It took three days for John's fever to break.
Four for the vomiting to stop.
Five for the headaches to subside.
A week total in Mary's care brought John back to a functioning level of health.
"I'm so sorry."
"There's nothing to be sorry for."
"Yes, there is. You came out here expecting a nice holiday and here I am ill on the sofa for a good portion of it."
"These things can't be helped."
Mary pressed her chest to his, smoothed her hands over his hair, and kissed his nose. John grinned. His arms curled around the smaller frame against his.
"I'll be back soon, you just…focus on getting better."
John followed her sleek silhouette to the ground level of Baker Street and waved her off as she fled in a cab. The doctor watched the retreating vehicle until it was lost amongst a crowd of cars and pedestrians.
Mary was gone. Life would resume.
Even with the lingering fatigue from his illness John thought it best to return to work. Too much time away would only allow him room to reflect on the emptiness of the flat, again. Mary helped fill the void minimally. It was no fault of hers though, Sherlock Holmes was a hard act to follow and no one could be expected to occupy the space his absence left—especially the gaping hole he'd made within John Watson's breast.
Yes, it was definitely time to return to the clinic. John arrived later than usual but picked up his patients with a comfortable ease. One after the other slipped through his fingers like melted butter. Quick, painless, normal.
Dull.
John's head snapped up as if he'd heard someone just behind him. He was alone. Obviously. Despite that realisation though, he couldn't shake that word from his ear.
"Dull." Saying it aloud proved that he hadn't absently spoken out loud. No. Only one person could say that four letter word with such disgruntled annoyance. John rubbed at his brow, shook his head, and chalked it up to the abnormal amount of thought he'd given the late detective recently.
"What's dull?" Sarah had slipped in unnoticed to set a folder of paperwork onto John's desk.
"Sorry? Oh. Oh! Just, you know…things." John cleared his throat. "You know, your prescription didn't work."
"What?"
"Time off. It only succeeded in making me sicker."
"Yes, I'm sure not coming to work was what made you ill," she quipped with a roll of her eyes. "It couldn't have been a dormant virus that was beginning to show its symptoms—hence the headaches, weariness, irritability…"
"I wasn't irritable!"
"All leading into one simple case of the flu. And no, of course you weren't."
Although she presented her evidence with a matter-of-fact tone and defensive hands on her hips, Sarah couldn't lock away the smile ever-present on her lips. She chanced a quick stroke of his shoulder; after all, things were different now with Mary in the picture. It wasn't as easy as bathing John in physical affection anymore.
"I'm just glad you're all right. You never know with headaches, nasty things. Could be something horrible or, dull." Smiling at John as if that particular word had become an inside joke between them, she turned on her heel and left.
John sat alone. His pen tapped sharply on his desk. Dull. Dull. Dull. Dull. He shut his eyes.
Dull.
25 August, 2015, 12:00 am
Dearest brother, you are testing my patience.—MH
25 August, 2015, 12:10 am
You know how much I despise leg work….—MH
25 August, 2015, 12:30 am
Fine. I'm on my way.—MH
25 August, 2015, 12:31 am
Consider my tardiness payback for your interrupting my dinner with the Prime Minister.—MH
25 August, 2015, 12:32 am
And I don't care how many fingers they break before I get there…I'm going to savour this moment, just a hair.—MH
Mycroft did enjoy the sight of his little brother being pummelled, for a short time. Then, when the blood trickled from the youngest Holmes' nose to stain the cement below, he'd felt that he had had enough.
As calm as ever on the surface, Mycroft looked on to the scene where Sherlock was tied with his arms out wide. Open, vulnerable. The steel-toed boot of the hard Serbian man looming over the consulting detective had been driven into pale flesh countless times over several hours, leaving deep purple blemishes to form beneath porcelain skin. Why didn't Sherlock act? Mycroft tried to catch a glimpse of his brother's face, maybe make eye contact and have one of those short, wordless conversations only the Holmes brothers were capable of. But the messy mane that adorned Sherlock's head kept Mycroft from seeing anything.
Just when the elder Holmes thought he might actually have to get up, Sherlock spoke. His Serbian rolled out in a muffled jumble. It was clear enough to spark the captor's attention though and send him jogging home to catch his unfaithful wife.
Finally, silence.
Mycroft rolled up onto his feet and did the work of releasing his younger brother.
Sherlock fell to his knees with a thud.
"It's always the wife," Mycroft sighed, a long arm extending down.
"Always." Their hands clasped together. Sherlock rose up, wiped the crimson lines from his face and smirked.
"You've looked better."
"You've looked thinner."
The Holmes brothers eyed one another, an unspoken exchange taking place between them. Then they were gone and escaped unseen.
"What do you say Sherlock?"
"It's time I got to know London again."
The blades of their helicopter hacked through the air leaving behind the angered cries of their Serbian friends below.
25th of August, 2015
The headaches are back. I haven't told Sarah or Mary, they'd only worry. Maybe something is wrong with me, aside from the headaches—obviously. They're bothersome but I can't bring myself to do much about them. As long as I can muddle through a day at the clinic I don't see any reason to panic. I could do with a bit more water, could just be a hydration issue. Or, like Sarah thought, maybe this is just a symptom of my flu coming back. Whatever it is, it's hardly as important as the strange things that have been happening to me lately. The other day I swore I heard Sherlock's voice right behind me. First he was just saying that one word, 'dull'. Then it happened again but this time he was criticising my choice of films. No matter how hard I tried he never did catch on to Bond. Throughout the entire movie I heard him, 'impossible', 'stupid', 'unrealistic', 'that kind of refractory period in a man his age is unheard of'. It went on and on and on like Sherlock was right there in his bloody armchair ruining the movie in real life! It's mental, I know. Maybe I just miss him. It's been a while since I've visited him properly. Maybe I'll do that.
26th of August, 2015
Well, that was the worst idea I've had in a long while.
27th of August, 2015
My head feels like it's splitting in two. Visiting Sherlock didn't help. I hear him constantly. I feel like he's in the room with me.
28th of August, 2015
I had the most vivid dream last night. We were on a case, running between buildings, dodging traffic, I didn't see Sherlock. All I could catch were the tails of his coat whipping around every corner, just a few steps ahead. I heard him though. 'Come on John, we're losing him,' I heard his voice. I followed it all the way to Baker Street. I ran up the steps like a madman not because I was anxious to see the killer but because I wanted to see him. That long coat draped over his broad shoulders, his scarf hiding that long neck of his. I wanted to watch him tackle the bastard who'd made us run all night so I could watch the blood pumping through his arteries, watch the life inside him again. But when I opened the door to our flat, I tripped inside, hit the ground and woke up.
Here's the odd bit.
I went to sleep in Sherlock's room.
I woke up on the floor with the main door cracked behind me.
1st of September, 2015
Sarah is beginning to notice that something is off.
Mary has called me dozens of times.
I can't answer.
I'm too busy chasing a phantom Sherlock around London and waking up in odd places. It all feels so real.
The funny thing is, the moment I wake up I don't remember any of it but then, when I realise where I am be it Baker Street, the tube, or the bins behind Speedy's, the memories come flooding back. The dreams. Are they really dreams if I'm waking up where every chase has ended?
Of course they are.
Sherlock is dead.
Something is wrong with me.
"Something wrong John? You seem tired. I hope you're not getting sick again." Sarah touched John's forehead despite him not having lifted his attention from his paperwork. He gave an absent hum that's supposed to reassure her of his wellness. Sarah isn't convinced. "John?"
Although the doctor is scribbling furiously across a section of paper where his patient's symptoms should be recorded, he's not paying any attention; not to his work and not to Sarah. John's eyes are heavily lidded, his head resting against his balled fist and only staying up by the laws of physics because John's muscles have neglected their duties and refuse to kick in.
"John!" Delicate hands grip at the soldier's solid shoulders and shake him. Another mumbled sound. John's pen finally stops scratching across the bold lines he hadn't been writing between anyway. The words scrawled there are incoherent, a mixture of nonsense and odd shapes—definitely nothing about the case of Streptococcal pharyngitis he'd just diagnosed.
In a matter of milliseconds, Sarah transforms from worried friend to brilliant doctor and manhandles John out of his chair. Luckily for her, some of his limbs remain connected to his brain and help by reflexively holding some of his own weight as he is transferred from desk to examination table. Sarah's hands are a swift blur as they move over John, assessing his current condition and collecting his vitals.
Blood pressure—low
Oxygen level—low
Temperature—high
Pupillary response—delayed
Reflexes—dulled
Observations: Comatose state but not quite unresponsive. Patient is exhibiting what seems like a deep REM sleep resulting in, muscle twitching, response to auditory stimuli, rapid changes in heart rate etc. No response to name, light, physical manipulation of limbs. Cause—unknown. Diagnosis—unknown. Treatment—hospitalisation.
Her work is quick, efficient, and over by the time back up from Bart's has rolled up outside her humble clinic. They take John away, leaving Sarah standing in the small exam room with her scribbled notes.