A/N: Wow, already the 11th chapter and I must say, that I'm slightly proud of myself :). Again this was inspired by a prompt. Beta and Brit-pick had been done by chocolateteacup over on livejournal.
Enjoy reading :)
All Down the Line
Part 1 – Lestrade
When Sherlock and John turned up at the crime scene, even Lestrade was able to see that something was wrong. Sherlock was acting as hyperactive as usual when on a case, but John was more silent than normal and stayed even further in the background. While Sherlock practically bounced around in the flat's living room, John stayed close to the main entrance and tried to sink into the wall.
Lestrade had known John now for a few months and the two had been out for a pint or two, whenever Sherlock had been too infuriating. Therefore he considered the doctor as a friend and it was his duty to check on him. Because, if there was one thing he had learned, it was that John tended to be more attentive to his patients' health, than his own , and right now he looked sick. Even underneath the slowly fading tan, Lestrade was able to see that John was pale, and despite the warm day, he had closed his jacket and had crossed his arms over his chest protectively. Stepping closer, he was also able to see sweat on the other man's forehead.
"Are you alright?" Lestrade asked, silently, so as not to distract Sherlock in his thinking process.
John managed to glare at him, even through glazed eyes , and Lestrade admitted that he was impressed by that ability.
"I'm fine," the snarled reply followed the glare. Lestrade did not believe that. For once he was sure, that the doctor would tell everyone that he was fine, even if he actually was dying and the man was generally a gentle soul. Snarling was not in his repertoire.
For the sake of peace, Lestrade backed off for the moment. The only man who would be able to talk any sense into the doctor was Sherlock Holmes. As soon as the Inspector had the chance to, he would make sure to tell him that John was about to keel over.
A violent coughing fit brought Lestrade's attention back to John. The other man was bent nearly in half, one hand pressed against his mouth to stifle the coughs, the other braced against the wall to keep him standing.
"Be quiet or be outside," Sherlock snapped from across the room, not even looking up from examining the rug. Lestrade shot an irritated look at the back of his head, before turning back to John. Placing a reassuring hand on John's back, Lestrade could feel the shivers raging through him.
With the help of the wall, John pushed himself upright again and shook off Lestrade's hand. "I'm good, don't worry," John said, his voice betraying the statement.
"Are you sure?" Lestrade asked. The tremors had worried Lestrade and even though John had stopped coughing, there was still a certain roughness to his breathing.
Another glare was shot in his direction and for a second Lestrade was sure that John and Sherlock deserved each other. Both had the same stubborn streak.
In that case, Lestrade needed to inform Sherlock of the current situation, because only a mule could force another mule into moving. At least this was his experience, when dealing with John and Sherlock. While he made his way over to Sherlock, Lestrade made eye contact with Donovan and nodded at John, indicating that she should keep an eye on him. She nodded back and stepped closer to John.
Sherlock was currently bent over the window sill on the opposite site of the flat. When he realized that Lestrade was approaching, he lifted his arm and halted Lestrade's movement. The detective knew that if he interrupted Sherlock's work before the man was finished, an endless rant on the incompetence of the police would follow. Lestrade was not in the mood for it right now, not that he ever was, and waited patiently until Sherlock had finished with the sill and had turned around.
"You're searching for a man, not taller than 5'11'' and slim, most definitely agile," Sherlock started, and this time it was Lestrade that lifted his hand to stop the other man. He knew that Sherlock needed to be stopped, before he had really started, "This can wait."
A perplexed expression crossed Sherlock's face, "Why?"
"You should, maybe, take your doctor home and into bed."
"John must have told you already, that we are not in a relationship. Why then should I take him to bed?"
"Because he's sick." Lestrade said in a matter-of-fact tone. Sherlock tilted his upper body slightly to the side and looked over Lestrade's shoulder. Seeing John leaning against the wall, coughs smothered by his elbow and Donovan hovering close by, made him furrow his brow. John had been fine, when they had left the flat, so it couldn't be anything bad.
"He is a doctor and should know when he is unwell."
"The doctor is also more concerned about other people's health, than his own."
Worry flashed up in Sherlock's eyes, while his gaze was still fixed over Lestrade's shoulder. The Inspector was just turning around, when he heard Donovan yelp in surprise. Sherlock pushed past him and a second later Lestrade saw the reason for his worry and Donovan's outburst.
John had collapsed onto his knees. The only thing that had stopped him from crashing face first to the floor was Donovan. She was holding him up awkwardly, her knees half bent under John's weight and her arms around his back. John was lying limp in the hold and it was clear that she would not be able to hold up this position for long.
Gently, Sherlock pried John from her arms and laid him on the floor. Seeing that he was shivering violently, Sherlock used his coat as a blanket. Lestrade watched, in mild surprise, as Sherlock pushed sweat drenched hair from John's forehead. With his hand still in place, Sherlock's head whipped around and panicked eyes met Lestrade's. That look of fear was all it took for him to call for an ambulance.
"He's hot," Sherlock said, when Lestrade kneeled beside him. The Inspector placed his hand on John's forehead, felt the heat even through a layer of cold sweat. With worry gnawing at his guts, Lestrade removed the hand and felt John's pulse. The beat was steady, if a bit fast, and it reassured Lestrade. Whatever it was that had brought John Watson to his knees it couldn't be that bad. At the obvious panic that was still visible in Sherlock's eyes, his father-instincts woke and he felt the urge to reassure the younger man.
"Don't worry, Sherlock. He just overdid it." Were it normal circumstances, Sherlock would have hated to be patronized, but right now all he could do was nod his head and hold on tight to John's hand.
Part 2 – Sherlock
Sherlock detested ambulances almost as much as police cars. They were loud and uncomfortable and the medics always tried to smother him with one of these horrid orange blankets. This time however, he was lucky and they didn't try to force it on him. And he was also able to accompany John into his cubicle in the A&E.
The doctors had fussed over John for a few minutes, had set up an IV, took blood and left Sherlock a flannel and some lukewarm water. Though Sherlock had no idea what he was supposed to do with them.
A nurse had also left him a metal stool, obviously he was to sit on this. Sherlock stared at it disdainfully, before kicking it to the side. He preferred standing. That way, he also had the best view of John. He was still pale, still sweaty, but Sherlock thought that he was looking better than at the crime scene.
Not two minutes after the last nurse had stepped out, John started to wake up. Sherlock hovered close by, watched as lids slowly opened, and then glazed, blue eyes were staring at him. "Sherlock?"
"You fainted." Sherlock replied, trying to keep the glee out of his voice, but failing miserably.
In turn, John grimaced, "I didn't faint, I passed out."
"If you say so. The doctors are trying to figure out what is wrong, but you should have told me that you were feeling unwell."
John sighted softly and pulled the blanket closer, he was still shivering, "The fever was gone."
"What do you mean?"
"I had a fever on Monday, was gone yesterday. Thought it was just a little bug."
"Wrong."
"Yeah, obviously."
Sherlock watched as John turned onto his side, mindful of the IV , and pulled his legs close. The worry that had settled in his guts, tightened. He had seen John ill once, after they had taken an unplanned swim in the Thames, but both had fallen ill and it had only been a cold. This was something different.
"Should I call a doctor?"
Bleary eyes opened again and looked at Sherlock, "No, nothing they can do until they get the results."
"If you're sure." Sherlock replied and started to pace back and forth. He hated waiting, hated not knowing what was wrong with John. And he had abandoned the crime scene. Although he already knew who the murderer was, it still annoyed him. Especially that he hadn't been able to tell Lestrade all he knew. Well, he had to revise that, and after pulling out his phone, started texting. Lestrade would have to arrest the man on his own, he was good at that at least.
Finally the doctor came back in. Sherlock had not checked the time, but he was certain that he had taken forever. The man looked grim, even after he saw that John was awake, and introduced himself as Dr Klein. "Well, I have your test results back," he started, but John interrupted him, "Malaria. Only thing that fits the symptoms."
Sherlock smiled at that, so his good doctor was impatient too. Dr Klein, on the other hand, looked irritated at being cut short. He was probably not used to that.
"Yes, exactly," came the reply after a few seconds, "You are lucky, however. It is just Plasmodium vivax, which only causes benign Malaria. I suppose that this was the first outbreak?"
John nodded, "Must have caught it in Afghanistan."
"We'll keep you for a few days, keep you hydrated and administer the quinine sulphate via IV too. You should know the symptoms, for when you have a relapse and can take the quinine in time. A nurse will come and settle you into a room."
"Thanks."
The doctor nodded and left the cubicle, leaving the two men alone again.
"Didn't the Army gave you any prophylaxis?"
"Not possible over a longer period of time, all the medication that exists mess with your hormones."
"Oh." Sherlock said and told himself that he needed to google Malaria as soon as he had time too. He had no knowledge of Malaria, symptoms and treatment, so it was important that he fed his hard drive with information. Just in case John had a relapse , and one could never be too prepared.
"Is there anything you need?"
John nodded into the flat pillow, "Yeah, if I'm gonna have to stay for a few days, I need some stuff, just ask Mrs Hudson. She'll help you."
"Good, that's good." Sherlock said, just as a nurse walked into the cubicle, pushing a wheelchair in front of her.
"Patient transport," she announced, voice practically dripping with honey. It was not just Sherlock that flinched at that.
"Well then, old boy. Text me, when you're settled in, I'll go get your stuff." With that Sherlock marched out of the cubicle, happy to be away from the too chipper nurse.
Mrs Hudson was, of course, not at home. But Sherlock was a consulting detective, he could figure out what John would need in the hospital. Beaming with pride at his own ability to pack a bag, Sherlock returned to the hospital. He had not received a text from John, but it had been easy to get his room number from the reception.
The moment he stepped into the room however, his good mood disappeared. Three nurses were trying to hold John down, while the man was fighting tooth and nail against the women. Small sounds of protest and anger were audible over the voices of the nurses, who tried to calm their patient down, but John just kept on struggling.
Sherlock let go of the overnight bag and it dropped heavy on the floor. With three big steps he was beside John, pushing the nurses away. He knew that they were not helping, restraining John was rather scaring the man more, made him fight harder against his captors. It was the sheer terror in John's eyes that told Sherlock everything he needed to know, the doctor was simply not in London any more.
His fingers were cool against John's hot cheeks and, at the unexpected contact, John tried to lash out at him. Luckily, the nurse to Sherlock's right was faster than John, which was no effort, since the man was too weak to manage a good punch, and caught the flailing fist.
Sherlock leant his head directly over John, so that the doctor had no other choice, but to look into his eyes.
"John, calm down. You are in London. You're safe," Sherlock said, voice calm and reassuring, despite his wildly beating heart. He kept up the litany of words, not really knowing what he was saying, but hoping that his voice would bring John back.
Slowly Sherlock could feel that John was relaxing, his fighting stopped and recognition sparkled in blue eyes. Only when John's arms were safely back on the blanket and his feet back on the mattress, did Sherlock let go.
"You with me?"
"Yeah, yeah, I think so." John replied and stared hard at the nurse, who tried to fix his IV.
"I can't believe that I have to say this to you, but let them work. How are you feeling?"
"Awful." As soon as the nurse had re-established the IV, John curled back up on his side.
In a fit of sympathy, and Sherlock didn't really know when he had last been able to feel sympathy, he pulled the blanket up over John's shoulder and left his hand on the other man's shoulder for longer than necessary.
"Just go back to sleep, I'll be here when you wake up." He didn't receive a reply, John was already asleep.
The only other person that visited John was Lestrade. The DI came late in the evening of the first day. John had been sleeping fitfully ever since that first episode and Sherlock would have thought that it was just another nurse checking up on them, where he not so attentive, and smelled Lestrade's cologne even before the man had stepped into the room.
"It's Malaria. We were informed that it is a benign strain, so he should be alright in a few days." Sherlock answered Lestrade's unvoiced question, not once moving his gaze from John.
"That's good then, I suppose," Lestrade said and stopped beside Sherlock. "We caught Franklin, he confessed."
Sherlock didn't reply to that, he knew the identity of the murderer already, had seen that the murder had been done in the heat of the moment. There was no reason why Franklin wouldn't confess.
"I, ehm, I brought a book." A small paperback novel was held roughly in his direction. Only now did Sherlock look over and stared at the book for a second, before taking it. A quick glance revealed that it was brand new, from the WH Smith around the corner and one of the crime novels John liked to read. At least it wasn't any of the garish get-well cards Sherlock had seen or even worse, a balloon. He placed the book on the bedside table, "Thank you."
"You're welcome. Tell him to get better soon and that a pint waits for him at the pub, when he's out."
"Will do." Sherlock replied and turned his attention back to his friend. Unexpectedly, Lestrade patted his shoulder, before leaving. He huffed in surprise and didn't know what to make of the gesture, but Sherlock figured that the Inspector meant it as some kind of moral support. He glanced at the book again, remembered the time when he had been sick and John had read to him and picked up the book.
It was awkward at first, reading out load, but after the first few pages it became easier and Sherlock fell into a steady rhythm, commenting on the stupidity of the book occasionally.
Trouble came, when the visiting hours where officially over. The nurses, and later, John's doctor on the ward told him to leave. Sherlock refused and a discussion started, one that was quickly moved to the hall, since it was getting louder and neither wanted to disturb John.
Though Sherlock believed that he was going to win in the end, since he not only dealt with his brother, but also the Scotland Yard on a regular basis. The doctor shouldn't stand a chance. However, he had not included the fact that the doctor and the nurses were used to dealing with stubborn patients and their visitors.
In the end it was John who ended the slightly intense discussion. The doctor had stumbled out of his room, blood slowly dripping from the back of his hand, where the IV used to be, and was clearly delirious. He was unsteady on his feet, swaying slightly as he tried to sneak along the hallway, back against the wall and an imaginary gun in his hand.
The moment the doctor stepped closer, the gun was lifted and John pressed himself harder against the wall. "Don't come any closer." John still managed to sound threatening and stopped the doctor in his tracks. Which gave Sherlock the opportunity he needed. Sidestepping the doctor, he placed his hand over John's imaginary gun and forced it down.
"It's alright, John. You're in London. You're safe," he repeated the words that had helped earlier and just like earlier he could feel John's muscles relaxing. With one arm draped around John's waist, Sherlock ushered him back into his room and sent a glare at the doctor on his way. Point proven, he was going to stay.
Over the next three days, the fever rose and fell regularly. Whenever it went too high, John started to hallucinate, fought unseen enemies and tried to escape from his prison. These moments always scared Sherlock more than he would have liked to admit. Still he kept his own panic in check and managed to talk John out of it. He did not sleep a lot during the time, just short naps in between and Sherlock was lucky that his body was accustomed to being sleep deprived.
When the fever finally broke, Sherlock was not quite sure who was more relived, the doctors or himself. The first lucid conversation Sherlock had with John was short and the doctor had just asked after Sherlock's well being, before falling asleep again. But as Sherlock watched the undisturbed sleep of his blogger, his heart felt lighter than it had been in the previous days. With a sigh he lent back in his chair, placed his feet on the edge of the mattress and allowed himself to doze.
Part 3 – John
Every joint and muscle ached, his head was also still throbbing, but the fever and the matching hallucinations were gone. It had been embarrassing for John to have his fears shown so openly, he had seen the pitying looks from some of the nurses and had hated it. He really didn't like to be pitied. At least Sherlock didn't acted any different than before and with a little bit of luck, he would never ever have to see the nurses or his doctor again.
Although, Sherlock did act slightly more weird. The morning John was about to be released from hospital, Sherlock had come carrying an orange blanket. He had placed it around John's shoulders and had insisted that he kept it on. John's "I'm not in shock," was ignored.
The cab ride home was silent, although Sherlock watched him closely, as if he was afraid that John would suffer a relapse, right then and there.
The seventeen steps had never seemed so long before, but Sherlock was close behind him and soon he was spread out on the sofa, orange blanket draped over him and the warning to not move still in his ear.
Sherlock was tinkering in the kitchen and John was kind of worried that he couldn't see what exactly he was doing. Leaving Sherlock alone in the kitchen had proven disastrous in the past. But he was still feeling too sick to actually care if something in the kitchen exploded. So John was relieved when Sherlock reappeared with a cup of tea in his hand and the kitchen still intact.
"I hope I've got this right."
John sat up, rearranged the blanket on his lap and took the tea. There was actually milk in it and he took a sip under the close scrutiny of Sherlock. The tea was not that bad, maybe a bit strong, but John was just surprised that the man had managed to make a cup on his own at all. John nodded and saw Sherlock's face light up.
"I looked up the symptoms of Malaria," Sherlock said, still watching John closely, "So I know exactly what to expect should you have a relapse. And you'd better tell me when you start to feel unwell, I can't have you collapsing at a crime scene again, that could ruin vital evidence. I already picked up the quinine sulphate, the pills are in the bathroom cupboard. I played with the idea of producing them myself, but I don't have the right equipment and I don't know the correct dosage. So I brought them."
John needed to stifle a smile at Sherlock's behaviour, it was odder than usual and this was the first time he heard Sherlock rambling. The whole incident seemed to have upset Sherlock, not that John could blame him. While he didn't remember anything about the moments when he was delirious, he had a vague memory of Afghani desert and incredible heat. Sometimes pictures of the hospital had penetrated his fever dreams and had confused his addled brain. He had been scared by that, so who knew what it had done to Sherlock.
Since he had woken up, with Sherlock's face leaning above his, the detective had hovered over him and had generally tried to be nice. John loved that new side of Sherlock and, while he was aware that it would probably vanish as soon as he was better, John still needed some time to get used to it.
"Sherlock, you're rambling," John told him and in the moment of silence he realized something else, "How did you get the pills? I didn't have a prescription."
"Of course you didn't, but you do have a prescription pad and your signature is pathetically easy to forge."
It was a good thing, that John was already used to Sherlock's eccentrics, else he'd be getting an ulcer. "You put it back, right?"
Sherlock nodded and John vowed to himself, to lock his pad up too. And hide it, since Sherlock had managed to break into his gun's strongbox more than once.
"You enjoy your tea. Then up to bed with you, the doctor said that you need rest. Mrs Hudson offered to make you a soup later, somehow she didn't trust me do make one."
This time John did smile, Sherlock would probably burn the soup. A stern glance from Sherlock and John hid the smile behind the cup, emptying it. "Lestrade wants to have a pint with you, when you have been released," Sherlock said, frowning, "I have read that beer decelerates the healing process and the effect of the medication. It would be stupid to have a beer now."
John blinked, trying to absorb what he had just heard. It was the first time someone told him what to do, since he left the Army. A nice warm, feeling spread though him. Sherlock was concerned for him and showed it by filling up his brain with medical knowledge. "I won't go out for a beer tonight, maybe in a few days."
Seeing that the frown lines on Sherlock's brow evened out, he had said the right thing.
"He even brought you a book, ridiculous thing, I knew who the murder was after the first chapter."
"In that case, I don't want to know it."
Sherlock humphed, "Only because you're still sick. And now in your bed, should be more comfortable than the sofa."
John sighted, but stood up. Sherlock was immediately by his side, taking his elbow and guided him up the stairs.
"You know, I can walk on my own."
"Maybe, but your legs are still weak, I can see them trembling."
Sherlock helped John sit down on the bed, took another look around, to see if everything was in place and stood uncertainly at the foot of the bed for a moment.
"I'm fine, Sherlock. I won't relapse the minute you're not looking, that can take months. I've got water, I have a book. Go down and experiment on something." John couldn't really believe what he was saying, but seeing Sherlock's face slowly morph from worried to eager, it was worth it.
"Okay, good. Just text me, when you need something. I'm downstairs." And in a flash of colour the detective was out of the room. John chuckled to himself, only Sherlock would text somebody, when walking down the stairs would be enough.
Leaning against the headboard, John picked up the book and started reading. He had just finished the first page, when the silent notes of a violin became audible. It was something classical, nothing that John recognized, but it was relaxing and beautifully played. John smiled. Sometimes living with Sherlock really was worth the trouble.
The End