Thanks for being patient with me! I'm sorry this took so long.
Also, thank you so much to those who reviewed! Your kind words keep me writing and make me smile on bad days.
And a warning for this chapter: it contains doctorly things and I am not a doctor. There may be inaccuracies.
His opportunity came the next day, when Sherlock was still without a case and John was off from work. They were both in the sitting room, letting their usual companionable silence fill the air.
Then Sherlock broke it.
"John," he began, "I need a little help with something. As a doctor, you are particularly qualified."
John looked up from his laptop with small surprise. And maybe a little suspicion, Sherlock noted.
"Yeah? What do you need?"
"Your heart."
"Sorry?"
"I need to compare my heart-rate to yours. My technique in the palpation of living forms is… somewhat lacking, I'll admit. " Sherlock paused, patiently waiting for John to process the request.
"You… just want me to check your heart-rate?" John said after glancing at Sherlock curiously.
Sherlock nodded.
"Is this for a case?"
"In a way, yes."
"Well, I suppose it's not the worse you've asked me to do." John stood, placing his laptop aside, and made his way towards where Sherlock sat on the armchair with his knees drawn up. John paused before him a little awkwardly, and Sherlock found himself enjoying the novelty of having to look up to see John's face.
John began, "I'll just need your—"
"Yours first." Sherlock stated firmly. John look down at Sherlock, again searching, it seemed. Sherlock found himself hoping that John would actually see something behind his opaque eyes when most only discerned mechanics and apathy. John looked away.
"Okay…" John said with suspicious uncertainty. Sherlock was slightly amused at how little trust John seemed to have for his motives. "But Sherlock," John continued, "you do realize that the average resting heart-rate for adults is fairly consistent? I hope you're not expecting anything spectacular."
"No, not at all," Sherlock was quick to reply with what he hopped was a reassuring smile. He kept his gaze on John's face, willing him to continue.
"…Fine." John finally said with a shrug. He rolled up a sleeve and turned towards the clock on the wall. Sherlock watched him place two fingers on his wrist and still.
Sherlock maintained perfect silence. He watched John's slow breaths growing and wilting in rhythm. The ticking of the clock seemed to amplify in their new silence.
When John finally nodded and spoke, his voice seemed much too loud. "About seventy-five beats per minute. Perfectly normal," he turned back to Sherlock and rolled his sleeve back down with all the conspicuous anxiety of a teenager in a locker-room.
"Now mine." Sherlock held out his arm, revealing the pale wrist that was already uncovered.
John paused once more before nodding and gently taking Sherlock's outstretched arm. Then the world seemed to splinter before Sherlock's eyes. He thanked every non-existent deity he could think of that John didn't seem to notice the hitch in his breath. He forced himself to remain steady beneath the insistent pressure of John's finger tips. It felt like an itch in his bones, spreading from his wrist through out his entire body. The sensation radiated from one side of him to the other and connected the two parts with an electric circuit that pulsed with an energy that wasn't painful so much as it was unbearably nice. Like a light smoke above the sensations, he could feel his mind beginning to analyze, to ask questions. Most of them in some form addressed the same confusion.
Why John? Why this ordinary, plain man? Why him? Why this place? What has changed?
Sherlock didn't realize he'd closed his eyes until John cleared his throat and he looked up to see an expression of alarm wedged into John's features.
"You're nearing ninety beats per minute. Sherlock, are you… are you on something? What have you done?"
Sherlock was incredibly conscious that John still held his wrist. The sensations were overwhelming and he had to sharply pull it away before a response could begin to form. He waited for his vision to normalize, then an idea came to him.
"Isoproterenol," Sherlock stated with ease. John immediately began to turn away in disgust but Sherlock continued, "borrowed some from Bart's. It may have been the cause of death in the Amelia Dekke case. The pathologist thinks the amounts present in the toxicology report were too low. I needed to know the effect of the dose—"
"So you tried it on yourself?" John suddenly exploded with an intensity the surprised both of them. He whipped around and stared down at Sherlock with a reddening face. "What part of your giant idiotic brain thought that injecting yourself with a drug meant to treat bradycardia while your heart was perfectly fine was okay?"
"John—"
"Jesus, Sherlock! I would take you to the hospital right now if I didn't think that you might deserve the side-effects for a few minutes." He put a hand over his face and visibly seemed to wilt.
"John, it was only a small dose. Like I said, the amounts in Amelia's bloodstream—"
"Quiet, Sherlock," John said with a weary breath. "Just…" he turned to face him. "You can't do this. Not when I'm around. Beyond the fact that I'm a doctor and what you did is illegal, you just can't treat your body this way!"
"I'm flattered that you care, John."
At this, John straightened and stared at Sherlock as if his gaze would suffice as a slap to the face. "You know the worst part is I'm actually surprised? I should've listened to Lestrade." With that he violently grabbed his jacket and shoes and stomped out of the sitting room, maintaining just enough control to avoid slamming Mrs. Hudson's door.
Sherlock stared somewhat wide-eyed at the door, then fell back into the chair with a groan. Without looking, he flung out an arm—the same one John has touched—to the side table and clutched the box of nicotine patches left there from the day previous.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four?
No, not four. John wouldn't approve.
…Interesting.
Please review! Your opinions matter to me. :)
