Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. Many of the concepts and lines from the chapter are from the episodes and I am merely borrowing.
Hello, everyone! Like I said, school starts tomorrow so I had to write the last chapter tonight. I hope it doesn't disappoint – I'm not sure I like it but it's what I can do for now. Epilogue to follow as soon as possible. Enjoy, and as always, thanks for the reviews/reads/faves!
John kept his promise to Mycroft, texting him at breakfast, supper, and bedtime. Sherlock slowly started getting better, his temperature slowly dropping and his sleep, while still occupying almost his entire day, became more restful. John and Mrs. Hudson continued their vigil anti of watching over their friend. Be that as it may, according to Sherlock, a third care-giver came two nights after Mycroft's visit.
It had been Sherlock's best day yet, staying awake for a full two hours in the morning and three hours after lunch, which he managed to convince Mrs. Hudson to let him have on the sofa. He had eaten supper in his bed, after a short afternoon nap, and felt strong enough to take a shower. It had been days since he had bathed fully. The hot steam did wonders on his sinuses and he crawled back into bed twenty minutes later feeling clean and refreshed, although exhausted. John knocked on the door before coming in with Sherlock's evening medication and a glass of juice. By now, they had developed a routine. Sherlock would take the pills, knowing he had to complete the glass of juice to satisfy John. He would hand the glass over to John, who would then hand him the thermometer (that is, the nights Sherlock was awake enough to accept it. Any other night, John would coax in what juice he could before slipping the thermometer into Sherlock's mouth.). After recording the reading in a notebook that had appeared on the nightstand, John would ask if Sherlock needed anything. Already dozing off, Sherlock normally mumbled a refusal before John would turn off the light and close the door.
That night was no different, except Sherlock opened his eyes after John had left, fighting himself to stay awake and stare into the darkness. He had always found comfort in the all-knowing power of darkness and he could stare at the black ceiling for hours when he was well. However, he was not well and Sherlock's eyes soon slid closed despite his attempts to keep himself alert.
Sherlock jolted awake in the middle of the night, his breathing rapid and he no longer felt clean. Rather, his skin was clammy and stuck to the bed sheets.
"Bad dream?" a voice, a female voice, asked from the corner of the room. Sherlock sat up in a hurry, turning on the lamp. Out of the shadows came a very attractive woman in a sexy dress, her lips blood red.
"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked as Irene leaned on the end of his sleigh bed.
"I couldn't resist checking in on my favourite consulting detective once I found out he was ill. How are you feeling, by the way?"
"How did you know I was ill?" Sherlock asked. Irene smiled mysteriously.
"I know someone at the pharmacy. Well, I know what he likes."
"And you just happen to ask him for a favour the same week I have a prescription filled?"
"You never answered my question." Irene ignored his arched eyebrow and piercing stare. "How do you feel?"
"I'm fine."
"Oh, I don't know about that." Irene said in her silky voice, moving from the end of the bed and coming to sit on the edge of it. She laid a slender and pale hand, accented by a large ring on her pointer finger, on Sherlock's cheek and moved it up under his curls.
"You've got a fever."
"Yes." Sherlock said, wary of the woman's touch.
"Lie back." Irene instructed, reaching to the nightstand for the dried out compress that was sitting there. Sherlock obeyed, watching as she dipped its folder corner in a glass of water that had been pushed to the side. She delicately pressed the cool cloth against Sherlock's skin, working her way across his brow, down his cheeks, and onto his neck.
"Shh. Close your eyes." Irene soothed and Sherlock, as much as he wanted to fight it, fell back asleep. He awoke next in the pale sunlight coming through the window. Again, he sat straight up, his breathing rapid, trying to figure out if it had been a dream or reality. Sherlock hated the fact he couldn't trust his mind to tell him what was real and what wasn't. His eyes searched over the window sill for a sign of entry and found nothing in the corner where the figure had emerged. Sherlock's eyes finally fell on the nightstand, where he saw the folded compress. He reached out and grasped it in this hand and he felt it. The corner was still damp. Sherlock smiled as there was a soft knock on the door.
"Sherlock, are you awake?" Mrs. Hudson's voice carried through.
"Yes."
The door opened and Mrs. Hudson came in with his breakfast tray.
"Good morning, dear. How are you doing this morning?"
Sherlock let himself fall back against the headboard.
"I'm fine."
Mrs. Hudson chuckled as the set the tray across his lap.
"I don't care what the thermometer says, I know you're starting to get better when you insist you're fine. Enjoy your breakfast."
Sherlock thanked the landlady and began eating, grateful his appetite was finally coming back. He ate just about everything on the spread and was staring at the ceiling when John came in.
Like their evening routine, John had developed a pattern for the morning as well.
"'Morning." John said.
"Good morning." Sherlock answered, sitting up. John, like always, slid the thermometer under Sherlock's tongue before taking his stethoscope and listening to Sherlock breathe.
"Good, your lungs are better than yesterday. I bet that shower helped a bit."
Sherlock couldn't respond until John pulled the thermometer from his lips. While he read it, Sherlock lay back down and resumed looking at the ceiling.
"Irene was here last night." Sherlock said suddenly.
"Sorry, what?" John's response was momentarily delayed as he recorded the reading in the log.
"Irene was here. She came to check on me."
"Are you sure you didn't just dream it, Sherlock? Irene Adler wouldn't risk coming back to London, would she?"
"She did."
That was all Sherlock said and John merely shrugged. He left and returned with medication for Sherlock to take.
"The antibiotics seem to be working well." John said, taking the glass from Sherlock. "Your temperature came down drastically last night. You must feel quite a bit better."
"I'm fine." Sherlock said, averting his eyes from the ceiling to John. "But I'm bored."
John sighed.
"You can come into the living room and watch telly if you like. Or you can read a book."
"Can I work on my expirem-"
"No." Sherlock hadn't even finished the word 'experiment' before John had ruled out the idea.
"You may be feeling better now, Sherlock, but your body still has work to do until you're ready to go back to your normal pace. Come on, let's watch telly. I bet there's some CSI or something on."
John knew that Sherlock didn't really like watching CSI – he always complained that their investigations took much longer than needed – but he wanted Sherlock to get out of bed and start being a little more active.
By lunch time, John was ready to move out and find a different flat mate. Sherlock had reached that stage of being sick enough that he wasn't able to leave the flat but not sick enough to be confined to bed. He had very quickly tired of CSI and John, feeling sympathetic, had agreed to play a game of Clue. It had not ended well, with Sherlock taking the clue board and putting his jack knife through it. Mrs. Hudson had not yet seen the game board pinned to her wall and John was grateful that Sherlock could blame his actions on his illness.
John had agreed that Sherlock could pick up his violin and for an hour after lunch, the flat was filled with Sherlock's compositions, which John felt was a nice change from the stuffy silence. After awhile, the music stopped and Sherlock, worn out at last, ambled off to his room for a short nap.
Supper was uneventful and soon John came into the room to give Sherlock his medication. His temperature was still elevated but nothing to be overly concerned about.
"You should get a good night's sleep."
"When can I leave the flat?" Sherlock asked.
"After your temperature has been normal for 24 hours. I suspect," John continued, knowing what Sherlock's next question would be. "That that will be within the next couple of days. Do you need anything else?"
Sherlock shook his head, eyes already locked on the ceiling, lost somewhere in his mind palace. Yes, even though John would argue that he was not normal yet, Sherlock concluded it felt good to be back to normal.
Reviews are always appreciated!
Epilogue ASAP.