Bro feels are scarce in this one, but more will appear in the next chapters, I promise. Also, it would help if you've seen 'The Thing' by John Carpenter, as it is mentioned here. If you haven't: Kurt Russell plays a guy who kills bad creatures with a flamethrower. The end :D

Enjoy!


"I'm sorry Sherlock, but there's nothing I can do. The cultures need at least a few more days."

Sherlock's jaw clenched. Of course there was nothing she could do. Molly was good, but not good enough to make bacteria cultures grow faster without a risk of affecting the results. He knew he should be grateful that she obtained access to the samples before he even had to ask her to, but it wasn't like it changed much.

Molly observed him walk away and return to his microscope. Countless flasks, beakers and other sorts of laboratory glass and equipment surrounded his working place, but he was oblivious to the mess. He was a mess himself; for the last two days he's been working with almost no breaks, and the stress was taking a visible toll on him. She hated seeing him like this, and hated it even more that she couldn't help him – at least not in the way he expected her to.

She bit her lip and approached the detective with caution.

"Sherlock, perhaps you should take a break," she said softly. "I'm not saying you should go home, I know you won't, but maybe it would be better..."

"No, it wouldn't. I need to..."

"Please, just listen to me." That made him look at her. "You should go and see John. You basically haven't left the lab since you arrived, and he's just two floors above us. Go to him."

Sherlock's nostrils widened ever so slightly as he prayed to the god he did not believe in to grant him patience.

"Molly, I assure you he will be fine," he growled. "In spite of what you might think, he really does not appreciate having his hand held by me, or anybody else for that matter."

Molly crossed her arms. 'Here we go,' Sherlock thought grimly.

"I'm not talking about him. Well, actually I am too, but what I mean is that you should see him. Stopping yourself from going to him when he's so close won't make you work any better, and you're being an idiot for thinking otherwise." She smirked a bit upon seeing his expression. "What? You didn't really think I don't know what you're doing, did you?"

He just kept staring at her. "I mean it, Sherlock. Go to John, even if just for a moment. You don't have to hold his hand."

Sherlock still didn't say a word, but Molly knew she had him. She would have gladly basked in the satisfaction of pulling the same trick on him again, if it wasn't for the circumstances.

The detective regarded her for a moment longer before tension finally left his shoulders. He did want to see his friend (so much for removing himself from John's vicinity), but it was mainly because his vision was becoming blurry from exhaustion that he decided that a break perhaps was not such a bad idea.

A few minutes later he was in front of a vending machine, waiting for a styrofoam cup to fill with coffee-flavoured water. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he blinked a few times to get rid of the grittiness behind his eyelids.

Cup in hand, he sat on a nearby chair. He wasn't in a hurry at all; he wished to visit John, but he did not wish to have to face him and openly admit that he was no closer to finding a solution than two days before. He began sipping his coffee in silence, disinterestedly observing dust particles swirl in the hall as the bright light flowing through the windows gently slipped over them.

It was exactly that ridiculously common and dull sight that unlocked something in his head. His eyes and mind suddenly became clear, and the loose bits and pieces clicked together.

"... we've just been informed that there might be something about our victim in a house on Everett's Street. It's close to where you guys live, so I thought that you might drop by and check it."

The house in a recently flooded area. The suspiciously smelling file.

"I'll just leave that to John, surely he'll do."

"Complications like these are extremely rare, especially with healthy people."

John going there alone, already ill, filtering through countless files with bare hands and no mask.

"Ah, it's dust. Better just tell me where I should look."

The dust. John inhaling clouds of post-flood, possibly heavily contaminated dust, with his immunity system already weakened.

That could be it.

Sherlock snapped back to reality. Why the hell hadn't he thought of this earlier?! Why didn't John mention it when the doctors asked him about the possible sources of infection?

It appeared obvious that it must have happened before the symptoms began; indeed, the initial one did occur like that, but nobody, not even Sherlock seriously entertained the possibility that something might have attacked John's system after he had fallen ill. And though it could be literally anything, Sherlock was almost sure that he knew where to search.

He shot to his feet, binned the coffee, and stormed out of the hospital.

.

John's state didn't improve during the two days after the seizures. The second CT confirmed that the lesions were indeed abscesses, and it was clear the antibiotics were not working yet. The other medications he was being given managed to subdue the cough, the chest pain and the headache, but he kept losing energy fast.

He could not complain about lack of attention – Mrs Hudson, Molly and Greg have all paid him visits, and he was very grateful, even if there were moments he wished they would just leave him alone. Sherlock visited him once, for no more than fifteen minutes, though John was aware of his constant presence in the hospital. He didn't really blame him, because he knew exactly what his flatmate was doing.

Unfortunately, no amount of visits and comforting smiles could diminish the fact that he was scared shitless. Still, he tried his best to put a brave face on, if only to spare his friends some worry.

Aside from being scared, he was also dreadfully bored. It was a pleasant surprise when doctor Russell dropped by at one point to see how he was doing. They had a nice chat that even managed to cheer John up a little. Only after a few of minutes of talking did he finally pay closer attention to the doctor's full name, and upon making a much belated observation, he couldn't help letting out a snicker.

"Ah, how come I haven't thought of this earlier," he said. "Your name is Curtis. Curtis Russell, almost like the actor. How often do people try to make 'The Thing' related jokes? Or 'Tango and Cash'?"

The ginger doctor cracked a small smile.

"Quite often, and about other movies too, but I don't mind. I've actually grown quite accustomed to the nickname 'Kurt'. And you wouldn't believe how useful it is for advertising! Once, my son made a graphic design of a cartoony me using a flamethrower on a gigantic bacteria, and when he put it on my website, the number of my private clients almost doubled."

John's loud guffaw quickly turned into a nasty wheeze.

"Sounds brilliant," he rasped in his hand.

Russell gave him an apologetic look. "Sorry about that."

"It's fine, really. After all, laughter is the best medicine, isn't it?"

"You have no idea how often I wish it was," the ginger doctor said thoughtfully, tilting his head to the side.

A moment later there was a knock on the door, and a very tired looking Mrs Hudson entered the room. Both doctors turned to face her.

"Oh, hello. Am I interrupting?" she greeted, her eyes moving from one man to the other.

"Good afternoon and no, not at all. As a matter of fact, I was just leaving" Russell said quickly, and grabbed his clipboard for emphasis. "Have a good day!" Before John could say anything, Curtis sent him an understanding smile and left him alone with his landlady.

The moment the door closed, her facade of calm was discarded.

"Good gracious, John! And yesterday I thought you couldn't look any worse," she lamented as she approached his bed.

John shifted uncomfortably. "Hello, Mrs Hudson. Sit down, please."

She took the chair next to his bed, and let out a heavy sigh as her eyes travelled over his face. "My poor thing. Do they know what it is yet?"

"Well, nothing new since yesterday, I'm afraid, but these things always take a while." And an even longer while when nobody has any sensible ideas. "But don't worry, I'm sure they'll find out soon," he added before he could bite his tongue.

She frowned and looked him deep in the eye.

"Don't worry? Young man, I know you're hiding something from me, so don't you tell me I shouldn't worry. I can't force you to tell me, but don't treat me like an idiot."

"You're not, Mrs Hudson. I just don't want to upset you more."

She nodded solemnly. "So you are hiding something."

Damn.

John didn't try to deny. He hadn't told her about the abscesses or even the seizures, and he had no intention of mentioning them if it wasn't necessary. The old lady really didn't need more reasons for worrying.

"Let's not talk about it, alright?" he tried to placate her, feeling a sudden wave of exhaustion.

She seemed to consider his request for a moment.

"Alright. Sorry, I shouldn't stress you. It's just... I'm really scared for you, John. You were always such a healthy man, and all of sudden you're being hospitalised. This can't be normal." Her voice was leaden with concern, but her hand didn't quaver when she placed it over his.

"It isn't," John sighed. "But it's been just two days since I was brought here. There's plenty of time to figure it out. I'll be fine, really."

He didn't have to look at her to know she wasn't convinced. Hell, he was far from convinced. The fact that almost none of his symptoms were relenting under the influence of antibiotics meant the general treatment wasn't enough to subdue the infection, and that in itself indicated that they were dealing with something uncommon and really serious - if the seizures were not enough of a proof already.

The silence was broken when the door opened again, and Molly Hooper appeared in the doorway.

"Oh, hi John, Mrs Hudson," she greeted them, but her smile quickly turned into a frown. "Is Sherlock here?"

"Oh, hello Molly. And here I thought you wanted to visit me as well!" John joked, making the young woman flush a little bit.

"I-I'm sorry John, I really wish I could come more often, but..."

"Relax, I was kidding," he chuckled huskily. "Wasn't he with you?"

Molly's jaw clenched. John exchanged a glance with Mrs Hudson.

"He was," the pathologist grumbled, and shook her head with disappointment. "I've told him to come to you, but of course he knew better. I should have followed him to make sure."

John's eyes widened. It was hard to imagine Molly bullying Sherlock into abandoning his work and doing something he probably didn't want to do, and yet the doctor didn't doubt her for a second.

"It's alright Molly, really. You know what he's like. Who knows, maybe he had an epiphany of some sort."

He had no idea just how right he was.

As John chatted with Molly and Mrs Hudson, Sherlock was becoming more and more convinced of his theory. There were still some things than needed further examination, but once he entered the basement where John had found the file, the detective was certain he hit the nail on the head. Except...

"You must have come down here together," he turned to the owner of the house who came to the basement with him. "Have you noticed any signs that you might be ill as of late?"

The woman shook her head. "Not at all, Mr Holmes. But truth is, I hardly ever come down here. The last time was with doctor Watson. The cops who came later didn't even want to see it, and it's been closed ever since. I know I should clean it up, but..."

Sherlock wasn't listening to her anymore; he had what he needed. There were plenty of microbes that attacked mostly people with weakened immune systems, or men rather than women, and it appeared that John was the only ill person who has entered the basement. That had to be it.

He didn't even notice when the woman finally stopped talking and left him alone. In a few seconds he deduced where exactly John had been standing when he inhaled the biggest portion of dust, and decided to begin there. He took the surroundings in, memorising every detail of the room; the foul smell, high temperature and humidity, the placement of shelves, the materials they and their contents were made of. All these and many other factors heavily indicated a microbiological contamination.

The detective knew he should wear a mask, but he doubted he was at serious risk, and even if he was, he couldn't really care less. He put his rubber gloves on, extracted scalpels and sterile containers, and started his work.


See, the first chapter wasn't all that pointless! Also, sorry for the bad joke, I couldn't get the idea out of my head.

I hope you liked it!