Captain Of All These Men Of Death

Chapter 6

2015

Materia Medica

John stopped the car before getting out and walking around to Sherlock's side. He opened the door for his friend, who stepped gingerly out onto the pavement outside 221B Baker Street. John eyed the sick man in front of him. He looked cold - he was slightly hunched over himself, his neck buried into his scarf. His sallow completion highlighted the dark patches under his eyes and the spots of colour high on his cheeks. The change in position set off a coughing fit. John watched as Sherlock steadied himself against the car as he hacked his lungs out.

"I'll make you a hot drink and some food when we get inside. I want you to get into bed or the sofa. I don't mind which." John said after the fit had subsided.

"I'm fine, John."

"Obviously."

Sherlock opened the front door and stepped inside, trying to hide the fact that he was shivering. He felt so cold, but his skin was hot to the touch. He probably looked just about as ill as he felt, but he would sooner spend a day working closely with Anderson than admit it. He just about managed to hobble up the stairs to his flat without John's help, before throwing himself, still fully dressed in outdoor clothes, onto the sofa. He listened to John potter about the kitchen, the sound of clinking cutlery and the roar of the kettle filling the space. His scarf felt soft around his chin.

The next thing Sherlock knew was John's hand on his arm, gently shaking him.

"Sherlock, come on mate. Wake up."

"I wasn't asleep."

"You were dribbling into your sleeve."

Sherlock glanced down, spotting a small darker patch in the wool of his coat. "Oh."

John pulled the detective up into a sitting position, before unraveling the scarf from around his neck. Sherlock lifted his arms, allowing the jacket to be removed, too. John placed a cup of herbal tea and a piece of toast in Sherlock's hand, before hanging up the clothes. Sherlock took a tentative sip of the tea.

"It's chamomile, John."

John's voice echoed from the hall. "You are on point today, Sherlock."

"Why would I want to drink something that tastes like bedsheets?"

"Drink it, or I'll take your skull back with me."

Sherlock glanced at his trusty skull on the mantelpiece, quickly weighing up the pros and cons, before taking another grumpy sip and a bite of the toast. John re-entered, holding a green prescription slip and a pen. "I'm going to get this filled. You need to sign this bit." He said, indicating the section on the prescription. Sherlock did so, handing it back to John. "Alright. I'll be back in a minute."

As soon as Sherlock heard the front door slam, he stood. Or at least, attempted to. His body, disliking the sudden change in altitude, keeled over sideways, and Sherlock found himself in a messy heap on the floor, his head narrowly missing the edge of the coffee table as he fell. The sharp intake of breath at the shock of his fall triggered another grating coughing fit, Sherlock's body unconsciously curling up on the floor as he fought for breath though the merciless spasms. The room swam unpleasantly around him when it finally abated.

'Ah. That didn't work.' He thought wryly, before swinging his arm erratically around him until he found the sofa edge. He dug his fist into the leather and used his other arm to push himself shakily up into a kneel. This time, he took it slowly, allowing his body to adjust as he stood gingerly up, using the sofa for support until the last possible moment. Cursing his useless transport, Sherlock shuffled to the bedroom to retrieve a most essential item - his dressing gown. He slipped it on, already comforted by it's silken feel.

Sitting himself down on the bed, he bent down to untie his shoes, but once again found his body betraying him as his vision tunnelled. He screwed his eyes shut and removed his shoes by touch alone, then pulled off his socks and tossed them into the corner. His feet blissfully bare, he now had a choice. Either stay in his bedroom (warm, easy, soft, close, quiet, bathroom, no John) or go back to the sofa (cold, harder, noisy, no blanket, nasty tea, toast, John). Sherlock found himself, despite the downsides, coveting the sofa. His fingers buried themselves into the duvet, and as the sleuth gingerly stood, he pulled it around himself like a huge padded cape and slowly made his way back to the sofa. Wrapping himself in the duvet like a chrysalid, he sat, sipped the unpleasant tea, and watched the clouds move by through the windows, trying to ignore his sickness.

John handed the prescription to the pharmacist, a smiling woman with a heavy accent. She was pretty, and John found his eyes wandering downwards as she turned away from him and reached up to the top shelf of pills and tablets. Realising what he was doing, he internally berated himself. 'Come on, John. You're married to the woman of your dreams.' Still, he couldn't deny, this lady was a lovely sight. He thanked her as she handed him a bag with the pills.

"Do you know how to administer these?" She asked him politely, that sweet smile still on her face.

"Don't worry. I'm a doctor." He replied smoothly. It amused him sometimes to pull the 'doctor' card and see how the other would react. This pharmacist, unfortunately, was nonplussed. He signed the prescription form and paid.

Setting off back towards 221B, he realised he would need to test Mrs Hudson for TB too to be on the safe side, and use a lot more hand sanitiser for Mary's sake. He pushed his key into the front door of the flat and ascended the stairs, finding Sherlock dozing on the sofa, wrapped so tightly in his duvet that he looked uncannily like a walnut whip. Stifling a chuckle, John walked over to the man and placed a hand on the only visible section of his friend - his mop of curly black hair. Sherlock came to with a mumble and a sigh, his hands rising out of the top of his cocoon as he loosened it from around his body. He began to cough, long and hard. As he covered his mouth, John caught a glimpse of the man's wrists, now exposed as his shirt sleeves bunched. He frowned.

"Sherlock." John placed the prescription bag on the coffee table, before bending over the man and gently taking his wrist. "How much do you weigh?"

"10'5" He mumbled, still catching his breath.

"Are you sure? When did you last weigh yourself?"

"I don't know, John." He said, pulling his hand out of the man's grip. "Why?"

"I'll be back." John left the living room and entered the bathroom, picking up the scales and taking them back to Sherlock. He placed them down on the floor in front of the sleuth, looking expectant. Sherlock huffed bodily, shrugged off the remains of his duvet, and prepared to push himself into a standing position, but hesitated. He didn't want a repeat of last time's fiasco, especially not in front of John. That would cause no end of annoyance.

A hand appeared in his field of vision. John's hand. An offer of help. He reluctantly took it, admitting defeat. He swayed a little as he reached full height, feeling another hand place itself on his shoulder.

"Ok?" John asked.

"Fine."

Sherlock took off his gown, handing it to John, before stepping on the scales. John peered over the dial, his voice concerned. "I thought so, Sherlock. You've lost a lot of weight."

Sherlock looked down at the numbers. They read 9 stone, with the dial just between the increments of 12 and 14 pounds. "9'13…" he mumbled, a little confused. "I've lost 6 pounds?"

"It's another symptom of the TB." John said, matter of factly as he helped Sherlock back into his robe and onto the sofa. "I'm surprised I didn't see it when I listened to your chest, but then I suppose you're pretty skinny anyway. Of course you'd lose weight around your joints. You never had any excess to begin with." He eyed the man buried under the massive duvet, before picking up the prescription bag again. "In here are 2 different drugs - rifampicin and isoniazid. I want you to take 1 tablet each daily after a meal. Seeing as you just had some toast, you can have the first dosage now." John pushed two pills from their respective blisters and handed them to Sherlock, before fetching him some water. He watched as Sherlock took them, before kneeling down in front of his friend. "Sherlock."

"Yes?"

"Please be thorough with these. Don't skip days, and don't use them in experiments. If you don't take these religiously, you can massively increase your chances of developing drug resistant TB. And trust me when I say, you don't want that. Alright?" John watched as Sherlock nodded. "This stuff really affects your liver, so no alcohol at all, and don't take paracetamol. Ok?"

"Yes, alright John."

"Good. Unfortunately I have to go to work. I'll pop by this afternoon to check on you."

"You don't ne-"

"See you later, Sherlock." John said as he stood, cutting the ailing sleuth off. He left the living room and descended the stairs. Just before he left, he tapped a knuckle on the front door of 221A. Mrs Hudson, quick as ever, opened the door.

"John! How nice to see you dear. Come in, come in!"

"Ah, sorry Mrs Hudson, no time. I have to go to work, but I need you to phone in to my surgery as soon as possible and book an emergency appointment with me today, alright?"

"What's wrong?"

John sighed, his shoulders slumping a little. He looked Mrs Hudson in the eye as he spoke. "Sherlock's got TB. Because you come within close contact with him on a regular basis, it's likely you might be carrying it too. I need to do a Mantoux test with you today."

Mrs Hudson's hand had flown to her mouth. "Oh, poor Sherlock! Is he alright?"

"He's been a lot better. Let's just say that." He paused. "Look, I know you'll want to go up and check on him but I don't want you to go near him until we have all the tests. Don't leave the house unless it's essential, don't visit anyone, and don't invite anyone over. I'm sorry."

Mrs Hudson looked dejected. "Oh, alright. I'll cancel Sissy. I'll ring the surgery now."

"Thanks Mrs Hudson. I'll see you later, okay?"

As John drove to the surgery, his mind wandering, he realised that of all the people to contract Tuberculosis, it would have been Sherlock. He fit so many of the criteria. He was male, between 25 and 44, lived in London, had a history of previous intravenous substance abuse, travelled for a long period in Eastern Europe (and god knows what he got up to there), mixed with the homeless on a regular basis, didn't look after his body, and had recently been shot, which would have massively suppressed his immuno-response. John suspected Sherlock's tuberculosis was latent - the bacterium had probably been incubating inside him for years, and just needed one more stone on the scale to tip him over the edge.

He stepped across the threshold of the urgent care centre just in time to avoid any strange looks from his colleagues. Logging on to the computer in his office, he was pleased to see Mr's Hudson's name in one of the morning slots. 'Good, at least I can find out if my worrying is for nothing,' he mused, as the first knock on his office door of the day signified his first patient of many.

'Materia Medica' is the Latin medical term for the body of collective knowledge on any substance known to heal.

I am sorry for my super slow update! Uni has been insanely busy and I'm pretty much always juggling 5 or more projects at once, so unfortunately updates fell to the wayside. Hopefully I'll publish a couple more over the Christmas period, but don't hold me to that :P

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