Summary: John gets appendicitis and tries to hide it from Sherlock.
Warning: There are mentions to suicide and depression (no descriptions nor graphic details about it, just mentioned in conversation and used for the plotline) There are also mentions of drug dealing (again, only in conversation).
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, only the specific plotlines that I write. All rights go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss.
A/N: Please review/follow/favorite! I would appreciate it so much!
I'm American and I've never been to London, so I try to keep it as British as possible, but I apologize in advance for all of the American tendencies that might be in the writing.
Thanks to Starcross123 for the awesome suggestion!
"Why is it," Sherlock griped, "that whenever my brother assigns me a case it automatically becomes dull?" He swept the case file off of the table. He and John were eating at a restaurant after answering Mycroft's request for help in the case. "I don't care about an informant! So what if government secrets are exposed to the entire world? I want murder!" Sherlock complained loudly. Several people near them gave disturbed expressions.
"You know, the informant used methods of torture to get information from government officials," John said, taking a sip of his water. "I'd have thought you'd enjoy it."
"But then I'm helping my brother!"
"So?"
"So! So, informants are boring!" Sherlock said. "John, if I had to pick my favorite case I've ever solved, it was the string of serial murders with a new method of killing every time to disguise the killer's usual technique. That was interesting! Remember the teen who was murdered by forced starvation? Simply captivating!"
Unfortunately, the waitress, who was preparing to put their food on their table, had heard. The plates slid clumsily onto the table as she left hurriedly with a small squeak of horror.
John gave Sherlock a reprimanding look. "Can you save the murder talk for when we're back at Baker Street?"
"What do people talk about if they're not talking about murder?" Sherlock asked. "It must be incredibly dull."
"Well, most people talk about their day," John said. He took a bite of his salad. "Such as, what did you eat today?"
"What did I eat today?"
"Yes. You must've had a big lunch since you're not eating any dinner," John said pointedly, nodding to Sherlock's empty spot in front of him - he hadn't ordered any food.
"Don't be ridiculous, John. You know perfectly well that I don't enjoy slowing my brain with unnecessary sustenance. Now, could you please hurry up eating? I'm against being near other people." He looked at the other people in the restaurant with an expression of contempt.
"Yeah… you know what," John said, looking at his food, "I'm not actually that hungry." He pushed his plate aside and left money next to it. "We can go back to the flat."
Merely one minute had passed when Sherlock and John arrived back at Baker Street that Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs.
"You've got a client," she whispered, pointing downstairs. "Young lady. She seems to have an interesting case."
"I hope so," Sherlock grumbled, then agreed to let her up. Mrs. Hudson trotted back downstairs to open the door; Sherlock remained unmoving in his chair. Thirty seconds later, an attractive girl with blonde hair came upstairs tentatively.
"Hello, Mr. Holmes," she said slowly, twisting her hair around her finger. "I'm-"
"A kindergarten teacher," Sherlock interrupted. The woman looked stunned. "Who told you…?"
Sherlock sighed exasperatedly. "No one told me. You've got red dry erase marker stains on your fingers and desk lines on your wrists. There's a pencil in your pocket, which suggests that you're not an office worker, because office workers use laptops much more frequently. You're here at 3:30, so you came after the kindergarteners went home; most work days don't end this early, and you're also quite worried - twisting your hair - so you most likely came as soon as possible, and if that is the case you would have been here sooner than 3:30. Conclusion: you're a kindergarten teacher who just got out of work and came to see me urgently."
"Well… yes," the woman said, surprised. "Exactly. I'm Anastasia Martin."
"Hmm," Sherlock said, ignoring her. He waved his hand. "Get on with it."
John pulled out a chair for her, shooting an apologetic look for his friend's impolite manners. "I'm John Watson," he said, settling into his armchair across from Sherlock, "and this is the rudest person you'll ever meet, but he'll probably be able to solve your case."
Anastasia gave them a nervous smile, flipping her hair back.
"Well, so I'm a kindergarten teacher. Some horrible things have been happening in my classroom."
"Tell the entire story," Sherlock said, closing his eyes and placing his fingers under his chin contemplatively.
Anastasia launched in.
"I teach a very happy bunch of students. Nineteen of them, and they're practically my own children - we get on so well! They all love me, and I love them, and there's never been any issues, ever. Until, last Monday, exactly a week ago. My most enthusiastic student, who always encourages the other students to learn - you know, she leads the group in the alphabet, always ready to answer any question, loves being at the front of the line in the hallways."
"Sounds like an obnoxious child. I hope she was murdered?"
"What!?" Anastasia said, shocked.
"He didn't mean it," John intervened.
"Yes, I did, John," Sherlock corrected. "Continue, Miss Martin."
Anastasia looked at Sherlock with distaste, similar to how Sally Donovan looked at Sherlock. Sherlock had indeed crossed the line, but the way that Anastasia looked at him, as though he was a freak, irritated John.
"Yes, please continue," John agreed.
"Alright. So, like I said, I have this incredibly enthusiastic student. But on Monday, she came in, depressed. Barely spoke the entire day. Didn't participate. Mind you, she's only five!" she added as Sherlock sighed in boredom. "I didn't think much of it, either! I thought that something must have happened at home - a family issue."
"Did she have any bruises? Red eyes? Scrapes?" Sherlock asked.
"None. Looked the same. So, I thought I'd wait it out, and if she was still morose, I figured then I'd talk to her. But then on Tuesday, two more children came into school, as depressed as my enthusiastic student on Monday. They all had the same exact temper - sullen, silent, completely uninterested in class."
Sherlock leaned forward. "Let me guess. More and more kids began to show up as the days progressed with this strange manifestation of depression."
"Yes. Then on Friday, the first student… committed suicide. You might have seen it on the news."
"Suicide? But she is only five-" John said, astounded.
"Was."
"Shut up, Sherlock," John said. "Did anyone else…?"
"No, but there were three more in the class with the depression today. I don't understand, and frankly, I'm shocked that we still had school today, considering Friday's tragedy." Anastasia's eyes were red and brimming with tears. "I hate to see my students hurting like this. Please, solve it, Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock leaned forward. "You know, for such a dull person, you bring a truly fascinating case. I've never seen such young suicide. I have several questions for you. First, how many children in total have this strange depression currently?"
"Nine."
"What are the households like of the newly depressed students?"
"Stable, as far as I'm aware. None of them have ever had issues before."
"Would you mind if my friend and I attend class with you tomorrow so that we may better examine the depression?"
"That would be great, thank you," Anastasia said. She gave them the address of the school. "Come at eight; that's when class begins." She left the flat, sniffling quietly.
"Something new!" Sherlock said excitedly, standing up and rushing over to his filing cabinet to rifle through papers. "Ah - here's the newspaper!" He read aloud the account of the girl's suicide. "Death by hanging."
"Do you think it could be murder?" John asked.
"I don't think there's doubt that the suicide was done because of the depression, but clearly there is malicious intent; I am fairly sure that there must be a drug being administered to the children. But where would the children all have received the drug?"
He paced the floor. John got up and made tea for them both, handing the detective a mug. He took one sip of his own tea before setting it aside; he decided that he was still not hungry.
"It could be the lunch lady… but then, why would nine out of nineteen children be affected? And why?"
Anastasia Martin was waiting for Sherlock and John when they arrived in the classroom the next morning. Fortunately, the classroom had been close by, because John was feeling nauseous on the way in the cab. He hadn't said anything to Sherlock, who was more than eager for such a "promising" case.
"John, I want you to take notes on the students' behaviors. Their mannerisms, responses, everything," Sherlock told him.
"On it," John said, glad for an excuse to sit down quietly; his abdomen felt as though it were throbbing. Students began to stream into the room. There was an instant distinction between students; some appeared to be average five year olds, giggling and looking at Sherlock and John with interest; others, however, walked into the classroom quietly with frowns and put their bag in their cubby without speaking. Sherlock was watching them with great interest.
"Do you mind if I speak to everyone, Miss Martin?" Sherlock asked diplomatically. "I want to gauge their responses and hopefully gain insight as to a trend between the nine afflicted children that could insinuate a clue to their strange behavior."
Anastasia nodded. "Class!" she called commandingly, her voice soft and pleasant. "We have two visitors today. Please, give them your undivided attention and be on your best behavior."
The more sullen kids sank into their chairs without complaint, but it took more persuasion to settle down the other half of kids. Sherlock cleared his throat. John suddenly feared what the detective would say to the five year olds.
"Hello… children," Sherlock said, and for one of the few times in his life, John heard uncertainty in his flatmate's voice. "I'm Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and this is my associate and friend, Dr. John Watson."
"You're a detective?" piped up one of the more vivacious kids. "Do you solve murders?"
"Charlie, not here-" Anastasia began to chastise, but Sherlock's eyes had lit up.
"I've solved a profusion of murders from the most baffling of locked-room impossibilities to the most gruesome with blood, stabbings, gunshots, lacerations, decapitations-"
"Mr. Holmes!" Anastasia cried out.
"Right. Um," Sherlock said, looking out at the group of five year olds. "I have several questions for you. John, record any answers that they give us."
John nodded mutely, holding himself tightly; he was feeling rather warm and his stomach felt like it was bruised from the inside. It was rather distracting from the work.
"Although I have no doubt that none of you can recall your activities from ereyesterday and the previous week, can anyone enlighten me as to any suspicious, conspicuous, or unusual avocations that they engaged in recently?"
The room was dead silent.
"Sherlock," John said, ignoring the stabbing pain that accompanied speaking, "maybe rephrase that?"
Sherlock sighed. "John, I told you that I have no interest in adapting to the needs of illiterate subordinates."
"Yeah, I don't care. They're kids."
"Fine," Sherlock said, smacking his lips before enunciating the word with emphasis. "What have you all done this last week that's different from normal?"
"I went swimming," a girl offered from the back. "My dad is teaching me how."
"I couldn't care less. Rather, has anyone used needles recently? Been drugged? Do any of you have a recollection of consuming a food or drink that tastes unusual?"
"Mr. Holmes, I came to you for help," Anastasia said, warning flashing in her eyes, "but if you can't be civil and remember your audience, I'm calling Scotland Yard and taking you off of the case."
"Well, I assist Scotland Yard, so that won't do you much good," Sherlock retorted. "Can anyone answer my question?"
John realized it had been ten minutes since he had written one word. He panicked slightly; Sherlock would be irritated that he had missed important observations. Desperate to not ruin the case for Sherlock, he pretended that nothing was wrong, ignoring the pain in his stomach though it was getting increasingly worse. It also felt increasingly warm in the classroom; he pulled his coat off.
"Alright then, you lot, the depressed ones. Turn out your pockets," Sherlock said. There was some clatter as kids began to pull miscellaneous objects out of their pockets.
"Aha!" Sherlock said triumphantly. "Matching sweet wrappers - where did you all get that particular candy?"
John was only vaguely aware that Sherlock was solving the case and was getting close to catching the criminal, who appeared to have sold the kids candy for money. The candies were rigged with drugs to cause severe depression. John wrote down as much as he heard, determined to not miss anything. It was only a stomachache.
That is, until the pain began to move to the lower right side of his abdomen. As a doctor, he immediately recognized it then.
Loss of appetite.
Fever.
Pain in the lower right half of the abdomen.
Most likely, it was appendicitis, which could be dangerous if the appendix ruptured. In that case, he'd have to get an appendectomy. But he realized that Sherlock was ready to dash out of the classroom, his coat and scarf being thrown on. He got to his feet, cursing under his breath as his stomach flared with pain.
"Come on, John!" Sherlock yelled. "They all got the sweets from the same person, and they all ride the same bus - I think it was the bus driver! Let's go, he'll be returning to the bus garage!"
John sprang to his feet, following Sherlock quickly. They ran down the halls and out into the back of the school, where the buses were being parked.
"Which one?" John asked, trying to hold down his nausea.
"The one that sees us and is climbing back into the bus, obviously," Sherlock said, sprinting ahead. The bus roared to life and backed out of its position.
"Come on, John!" Sherlock screamed. "If we run fast enough, we can hop on! The doors aren't shut!" The detective was flying, gaining on the bus that was trying to maneuver out of its spot and turn around to leave. John was behind, sprinting equally as fast, but every step felt like a stab in his stomach. Bile in his throat rose again and he choked slightly, pushing the vomit back down. He couldn't ruin this case for Sherlock. He couldn't. Nausea broiled through him again.
"We've almost got him!" Sherlock yelled again. "John, when we get on, I'll grab the man, and you take the wheel so that we don't crash!"
John heard, but all of the sudden, his abdomen had split in excruciating pain; he fell to the ground without realizing it, and heard Sherlock's frustrated bellow.
"John! What do you think you're doing!? We could have gotten him!"
John couldn't speak, he was collapsed in the dirt, clutching his stomach.
"John!" the angry voice said, coming closer, but now there was an edge of concern.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John croaked. "I have appendicitis… I tried to pretend there wasn't anything wrong, because I knew you cared about this case so much…"
"Idiot."
"I think it ruptured. Call an ambulance, it can be fatal if…" He stopped to vomit. Sherlock obeyed, and within fifteen minutes John was on his way to the hospital.
"What about the bus driver? The drug dealer?" John asked woozily.
"We'll get him tomorrow," Sherlock said confidently. "If you must know, John, for reassurance that you didn't ruin the case, I'd rather see a criminal go another day without being jailed than you perish."
"Gee, thanks," John muttered, as they arrived at the hospital.
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