Captain of All These Men of Death

Chapter 5

2015

Phûma

John's footfalls on the 221B stairs were comforting to his ears in a way. He stopped halfway up when Mrs Hudson came out to meet him.

"John! I thought that might have been you. How are you, dear? How's Mary?"

"Ah, hello Mrs Hudson. We're both fine, thanks. You?"

"Still muddling along. Did Sherlock text you?"

"No… why?"

"Oh, well his cough isn't getting better."

John's face flashed with determination. "Right. I'll talk to you soon, alright?"

Mrs Hudson smiled as John made the rest of his way up the stairs. John hung his coat up on the rack, stepping into the living room. "Sherlock?"

What met his gaze wasn't an entirely unusual sight, but it wasn't one John had been expecting. The flat was eerily silent, the evening light casting squares onto the rug from the window. Sherlock was lying on the sofa, facing the wall, his legs tucked close to him. He was fast asleep, his silken shirt twisted around his chest, a half drunk cup of tea on the coffee table next to him. He smirked at the man as he approached, before gently placing a hand on his shoulder. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock shifted, a confused little grunt emanating from him as he opened his eyes and looked at John. "John?"

"Evening."

John stepped back, allowing Sherlock to sit up. He ran his hand through his hair as he blinked away the sleep. "I don't remember texting you." He said, still a little groggy.

"That's because you didn't."

"Then how did you know I would be here?"

"I took a chance," John said, shrugging. "You alright? Don't often catch you sleeping here… in fact, I don't often catch you sleeping."

Sherlock attempted to reply, but instead brought on a coughing fit, forcing his shoulders forward as he hunched over the fist pressed to his chest. When, finally, the last cough had died away, he found John holding a glass of water. He took it, inwardly grateful.

John sat on the coffee table opposite him. "How long have you been coughing like that?" Sherlock waved the question away, but John was having none of it. "Sherlock. Answer me, please."

"Maybe a week. Possibly a bit more."

John hadn't missed the fact that Sherlock was breathless. He reached across to him, and placed the back of his hand against the sleuth's head, much to Sherlock's chagrin. "You're a bit hot," John said, worry in his tone now.

"It's just a bit of a cold, John. I'll take some ibuprofen."

"I don't know. I'd prefer to have a listen to your chest."

Sherlock gave John a withering look, but John wasn't deterred. "Look, it'll only take a moment. I've got my backpack in my car. I'll get it." Before Sherlock could protest any further, he had left the living room. Sherlock flopped back onto the sofa with a humph, frustrated.

Soon enough, John had returned with his backpack full of medical equipment. He unzipped the main compartment and pulled out a stethoscope and a pulse oxygen monitor. Clipping the monitor to Sherlock's finger, he hung the stethoscope around his neck. He warmed the end against his shirt. "Come on, then. Lift your shirt up."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and untucked his shirt, pulling it up. John placed the stethoscope on his chest, ignoring Sherlock's flinch. "Deep breath in… and out." He moved the stethoscope around Sherlock's slender chest, instructing him when to breathe, before moving on to his back and doing the same, glancing at the pulse-ox monitor each time Sherlock took a breath. Unsurprisingly for John, Sherlock's repeated deep breathing caused a coughing fit. He didn't like what he heard and saw.

"Sherlock, your chest sounds terrible, and your oxygen saturation is low."

"Then just prescribe me some penicillin and be done with it."

"No… I think I need to look more into it. Your chest is crackling. Have you had a temperature or night sweats?"

"…Both."

At these words John stuck an electric thermometer into Sherlock's mouth. "Hold that under your tongue." He didn't give Sherlock any chance to protest. The thermometer beeped and John turned the read to face him. John's eyebrows furrowed. "I want you to come into the surgery tomorrow morning at 7:30. And no, I won't take any excuses."

Sherlock visibly deflated, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. "I'm busy, John! I'm working on a pressing case for my brother and I doubt he'd be pleased if I lef-"

He was quickly cut off by John. "Sherlock, either you come in to surgery tomorrow, or I will sedate you and drag you there myself." John's expression belied the weight of his threat.

Sherlock sighed. "Fine. Whatever you want, John."

John smiled, passing back the water Sherlock had been drinking earlier. "Drink that. I'll boil the kettle. Have you had any tea yet?" He left the living room and opened the fridge.

"I'm not hungry."

"Alright then, I'll make some pasta for us. Do you want tomato and basil sauce?" Sherlock could hear John pulling jars from the cupboards. "Or green pesto?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Pesto it is."

Sherlock smirked and sat back into the sofa. John reappeared with two cups of tea and settled down next to his friend. "I see the ram has gone."

"Wethers, John. I disposed of it earlier today."

"So… there's half a sheep in Mrs Hudson's big bin?"

"It's a wethers. And yes."

"Did you find anything interesting in your experiments?"

"Not particularly. Just passing time really. I wasn't expecting much."

The oven timer began beeping at that moment and John left to finish preparing their meal. Sherlock stood, suppressing coughs, and joined him in the kitchen, watching him stir the sauce through the pasta and divide it into two bowls. "What's Mary doing?"

"Oh, she went to have dinner with a friend."

The two sat down at the table. Sherlock soon realised that John wasn't going to begin eating until Sherlock picked up his fork. 'Alright, okay.' He thought, starting his meal. Just the look of the food made his stomach turn, but he didn't want to admit to John just how unwell he really felt.

John smiled as Sherlock began to eat. He was fully aware his friend was feeling sick, but it was important to try and regulate his diet as much as possible when he was ill. He hoped for Sherlock's sake he would turn up at the surgery tomorrow. He was fully prepared to slip the sleuth a prescription grade sleeping tablet and get Mrs Hudson to help bundle him into his car.

When the two finished, Sherlock stood and began to gather the plates. He didn't get too far, however. He suddenly found himself coughing, one hand on the table to steady himself as he hacked and coughed. He couldn't get enough air into his lungs between each cough, but his body would not stop spasming, and he felt himself becoming increasingly light headed and tired. Gentle hands met his shoulder and back and guided him into a chair, and John kneeled in front of him, a glass of warm water ready for when his coughing abated.

The deeply concerned look that met Sherlock's eyes when he finally calmed made him look away.

"Sherlock, why did you let it get this bad?"

"I'm sorry, John."

BR BR BR

John stepped out of his car and entered the surgery. He stopped for a chat with the secretaries at the front desk, before unlocking his office and setting up for the day. He glanced up at the clock on the wall. '7:20. He'd better bloody turn up.'

John's phone buzzed in his pocket, and he was pleased to see it was Sherlock.

I'm outside. The door is locked. SH

John jumped up and hurried to the front to let in his friend. He unlocked it and pulled the door open, stepping aside to let him in. "Morning," John said, studying his friend's pallid face. "How are you feeling today?"

"I'm fine."

"No you're not. How are you feeling? Did you sleep alright?"

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes. "I've felt better. Can we get on please? I've got work to do."

"Yes, alright. Come on then."

John led Sherlock to his office and sat him down in the chair next to his desk, Sherlock studying the room as he gathered all the equipment he needed. As he held the head of his stethoscope for a moment to warm it, Sherlock piped up.

"This room is not adequate for optimal assessment of patients."

"I've had worse before."

"It's too dark."

"That's because it's a room in an Urgent Care centre with too many patients and not enough floor space. Now, breathe in… and, out…"

John could still hear that crackling sound in both of his lungs. He already had a cup of water ready for Sherlock when he inevitably started coughing. He kept an eye on the pulse oxygen score, watching it steadily drop as he coughed, and then slowly climb again. He wasn't pleased when the reading stabilised at 80 percent. He took Sherlock's blood pressure and temperature.

"You are obviously coughing up phlegm. What colour is it?"

"Dark yellow."

"Blood?"

"A little sometimes."

"Right." He sat back in his chair for a moment, thinking, before standing. "Come on. I'm taking an x-ray."

"No John I don-"

"Sherlock."

Sherlock stood, following John out of the room and down a few corridors. He pushed open a door and ushered Sherlock inside. "Right then." John said. "Take your coat, scarf, shirt, watch and belt off. You can leave everything else on. Do you want a gown?"

Sherlock shook his head, unbuckling his watch and shedding his clothes. He put them on a chair in the corner as John donned a lead apron. "Right then, lie down on your back, and I'll take a quick x-ray of your chest."

Sherlock lay himself down on the bed, holding in a cough and shivers as the cold air hit his hot skin. He watched John as he positioned the machine over Sherlock's exposed chest. He laid a lead sheet over Sherlock's pelvis and hips, before pressing a few buttons and the machine whirred to life. "This will only take a few seconds. I need you to hold your breath and stay very still."

John moved behind a screen, watching his friend. Sherlock nodded and took a deep breath. The machine whirred and beeped. "One more… all done."

As Sherlock got dressed again, John studied the results. The diagnosis was not good. Sherlock soon joined John around the screen to take a look at his lungs. John pointed at the picture. "Well, its obvious from the outset that you have some sort of infection, because they're cloudy, not nice and clear like a healthy lung. The problem, Sherlock, is these." He pointed out darker gaps in the white misty areas. "These cavities mean you don't just have a nasty chest infection or pneumonia."

Sherlock looked at John's face, marred with worry. "Then what is it?"

"I think you have tuberculosis."

Sherlock immediately took a step away from his friend, clapping his hand over his mouth. For a moment John was perplexed, before he realised. "Sherlock, I was an army doctor who served in Afghanistan. I've been vaccinated, don't worry. I won't catch it." He smirked as Sherlock's hand dropped to his side. "Right, I've got to take a sputum sample from your lungs. Come back to the office with me, and cough into a dish."

The withering look that Sherlock gave John lightened his spirits just a little. It didn't serve to dampen the fact, however, that his friend was in for a long, difficult ride.

BR BR BR

Claudius Galen of Pergamum in 174 AD found tubercles in the lungs and named the disease phûma. He believed it was contagious.

Thanks for staying with me so far, and a double thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter. I will try to update soon, but it may not be for a while on account of the fact I am going away.

Reviews are my bae.