A/N: A quick note – the onset of symptoms for Digoxin Poisoning is quite a bit longer than noted below. I'm taking liberties because I can…Poetic Licence and such. Just pretend that it was treated specially to make it work faster, kay?
BOYS OF BAKER STREET:
An A-Z Almanac of Hurt/Comfort
Secondary Genre: Angst
Rated: T for swearing
Character: John Watson
Guest Character: Jim Moriarty (in SMS form)
D is for Digitalis
The one where John drinks tainted tea, and it's kind of, indirectly, Sherlock's fault
I do hope John enjoyed the tea – JM
It wasn't a very long message, or a very ominous one for that matter. Rather, it wouldn't be – if it had been sent by anyone other than JM.
Brows drawn together tightly, Sherlock froze – the mug, from which John had been drinking – was now empty at the Doctors side, emptied swiftly as he read the morning paper.
The Detective leapt up from his curled position on the sofa and stalked over to his flatmate.
'How do you feel?' He demanded.
John sighed, flicked the corner of the paper down and peered at him with thinly veiled annoyance.
'I'm fine, Sherlock. What's got your knickers in a knot?' He replied, going back to the paper.
Sherlock narrowed his gaze and bent down to retrieve the mug.
'How was your tea? Did it taste funny?' He continued his line of inquiry, trying to hide an increasing anxiety as he inspected the mug. He gave it a delicate sniff – it didn't smell off.
'Oh for f-Sherlock, what are doing?' John protested, taken aback as Sherlock suddenly began a bodily investigation.
'I believe you've been inadvertently poisoned,' He replied sharply, shoving the phone in his face.
The doctor blanched as he read the initial message, and swore as another came through
Not long now until the fun starts – JM
'Fan-bloody-tastic. That's a horrid thing to do, poison a man's tea.' He huffed, not nearly as terrified as he should be. It was probably because he only half believed it, and he felt fine…although, according to JM, that was going to change soon.
'You must tell me the moment you start to feel ill and I will catalogue the symptoms so they can diagnose you at the hospi-' Sherlock was cut off by another message.
I will tell you when you're allowed a hospital. I want to enjoy my game first ;p – JM
Bollocks.
The detective paced the length of the living room frantically, fingers steepled beneath his chin as he attempted to calm himself. This would not do.
Moriarty had warned him, that day at the pool – that he would burn the heart out of him. He must have been far too obvious that the Doctor meant...something to him.
John sighed. 'Calm down mate, I'm not panicking yet, so neither should you,' The Doctor soothed, surprised that he was taking this so well.
Sherlock paused, shot him a glare and continued. 'You're a doctor, John.'
'Yes, I have a license and everything.'
'Shut up. You're the Doctor…if I had drunk the tea; it would be fine because you're the doctor. I…' he paused, the words stuck behind the sudden lump in his throat.
John's eyebrow's shot up in realisation. 'Oh…you're not a doctor, so you're what…concerned?' He ventured.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. 'Not the word I would have chosen…but essentially, yes. I cannot care for you as attentively as you could for me, had the situation been reversed.' He admitted clinically.
The doctor nodded in understanding, although Sherlock's concern was beyond him – he had consumed the tea more than half an hour previously, surely something would have happened by now…which was of course, when it all came about
John's stomach gave a mild twitch of irritation, before abruptly twisting itself into agonizing knots. He pitched forward from his seat and onto his knees, clutching himself tightly before vomiting spectacularly onto the rug. Things went to Hell in a handbasket pretty quickly after that.
The Doctor groaned, gripping his belly with a tight fist, drool and sick coating his chin as Sherlock fluttered uncertainly around him – all thoughts of cataloguing symptoms forgotten.
'John? What do I do? What can I do?' The detective asked almost frantically, crouching by his side. His brow, John distantly noticed, was pinched slightly – quicksilver eyes, scanning him rapidly, yet not clinically.
'God, fuck…what is this shit?' he panted, pressing his free hand, now trembling, to his brow.
Sherlock's phone buzzed.
The game is on…all downhill from here, boys :D – JM
The detective scowled and tossed his phone aside, stepping back for a moment to gain his bearings. He had some medical knowledge, obtained and memorised during episodes of boredom, but it was mostly deleted once John came along. He now had what counted as a Medical Expert, so he cleared much of that data to make room for other things. Screwing his eyes shut, Sherlock forced himself to think. He would only retreat into his Mind Palace for a moment – too long within would put John in jeopardy. As he sifted through the brittle information, filed away in the back of a quiet room, a sound caught his attention.
A thud, followed by a pathetic whimper. Blue-green eyes snapped open and he turned, silently berating himself for not paying attention – because John was on the floor fully now, still on his knees and leaning forward with his brow pressed hard against the floor. Sherlock couldn't see his face properly, but it looked like he was in quite a fair amount of pain.
'John? Please tell me how I can help?' Sherlock pleaded, ignoring the fact that he never pleaded – because that implied sentiment and caring is not an advantage…
'Sherl-' the doctor began, before retching again – dirtying the rug further. It seemed to be never ending.
A soft whimper emanated from the trembling man on the floor, before he listed sideways and thumped against the hardwood.
Sherlock hissed, because John Watson – dear, stupid (not really) lovely Doctor Watson, should never look as he did in that moment. Death – death itself would probably shudder that the scene before it.
He was practically grey, chin covered in spittle and sick – whimpering and crying at the agony that had befallen him and Sherlock, the world's only Consulting Detective and probably not-so-much-a-sociopath-anymore, had no bloody idea what to do!
Think, think! He screamed at himself for several moments, before realising that was probably the issue.
Overthinking.
He forced himself to take several deep and steadying breaths. He could figure this out – he was a genius after all.
Symptoms: Tremors, abdominal pain (severe, obviously), vomiting and – Sherlock tilted his head, looked at John's face; eyes squeezed tightly shut, head angled away from the morning light pouring in through the window – headache, also severe.
Not very helpful, as quite a few poisons presented with these early symptoms, but at least he could try to ease some of them. Racing to the windows, he pulled the curtains tightly closed, plunging the living room into a premature twilight.
A grunt and more retching – Christ, it was a miracle John's stomach wasn't on the floor already!
'Sh'l..p-please. Help,' John finally manage between retches. The plea went straight to the heart Sherlock barely knew existed and he was by his friend's side in seconds.
His eyes were open, but the dark cobalt was but a thin sliver around dilated pupils. Sherlock vowed he would kill Moriarty with his bare hands. He crouched and gripped John gently, lifting him like he was made of glass.
'Easy now, I've got you,' Sherlock soothed, finding he had quite the knack for being gentle when he actually cared. They got halfway to the sofa when the doctor cried out, gripping Sherlock tightly before slumping against him – a dead weight.
Sherlock struggled to keep him upright, but the weight of such a sudden flop sent him crashing down too. When he saw John's face, his heart froze.
Teeth clenched and eyes rolled back, his body snapped – suddenly rigid, for only a moment – before the convulsions began. Terrible, violent things they were, and dramatically noisy. He vaguely remembers seizures, or at least the aftermath of them, but he's never actually seen one.
He's shocked, terrified…he can feel moisture building up behind his eyes as he mutters useless words to his friend.
Then, thankfully, it stopped.
John exhaled slightly, frowned, and opened his eyes slowly. His hair was mussed and a dark bruise was beginning to form from where his head hit when he fell, but he was watching Sherlock, conscious and lucid.
Sherlock let out a shuddering breath, wiped his eyes and bafflingly, wove his arms around John – pulling him close.
'Not a word,' he warned against his flaxen crown, holding tight against the tremors that wracked John's body.
He vomited again, down Sherlock's pyjama shirt, and groaned.
'Sherlock? Come now, you're scaring me,' John murmured against his shoulder, struggling weakly.
The Detective held him tighter, to stop him from shaking apart.
'It's retribution for frightening me first,' Sherlock replied petulantly, but pulled away nonetheless. He raked a critical eye over his flatmate and forced himself up, grabbing his phone just as it chimed.
Aww, quite the show boys! You may now seek medical attention. Toodles! – JM
Sherlock didn't hesitate – he dialled 999 and while he rattled off their details, began to think of the horrible ways he would make Jim Moriarty pay for poisoning their tea.
Not entirely happy with this one, it feels a little slashy to me, which is not really the intent here. Feel free to view it as such, if you must – and don't forget to leave feedback!
