there were some bad horrible grammar mistakes and stuff in the last chapter that i screamed at myself about and then didn't fix so if you found them then feel free to scream but know that they have been screamed at already
anywho
i'm sorry if the same is true for this chapter
but i think
maybe
it
is
okay
but i don't wanna jinx it
anywho
here ya're
that was the contraction for "ya are"
anywho
thank
*bows*
The next day, Lestrade dropped by to give Sherlock his recovered checkbook and his animosity toward me lessened, although I was sure he didn't completely write me off as a suspect.
The next few weeks flew by without much incident except for the occasional shooting near our building or in it.
Then there was me getting fired. It wasn't a big deal, I didn't get that great of pay from Speedy's anyway, but I had a sneaking suspicion it had something to do with Sherlock. I had a feeling John had somehow spilled the beans that he talked to me when he came in the café and that I knew a heck of a lot more about Sherlock than he wanted me to. From that point on, I saw John less and less and Sherlock more and more. At times I was almost positive he was following me around, but I didn't flatter myself that far. I knew just as well as John did that Sherlock was very bad with people and wouldn't take care to make sure he wasn't following someone around.
On the third month of my residence on Baker Street, John decided to take a holiday.
"You mean, you're leaving me and Mrs. Hudson alone with him for two weeks? Are you sure we'll survive?" I asked sarcastically.
John chuckled and shook his head. "I've got him a few good cases. Hopefully it will take up the time that I'm gone and you won't have to worry about him a bit," he said.
"Well that was very thoughtful of you," I said. "Thank you John."
"Thank you, Addison. See you in two weeks," he said and with that he was off. I sighed. I could only hope that Sherlock stayed occupied. I hadn't been here long enough to experience a dry spell of his, but John had told me enough about them that I didn't ever want to be in one.
The first two days were fine and Sherlock was as busy as ever, but on the third day, I noticed that he stayed in his flat. The fourth day was the same, except there was a considerable amount of banging around on this day. The fifth day came around and I was genuinely worried by nightfall. He hadn't left the flat in three days and I hadn't heard a peep from him all day.
I decided, after much deliberation, that the best thing to do was ask Mrs. Hudson if she knew anything.
"Mrs. Hudson, did you notice that Sherlock has been rather quiet lately?"
"Well," she said thoughtfully, "a little bit, but, I'm just the landlady. Don't ask, don't tell, right?" she said and chuckled.
"Of course. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I smiled and walked back up the stairs. At the top of the first flight, I paused and looked at the door to 221B. I stood there for several minutes, trying to decide whether or not I should knock. Sherlock and I weren't on the best of terms, but I considered them better than the terms I was on with most other people I knew.
I bit my lip and after a moment decided it was only right. I walked up to the door hesitantly and knocked three times. No answer. I knocked another three times; still no answer.
"Sherlock?" I called softly. There was no answer. I began to worry. I knew Sherlock could be stubborn sometimes, but he wasn't one to not answer the door, if only to see if he was right about who was at it.
"Sherlock, are you okay?" I put my hand on the knob and turned. It was unlocked. "Sherlock?" I said as I opened the door.
There was no response. At this point, I was almost positive something was wrong. Sherlock usually left the door unlocked, but not when John was away.
"Sherlock, where are you?" I called. I opened the door to its full extent and walked into the room. It seemed untended. There was a flurry of papers on the floor next to the desk. I closed the door. My eyes wandered over the floor and it didn't take them long to find what they were looking for.
"Sherlock!" I ran to his side. He was lying unconscious on the floor next to his desk, still fully dressed. Sherlock wasn't one to sleep and he certainly wasn't one to lie on the floor. I knelt down beside him and tried to shake him awake, but it was no use.
I felt his forehead. He was burning hot. I felt for his pulse and it was racing. He was breathing heavily, but it was obvious he was terribly sick. I shook my head at his pride.
I ran to the bathroom and wet a washcloth with cool water then brought it back out to him. I put it across his forehead and went to the kitchen. I got an ice cube out of the freezer and went back to him. I swept it across his face and arms, trying to cool him down and maybe break the fever. It melted within moments.
"Oh, Sherlock," I sighed and pulled my mobile out of my pocket. There wasn't anything else I could do for him unless he woke up so I resolved to call the hospital. I dialed the number quickly and listened to the dial tone.
"Hello, Saint Bart's GeneralHospital, how can I help you?" a woman's voice answered.
I felt a light tug on my coat and dropped my phone in shock. Sherlock was gently tugging my sleeve, his eyes still closed.
"No… hospital," he rasped and I put a finger to his lips. He shouldn't be talking, but at least he was awake.
"Okay," I said quietly.
"Hello?" the phone chimed.
I picked it up again.
"Sorry, wrong number," I disconnected.
"Thank you," he whispered and I thought I was losing him to unconsciousness again.
"No, no, no," I said and put his head between my hands. "You've got to wake up. I need to break this fever," I said.
He nodded slowly and opened his eyes a bit.
I put my hand behind his head and helped him sit up. With a bit of swaying and a near collapse, I got him to the bedroom and onto the bed.
"Stay awake, I'm going to get you some Tylenol," I said.
"It's… in…" I put my hand to his lips again.
"I'll find it, don't speak," I said. This all felt rather strange: me saving him rather than him saving someone else for once. I had never seen him so weak.
I found it quickly in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and got a glass of water from the kitchen. I sat Sherlock up in bed and asked him to swallow the pills. He did, with some difficulty, but we both knew they would help.
I rummaged through the bathroom until I found a thermometer and came back to the bedroom. His eyes were closed but I knew he was still awake and could hear everything going on around him.
"I'm going to take you temperature," I said and he opened his mouth obediently. I stuck the thermometer under his tongue and it beeped within moments.
101.6. I hoped the Tylenol would kick in soon. I kept my mobile near me at all times, ready to call an ambulance with quick notice. After I had done all I could, I sat down on the end of the bed. I couldn't leave him alone and I had no intentions of doing so, but what was I to do otherwise? Did I need to call John? Let Mrs. Hudson know?
I waited a few minutes until the red had left his cheeks. I knew he was still awake, but just barely.
"Temperature," I whispered and put the thermometer in his mouth again.
99.5. His fever would be gone in an hour or so. I decided it was probably okay for him to sleep now so I told him to rest and within moments he was asleep. I wandered into the kitchen and put on the kettle. I knew he rarely ate, but that was going to change if he was around me.
I plopped down on the couch while I waited for the water to boil and examined my surroundings. The apartment was somewhat clean, probably John's doing, but there were papers scattered on the floor near the desk. I figured that's where Sherlock had fallen. I got up and crossed to the desk, examining it.
I picked the papers up off the floor, trying my best not to snoop and look at what they were. I placed them on the desk and looked at the floor. There was a small red stain where Sherlock had been laying. I scratched at it and realized it was still fairly new… and it was definitely blood.
I went to the bedroom and looked at Sherlock's face. There wasn't any sign of damage on his face, but there was a damp spot in his hair. I carefully parted his hair and found a thin line in this scalp. It had already scabbed up, but there was blood staining his hair. He must have collapsed from sickness and hit his head on the table. That would have been what put him out for good.
I took the washcloth from his face and re-soaked it in water, warm this time. I carefully wiped away what blood I could from the wound without waking him up. It was small and I doubted it would need any special care, but it made me worry for him that much more. Was he really so incapable of taking care of himself?
I went back to the living room and tried to get the stain out of the carpet. My guess was that he didn't want John to know any of this had happened. He only seemed to care about what people knew when it came to John. I got as much of it out as I could and wiped off the edge of the desk which had a bit of blood on it as well.
I rinsed the cloth off and hung it on the hook above the sink. Now what?
I went back to the living room and turned on the television, not sure what I was going to watch or if I even wanted to watch anything. I turned to the late news and watched the weather report before drifting off to sleep.