Chapter 1

Sherlock's throat hurt, his head throbbed, and his chest ached. He coughed gently so as not to aggravate the pain in his already painful ribs and diaphragm, and the air rattled and rasped inside his lungs as he threw the damp bedsheets aside and eased himself slowly out of bed. The cool air circled his warm body like a whirlwind, making him shiver, and every bone in his body ached. His bladder protested against the painful pressure of its full load, but movement had already made his head spin, and as he lowered his leaden body back down onto the bed again he realised that he'd made a terrible mistake. For as long as he'd remained upright he'd still been in with a chance of making it to the bathroom before his body naturally divested itself of the liquid waste which had accumulated throughout his past few hours of sleep, but now that he'd lay back down again he found himself too weak and exhausted to get back up. The simple act of manoeuvring himself up off the bed and then back down had drained him, and as he lay alone struggling to catch his breath the cold air caught within his lungs and sparked another violent coughing fit. The hacking spasmodic motion which wracked his chest had the undesirable effect of releasing the build-up of urine in his distended bladder and Sherlock groaned as he felt the hot liquid running down the insides of both his legs, soaking his pyjama trousers and seeping into the bed sheets.

He'd thought that he'd been dealing with nothing more than a simple cold when the symptoms had first presented themselves a few days before – dull and boring – and even John had had to agree that it was probably nothing more than a virus when he'd last seen his friend three days ago. He'd advised him to drink plenty of fluids to keep himself hydrated and had recommended complete bed rest for the following few days – promising to check in on his friend the following morning.

Sherlock had for once followed the doctor's advice – well as far as drinking plenty of fluid was concerned, which was what had led to his unfortunate predicament now – but he'd been unable to shut his mind off for long enough to get anything in the way of a decent few day's rest. The anticipated visit from John never came – if it had the doctor would probably have noticed his friend's rapidly deteriorating condition and realised that he was more seriously ill than either of them could have initially anticipated - and Sherlock's condition had remained unchecked for days. Even so when Lestrade had called asking for help with his most recent case late into the previous afternoon the consulting detective hadn't been able to resist the thrill of the chase – literally so, as it had later transpired.

Sherlock didn't exactly blame John for any lack of care or foresight on his part – he realised that he was no longer the most important person in the man's life, if indeed he ever had been. It hadn't been very long since the Watson's falling out. They'd only been back together for a few weeks after months of separation and even Sherlock had enough tact and diplomacy to realise that they both needed time to get to know each other again. If John had taken his eye off the ball as far as his friend was concerned it was only because he had more pressing issues on his mind.

He had eventually phoned to check on Sherlock early the previous morning, but despite his mounting sickness Sherlock had done his best to try and convince John that he was fine, and doing much better than he had been on the day he'd visited him – as much as a result of his own pride than anything else. In his heart though he knew that he was anything but, even before responding to Lestrade's call. By the middle of the previous afternoon his pain had started to worsen, and by the time he'd returned to Baker Street in the early hours of that very morning his late night trek through the deserted city streets had begun to take its toll. He felt positively dreadful, and was finding it difficult to breathe.

What John didn't know couldn't hurt him he'd reasoned however, despite what people may have thought of him Sherlock didn't want to hurt John and Mary any more than they already had been – favouring the lie as preferable to the truth – and as expected his friend had been too wrapped up in his own troubles to recognise Sherlock's deception.

Without really realising it himself if there had ever been a time when Sherlock had been in dire need of John's medical attention this was it.

When he tried to recall later he wouldn't be able to remember nor even begin to fathom how he'd managed it, but after lying on the bed struggling to catch his breath for what felt like close to an hour – his urine sticky and his clothes clinging to his pale and clammy skin – he finally managed to muster enough strength to drag himself up out of the warm cocoon of his bedsheets and in the direction of the bathroom – using all four walls for support and to propel himself forwards, as the room continued to spin around him. He managed something of a quick wash to try and help make himself feel a little more human again, but all it did was remind him of how angry he was with his own failing body for betraying him in such a repulsive manner, before being sick in the sink. Upon returning to his bedroom he then forced himself to put on fresh pyjamas and made a feeble attempt to change the bed sheets, but the effort of walking even the short distance from his bedroom to the bathroom had weakened him and he collapsed back on top of the unmade bed exhausted.

He must have fallen asleep because the next thing he became aware of was Mrs Hudson shaking him awake – the pain every jolt of her gentle hand caused him was excruciating, and breathing was by now becoming an immensely difficult act. The cold air was like a razor-blade to his aching lungs, and the sweat poured from him profusely as he shivered beneath a blanket. She'd brought him tea, but finding himself unable to drink it she instead opted to sit with him for a while.

"Why don't you let me call John?" She pleaded with him as she looked upon Sherlock's pale and shivering form, his breathing wheezy and his throat rasping and sore. Her voice sounded uneasy as she spoke, and she failed to disguise the concerned expression upon her face, but Sherlock shot her a sharp look – a steely glint within his eyes – and shook his head.

"No," He barked in a voice which dictated his absolute authority on the matter despite the sickness which had ravished his system and reduced his pathetic human body to a useless bacteria-ridden mass of flesh and bone. "I don't need John," he declared, "he has his own life now, with Mary, and I will not be seen to go running to him every time I encounter a slight complication in mine. I am not an idiot. I coped perfectly fine on my own for years before John Watson became a part of my life and I can do so again now."

"But you're not getting any better." She implored him.

"Mrs Hudson," He snarled, his patience now wearing dangerously thin. "I am currently in no condition to stop you sitting where you will in your own flat, although I would much prefer it not to be in my bedroom, but if you plan to persist in this harassment of me then I really must ask you to just leave me alone!"

The landlady simply sat upon her chair, observing Sherlock thorough the gloom as his eyelids grew heavy and began to slowly close, but clearly unmoved by his impassioned words she showed no sign that she had any intention of leaving.

Although she did eventually leave him alone it was not before the consulting detective had finally fallen asleep, and when he next awoke it was dark, and he was on his own. At least the pile of soiled sheets he'd discarded in a damp and smelly heap in the corner of the room had been mercifully removed he observed.

It was the uncomfortable burning, like gravel, as the cold air caught in the back of his throat which had disturbed him, and he was suddenly thrust unceremoniously back into wakefulness by the choking upheavals of his chest and the dry retching which resulted from the cramps in his stomach. Sherlock tried to call our for assistance but couldn't keep his breath for long enough in order to form any coherent words, and in any case the flat now appeared deserted, making his attempts at calling out for help useless.

There were no sounds of footsteps on the stairs, no sound of Mrs Hudson pottering around downstairs – nobody heard his distress, nobody came – and as panic began to set in he began to regret sending Mrs Hudson away.

Too weak to sit up he resigned himself to lying where he was, feeling as though he was slowly suffocating and waiting for the violent coughing fit to pass – or to choke him, whoever came first. He felt one of his ribs suddenly pop and doubled over with the sudden searing blanket of white hot pain which momentarily overcame him and made breathing seem almost impossible. With each new breath he took he now felt as though a dagger were being driven deep into his chest cavity and as the room again began to spin at twice its previous speed his vision began to blur and fade around the edges, and he wiped the dribble from his lips and chin with a tissue.

Sherlock Holmes didn't see the blood which stained the white membranous-like paper in his hand as he did so. There was no gentle hand to rub his aching back, nor no gentle voice to tell him that everything was going to be alright, nobody to hold his cold and clammy hand as his whole body was wracked with pain. He was completely alone when he finally lost consciousness, and everything went black.