Overdose
"Sherlock are you sure you're alright?" Doctor John Watson leaned over to get a better look at his friend, who was lying curled up on the sofa opposite him. He'd been particularly quiet all day – not at all like his usual self – and Watson was growing increasingly concerned for his wellbeing.
He'd now been sitting in the leather armchair watching his friend's shivering form for the past half an hour, as cold sweat trickled down Sherlock's pale forehead, and, by the way he kept rubbing his palm through the back of his hair-line – the back of his neck.
"I've told you, I'm fine…" Sherlock sighed.
"You don't look fine." Watson observed critically.
"I'm fine."
Sherlock emitted a muffled groan, pulling his pyjama jacket tighter to his shivering shoulders, and turning over onto his side.
He looked exhausted.
They'd both just completed work on a rather trying case which had required an extensive amount of thought, even on Sherlock's part, and he hadn't eaten or drank and had barely slept in days. Perhaps he was just beginning to feel the effects of severe sleep deprivation, dehydration, or malnutrition Watson wondered to himself.
But some small part of him seriously doubted that to be the case.
"Leave me alone." Sherlock groaned, and Watson frowned.
"I didn't say anything." He hesitated. "Sherlock are you sure you're alright?"
"It's just a headache…" The Consulting Detective sighed quietly, hands balling into pained fists at the side of his head, and Watson could now clearly see that his friend was clearly not alright…
Sherlock was in pain.
He sighed, getting to his feet.
"Any other symptoms?" He asked. "Nausea, vomiting, blurred vision?"
"No." Sherlock replied pettishly, turning stiffly to look at him as the doctor turned to leave the room. "Where are you going?" He asked.
"To get my bag." Watson explained. "I want to take a look at you!"
"There's no need for that." Sherlock groaned, but Watson was adamant.
"Wait here!" He said.
S.H.S.H
When Watson returned he found Sherlock struggling to his feet from the sofa. The man was very obviously weaker than he'd previously made out and he watched his friend as he staggered slightly and swayed – his legs clearly unable to support his own meagre weight.
Watson stood and watched him from the bottom of the stairs as Sherlock put one shaky hand up to his head, and staggered forwards.
The doctor in him noticed immediately what was about to happen before he even started on his uneasy decent forwards, and he ran forwards to catch Sherlock as he fell.
"I'm fine…" Sherlock continued to mumble as John helped manoeuvre him back into his seat.
"I thought I told you to wait here!" He scolded him.
"I just wanted a glass of water." Sherlock explained, sitting back down with a frustrated sigh - but John was now leaning over him and had already began to unbutton the top few buttons of his pyjama shirt.
"What are you doing?" Sherlock frowned.
"Just sit still." Watson ordered.
He took a stethoscope from his black leather bag and Sherlock shivered as he placed the cold instrument to his chest - without even thinking to warm it first. Listening intently for a few moments to his friend's heart and lungs, he frowned and sighed.
"What's the matter?" Sherlock asked.
"You're heart-rate's irregular." John explained – clearly concerned.
As Watson then rolled up his friend's shirt sleeve to check his pulse he was alarmed to observe a series of angry red welts which adorned the length of Sherlock's arm.
"How long have you had these?" He asked.
Sherlock looked down at what had caught John's attention. "It's just a rash." He remarked – clearly unconcerned.
It didn't look much like a rash to Watson's trained and experienced eye however – the small angry patches of raw flesh weren't random but appeared to follow some sort of pattern. They were broad circular scars, the surface of which appeared to be dotted by tiny seeping blisters – and they looked more like a series of small burns…
… and then something suddenly began to dawn on Watson.
The case they'd recently completed work on had been a particularly trying one. It had occupied most of Sherlock's time for close to a month, taking almost everything he had to give, and had required an awful lot of thought – and of course for Sherlock thought meant nicotine patches.
With a now new and dawning sense of urgency Watson whipped up the sleeve of the man's other arm – nearly yanking it out of its socket as he made a vicious grab for it – and closed his eyes as his suspicions were immediately confirmed as he noticed the same, almost identical marks, on the flesh of the opposing limb.
"You idiot!" He cursed.
"What's the matter?" Sherlock asked.
"It's the nicotine patches Sherlock!" Watson explained. "You've overdosed on nicotine!"
Sherlock simply looked blankly up at him – fuelling Watson's concerns, and his worry over the fact that he didn't yet know how bad the poisoning was.
"I'll bathe the wounds," He sighed, taking a closer but careful look at the angry and weeping lesions, "and then we'll have to look at getting you to the hospital."
"No." Sherlock snapped, although weakly. "No hospitals, I don't want to go to hospital."
"You have to this time Sherlock I'm afraid." John explained. "I can't treat this. Now, just wait here whilst I go and find something to bind these wounds. I'll be back in a minute."
S.H.S.H
When Watson returned for a second time that evening he was relieved to see that Sherlock had at least adhered to his instruction and appeared somewhat calmer than he had done - if not a little subdued - and he proceeded to wash and bandage the wounds with little resistance from his friend.
When he'd finished he leaned back on his haunches to take a closer look at Sherlock's pale complexion - and the distant expression in his eyes.
"I've called an ambulance." He told him. "I didn't think you'd appreciate being bundled into a taxi, the state you're in, after… well, after the last time."
This appeared to snap Sherlock out of the daze which had gripped him, and he sighed. "I thought I told you no hospitals." He groaned weakly. "The drugs slow the mind…"
"And I told you that I can't treat this." John responded. "Sherlock, this is serious. Nicotine poisoning can be dangerous if left untreated. Now, I'm the doctor and you're the patient, for once will you not just respect my professional judgement and accept the advice I'm giving you?"
"Do I even have a choice about this?" Sherlock asked, but John shook his head.
"No you do not!" He said.
He then proceeded to clear away the left over dressings and bandages whilst Sherlock watched him, all be it quietly, from his position on the sofa and when he had completed the task in hand he returned to his friend's side, kneeling carefully down beside him.
"Now Sherlock, have you got any other symptoms?" He asked him gently. "It could be important."
Sherlock looked back, a petulant frown deepening the fine frown lines along his forehead, and for a moment John wondered whether he was going to respond.
"It may help us determine how advanced the poisoning is…" He urged him - but Sherlock's expression had already begun to soften.
"Bad headache," He confessed, "A slight nausea with a complete loss of appetite, cold sweats, and a slight dizziness…"
"Any difficulty in breathing?" Watson asked. "It's important you let me know."
Sherlock shook his head. "No, not yet."
"Well," Watson instructed him, "you'll need to tell me as soon as if you start experiencing any such symptoms, nicotine poisoning isn't normally fatal these days if we get you immediate medical attention, which is why we need to get you to hospital as soon as possible, but it can still be a dangerous condition."
"John?" Sherlock asked as Watson turned from his friend's side, and he thought that he detected a note of something unusual in the man's tone… perhaps even fear.
"What is it Sherlock?" He asked.
"Come with me…" Sherlock faltered, pleadingly. "Don't leave me… please John…"
John smiled.
"I won't Sherlock." He tried to reassure him. "I promise. I'm not going anywhere."