AN: So, some explanations. Not that many :)
John was asleep. Finally, normally, properly asleep.
Not 'unconscious due to breathing issues', not 'in drug-induced coma'. Asleep.
He had been talking, actually talking. A bit slow, sometimes - not mentally, but purely on the physical level. Sherlock could see the frustration coming off him in waves when his brain was already a few paces ahead, but his body didn't want to obey.
And he tired so easily.
They had allowed him a pale imitation of a proper meal - he was already getting most of nutrients he needed through the IV, but someone decided to get him started on light food as soon as possible, especially considering he hadn't undergone any kind of surgery. It was a rather depressing experience, for a man of such appetite for life like John.
He prodded the sad pieces of a potato with his fork, made a wan remark on the correlation between salt and the prevalence of heart disease in certain nations and slowly, carefully, ate his potato and soft-cooked carrot.
Sherlock had been watching him for any adverse effect, but nothing happened, and when the evening nurse came to administer the drugs - a cocktail to strengthen the heart muscle, calm down the irritation in the trachea and clear any lingering traces of poison from his system - he accepted it easily and proceeded to lie down, holding Sherlock's hand and saying random, disjointed things in progressively more tired voice.
Finally he smiled and trailed off, his cheek on Sherlock's palm, eyes closing and breath evening. Still not deep enough - Sherlock glanced at the saturation levels, which were almost up to expected values, but not yet completely - and still uncertain.
But at least he was here, he wasn't dying and he had accepted The Explanation. More or less. Sometimes he was still looking at Sherlock with such pain in his eyes that they both fell silent and had to sit without a word for a moment, waiting for the feeling to pass.
He slept, and Sherlock could finally relax on the spare cot they had brought in for him after that one time John had woken up and panicked because of Sherlock's absence. Despite some mutterings from the nurses, he was allowed to stay and be there for all the checkups, injections - John watched each needle as if it was a snake - and first PT attempts.
However well he was doing right then and there, still one thing remained to be solved.
Not really solved per se. He had already worked out most of the problem. The ingredients for the adulterated medicine had been purchased from specific companies, not on the street. Yes, they had been purchased under the guise of regular hospital purchases and there was nothing to link them directly to doctor Stiles, but, having checked Stiles' list of patients and his involvement in the research wing of the hospital, he came to certain conclusions.
One, doctor Stiles had been pushing for experiments with certain street drugs "for the good of the patients".
Two, doctor Stiles was never one to perform said experiments himself.
Three, all the experimental runs were slightly behind schedule, due to supposed miscalculation of the amounts needed.
Doctor Stiles had been syphoning these drugs quietly off one or another experiment, making them think the others were at fault.
In combination, and especially in the company of the neural rebuild drugs, which in itself was highly effective and would probably see much usage, as soon as it managed to free itself from the rather negative connection to the tragic trial outcome, these two worked just as Sherlock had described, in effect potentially killing John - and others - without any direct contact with their assailant.
Stiles could have actually gone completely unnoticed in the whole issue. They would have suspected various other elements, from someone's carelessness to simple sabotage by competition. He simply had to keep his mouth shut.
For some reason, he couldn't stop himself when it came to John.
They could only hope the problem would be troubling him long enough for his plan to work.
#
Mike's office was a mess. The man himself was a mess, too.
The trial was suspended and all the doctors taking part had been asked to turn in all the evidence they had, including unused doses of the drug, used-up container and even needles and syringes, were there still any. They were allowed to continue analysis of the data they had - after providing copies of every file to the investigating team - but their activities were strictly controlled and audited.
"Sherlock" the greeting was nothing like what the gregarious, smiling man usually bestowed on everyone he knew.
"Mike. I need your help."
A short, bitter laugh.
"The last time I helped someone, I almost ended up killing a friend. You'd be better off asking someone else."
Sherlock heard a familiar note in the doctor's voice.
"Actually, that's even more of a reason to ask you, Mike. We need to prepare a trap for the person who actually did try to kill John."
"W-what? How can you do this?"
"Not me. We, two. And, preferably one or two other medical professionals, if we can get them to help. I'll talk to John's army buddies. You" he leaned closer to look at Mike's face, saggy with lack of sleep and with worry. "You will need to do the following..."
#
"I am very worried about Colonel Watson."
"And I assure you, Captain Murray, we are taking care of him. In fact, his condition is much improved. We just need to wait a day at most and he will be out of the most alarming stage."
"And what would that be? Colonel Watson wasn't exactly willing to share the details and his so-called partner is a tight-lipped bastard if I've ever seen one. I don't want the colonel to get worse by accident if that man for some reason forgets something pertinent."
"Well, to tell the truth, captain, as long as we clear this night without incident, he will be safe and clear. It seems his system is completely free of the compound that had affected him and once this is done, he should be safe."
"What do you mean?"
This had been the weakest point of their plan. They had to convince Stiles to move that night and not wait for a convenient moment someday later - this way they'd be able to control the setup and all the conditions.
Mike's voice lowered.
"It's this... the military had apparently been interested in usage of... you see, and it will work only once administered overnight... We'll be applying the first part of the treatment this evening. You can sit with him for a while, or even better, bring some music he likes to plat for him during the night."
"Why? Isn't he going to be asleep?"
"Well, the unfortunate side effect is a temporary pseudocoma. Previous patients had reported being fully conscious of everything around them and inability to move. It may help him if there are sounds he knows played in the room."
"What exactly does this do? It sounds like a proper nightmare."
"It will remove the remnants of the poison from John's system and then make it ready for the second part - which will, in essence, inoculate him against any future uses of these drugs."
Murray sounded appropriately impressed.
"I didn't know there were meds like this available. Fascinating thing..."
"American military research, I believe. John's CO and some higher-ups in the government managed to get it for us."
"But... Why do it like this?"
Mike made a distressed sound.
"It seems analysis of John's blood and tissues made them believe that should he come into contact with more of the substance before he is inoculated, he wouldn't survive."
"That bad?"
"It seems his heart muscle was, so to say, on his last legs. Now, we still don't know what exactly that was, so we can't guarantee that he wouldn't be risking accidental contact. Therefore it was decided that he should be inoculated, just in case."
Well, there it was. Nice, reasonably vague, probably would make any wannabe-assassin antsy as hell.
Terribly inappropriate of you, doctor Stamford, to perform such important conversations with your door half-open.
Or to perform them when prompted by a carefully hidden consulting detective armed with a small camera checking the corridor for specific quarry.
####
The room was darkened and a small player was emitting soft violin music from the corner.
He was trying to relax, to lie as still as a person affected by a locked-in syndrome would.
It was getting harder with every second.
Why wouldn't the damned man hurry up?
He breathed evenly and deeply, feeling happy to do it without an assistance of the ventilator.
He just had to hold.
Sherlock's plan was actually quite simple, but brilliant.
Bait the man to come to them and entice him to confess. There was not badguy who would ignore a chance like that. His victim, helpless and unarmed and forced to listen. Without any chance for reaction.
And if they had presented the lure attractively enough, the fish would bite and swallow it all.
The recorder set up on the other side of the room was masked by a gift basket. A few more microphones were seeded across the room, in case the man started pacing. A number of very discreet cameras and no less than three night-vision setups were placed in convenient spots around the room.
All it needed now was for the man to show himself.
A small "beep" somewhere under the bed signalled their target had finally started his way.
Finally.
The door didn't even squeak when the man slithered in.
Soft scuff of rubbed shoes on the vinyl-covered floor.
A small "pop" of a tube being opened.
"Fancy seeing you like this, doctor Watson. Or is it Colonel Watson-Holmes now?" a soft sound of John's papers being picked up and then discarded on the floor. "It is, it is. Well, not for long. At least, not for you. And once you're gone, well, that so-called husband of yours will certainly find other sources of amusement. What, do I see a surprise on your face? Did you actually think it was about you? It's never about such a pitiful, common men like you. You do not deserve anyone's attention, much less mine. You have already used up the resources of some very important personages, very high up. You had taken these resources, their attention and care, from other things. If it wasn't for you and your interfering... commonness, Sherlock Holmes would have been able to focus properly! He would never have stood on the side of the angels, as Jim used to say, if it wasn't for you and your so-called morals."
That was... interesting. John managed to stay still, but really hoped the others were hearing it all.
"You see, Jim... Jim was special. Such a person doesn't come every century."
I bloody well hope not!
"And he deserved so much more. He deserved admiration, he deserved acclaim. And he deserved Sherlock Holmes' undivided attention. And. You. Stole. It. From. Him!"
####
"He sounds deranged."
"He sounds familiar."
"He sounds like Moriarty, in a way."
Sherlock's eyes snapped to his brother's as he looked up from the screen.
"No, Mycroft. He sounds like you."
"I most definitely do not sound like this."
"Shush. You did. My eulogy."
"Ah. Indeed."
"You know what he also sounds like?"
They listened for a bit more.
"And there is no better way for you to go than to simply die of a failure of your stupid, useless, common heart. At least Jim had an interesting death - messy, public and from his own hand. You, you will die like a laboratory animal, put to sleep by the doctor that had dosed it with poison before. Like a lab rat. I wonder if they will dispose of your body in the same way."
"He is..."
Mycroft was already turning the laptop around to let Sherlock read.
"Bloody modern world and bloody feminists."
Yep. So? :)