Chapter 38: Second Bounce
"Sherlock, I don't understand," John admitted. "Peanut butter?" How could the whole case hinge on a jar of peanut butter?
"Not peanut butter, soy nut butter!" Sherlock exclaimed. He glanced between Lestrade and John, not understanding why they couldn't see how important this was.
"I don't get it," Lestrade said. "What does it matter if he has soy nut butter?"
Sherlock sighed in frustration, but relented to outlining the deduction: "There's only one reason people keep soy nut butter, and that's if they don't eat regular peanut butter, and there's only one reason people don't eat regular peanut butter: they're allergic."
"So he was killed with a peanut," John stated. "He died of anaphylactic shock, that's what made him suffocate."
"Yes!"
"But why would someone do that?" Lestrade questioned.
"That I've yet to figure out. But I do have a hunch. Did it say anywhere in his medical records that he was allergic to peanuts?" Sherlock asked.
"No," Lestrade behind.
"Why wouldn't it? He definitely knew about it, and if it's this severe, he'd almost certainly have been to an allergist at some point in his life. How could it not show up in his records?"
"Maybe they were altered," Lestrade suggested.
"But only a select few would even have access to them."
"Likely just any doctor he saw and himself," John explained. "Do you think a doctor murdered him?"
"Either that, or whoever did it somehow convinced a doctor to change the records."
"He'd have to have serious leverage to do that. Tampering with records is a big deal."
"We need more evidence," Sherlock stated, turning to Lestrade. "We need a motive." He turned again and dove towards the dead man's bedroom, undoubtedly to search for evidence. John considered following him, but Lestrade gestured for him to stay behind.
"Are you sure he's okay to be working?" Lestrade inquired. "It hasn't been all that long."
"I know it seems soon, but he's Sherlock. He couldn't bear to sit still for any longer. His brain's in as perfect order as it's always been."
"Are you sure it won't tire him out too much?"
"I made a deal with him before I let him come in the first place: he has to eat and sleep. I won't let him run himself into the ground like he usually does on cases. But the margin for running into the ground is a lot narrower than it used to be."
"How have things been since he got home? Is everything going alright?"
This question made John think of the meltdown Sherlock had not long before Lestrade called with the case. He considered summarising it to the DI, but decided that was an invasion of the detective's privacy. Sherlock had meant that confession for John's ears only. "The transition has been a little rough," John divulged. "But he's doing really well overall. He was anxious to get back into the work."
"Glad to hear it. I don't know where we'd be without him."
"And he's still very attached to that blanket you got for him."
"Wonderful. Most of the Yarders laughed at me when they heard the suggestion, but I thought it would help cheer him up."
Before they could continue their discussion, Sherlock burst back into the kitchen, panting. He must have searched fervently for whatever it was he'd been looking for; he looked exhausted. He explained breathlessly, "The victim was having an affair with an allergist at the place on Beaumont. The one who's married to another allergist at the same practice."
"How could you—" Lestrade began, only to be cut off.
"You must find Dr. Walpole and arrest him. He's our killer, I'm certain of it."
"How did you get all that from one look at the bloke's bedroom?" Lestrade continued.
"It's not important; we need to find him." Sherlock started for the door as if he planned to track the man down himself, but John stopped him by grabbing onto a still-too-thin arm.
"Sherlock, you are not chasing down a murderer," John insisted.
"Why not?" he whined.
"You know perfectly well why not. Look at you, you're already exhausted from all the wandering we've done today." It was evident that Sherlock was already tired: he'd practically staggered back into the kitchen from the bedroom. This was much more activity for one day than he'd endured in a long time, and John feared he would collapse if they didn't go home soon.
"The boys and I will handle this one, Sherlock," Lestrade said. "You've done the hard part for us. Go home with John." Sherlock looked between the two of the like they were traitors conspiring against him, but eventually dropped his head in defeat and fatigue. John and Sherlock made their way back outside and hailed a cab back to Baker Street. Halfway there, John looked over to Sherlock to congratulate him on a job well done, but he'd fallen asleep, head lolling to the side. John couldn't help but smile. He still had a long way to go, but he was getting better every day. Until he wasn't.
~0~
Sherlock was somewhat embarrassed that he'd fallen asleep on such a short cab trip, but his body had shut itself down almost instantaneously when he sat down. Fortunately, John didn't ridicule him for it, but that probably went along with the whole 'cancer survivor' deal. There were many things John—or anybody else—couldn't in good moral standing make fun of him for anymore. "My laptop's in the other room, yours is closer," was now a valid excuse, where once it was laziness and an invasion of privacy.
John woke him up with a gentle jostle to the shoulder when they arrived at Baker Street, and he managed to stumble inside and up the stairs before collapsing on the couch. He abhorred how tired he was after such minimal exertion. They'd been out of the flat for maybe two hours, and he was totally drained. Tedious. He wanted to stay awake just a little longer to show his Transport who was in charge, but his eyes closed of their own accord. The last thing he registered was John draping the butchery blanket over him.
When he woke, he wasn't certain how much time had passed. He considered getting up, but found he didn't have the energy to so much as lift his head. How could he still be so tired after an extended nap? God, it was hateful. John re-entered the room upon hearing him stir, and asked if the nap had helped ease the exhaustion.
"Honestly, I feel like I could sleep the rest of the night," Sherlock admitted. "When am I due to regain a reasonable level of stamina?"
"There's no set timeline for these things, everyone's different," John explained. "You'll gradually build your energy reserves back up. Do you want to eat something before you go back to sleep?"
"Not particularly, but I'm assuming by your tone that I don't have a choice."
"You'd be correct. If you want your stamina back, food is one of the most important pieces." Sherlock had already been told this by John and other doctors more times than he could count, but John still felt the need to remind Sherlock of it whenever the topic of food came up.
"Fine, I'll eat," Sherlock relented. When John was in doctor mode, there was little he could do to switch it back off. As John disappeared into the kitchen, Sherlock's thoughts wandered to their trip to Scotland Yard. Sally Donovan's reaction haunted him every time he closed his eyes. Is this how everyone would see him now? A Freak, both socially and now physically? As skilled as he was at tuning out the public, he certainly wouldn't enjoy being stared at all the time.
To make matters worse, he'd been able to hear bits of Lestrade and John's conversation at the victim's flat. Everyone thought it was too soon for him to be back to work, and maybe they were right. If working made him this exhausted every time, maybe he really wasn't cut out for it anymore. But if he ever tried to imagine a life without casework, he remembered endless boredom and resorting to drugs to end the monotony. No, giving up the work simply wasn't an option. He'd just have to push through it, even if it killed him.
John returned with a plate and a glass of water, which he set down on the table. He looked at Sherlock expectantly, so he sat up and reluctantly began to pick at it. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to call it quits and go back to sleep, but John was non-subtly watching his every move from behind his newspaper, and he knew he'd get an earful if he didn't finish the meagre portion. He topped it off with a few sips of water, and rolled back over on the sofa. He pulled the butchery blanket tighter around himself—he was so cold all the time now—and drifted off to sleep.
~0~
Two days later, Lestrade called to report that Dr. Walpole had confessed to killing Anthony Rogers; Sherlock had been right about everything. Sherlock wanted to celebrate, but the fatigue from the day of solving the case had returned with a vengeance. And with it he'd developed a cough that refused to subside. John of course noticed this from the first cough, but Sherlock told him he thought he'd inadequately swallowed something. Any excuse would do; he just didn't want to admit that he might be sick.
John bought it, but Sherlock continued to cough the rest of the day and into the next morning. Sherlock desperately tried to hide it. He knew it probably wasn't wise, but he didn't want to admit to John, or to himself, that something was wrong. As much as possible, he avoided remaining in the same room as the doctor. He nabbed the butchery blanket and hid away in his room, claiming to be taking a long nap.
Instead, he doubly wrapped himself in all the blankets on top of his bed to quell the chills that had begun in the last hour or so. They were so bad, his teeth were practically chattering. He didn't want to believe that this could be happening. He felt the same sense of helplessness that the onset of the leukaemia had brought about. His body was failing him, and there was nothing he could do about it. He felt like he was falling down a pit, grasping at ledges and handholds that wouldn't hold his weight.
Was this the cancer returning? He felt a different kind of miserable than he had before his diagnosis, but equally miserable nonetheless. His cough gradually worsened until he was awarded barely a minute of respite between violent fits. He was bringing up so much mucus that he'd probably lost a pound in the last twelve hours. Sherlock knew he was being irrational hiding this from John, but he was scared. John's assessment would only prove his worst fears: he was really sick and needed help. He'd accepted enough help from the medical profession to last him three lifetimes. He didn't want to deal with any more doctors or medications or diagnoses. If he was honest with himself, he didn't think he could deal with any more without lashing out.
He wasn't sure how long he managed to prevent John from being wise to his symptoms, but he was beginning to regret his decision to hide it. Instead of getting better, everything was getting worse. He was somehow colder and hotter all at the same time, and he could barely breathe with the frequency and magnitude of his coughing. If this was how he was to die, at least he'd gotten in one more case with John before it was all over.
But he didn't want this to be the end. Something was seriously wrong with him, and he needed to get help. He needed to get John. He tried to untangle himself from the blankets, but he was so exhausted and woozy that his limbs wouldn't properly obey his commands. He was wheezing deeply and still couldn't draw in enough oxygen. His vision started to tunnel and he felt like he was about to pass out, when he heard his bedroom door swing open.
~0~
John expected Sherlock to be excited that the case had been closed, the perpetrator in custody. But he seemed somehow... muted. John heard him cough the first few times, and his mind immediately jumped to the worst case scenario. But Sherlock insisted it was nothing more than a bit of food lodged in his throat, and John stupidly believed him. The detective had run off to his room and hadn't even peeked out in hours.
John could hear coughing occasionally, but it was quieted by the walls that separated them. His doctor senses were tingling, but he naively believed that Sherlock now trusted him enough to come to him when something was wrong. He wanted Sherlock to come to him, wanted to know that his best friend trusted him and relied on him. John wanted to be needed.
Maybe this was why he waited so long before taking matters into his own hands. Or maybe it was that he didn't want to believe that Sherlock could actually be sick so soon after leaving the hospital. He kept coming up with weak excuses for the continued coughing. Maybe it really was just a stubborn bit of food lodged in the pharynx.
John didn't want it to be what he suspected. If that were true, then Sherlock was in trouble. John regretted letting him out of the house to go on that stupid case. He probably caught a simple cold or something at Scotland Yard, but his immune system couldn't fight it off adequately. What would be a two-day cold for a healthy person could spell disaster for someone in such a fragile state.
John made up his mind and marched over to Sherlock's bedroom door. He took a deep breath and opened the door. He found Sherlock wrapped in what appeared to be every single blanket they possessed in the flat. God, he looked awful. His cheeks were flushed with fever, and he was shaking with chills, eyes glassy and unfocused. His lips had a blue, cyanotic tinge, and John knew immediately things were not good. Not good at all. John quickly grabbed his thermometer and returned to Sherlock's room. He watched with bated breath as the numbers climbed. Jesus, 40 degrees! Much higher and he'd fry his brain.
How could he have been so stupid? He'd heard the coughing ages ago, he should have done something. He was a doctor, for God's sake, and it took him this long to take action when he knew he was sick. He'd never forgive himself.
"J-n," Sherlock mumbled hoarsely. "Sick. Need... help."
"I know, Sherlock. I should have come in here to check on you sooner."
"Tried to get..." his sentence was cut off by another bout of coughing that sent shivers up John's spine. He was going to cough up an entire lung at this rate. "You."
"I've been an idiot, I should've come get you sooner. Sherlock, this is bad. We need to get you to the hospital."
"NO," Sherlock insisted. "Not going back there."
"Sherlock, you're still immunocompromised and now sick; without help, you'll just get worse and worse. I don't care what you say, you're going to the hospital if I have to drag you." Sherlock's only response was another coughing fit, even more violent than the last, if that was even possible. John cursed under his breath and pulled out his phone to call an ambulance. Sherlock was in a bad way, and they needed to get him help soon before he passed out from hypoxia.
"Who're you... calling?" Sherlock wheezed. Instead of answering his friend, John had a brief conversation with the woman on the phone and left Sherlock to his deductions. They had approximately 8 to 10 minutes before help would arrive at Baker Street. Sherlock coughed violently again, his eyes nearly bulging out of his head with the force of it. John helped Sherlock to a sitting position on the edge of the bed and pulled out the stethoscope he always kept in the flat. Despite Sherlock's weak protests, he listened to his lungs and cringed at what he heard. Sherlock's chest sounded like an angry cougar growling. John could also feel the heat radiating off the detective's feverish body. He hated himself for not investigating sooner; he'd let this illness progress alarmingly far. Maybe he'd just been in denial that Sherlock could've gone from relatively okay to desperately ill so quickly, and so soon after he'd freed himself of the hospital.
The paramedics arrived, supplemental oxygen in tow, and whisked Sherlock away on a stretcher. John quickly followed behind, informing them of the situation, and they listened to his every word. By the time they'd reached the waiting ambulance, Sherlock was on the brink of passing out, his lips a disturbing blue. The sirens echoed the panic John was experiencing in that moment. He knew the morbidity and mortality rates associated with cancer patients and these kinds of illnesses, and as much as he tried not to think about them, his brain couldn't resist torturing him with images of a dead Sherlock.
Once the ambulance arrived at the hospital, everything flew by in a blur, and before John knew it, Sherlock had been admitted. They'd done a blood test, sputum culture, chest x-ray, and even bronchoscopy, all confirming what John had feared: pneumonia. He found himself in the all-too-familiar situation of sitting beside his friend's sickbed. As much as it pained him to be back here, it must have been ten times worse for Sherlock. He'd just managed to free himself of this antiseptic-scented prison, only to land right back inside.
Currently, Sherlock appeared to be floating somewhere between sleep and consciousness, his eyes closing intermittently before fluttering open again. His oxygen saturation had been despairingly low upon arrival, and the mask they'd given him fogged and defogged with his laboured breathing. The doctors had the oxygen flow on as high as John had ever seen it. Even half asleep, Sherlock was coughing up a storm, and John winced at the horrid sound of it. It must've hurt.
He lost track of how long he sat there staring at Sherlock. But the entrance of a familiar figure drew his attention. Dr. Janssen. The expression on his face could only be described as disappointment. He was disappointed that Sherlock was back so soon, disappointed that all their efforts to make him healthy again had failed.
"I would say it's good to see you again, but the circumstances make that a false statement," Dr. Janssen greeted.
"Agreed," John replied.
"What happened?"
"We went to Scotland Yard for a case, and I presume he picked something up there. About two days after that, he started coughing and was running a 40-degree fever."
"I'm so sorry. Hopefully, antibiotics will get this all sorted and you'll be back home soon."
"I hope so too," John replied forlornly. Dr. Janssen turned and left the room; John found himself once again alone with Sherlock. He was more awake now, but that just meant the coughing was more frequent and more powerful. He was forced to periodically remove the oxygen mask to spit thick mucus into a small basin. John's chest ached with sympathy.
"Sherlock, you holding up okay?" John asked, knowing the answer would probably be no. Instead, Sherlock nodded faintly yes and reached out to request John's hand. He complied with this request and enlaced his five fingers with Sherlock's three, hoping his grip provided some semblance of comfort.
They sat like that for a long time, interrupted only when Sherlock leaned forward to cough some more. John stared up at the bag of antibiotics as if intimidation would make the meds more effective.
"John," Sherlock muttered, his voice obscured by the oxygen mask.
"Yes?"
"Want to go home."
"I know, but we can't go home just yet. We can go home when you're better."
"Don't want to wait. Can't stay here," Sherlock insisted, pulling off the mask and sitting up at the same time. John coaxed him back down and replaced the mask. He must have been feeling really sick to be so compliant.
"Shhhh," John soothed. "I know you don't like it, but we have to stay here just a bit longer until you're healthy enough to go home. If you leave now, things will just get worse. Now that you're getting help, you should start to feel better soon. Try and get some sleep."
Surprisingly, Sherlock listened and ceased all attempts at escape. Or maybe he was simply too exhausted. Either way, John was content. As Sherlock drifted off to sleep, John texted everyone he thought ought to know what had transpired, omitting Mycroft, since he undoubtedly already knew. He told them Sherlock was in hospital with pneumonia, but there was little cause for concern. They had it under control. Maybe that was understating things just a little bit, but Sherlock's friends worrying certainly wouldn't help him recover.
John looked at Sherlock lying so helplessly and couldn't help but be overcome by pity. The detective had endured unimaginable physical and emotional suffering, only to be given a short taste of freedom before being mercilessly thrown right back into the role of ailing patient. If their roles were reversed, John would have fallen to pieces ages ago. He marvelled at Sherlock's strength and diligence to keep fighting despite the odds being stacked against him.
When Sherlock told John that he'd fought his way out of a coma just for him, John's heart had melted like butter left in the sun. A man who insisted sentiment was horrible and useless literally came back from the dead to return to his friend. That was quite a statement, and John was infinitely grateful to be the subject of such fraternal loyalty. He hoped he exuded even half of the dedication to Sherlock that the other man showed him.
~0~
A day passed with minimal improvement, but the arrival of Sherlock's second day in hospital heralded a noticeable decrease in coughing. The blue tinge had all but disappeared, and another x-ray showed that the pneumonia was indeed beginning to clear up.
"Does this mean I can go home now?" Sherlock asked, his words muffled by the oxygen mask. The supplement was still necessary to keep his sats at a satisfactory level.
"Not quite," Dr. Janssen explained. "But this is definitely a step in the right direction. Get some rest, and you'll be home before you know it."
"Not soon enough," he grumbled, crossing his arms grumpily. Even ill, he could still manage quite an attitude. John wasn't sure if he was glad of this or not. Dr. Janssen left, and the two men found themselves in oppressive silence. John didn't really know what to say. He was afraid he'd somehow upset Sherlock, something he always wanted to avoid at all costs, but was even more important now, given the circumstances.
Sherlock stopped him from attempting small talk by stating, "John, you can go home if you wish. I don't imagine I'm very pleasant company at the moment." This statement was emphasised by a long, raucous coughing fit. John winced; it still sounded like he was tearing his throat apart. Sherlock had told John this on countless occasions during the first hospital stay, but John knew the pattern.
Sherlock didn't think anyone he knew would stick around unless he was doing work or something exciting. He didn't understand the sentimental attachment people had to their friends. Hopefully, he had a better grasp of it now after the leukaemia failed to drive them away. John wasn't leaving. Not tonight, not ever.
"Thank you for the offer, but I'd rather stay here. That is, if that's alright with you," John said, making sure to give Sherlock control. One of Sherlock's biggest issues with hospitals was not being in control of what happened to and around him, so John tried to remedy that by leaving the decision up to him.
"Stay," was Sherlock's one-word answer. That was good enough for John. Within half an hour, both men were sound asleep: John in the chair and Sherlock in his bed. They remained like that throughout the night, barely shifting. John did notice when a nurse switched the empty bottle of antibiotics for a new one, but other than that he slept peacefully without disturbance. It was certainly the best rest he'd ever gotten in a hospital, maybe one of the best ever.
~0~
The next morning, John discovered Sherlock had awoken before him. When John finally pried his own eyes open, it was to find Sherlock staring back at him intently. Those two blue-green eyes always seemed to convey so much thought; John's analysis only ever scratched the surface. Sherlock once told him that his mind was an engine racing out of control: an entirely accurate description. If John tried to process a fourth of what the detective seemed to constantly juggle, his head would probably explode. But right now, those icy blue eyes were pleading.
"What's wrong?" John asked as soon as he was awake enough to form a coherent sentence. He could tell Sherlock was considering passing it off as nothing, but surprisingly decided against it.
"Is this the new normal?" John nearly choked. He remembered struggling to accept that things would never be the same, and Sherlock had told him that a new normal was all they had left to hope for. Maybe this was it: spending the years in and out of hospital as endless reams of bacteria and viruses penetrated Sherlock's meagre defences. That was no life Sherlock would want to live. But the alternative was isolating him from all potential sources of infection, rarely venturing into the public, restricting guests allowed into the flat. John wasn't sure which alternative Sherlock would prefer.
Apparently, John was taking too long to answer Sherlock question, because he further urged him: "Is it?"
"I don't know," John admitted honestly. "Sherlock, I don't know. I'm sorry."
"You're hiding something," Sherlock pointed out, collapsing into more coughing. Of course, the detective always saw right through John.
"It's possible. Your immune system may never rebuild itself fully, especially while you're still doing maintenance chemo, and you'll be especially prone to illness."
"What can we do?" Sherlock had never encountered a problem he couldn't solve. This was just another conundrum he expected to wheedle his way out of.
"Sherlock, the only way to avoid getting sick is to avoid microbes that cause sickness. Avoiding crowded public places, children, and anyone who's been ill recently."
"Doesn't sound like such a hardship. People are annoying."
"Sherlock, you probably caught this just by going to Scotland Yard. If you continue to be this susceptible, you may have to avoid there as well."
"John, I don't like this new normal." John had never heard Sherlock sound so broken, even during his worst moments at the mercy of leukaemia. In a way, this was worse. In the midst of his illness, at least there'd been a promise of a new horizon, an end to the torture. Now it was finally sinking in that it might never end.
"I know you don't. It's not ideal, but we'll manage." John had meant to say that Sherlock would manage, but somehow 'we'll manage' slipped out instead. It felt right.
"John, you know I don't believe in karma, or fate, or any of the philosophical nonsense, right?"
"Yes, you've made it abundantly clear," John remarked, wondering where Sherlock was going with this.
"Ever since this began, I've been plagued by one thought: why me? Of the billions of people in the world, I was struck down by a biological malfunction. John, nobody in my family for as many generations as I can trace had cancer of any type, yet leukaemia still found me. Why?"
John didn't want to admit that the first thought to cross his mind was that it was recompense for how terribly he treated most other people, but that would fall under the category of karma, and Sherlock wouldn't hear any of that. Instead, he answered, "Things like this are random. Somebody has to be the .01%, and there's often nothing more than chance governing who ends up with the short end of the stick. Your whole life, you've gotten to enjoy the perks of being the .0001% who's as fucking smart as you are. Maybe it's only fair if you're also the minority that has to suffer from something like this. Maybe it's meant to teach you some humility."
John knew that last bit sounded an awful lot like the 'balance of the universe' stuff Sherlock abhorred, but he could think of no other explanation that could possibly console either Sherlock or himself. He, as well, had often wondered why something so terrible had to happen to Sherlock. He wasn't a saint, but nobody was, and Sherlock was an awful lot better than most people John had met in his lifetime. Sherlock coughed before replying sarcastically to John's statement:
"Am I noticeably more humble now?"
"Actually, yes. The lack of arrogant curl-tousling has made you much more approachable. Not to mention the heart."
"Very funny. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you actually prefer this to my old visage, just because it makes you look better by comparison."
"Not true. I resent your accusation."
"It's a little bit true. You're the attractive one now, and you like it."
"Sherlock, it's not like we're competing. Any woman who's ever said a word to you has been scared off by your personality. And you certainly have no interest in them."
"I'm married to my work."
"You certainly yell about it as if you are," John replied amicably. The emotional burden of the conversation had taken its toll on him, and anything that could lighten the mood was most welcome. If he could still bicker humorously with Sherlock, things didn't seem so bad.