A/N: Still not British, a writer or have great medical knowledge. This one was a bit rushed, I must confess. -csf
3.
'Sherlock, you don't want to be left out of this one! Exsanguination without a mark on the body! It's got to be one of the weirdest—'
The DI mounting the steps two at a time coming up to 221B is promising a dream case to Sherlock Holmes by yelling out across the stairwell at the marching rhythm of his pounding steps. It brings me up from a fitful doze with a start. I blink and the memories fall back into place like puzzle pieces to a complete picture.
I'm injured. Two fractured ribs, intercostal detachment and bruised... internal stuff. The extent of the damage on the muscles and soft tissue will only be truly known once the bigger portion of the inflammation goes down. That's why I keep immobile or to small, careful movements. That means no GP work, no house chores, and no running around London with Sherlock, fighting crime and saving lives. It's a dull existence. Refusing to confine myself to my bland room upstairs I've parked my damaged transport – great! thinking like Sherlock now, are we? – on the living room's long sofa. It's padded, yet structured enough that it will do for now.
It also allows me to keep an eye on Sherlock.
Sure he needs someone to tell him once in a while to eat, to sleep, and to stop answering back to inanimate objects like the telly, the radio or the microscope. But if I'm being honest, I want to make sure Sherlock doesn't keep himself from taking new cases that involve him leaving the flat.
The past two days, the amount of time since my unfortunate injury, he has solved twenty internet cases, three postal mysteries (including an anonymous letter double mystery) and yelled out a life saving deduction out of the window. Not bad at all. The only thing the consulting detective has so far been reluctant to do is to actually go out to solve a case.
His loyalty and dedication are sights to behold.
They're also driving him bananas.
Sherlock needs his exercise as much as I do, on a regular basis. Rushing down rooftops, jumping over fences and dropping on storm drains is as much of a necessity to the restless minded genius as it is to me. I see it manifesting as an itchy feeling growing in the detective, making him squirm and linger on long peering times out if the living room windows, and I worry.
It's a bit like missing an addiction, and Sherlock is not going to have it easy fighting addictions.
And so I've been trying to convince him I'm perfectly fine to be on my own. The meds I'm taking – a colourful cocktail of painkillers, anti-inflammatories and antibiotics – leave me so floored anyway that I need to spend much of my day dozing off.
Sherlock is always close, either experimenting with the boundaries of science on the living room desk (I insisted, after the first purple smoke cloud issued from the kitchen and it was so painful to crank up my neck to find out what was going on), typing furiously in his computer. or melancholically playing soft tunes on his violin.
In fact, today, as Greg prances up the seventeen steps to 221B, Sherlock Holmes is concentrating hard on a row of tall wine glasses, filled with different amounts of water, that he's mastering to circle the rims to the tune of Rule Britannia.
He intends to amuse me with that soon.
Of course he told me it was for a case, or for science, or to fend off enemy spies, or some other extravagant excuse.
I also asked him to play The Muppets tune. He was oblivious. We will now have a stay in, watch the telly night planned to improve his pop culture references.
Instead of a garbled glass tune, what we seem to get is an out of breath inspector gathering his wits by the open door.
'Sherlock, didn't you hear me?' he huffs, his energetic moves a solid contrast to the younger man's languid, detached even, responses.
The younger detective shrugs. 'Can't. Busy.'
'Busy with what?'
'Defending the honour of the empire.'
'By quenching your thirst with multiple glasses of water?' the inspector bravely tries to follow. Greg looks lost.
I make my presence known to our visitor by warning my flatmate: 'Sherlock... it's a good case. You should go.'
'Nonsense, John. I'm busy. Can't you see?'
Greg's finally laid eyes on me and he hisses in solidarity as he easily guesses the amount of pain I must be in.
'Wow, John, what- what happened?'
He glances at Sherlock and the detective bristles at once. 'Oh, I forgot to mention, inspector, that I've pushed my partner down some stairs, or through a window, or out of moving car? Have you been listening to your sergeant?' Sherlock hisses in acrid mockery. 'Thinking I could snap sometime and hurt John?'
Greg looks absolutely floored by the accusation. I try to raise myself up to debate this nonsense eye to eye but sag back against the cushions lightheaded and breathless.
Sherlock heads forward in feral steps and practically growls at Greg "I would never harm John intentionally" and carries forward to kneel by my side, suddenly all gentle touches and careful probes.
Greg stands strong, regardless. 'Cut the drama, you drama queen. I know no one more devoted to another than you and John. Clearly you are making a fuss so John doesn't notice you're not taking the case of a lifetime!'
I blink. Oh. That actually makes sense.
Before I can open my mouth, Sherlock grunts: 'I won't leave the flat.'
The DI searches my expression and seeing the micro nodding I'm giving him returns some clues: 'The guy's remaining blood had caked dry inside his veins, maybe something went wrong after he came out of hospital? Or some new kind of biological weapon from a secret laboratory facility?'
The ones of us who know Sherlock well know the way to goad the genius into taking a case is to spur him on with fantastical theories and brain storms. He can't seem to refrain from calling us all idiots, in his way, and feels the need to prove us wrong at once.
Sherlock snaps an angry look at the inspector. 'So there were marks on the body.'
'Yeah, I guess, but those were all accounted for by the trained nurses.'
'Search for the term hemolytic transfusion reaction and learn, Lestrade', the detective preaches as if it was common knowledge.
The inspector blinks, bewildered. 'What's that?'
I retort myself, being a medical man: 'Uncontrollable clotting cascade. The victim was giving a high volume of the wrong type of blood. A malpractice that severe is rare, almost unheard of.'
Sherlock smirks, his proud of my blogger smirk, I notice. Fleeting but it cheers me up nonetheless. 'Search for suspects with access to the lab to swap blood type test results or vindictive nurses swapping blood bags. Most of all, I solved it without leaving the flat and John.'
Greg is still somewhat bewildered but he knows by experience Sherlock has got it right, so he nods stiffly and marches out of the flat to go catch the criminal following the leads we gave him.
I sigh, as the flat returns to flat lined silence and inactivity.
'You know, you could have gone with him, Sherlock. You like a big audience.'
'Shut up, John. I can't hear the first notes if Rule Britannia if you are talking over it.'
I lay back with a smirk. He can't hide it from me. Sherlock loved his success, despite the small pool of spectators. He's preening, in fact, and I'm smiling proudly as I let my eyelids droop over tired eyes.
Soon I'll be back in action.
For now I rest, sure that Sherlock has my back.
.
TBC
