So recently some stuff happened to my family and I just started re-reading the original ACD Sherlock Holmes, which sort of combined into this chapter, the beginning of an altogether different AU version of both BBC and ACD. Originally when I started this story, it was going to be set in ACD's time/events, and within the first page of A Study in Scarlet, it mentioned that Watson had gotten enteric, or typhoid, fever in India after he was injured. And reading on, it mentioned the fact that Watson was still quite ill and weak when he first moved in with Sherlock, requiring some bed-rest, so...I'm going to hit you with some serious, sick!John stuff here, which shall lead into caregiver!Sherlock. Yeah. Sorry, I just wanted to do a different spin on things here.
Kandahar-we were taken to the military base there. The dead lieutenant was shipped straight to the morgue, and then home, while I was sent to the field hospital. My wound was treated and stitched up as best as possible, given some of our limited supplies. I survived the operation, and was laid down with bed rest being ordered, but before too long, I was stricken with sepsis, blood poisoning. For several weeks, it wasn't certain that I would survive. It didn't go so far as multiple organ dysfunction, but it came close. Fever ravaged my body and I started to hallucinate as my blood pressure plummeted and my heart rate increased. They treated me with antibiotics and IV fluid, and slowly, I began to recover, though not at a very fast rate. I was still weak when they shipped me back home to Britain.
I couldn't stay at the hospital for very long, though, and was discharged from service and from the hospital. Harry couldn't take me in, she wasn't in that great of a state for me to lodge with her, and my parents were long since gone. Eventually, I wound up alone in London, staying at a bedsit. About a month later, I met Sherlock Holmes on one of the worst nights of my life. The fever had returned, though I was not wholly aware of it at the time. All I knew was that I had to get out of my room and into the night, even though I could barely walk and probably should have stayed in bed and rested. Yet if I had stayed in bed, I probably would have been struck with fever without anyone being there to help me, so maybe it was a good thing that I wandered out when I did.
I headed to a betting shop, which stayed open late and that I occasionally frequented, frittering away my army pension on pointless bets. My funds were running out, and I was starting to get desperate to either recoup my losses or wind up a vagrant on the street. I had taken to carrying my revolver with me, perhaps due to a state of paranoia brought on by the rapidly approaching fever. The hallucinations and fevered dreams certainly didn't help me. I staggered out of the betting shop when such a hallucination struck me, and turned instead to a nearby bar, hoping to find some comfort there. I had just gotten a drink and settled down, wondering if I should try my hand at flirting with someone or hiring a prostitute, when Sherlock Holmes first approached me.
"Hello." He said, sitting on a barstool next to me and studying me closely.
"Hello." I said back, not quite certain why he was here or what he was doing, sitting so close to me. It made me uncomfortable and nervous, but not so much as what he said next.
"You are a veteran from Afghanistan." He said. "Or Iraq."
"What?" I gasped, staring at him in shock. "How did you know that?"
"Deduction." He said. "You're armed, have a military bearing and haircut, a depressed, paranoid air about you, a psychosomatic limp, a shoulder injury and you're quite pale despite the tan of your face. Are you feeling quite all right?" Even the bartender was paying attention to me at this point, probably worried that I would go crazy and start shooting up his pub.
"I'm—I'm-" I started feeling queasy and staggered back from the bar, hyperventilating a little bit with the stress of the situation and my condition. And the stranger with the dark, curly hair and piercing eyes kept staring at me. "I've got to go," I said, heading for the bathroom to throw up, but the stranger followed me without any concern for himself, only for me.
"Definitely not feeling well." The stranger said, leaning over me as I heaved into the toilet several times and then shuddered, trying to regain my breath and composure. "You've only had one drink, yet you're not intoxicated from before. Signs of trembling, hyperventilation, your pulse has certainly increased, yet you're as pale as a ghost and flushed with fever. Not to mention vomiting. Possibly hallucinating as well, if I'm any judge of your condition. You're not thinking or acting rationally. You're ill or on drugs. Shall I get you a doctor?" He asked the last question as if he was discussing the weather.
"Leave me alone! I am a doctor!" I called back at him. I recognized what was going on, I had experienced it before, yet I didn't want to admit it. I was scared to death about what was happening to me, losing control in such a situation, and this damned, irritating stranger who was gorgeous and seemed to know everything about me wasn't helping matters any.
"Not a good sign. You're a doctor, yet you're in denial about your own symptoms. Obviously it's affecting your judgment." The stranger said, getting out his cell phone. "Definitely need to call emergency services at this rate." He dialed.
I reached back for my gun, ready to threaten him to leave me alone so that I could regain control of the situation, but it was gone. "If you're looking for your weapon, I have it." Sherlock added, shaking his head as he waited for an answer. "I'm disappointed in you, sir. Swiped it while you were throwing up. You're in no condition to handle such a dangerous weapon." He started speaking with the emergency service responder.
I groaned and muttered, "Who the hell are you?" I was ready to give up and fold in the towel at the moment, surrendering to his command and control of the situation. It felt so much easier then than fighting him anymore.
"Sherlock Holmes." The man said, before giving our address to the responder. "Help should be arriving soon." He added to me. "What's your name so that I can tell the responders and don't have to go rifling through your wallet?"
"Dr. John Watson." I muttered, annoyed with his cavalier attitude. "Captain."
"Captain? I'm impressed." Sherlock said.
"Very funny. Tell them I got blood poisoning in Afghanistan," I muttered, sinking down a bit, on the verge of losing consciousness. It was so hard to stay awake then when I wanted to sleep.
"Hold on there, John, may I call you John?" He asked, leaning down beside me. I slowly nodded and he said, "Stay awake with me. Tell me a little bit more about Afghanistan, John, and about your treatment there. The emergency responders want to know."
I started talking then, rambling on a bit about my treatment and experiences in Afghanistan and the army hospital, not really knowing why, except that it was important. Sherlock paid attention to me and even responded and asked me some questions, perhaps memorizing some of the facts as well, even when I veered off into some incoherent discussions of various topics. He managed to keep up with me and kept me conscious and responsive until help arrived. He even slapped and poked me once or twice if I started fading or nodding off.
"Knock it off." I muttered, trying to wave him off and turn over to sleep.
"I want to know more, John." Sherlock insisted, grabbing hold and shaking me before he hesitated, trying to come up with a topic of discussion to keep me alert. "Tell me about your parents, any family you might have."
I started telling him about that mess as the responders arrived and I was bundled off into the ambulance, but Sherlock managed to talk his way into getting into the ambulance with me. I think the police might have arrived then as well, if the bartender called them about the dangerous, armed man throwing up in his bathroom, but Sherlock staved them off and got them to escort us to the hospital, specifically St. Barts. I remarked that I had studied there in my final year at university, which intrigued Sherlock enough that he questioned me about it. I remained conscious all the way to the hospital with Sherlock at my side, speaking to me, but finally I lost that battle as the stretcher was wheeled off and the guardian angel was left behind. Without him, I wouldn't be here anymore. He saved my life as I saved his later.
Sherlock Holmes had initially been intrigued by the armed, injured veteran with PTSD and a psychosomatic limp and wanted to find out more about his condition and behavior as he shadowed him on the street. The veteran's abrupt, startling reaction inside the betting shop, though, had unnerved the consulting detective, aware now that this could be a dangerous, life-threatening situation involving an unstable opponent, but he had not realized where the true threat lied and whose life was really in danger here until he approached the man inside the pub.
Sherlock could not see the man well from a distance in the dark outside, but inside the pub, under relatively dim lighting, but still brighter than before, and closing the distance between them, Sherlock was able to see and tell a lot more about the veteran than he had before, and what he saw of the man's condition wasn't exactly good. He was in a poor state. The veteran's reaction didn't exactly assure Sherlock, and he quickly followed him into the bathroom to find out more.
Under the bathroom's intensely bright, though pallid fluorescent lighting, Sherlock saw a lot more than he had before, and quickly assessed the situation as the man was throwing up. He disarmed his 'opponent', who wasn't a threat to Sherlock, but rather to himself, and called emergency services. A woman responded, he told her what was going on, and she said to stay on the line until the emergency workers arrived. About as useless as a tin can. John was fading fast, Sherlock was shocked at the rate of deterioration. He didn't want this fellow John to die right before his eyes.
It brought up bad memories of Redbeard, the last time Sherlock had personally encountered death and its effects up close and personal. Sherlock did his level best to keep John alert and focused, to stay with him, as consciousness was probably better than unconsciousness at this state. He mentally prepared himself for the possibility of performing CPR if John passed out and stopped breathing. Chest bumps were key, consistent, firm, rhythmic presses to stimulate pressure inside the body. Apply breath as needed, but mostly, pressure.
Such measures, however, weren't needed at this juncture as the ambulance and emergency attendants arrived, followed by police. John didn't need police interrogation at this time, he needed the ambulance! Sherlock stopped the officers from hounding him, John, and the attendants, and managed to leverage his way into the ambulance, maintaining a steady flow of conversation between himself and John all the time, only half of which Sherlock really attended to, but what he did hear, he paid attention to and memorized. Such concern was unorthodox for him and not his usual method of handling a given situation, but such was his concern for John and his wellbeing that he overlooked his conventional methods and behavior.
After John was rushed into accident and emergency, A&E, at St. Barts, Sherlock received the resultant paperwork, which was going to be a hassle for him to fill out on his own when he disliked paperwork of any kind and didn't know how to answer half the questions on there. There was little choice in the matter, he needed help and information from the most powerful source imaginable, his brother. He sighed and got out his mobile, knowing that he would regret this choice, but without it, he wouldn't be able to help John.
I need the full medical profile on Dr. John Watson, former army captain in Afghanistan, ASAP. Bring to St. Barts A&E waiting room.—SH
He soon received a reply: Does this have anything to do with your emergency tonight?—MH
Yes. Now please hurry up, waiting room.—SH
He really hated the fact that his brother could see almost everything that was going on in London at any given time, thanks to all of the CCTV cameras in the area, and could spy on Sherlock as well. It took out most of the joy and mystery out of every case he solved, knowing that his brother usually held some of the most important clues in place, even if Mycroft couldn't solve the mystery by himself.
The man just couldn't sift through all of the information and data by himself in a timely manner, not when he needed assistance. Mycroft was lazy that way, always expecting other people to do his footwork while he kept watch and dropped off some hints. He wasn't very much help to Sherlock at all. Plus, Sherlock couldn't keep any secrets from him for very long and Mycroft used that to his advantage. Mother always knew, thanks to big blabbermouth Mycroft.
Soon after he sent the text, he heard a familiar voice shout, "Sherlock! What's going on here?"
Sherlock grimaced and turned around to face Lestrade, accompanied by Sally Donovan. "Lestrade, I don't have the patience for this right now." He insisted.
"We heard that you were at the scene of an armed disturbance tonight and got into the ambulance with the suspect, repelling police assistance." Donovan added. "What gives?"
"The situation was under control, I handled it." Sherlock fumed. "I disarmed him. The man wasn't a threat to anyone but himself."
"You should have at least told us what was going on there." Lestrade said. "You should have stayed behind at the scene with the police officers and answered any and all questions."
"The man was ill. He needed my assistance and medical attention. Neither one of us needed bloody police brutality and interrogation." Sherlock added. "I had to accompany him. He needed me."
"You?" Donovan asked, incredulous as she gaped at him, and then laughed. "Bloody Sherlock Holmes, you needed to accompany him? What sort of a man is he that you are so concerned about him? You don't give a rat's ass about anybody."
"I don't know. I've never met him before tonight, but he needed my help and I was there!" Sherlock cried. "I was the only one there for him when he needed me and I wasn't bloody well going to let him die, lying on the bathroom floor of some east London pub, vomiting his guts out! No man should have to die that way, not if I have anything to say about it. And his name is Dr. John Watson, a veteran army captain who recently returned from Afghanistan after having been shot at and gotten blood poisoning! Show some respect!"
Donovan gaped openly at Sherlock now, shocked by his behavior and reaction, while Lestrade seemed more thoughtful and considerate as he appraised the consulting detective's behavior. "All right then, Sherlock." Lestrade said. "I suppose we can leave off on questioning you and Dr. John Watson as to the events of tonight when he's feeling better, but be aware that neither one of you are completely off the hook yet. We'll keep an eye on you and Dr. John Watson until further notice, got that?" Lestrade asked.
"Got it, detective inspector." Sherlock said, relaxing slightly.
"Good evening, Sherlock, Detective Inspector Lestrade, and Sergeant Donovan." Another familiar voice said and Sherlock winced as he and the others turned around and faced his brother Mycroft, leaning on his umbrella like a cane with his assistant Anthea standing behind him. "I came here to see my brother, offer my support, and deliver a file Sherlock requested. Is everything all right here? I heard some shouting." He smiled in particular at Sherlock with these words, and Sherlock realized his brother had overheard his outburst.
"Everything is fine here, Mycroft—Mr. Holmes." Lestrade said, gulping as he nodded. "Sergeant Donovan and I are just leaving. Come on, Sally." He muttered as he and Donovan almost snuck out of the room with Mycroft watching them go.
"I really must send him some flowers, something to brighten up that drab, musty office of his," Mycroft commented to himself before turning back to his brother.
"Can you be any more clichéd?" Sherlock grumbled to himself.
"Is everything all right, Sherlock? Mother would be upset with me if I let anything happen to you." Mycroft added.
"Everything is fine, or at least as fine as they can be, given how out of control, terrible, and unexpected they are." Sherlock groaned and sunk down into one of the uncomfortable, itchy waiting room chairs, resting his head on his hands as Mycroft came and sat down beside him, or as close as he was willing to get. Anthea stood off to the side, not disturbing them. "I don't really know what I should be doing here or what is going on." Sherlock admitted. "I don't know why I'm here. I barely even know the man, and yet I feel connected and concerned about him. I wanted to help save him, keep him alive. I didn't want him to die on me."
"Mother always said you were the sensitive one." Mycroft sighed, shaking his head. "Sentimentality will get you in the end, you know."
"I'm not being sentimental, I'm being rational as well." Sherlock grumbled. "I'm helping him because that is the best thing to do."
"Sherlock, you cannot prevent, deter, or control death, much as you wish to." Mycroft said. "No matter how much you wish to save others and solve all problems, you know there is no final solution. Everyone dies, some sooner rather than later."
"Not Dr. John Watson." Sherlock growled.
"Oh, Sherlock." Mycroft sighed. "You might be used to death, death is easy when there is nothing left, but the dying is the hardest part. To experience that pain and anguish before losing a life. You've only experienced that once, haven't you? With Redbeard?"
"It's not the same." Sherlock said, lowering his head. "John will live. I'll see to it if I have to."
Sorry about all this. Hey, but I did include some Mystrade-I've been influenced by fanfic. See you later.
