure of Moriarty's organization - so that he could bring it crashing down, I suspect." The slight, disdainful flare of his nostrils indicated his opinion of that particular activity. "Needless to say, Moriarty isn't keen on the idea, and has been throwing my brother quite the series of distracting puzzles to solve. I'm afraid they're rather well-matched when it comes to intellect." He gave his mother a wry smile. "Are you sure you didn't have one last love child while we were off at boarding school?"

Emily's return smile was just as wry. "Quite sure, darling. In any case, Moriarty had Sherlock's flatmate - a former Army doctor named John Watson - kidnapped, strapped into a vest covered with Semtex, and waiting for Sherlock at the pool. My son managed to get Dr. Watson out of the vest, but was then forced to shoot the explosives as a distraction."

Wilson sat back, feeling like he'd suddenly been transported into a Bond movie. Criminals, kidnapping, bomb vests - my God, are suicidal tendencies hereditary? "Wait," he blurted. "Who was he trying to distract?"

Mycroft sighed. "The twelve snipers who had laser rifle targets on my brother and Dr. Watson," he said. "Moriarty's employees, most likely mercenaries. Luckily, the vest didn't contain nearly as much explosive as Sherlock thought, and Dr. Watson pushed them both into the pool after Sherlock triggered the explosion. As a result, they both survived with only minor injuries - at least, Dr. Watson did. Sherlock-" He took a breath, flicking another look at his mother before continuing. "Something is wrong with Sherlock. He's nauseated, feverish, and has been complaining of severe headaches and chest pains since the explosion."

House gave the younger man a flat look. "Did you check for anthrax?"

"Of course," Mycroft said testily. "It came back negative, as did tests for common flu strains, Ebola, West Nile virus, and assorted weaponized viri. Our profile on Moriarty suggests that Sherlock was exposed to some sort of toxin during the explosion. But all the lab tests my people have run on his blood, Dr. Watson's blood, and the detritus we collected from the blast have come back negative for the standard spectrum of toxins."

"So you're looking in the wrong places," House said, leaning forward and resting clasped hands on his cane. "Which is where I come in."

"Precisely," Mycroft said. "We need your diagnostic ability to figure out what's wrong, and stop my brother from getting any worse." A corner of his mouth twitched at the word "brother", as if shrugging off the other familial relationship at play here. "The likelihood is some sort of slow-acting poison, as that's Moriarty's favorite tool - he prefers to kill from a distance."

The room went quiet, the only sound being the steady clicking from Jocasta's Blackberry. Finally, House frowned. "Let's say I figure it out - which I will, by the way. What if there's no antidote?"

Mycroft shook his head. "That doesn't fit Moriarty's profile," he said. "He likes to play with his victims, dangling hope just outside their grasp. There's an antidote - he just doesn't think we can find it."

House's frown turned wolfish. "Little bastard hasn't met me yet, has he?" he muttered. "Okay, I want all the records and test results, every single damn thing you have. And I'll want to run my own tests."

Jocasta was already at Mycroft's shoulder, typing in instructions. "You'll have a lab and technician at your disposal," she announced.

"Good. Now find me an office, a whiteboard, and some markers." He hefted his cane. "And a jumbo tennis ball."

###

Within an hour, the frighteningly efficient Jocasta had delivered in spades. An isolation room at the end of the ward hallway would become House's office for the duration; he'd "borrowed" the small conference table from the attendings' lounge, and stacks of files already formed a paper monolith on it. A whiteboard, liberated from some unwitting doctor's office and still bearing what looked like a smudged vitamin regimen, was propped against the wall, a rainbow of dry-erase markers and an eraser in a basket next to the board. And from somewhere, Jocasta had even located an oversized tennis ball, which House - stretched out on the isolation room's bed - was currently tossing into the air when Wilson came in with two cups of vending machine coffee.

"Thought you could use some caffeine," he said, putting one of the cups on the bed's rolling tray.

House grunted, turning the tennis ball in his hands. "You ever want to kill me, Wilson?"

The oncologist's eyebrows rose at that. "I've had the occasional fantasy, yes."

"No, I mean really want to kill me. Plan it out in your mind, in detail."

"In that case, no," Wilson said, taking a sip of the bitter coffee. "To be honest, I always figured it was going to be a crime of passion."

House smirked. "I knew you were hot for me."

"Screw you."

"See?" The smirk disappeared, and he tossed the tennis ball again. "If this Moriarty guy is as smart as they say he is, then I'm betting he went creative on this one. I can't waste time looking for horses - I need to hit the zebra house running."

Wilson nodded at the old medical school saw about hoofbeats and the lowest common denominator of equine. "But you don't want to risk missing something mundane," he said. "Which is where I come in."

"Preciseamundo." House waved a hand at the door. "And you can start by taking a fresh history. See if he can remember any particular smells or tastes during the explosion - that could help."

He. Not Sherlock, not the personal noun. "Don't you think you should go see him yourself?"

"Nope."

Wilson fought off the sudden urge to grab House's cane and whack him over the head with it. It was one thing for him to play hands off with his patients; it was something else again to avoid his son's hospital room. "You do realize this isn't just any patient, right?" he snapped. "This is your son. Your only offspring, as far as I know."

With a grunt, House sat up on the bed. "Yeah, about that," he said. "I really don't need you channeling Cameron right now, so listen up. Thirty years ago, I was seduced by a very hot visiting math professor at Johns Hopkins. We spent a great weekend getting horizontal, and then I graduated and started prepping for medical school. Nine months after that, I get an envelope with a birth certificate and a picture of this little scrunched up troll who looked like Winston Churchill, with a thank you note explaining that Mr. Professor Holmes was newly infertile due to a belated bout of mumps, and I'd been tapped to pinch hit as substitute stud." It came out in the same flat tone that he used to perform a differential diagnostic; another fact to be added to a case. "There were no strings attached - I didn't have to pay child support or have any contact with the kid, she just thought I'd like to know, thank you, buh-bye."

Wilson winced, imagining House's reaction to the news that he'd fathered an illegitimate child. Like biological father, like son. Jesus, no wonder he thinks everyone lies. "Didn't Heart do a song about that?" he said, trying for a joke.

House shot him a dirty look. "Don't even start. Look, the sex was fantastic, and Emily made it very clear I didn't have to have any contact with the kid, so I didn't. I'm just saying that, as far as I'm concerned, I'm not Sherlock Holmes' father - Siger Holmes is. All I did was donate some genetic material."

After a moment, the oncologist nodded. "Okay, then, I'll get the history." He headed to the door, then paused. "Have you - ever met him?"

House paused. The cynical mask flickered for a moment, revealing a flash of what Wilson suspected was regret, then settled back into place. "No. He knows about me, but - no. Trust me, he doesn't want to see me, either." He started tossing the tennis ball in the air again, already back in diagnostic space.

###

Absently toying with the frayed sticking plaster covering a scrape on his cheekbone, John Watson read Sherlock's medical chart for what seemed like the hundredth time, juggling symptoms in his head.

Intermittent fever. Nausea, with some vomiting. Chest pain. Headaches, one so bad that Sherlock had collapsed on the couch at Baker Street with a breathless shriek of pain, long-fingered hands clutching his head like it was about to burst. That was when John called the ambulance, riding with it to University College Hospital and a waiting battery of medical tests.

He'd called Mycroft after that. Sherlock wasn't happy about it, kept saying that his brother had undoubtedly used the CCTV network to watch the ambulance speed through London's streets. "Safe in his web, like the fat spider he is," Sherlock added with a sneer. But John knew that something was wrong, something related to the explosion at the swimming pool. The blast from the Semtex vest he'd been strapped into had simply been too small, and the grey, oily residue it spread around the pool looked like nothing John had ever seen at a bomb site. Moriarty was playing with them again, another round of this insane game of wits between himself and Sherlock.

And this time, it was Sherlock's turn to be a pawn.

A phrase from some of the squaddies he'd tended in Kandahar drifted through John's mind. Yea, though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I shall fear no evil, for I am the meanest motherfucker in the Valley. He smiled grimly. If it was Sherlock's turn to walk there, then he was damn well going to have the meanest motherfuckers in the Valley on his side.

Which is why he sat in Sherlock's hospital room, gun securely tucked under his jumper, while Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson combed the swimming pool site for evidence, and Mycroft pulled NHS and governmental strings with his usual efficiency. Sherlock was installed in a private room, with what looked like SAS in plainclothes at the door and at the ward entrance. John wouldn't be surprised if someone, probably a hapless intern, was required to taste the bland hospital food before it was allowed into the room. Samples of their blood were in God knows how many labs by now, being sifted and strained for whatever was attacking Sherlock's system. After the fifth needle jab, Sherlock barked that if his brother wanted him to look like a junkie again, he'd damn well better start providing cocaine as well. Soon afterwards, a temporary venous port was inserted into the back of Sherlock's hand, for easier sampling.

And none of it helped. John glanced up from the chart, at the man dozing in the hospital bed. There was something terribly wrong about seeing Sherlock Holmes doze. He was supposed to be alert, focused, all long limbs and cold logic as he paced like a caged panther, occasionally gripping those ridiculous curls as he pieced together clues in his head until he could see Moriarty's grand design.

He wasn't supposed to be in pain, lightly sedated against the thunderclap headaches, and steadily weakening. This wasn't supposed to happen.

John's fingers tightened on the metal chart back, knuckles whitening with the strain. In that final moment at the swimming pool, before Sherlock pulled the trigger, he knew he had reverted to training, becoming a soldier again. Soldiers understood death, knew how to stare it down. Dying with Sherlock was an acceptable outcome if it meant they took Moriarty with them.

But Moriarty got away. And Sherlock-

No. You can't die, dammit. You can't leave me like this.

Sherlock's eyes opened, irises slightly unfocused. "I assure you, John, I have no plans to die," he murmured. "That would give Moriarty far too much satisfaction."

John released the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "Should I ask?"

Sherlock huffed gently. "You've been studying my medical chart obsessively since we arrived - obviously you're trying to determine what kind of toxin or contaminant could cause my symptoms, with no success. Your knuckles just popped slightly when you clenched the chart holder, an indicator of stress. And while I admit to having certain moderately unusual habits, your stay at 221b Baker Street seems to have been quite satisfactory." A thin, V-shaped smile appeared for a second, then was gone. "Putting it all together, you had a sudden premonition of my death and what it would hold for you, and found it distressing."

John pried a hand loose, shaking it until he could feel the blood running into his fingers again. "Yeah, well, you can't really blame me, can you," he muttered.

The smile was back. "On the contrary - I'm flattered. I can't think of many people who would give a damn about my continued existence. As it stands, I suspect Mycroft will need to pressgang some of his minions just to make up a sufficient number of pallbearers if I die."

Not when - if. "They're still running tests," John said, falling back on his medical training for comfort more than anything. "I think half of my total blood volume is sitting in test tubes somewhere."

Sherlock held up the hand with the venous port. "Have them install one of these – makes donating ever so much easier."

"Yeah. How are you feeling?"

"Unpleasantly stoned." Sherlock scrubbed at his face, wincing at the light stubble here. "The one time I get to have all the drugs I like, and I can't enjoy it at all because I need a clear head."

Before John could answer, the door opened and a brown-haired man in a lab coat came in. "Hi, Sherlock?" he said, reaching into his coat pocket. "Sorry to interrupt - I'm-"

John didn't think. He simply stood up, pulled the gun from his waistband and aimed it at the new arrival's center of mass.

The man went pale and stopped, hand still in pocket. "-Dr. Wilson," he trailed off, sounding decidedly less chipper now. "Oh, God."

Sherlock stared at the man for a moment, then flopped back on the bed. "No," he moaned. "No, no, NO!"

"What's wrong?" John demanded, gun still aimed at 'Dr. Wilson.'

"What's wrong? That is what's wrong," Sherlock said, pointing at the brown-haired doctor. "How dare he!"

Wilson blinked. "Excuse me?"

"There's no excuse for you," Sherlock snapped back, shifting his glare to John. "Oh, put that away and go get Mycroft. This is intolerable."

Like a genie summoned, the door opened and Mycroft entered. "I could hear you all the way down the hall, Sherlock," he said mildly. "And yes, I called him - I thought it best, considering your condition. Luckily for you, he was in London for a medical conference."

"Oh, marvelous." Sherlock mulishly folded his arms across his chest, thumping back against his pillows. "I don't need him, Mycroft."

John's head swiveled from sibling to sibling as he watched the verbal tennis match. From the corner of his eye, he could see Wilson doing the same thing. Who the hell are they talking about?

"Of course you don't, Sherlock," Mycroft said dryly. "I have full confidence in your ability to diagnose yourself, considering your medical degree. Oh - wait." He held up a finger in mock surprise. "You don't have one."

"I have John for that," Sherlock spat.

"While Dr. Watson is undoubtedly a superlative combat physician, I suspect he may be somewhat out of his depth when it comes to diagnosing unusual toxins," Mycroft said crisply. "Which is why I brought in, if you'll pardon the Americanism, the A team."

John realized he was still holding the gun on Wilson, and quickly lowered it. "So you're the A team?" he said, slightly incredulous.

"More like the waterboy," Wilson admitted, a touch of color coming back into his face now. "The A team's holed up in his office - I'm just here to take Sherlock's medical history."

"That's already in my file," Sherlock sniped.

Wilson had the good grace to look embarrassed. "Yeah, but House never trusts anyone else's reports," he explained. "He thinks everyone lies."

Sherlock's brow furrowed at that. "Everyone does," he said, as if it were blatantly self-evident.

To John's surprise, the American doctor grinned. "Now I see it," he said, half to himself. "Look, since I'm already here, let's go over your medical history - without the lies, if possible."

Grumbling about idiotic repetitions, Sherlock did so. Both he and John filled in pertinent bits when Wilson asked about the explosion; they'd both been hit by small pieces of shrapnel before diving in the pool, waiting under the water until they were sure the building wasn't on fire or about to collapse on them. When they finally surfaced, gasping, Moriarty and his snipers were gone, and one corner of the pool was covered in smoking wreckage.

"And when did your first symptoms appear?" Wilson said, jotting down notes.

"Approximately six hours later. I became nauseated, and vomited bile," Sherlock said, grimacing at the memory. "It appeared to be the normal pale yellow-green color - no sign of blood or contaminants."

"Well, that's...good," Wilson said, slightly bemused. "Okay, I think this is enough for now - once we finish reviewing your labs, we can talk about treatment options."

"Excellent. And now, I need to have a private word with my brother," Mycroft said. "Dr. Wilson, why don't you introduce Dr. Watson to your colleague? I suspect he'll find the experience fascinating."

John hesitated at Sherlock's wary look. "Um-"

A hint of steel entered the elder Holmes' tone. "I assure you, Dr. Watson, my brother will be well-guarded in your absence." You may go wasn't said but was most definitely implied.

Sorry, mate. Reluctantly, John gave Sherlock an encouraging nod and followed Wilson out into the hallway. The suited men stationed at the doorway didn't move, but somehow managed to give the impression of crossing spears. "Well..."

"Well." The American doctor suddenly looked abashed, sticking out his hand. "Oh, sorry - James Wilson. Oncology."

John shook his hand. "John Watson. Barely employed," he said with a small smile. "So why would I find your colleague fascinating?"

"Because my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard?" an acerbic voice said.

Wilson sighed as a tall, thin man with close-cropped graying hair and three days' worth of stubble limped up to them. "John, this is Dr. Greg House," he explained. "House, this is Dr. John Watson, Sherlock's flatmate."

John glanced at House's cane, a customized job in matte black with flames around the base. House smirked. "Yeah, I pimp my ride," he said in a nasal American accent. "I see you don't need yours anymore, though."

"How-" Something niggled at John, something about the man's face. It was all...horribly familiar, somehow. "All right, how are you related to Sherlock?" he demanded. "Uncle? Second cousin twice removed?"

The tall man's eyes gleamed in approval. "Wrong," he announced. "Biodad. Also your boyfriend's only hope, judging from his records." He frowned. "Huh - maybe you should call me Obi Wan, instead."

"He's not my, we're not, why does everyone think we're dating?" John spluttered, before blinking. "Wait - what?"

"Biodad," House enunciated. "Short for biological father, or did they not teach you that term in medical school? Man, it's a good thing I never wanted grandkids, anyway - with my luck, they'd get your brains and Sherlock's personality." He whipped the cane up, tapping Wilson's chart with it. "Got the latest scoop?"

"Yes, Obi Wan," Wilson said dryly.

House's grin was positively vulpine. "Excellent, Padawan learner. Since I'm the boss and can wake my minions whenever I feel like it, let's go perform a trans-Atlantic differential diagnosis."

He stumped off down the hallway, glancing back over his shoulder at John and Wilson. "You two coming or what?"

John started at the unexpected invitation. "Oh God, yes," he muttered.