John

The call came unexpectedly, in the middle of my work day. The phone rings and rings, and rings and rings. When it stops, my mobile starts to buzz, it must be important. I check the caller ID, immediately putting my phone down. Sherlock. The call ends. And it's several minutes before I'm called again. Sherlock. Again.

"WHAT?"

"Why do you sound so upset? I'm just calling you."

"I'm at work. Some people have to earn a living you know."

"Dull."

"What do you want Sherlock?" There's a pause on the other end of the line.

"John. I need your help. Are you with me?"

"What is it?"

"I need you to take a few days off. Three actually. Mycroft wants me to go out of country, and because of a case I am currently working on… Well I'm incapacitated. I would be eternally grateful if you would go in my place. Mycroft won't mind." My heart sinks.

"Where do you want me to go?"

"New York."

"CITY?"

"Yes. Will you go?"

"Why?"

"He needs you to pick up a package. Basically a loose end from a previous case, but I'm not up to it, I can't leave the country while I'm on the job. Will you do it?" I sigh. I can't help but think that there has got to be a bigger, underlying reason for him wanting me to leave. "John? John?"

"What? Oh. Yeah. Fine. I'll go." There was no delay following this remark,

"Excellent. You leave tomorrow morning."

Three Days Later

Jet lag is something that I have never really considered to be intolerable. Not until now. The cab drops me off outside of the familiar door of 221B Baker Street, and for a moment, I just stand there, taking in the London smog that I missed. I take a deep breath before forcing myself to open the door. It's late. Midnight at least. So it's a surprise to see Mrs. Hudson, wringing her hands near the door.

"Doctor Watson, I'm so glad you came back on time. Sherlock said you'd be back today. John, you've got to help him."

"What's wrong Mrs. Hudson?" I ask, preparing myself for the worst by placing my bag on the ground. She looks at me a moment before answering.

"It's Sherlock."

"What about Sherlock?"

"Well…. Well he's ill John."

"What?"

"He's sick. He hasn't let me in there since you've left, he's not eaten anything. At night, I hear him pacing…." I smile, relief flooding through my veins.

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, you know that's normal when he's on the case-" She cuts me off with words that cause me to race up the stairs in a panic.

"Don't interrupt me young man. I burst into his room last night, going to put a stop to this nonsense when I found him. He was lying on the couch, not moving, looking completely pathetic. He bade me not to come near him, telling me that he was contagious. He said that he'd be fine in a couple days. John, he looked awful. Sunken cheeks, dilated pupils. He wouldn't even let me get past the door. He wouldn't let me get a doctor. He couldn't even get up-" She looked like she was about to say more, but I didn't hear the rest, pushing open the door of my flat. Sherlock sits up on the couch.

"John?" He croaks. His voice is like sandpaper against rock.

"Sherlock? What the Hell happened to you? I leave for three days and you manage to get yourself fatally ill! Do you know what you have?" He flops against the cushions, looking spent. His cheek bones are more prominent than ever, his lips are chapped and slightly faded, sweat dots his brow and his fingers shake slightly.

"Don't come any closer John, please. It's contagious, spreads by touch."

"What have you got?"

"An Eastern disease, one you've never heard of before. Remember when I went to China? I picked it up there. Don't even come closer." He screeches as I start to examine the room, leaving the sanctuary of the door. "I don't want you getting sick either. Not when I need you."

"What do you need me to do?" He screws his face up and coughs into his shoulder before answering,

"There is someone I need to see. He's the only one that can help me. Without him, I'm a dead man. All I've got is one more day, one more. Will you see him for me?"

"Anything Sherlock." I can't stand seeing him so sick and I not being able to do anything about it. Anything to make him better.

"See this man. Tell him Sherlock Holmes would like to see him. He's the only one that can help me now. Tell him that I have fallen fatally sick, I need his help. We've been on less than friendly terms since that accident a few years ago, slander and all. He's really a mean man-" He pulls himself together to continue his instructions, "It's the only way you can get him to come, tell him that I'm delusional and that I'm dying. It's the only way to get him out here. Do it John. He'll want to come back with you. Don't let him do that. Come back first, you meet me here first. Understand?"

"Why-"

"UNDERSTAND?"

"Give me the name Sherlock."

"What?"

"HIS NAME! NOW!"

"You can't leave yet! You have to wait four hours before going!"

"WHAT? NO! You're dying! I need to-"

"Are you content to wait?"

"NO!"

"John, I must ask you not to leave." He cries, springing from the couch as I make my way toward the door, blocking it with his thin body. He pulls the door shut and locks it, putting the key in his pocket. "You can leave in a few hours. Will you stay?" Insanity. What the Hell? I'm so confused. He collapses on the couch again, horribly out of breath. "Please stay."

"Fine. Fine! If you die, it's all your fault." He smiles thinly, closing his eyes. Slowly, he drifts off, dozing. I get up from my usual chair, looking about the room. It's utterly trashed. I was gone THREE DAYS and he managed to trash the place. On the mantle piece is a new bit of artwork. An ivory box takes it's place next to Yorik. What is it I wonder? I pick it up and turn it over in my hands, curiosity growing. I place it on the coffee table, sure that Sherlock is sleeping before going to open the lid. Back to Sherlock, I reach for the lid, I wonder what's inside… Suddenly a horrible scream rips the air, coming from behind me, it must have been heard down the street. My heart jumps and I leap back, nearly falling onto the couch. Sherlock makes shoving motions at my back.

"DON'T TOUCH THAT BOX!"

"What?"

"YOU BLOODY WELL HEARD ME! DON'T TOUCH THE BOX! LEAVE IT THERE!" His face is contorted in fear, "Don't touch the damn box. Leave it on the table. Sit down. Let me tell you the name of the man you must see for me. Don't touch the box." My heartbeat slows as I ease myself into the chair. "The man you need to see is a Mr. Culverton Smith, he lives at 13 Lower Burke Street. He's an expert. You need to see him for me. Are we clear? Turn the lights out on your way, and don't forget, leave and arrive before him." Sherlock is spent, lying unmoving on the couch. He's breathing hard as I turn out the lights before leaving.

Dear God. Sherlock's going to die if I don't get there. I take a cab, the ride doesn't go nearly as fast as I would like. All I can think about is the body of Sherlock lying on the couch. He looked truly horrible. He hasn't moved from that spot for three days until he blocked me at the door. Stubble sits on his jaw and he is so pale, he's almost opaque. I shudder just thinking about it, he's lying there, dying. He never said a word to me, he knew he was sick and he let me go to New York anyway. Good God. I should have seen, I'm a doctor after all. I should have noticed….. The cab stops outside of the building. I walk in to the reception room.

"Do you have an appointment?" Greets me at the front desk.

"I should hardly think I need one. Is Mr. Smith in?"

"He is not to be disturbed." I lean across the desk, lowering my voice as much as possible,

"He is going to be disturbed tonight." Without another word, I glare at the man behind the counter and push past him toward the door marked, SMITH. I don't even knock. It's my friend's life at stake, I'm not taking no for an answer. The door bursts open and the doctor turns to look at me, a face full of rage. He shouts over my shoulder,

"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS? I SAID I WASN'T TO BE DISTURBED!" Plants in pots are strategically placed around the room, dirt and water smudge the floor and walls.

"I need your help Mr. Smith." The raving doctor stops at my words.

"Holmes send you?" In response, I nod. "How is he?"

"Bad. Will you come?"

"Why? I have no reason to go."

"He's dying."

"How bad off is he?" He queries. "Leave us." He adds to the receptionist. The man nods, and leaves us.

"Very. He can hardly move, he's delusional, he's dying. You've got to help. Will you come?"

"He asked for me then?"

"Of course. He trusts you over all the other doctors. You can help him."

"I'll come. I've got an appointment at the moment, but when it's done, I'll come." Angrily I hit his desk, the feeling running through my veins.

"HE MIGHT DIE BY THEN!" The man shrugs.

"Not my problem." He presses the call button, "Kindly escort him out." The door opens and the receptionist grips my arm attempting to drag me from the room.

"HAVE YOU NO HEART? HE'S GOING TO DIE! IT'S ALL YOUR DAMN FAULT!" The man throws me into the street. With frustration, I hail a cab. Godforsaken man. I'm going to kill him. The cab stops outside of the flat and I race up the stairs.

"He'll be along?" The voice is hardly above a whisper.

"Shortly."

"Good. Now I'm going to ask you to do something for me, and you'll ask no questions. Are we clear?"

"Clear." Anything. He's dying, it's the most I can do.

"Hide behind the couch."

"WHAT?"

"No questions. Hide behind the couch. For God's sake, don't move, don't speak, just hide." I oblige, squishing against the wall and sofa. The door opens.

"Mr. Holmes." Smith.

"Culverton."

"Your friend was right. You look perfectly retched. You're lucky I came at all."

"Why?"

"You know perfectly well. Ruined my reputation."

"Oh. It's the whole poisoning thing isn't it."

"No. You sent so many bad things about me around the world. I don't have much of a job now, and it's all thanks to you."

"You poisoned him."

"You couldn't prove it."

"You confess then?"

"Of course. It's not like you're going to live any longer after this."

"You killed him."

"Yes. I killed him. And this is my revenge." He opens the blinds, and allows the sun to come pouring in. Sherlock groans from the couch.

"Wait-"

"Hit you did it? Did you open the ivory box?"

"Silly prank. Pricked my finger is all." There is a pause. It's taking everything I've got to not leap over the edge of the couch and tackle the man. "Oh." There is the sound of something being lifted off the table.

"And I'm going to take this and there will be no evidence." God. He's killed Sherlock and now he's going to get away with it. Sherlock coughs quietly from the sofa, a sort of warning to me. I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms.

"So that's it then?" It lightens my heart, Sherlock's voice is mostly back to normal.

"Of course." The door to the flat bangs open and there's a yelp. Sherlock sits up on the couch,

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, cuff him."

"Why?"

"He has a box in the right pocket of his jacket, he was trying to poison me with it." Mr. Smith protests loudly,

"Don't believe a word he says. He's sick. He doesn't know what he's talking about."

"Mr. Smith killed the man last week. A Mr. Roger Gilbert, at whose death you hired me. He poisoned him the same way he tried to poison me. A box sent in the post to be opened."

"Sherlock."

"There was no box found in the crime scene of course because he did the same thing he was doing with this. He took the box from the scene before he left."

"You can't believe anything he says!" Culverton says to Lestrade. I decide that I can stand it no longer and stand.

"Yes you can. I heard every damn word. He's lying Lestrade." He nods and takes Mr. Smith away. "Thank you for coming." I look at Sherlock's face. It's the closest to a smile I've ever seen on his face. "You okay?"

"'Course I am. I'm always okay. Mrs. Hudson is going to kill me." It hits me like a blow to the stomach.

"You aren't really sick are you?"

"Absolutely not!"

"What the Hell Sherlock?"

"If you had taken my pulse, and not seen an increase or decrease in pulse, you'd have suspected something. It had to be done. Though," he pauses, "I really didn't eat or drink anything for three days."

"Dinner?"

"My pleasure."

"You're paying."

"Of course."