One day, Sally just gets fed up and decides to take a trip over to Baker Street. She takes some cold cases with her, hoping to use them to hide her true intentions.
Sally knocks on the door and Mrs. Hudson leads her upstairs. She doesn't know whether to knock on Sherlock's front door or just let herself in.
She decides to fuck it all and opens the door.
Sherlock is not in the living room.
Sally lets out a breath of relief, happy she doesn't have to explain what she's doing in Sherlock's flat. The living room is remarkably tidy, especially by Sherlock's standards. There appears to be –
Sally's thoughts come to an abrupt halt as the sound of retching echoes throughout the flat.
Sally cringes. She wonders if she should leave now and spare herself the inevitable disaster that's probably about to happen. She decides that since she's come this far, she can't go back now. Cautiously, she starts walking to the back bathroom.
The door is closed and there's a foul smell in the air. Sally recognizes it as once as bile, and she plugs her nose to avoid breathing it in. "Sherlock," she calls. No response. She wasn't really expecting any. "You there?" She knocks on the door. A faint groan inside tells her that Sherlock is probably in there. "I'm coming in," she decides, just as she opens the door.
Sherlock is sitting next to the toilet, his head in his hands. He doesn't acknowledge Sally.
Unsure of what she can do to help, Sally kneels down to his level. "You okay?"
There a pause before Sherlock starts laughing. Not regular laughing, though. Crazy, delirious laughing. The kind of laughing someone does when they have a fever of 103 degrees or are tripping on acid. "Fine," he smirks, shaking his head.
He is definitely not fine. "Do you want me to get you some water?"
"Fine, fine, fine, fine. I am absolutely amazing. Fantastic, as John would say." Sherlock draws a sharp breath in before he starts to cough. Violently.
Sherlock draws his fingers away from his mouth. Sally sees they're lightly covered in blood. "I think we should take you to the hospital…" She reaches out towards him, but he snaps his hand away.
"No!" he yells. "No! I need John!"
John, Sally's mind clicks. This has all been about John. This is some weird attention ploy to get John back. That is so Sherlock. That doesn't explain the video, or Isaac, or anything else, but it's the best explanation she can find at the moment. "Okay, I'll get John for you."
"No, no, no, no, no." Sherlock shakes his head furiously, almost hitting it against the wall. "John doesn't want to see me; John hates me. John - " Sherlock suddenly stops. His eyes go blank and his stare is vacant as he stares ahead.
Oh my god, is he having a absence seizure? "Sherlock? Sherlock, look at me."
Sherlock does. The expression on his face is heart-breaking. "John hates me," he whispers. He wraps his arms around himself, setting his head down onto his knees and shaking. Sally looks down at his bare feet: three missing toes.
She cringes. "He doesn't hate you." That's probably not true, but Sally says it anyway. "John's your best friend." She smiles. She feels like she's talking to a child. "I'll go get John, okay?"
He laughs a bit before saying, "Fine," in a mocking voice. Sally wishes she'd never made the distinction in the first place.
