Drama, drama, drama! I'm off to see the new Sherlock episode but I thought I would give you this first ;). Thanks for sharing your opinions with me and enjoying this story! That proves that I'm doing something right. Long chapter again, but I'm sure you don't disapprove... So long!
Chap. 12 The blood
If John thought the last time was bad, this one far exceeded it.
He felt how sticky, warm liquid streamed over the lower half of his face, found its way into his open mouth and ran down his chin to the back of the neck. The sofa!
In his shocked state he barely noticed how Sherlock removed the glass and knelt down on the bloodied carpet. Something white waved before his eyes and then John realized that Sherlock had taken his personal handkerchief and now pressed it to his nose.
"You moved too quickly, Dr. Watson," he muttered in a concentrated tone before he picked up John's cloth and began to roughly wipe the blood from his skin. The soft material moved across his face and he breathed through his mouth. Occasionally Sherlock's wrist bumped into his lips and he felt the warmth beneath the pale skin.
"Umm, John?" He lifted his gaze and saw Sherlock's ice blue eyes. They were uncertain. Sherlock cleared his throat before he let out with a small voice, "It's not stopping. It should by now but it's not. What do I do?"
John glanced down and caught look of a cloth that was drenched in blood but still held against his bleeding nose. A cold shiver ran through his body and his heart plummeted from fear. It was difficult to summon the strength to focus.
"Fetch the first aid kit."
"We don't have one. We lost it in the fire," Sherlock exclaimed with anguish but John shook his head.
"No. I bought one in the pharmacy after I was released from the hospital. It's in my wardrobe. There should be blood-stopping cotton in it," he said with a tired voice.
Sherlock scrambled away and not twenty seconds later he returned.
"Let me," Sherlock requested and took over the hold of the red handkerchief. Then he tore it from the nostrils and replaced it with two large balls of cotton. They tickled the walls in his nose but John sincerely hoped he wouldn't sneeze now and cause another flood. He tilted his head back, valiantly swallowed the blood that ran into his throat, and waited with Sherlock for the medical cotton to work.
Suddenly Sherlock ran his thumb over John's brow and wiped away the beads of sweat that had gathered there. Perhaps that was what the high-functioning sociopath thought was proper to do when taking care of a patient.
"I'm sorry about the mess I made," John stated, indicating the many stains when Sherlock cut him off.
"Don't you think I always keep a bottle of biological detergent in my homes? You never know when that can come in handy."
They shared a small smile but then Sherlock fingered the cotton and hissed with dismay, "It's beginning to bleed through. Something is wrong. We need to call for an ambulance."
That if nothing else startled John. He chuckled humorlessly and uttered with a nasal sound, "Oh, no. You're not calling for an ambulance for a nosebleed. It was just cold air. Let me be here for a while longer and…"
"And completely stain our sofa until I can't clean it and Mycroft will hang us for high treason? You of all people should recognize an emergency." Sherlock seemed grim but John would have nothing of it. "It can be bloody stress-related! If you bring ambulance personnel here they'll laugh at a hypochondriac doctor with a silly nosebleed."
Something gleamed in Sherlock's eyes and he bent his head to John's ear while carrying a smug grin. "Then I will call Sarah and make her come over."
John almost blew out the cotton balls from indignation.
"No! Absolutely not! She wouldn't leave me alone afterwards and you're not spoiling her evening," he growled in protest and Sherlock pulled back, serious again.
"Ambulance or Sarah?"
John bit his lip.
"John, after the fire I said I will take care of you. Don't hinder me. I can't stand watching you…"Sherlock looked away which truly made John mute.
Although he didn't dare move his head an inch to the side, he could see the detective from the corner of his eye. The otherwise immaculate man seemed ignorant of the blood on his clothes. His curls were in disarray and his face showed nothing of the previous glee when he had told John about Mr. Stewart. Also, given the fact that Sherlock had a piercing stare and steady bloodied hands, John thought it peculiar that his voice which usually was deep, collected and loud now seemed to be only one step from whimpering. No matter how hard he tried to hide it, Sherlock was scared for John.
All of the sudden it occurred to John that his flatmate never had watched him bleed this much. Clearly it upset this experimenting-with-various-body-parts detective. That was all John needed to establish that the situation was dangerous. Something indeed was wrong.
"Call for the ambulance, then," he yielded and met Sherlock's burning pupils. So much relief filled them that John's heart ached and time stopped. Sherlock's head came closer with frightening speed until his soft curls brushed against John's damp forehead. And then Sherlock kissed him.
John stopped functioning.
All he knew was his pulse quickening and soft lips pressing down on his. He was in shock and lay completely immobile.
He didn't move his lips at all. But he didn't push Sherlock back either.
Apparently his mouth was open with the barest of cracks for Sherlock unexpectedly exhaled, with surprise or terror; John couldn't tell, and a sweet gush of breath entered his mouth. John welcomed the delicate traces of flavors after only tasting blood for several minutes. The sweetness was intoxicating, stirring even.
John remembered the night at the hospital, only this time it was different because the connection between Sherlock and him was now, by a few inches of fine skin sealed together, intimate. And that woke him up from the weightless state.
He pressed the head into the pillow so his lips left Sherlock's. John shivered and distracted himself by tugging at the sleeves on his jumper to roll them down.
'Blood loss,' he thought and did feel the warmth in his core turn cold. Surely it was not dread. It was blood loss.
He closed his eyes as a wave of horrible nausea hit him and he gulped miserably. He could feel Sherlock's presence nearby, and on his lips despite nothing touched them.
"I make the call," the detective said flatly in a voice that was void of emotion. His knees left the carpet and the trousers rustled against the expensive and now stained hairs. Sherlock walked out of the room, leaving John alone.
He felt awful, cold, and for some reason guilty. But most of all tired. Lulled by the buzzing from the abandoned laptop, John gave in to the tempting sleep and drowsed off without knowing that a ruby red drop escaped the would-be blood-stopping cotton, painted a small line on his for the moment ashen skin before it ended in the crook of his mouth where the lips actually had a healthy colour.
A cooling, damp material put on his nose woke him up and his bleary eyes could make out a black suit and nimble fingers. "John?" a frazzled, subdued voice spoke through the haze.
"Hmm?" he answered. A palm settled on his forehead and he enjoyed the cold skin until his brain started to work and he wondered if it was he who was warmer than normally.
"Do not move at all. And do not use facial expressions; that could worsen the bleeding. The ambulance is on its way. Look at me, John."
The last bit was uttered with a combination of harshness and panic. Troubled, John found Sherlock's eyes under the black curls.
"Sherlock, I don't feel so well."
Sherlock's head fell down to the chest and John heard a ragged breath.
"Everything will be fine. Stay calm."
John refrained from nodding as he remembered Sherlock's command. "Is it much blood?" he asked faintly and Sherlock's eyes returned in front of him.
"For you, the cotton is basically a stopper and fails to make the blood clog. And we have to buy three new handkerchiefs, and possibly a new towel," Sherlock said and pointed at the wet fabric that lay over John's nose.
John's lips twitched upwards before he involuntarily anew felt himself slip away into the fog. "Do you think you can continue the briefing on Mrs. Stewart later? I'm rather tired," he mumbled and closed his eyes.
The evening was one of the worst in Sherlock's entire life.
Unable to determine why John bled and unable to help, fear clutched his heart. John had fallen asleep again, leaving the detective alone with his racing, incoherent thoughts.
After half an hour the doorbell rang and he dashed off to let in the ambulance personnel. A stretcher was rolled into the flat and Sherlock glared at the offensive device. He hated that John once again had to lie on one. After rousing John the nurses had asked him irrelevant questions, picked him up from the tainted sofa and asked Sherlock to join them. Ever thinking in advance, the detective had thrown his coat over the shoulders and snatched John's jacket so he could give him that whenever he was released from the hospital.
In the narrow space inside the vehicle, one nurse had administered IV to John and another one had checked the blood pressure and anxiously shaken her head. Sherlock had immediately informed them of John's blood type so that the hospital could make sure the rare blood was prepared for a transfusion. Meanwhile, John drifted in and out of sleep but every time he was awake his eyes sought out Sherlock's.
Once again the care staff refused him entrance to the examination room in the A&E. Displeased at their antiques, Sherlock seated himself in a waiting room and had to drum his fingertips rapidly against the armrest to keep himself still.
It crossed his mind that he for a short but lingering moment had kissed John. It had happened before he knew it and despite the pungent scent of blood that assaulted his nose, Sherlock had found it more pleasant than he ever would have guessed. There had been… sparks.
But surely it was only a pristine reaction of relief after John had given in to his suggestion they call for an ambulance. To be subjected to such a simple demand from his body confused Sherlock. He absently pursed his lips and worried about John before he brought out his phone and called Lestrade.
"Hello. What is it?" the DI yawned and Sherlock launched himself into explaining his purpose.
"John is a target. We are at the hospital. He has a nosebleed that won't cease. I need you for something."
"What? Is he alright? What…?" Lestrade sputtered before he took a breath and muttered, "What do you need me to do?"
Sherlock crossed his legs and glanced up at the ceiling where a fluorescent lamp flickered. "Find out everything you can about Private Miles Stewart who is somewhere in Wales. I need as much data as you can gather. John is in danger and I suspect Mr. Stewart is involved, if not behind the whole operation." The other man took a long time before answering.
"Are you absolutely sure you've got a case, Sherlock?"
"Yes!" the detective hissed.
"Okay, then I guess it's true. But it will be hard to convince to others to work extra for you. Unless…"
Lestrade tapped his fingers against something plastic and Sherlock growled back, "Fine! I will look into the cold case about the illegal immigrants! Hand me the files tomorrow. Now can you help?"
"Excellent bargain, Sherlock. And mind your tone. It's late, I'm doing you a favour, and I will pay you for your work. Call me again when you know more about John," the police admonished before Sherlock hung up and clicked his tongue upon noticing that John had spent forty minutes away from him.
Not feeling up for another talk, he texted Mycroft and informed him of the situation and Mr. Stewart. One minute later a message came back; Sending men to investigate. This is so much like you; to slander a war hero, but if you are certain... I will visit the hospital tomorrow.
Sherlock put away his phone and flew up when a male doctor strolled into the fairly empty waiting room. In spite of himself, Sherlock acted like a predictable human and shook the outreached hand
"Mr. Holmes. Your friend's condition isn't good but under control. We found that his blood contains large amounts of anticoagulants. We've sent blood samples to the lab to determine what kind of substance it is. This explains why Dr. Watson kept bleeding; his blood wouldn't form clots. The course of events is similar for those who suffer from…"
"From haemophilia," Sherlock finished for him and made an impatient gesture. "But how is John?"
"Tired, though we're giving him one unit of blood over the night to compensate for the blood he lost. And I will write him a prescription so the blood in time will return to normal."
The doctor hesitated before admitting, "Dr. Watson asked for you. He should be resting but I sense he won't until he's seen you. Come with me." While contemplating to donate money to the hospital for the man's spirit but for now settling for a silent thank you, Sherlock followed him until they arrived at a closed door. The doctor left and Sherlock sneaked in.
A lamp on the night table shone a dim light over a sickly yellow head. Sherlock stiffened as he was forced to see John looking small, broken, and pitiful in a hospital bed with a tube attached to his arm and blood slowly dripping into him. Sherlock drew near and searched his face for signs of distress. Clean cotton balls were stuck to his nose with tape holding them in place. The nose tip was red from unwanted attention and wrinkles had appeared on John's forehead.
He breathed through his mouth and indicated with his hand that Sherlock could take the chair beside him. He seated himself, adjusted his coat, and noticed that John wore a hospital gown.
"You did the right thing, Sherlock. They said that if I hadn't come here the consequences would have been terrible," he whispered and barely moved his lips. This wasn't how the vibrant doctor should be and Sherlock fisted his hands.
"I have convinced Lestrade and Mycroft to join us. You will not be a victim one more time to this maniac's games. I need to ask you questions."
"So it wasn't stress-related after all," John declared but then Sherlock wrung his hands and barked from fright, "You were poisoned, John! I underestimated the criminal, the threat against you, and I failed to discover the indications that you were becoming more tired than usual. This is a serious situation with you at stake so I sincerely hope you are willing to answer my questions!"
John looked at him with honest surprise before he gave in. "Fire away, then."
And no matter how much Sherlock tried to resist, he out of habit began to study John with a calculating gaze he used every time he interrogated people in cases.
"When did you first begin to feel exhausted?"
"I thought it was the work but now I realize I've never been so knackered; so maybe two, three weeks ago."
"Could someone have switched your vitamin pills to Warfarin?"
John scratched his chest so the neckline shifted and some golden hairs peeked out. Inexplicably, Sherlock's heart started to beat faster.
"How would anyone get hold of my pills? No-one has been inside our flat and if someone tampered with it in the store, how would he know which bottle I would take?"
"I see your point," Sherlock muttered before he added, "So, the same goes for groceries. If they were spiked I would be affected too and other people as well. And I don't suppose you've felt a sting from a syringe these past weeks, or seen an irritated spot on your body?"
Why did something suddenly surge through Sherlock upon mentioning John's body?
"No, I haven't. But the doctor said I had high levels of anticoagulants in me. How could I eat enough of something poisoned to achieve that when I've cooked different meals to us every evening?" John asked and tilted his head to Sherlock who thoughtfully dragged a finger over his lips.
"Every evening, varied diet. Different dinners… John! Don't you see? What if you indeed ate the same food many times, only not for dinner but for lunch?"
John locked his astounded eyes on him. "I have eaten fish and chips at Samir's almost every other day. Do you think…"
"Yes," Sherlock interrupted. "Either he's aware of it and good at deceiving or someone has spiced the food with drugs without his knowledge. I will call Lestrade and ask him to search the shop and find Samir. But you do understand what this means?"
"Sorry, no," John said haltingly and frowned.
"The culprit and/or a companion watched you for a long time. They know your habits, where you eat and walk between the clinic and the flat. They might very well know the code to the building. I will have to make the management change the code," Sherlock mumbled to himself as he began to design measures to counter the increased threat against John. He needed to contact the underground network and get them to supervise John, and see if they knew anyone involved with arson and poisoning at the moment.
"So this is what it's going to be like from now on? Me being hunted by a ruthless, clever murderer who probably served with me in Afghanistan?" a devastated John emitted and Sherlock didn't answer because John wouldn't be comforted by lies. Instead he got up and moved to the door.
"Look, Sherlock," John said absently which brought him to a stop. "Don't go back to the flat. If the criminal knows the code… Just don't, okay?"
Sherlock snorted and narrowed his eyes but kept himself within John's eyesight so the doctor wouldn't need to move his head and disturb the nose. He spotted a remaining speck of blood on John's neck. Suddenly he was overwhelmed by an urge to wash it away but swallowed it down and rotated smoothly on the spot until he faced the door.
"I'm aware of the risk, which is one reason behind my decision to stay here over the night."
John was heard shifting on the bed. "And the other reasons?"
"I know how easy it is to enter a hospital without detection. Naturally I plan to keep an eye on you throughout the night so no intruder will harm you further."
"You mean you'll be here and watch me sleep?" It didn't take a genius to define the hesitation in John's quiet voice.
Sherlock whipped his head around and said stiffly, "You disagree. Why?"
John let his eyes wander and Sherlock wasn't particularly amused with the lost eye contact.
"I can't relax if you're staring at me. Please take a seat outside the room and guard there," the doctor all but begged and Sherlock frowned. This wasn't how John used to talk to him. It was more like he conversed with a stranger, as if John was bothered by his very presence.
An emotion flared up inside Sherlock that people rarely thought he was capable of having. It was hurt.
He more or less stomped towards the door when John gingerly called after him, "Get yourself a coffee so you won't exhaust yourself."
"This is a case. Nutrition is unnecessary transport," he remarked tersely and disappeared through the door.
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