Captain Of All These Men Of Death
Chapter 10
2015
Praedo Luvenis
Mary stood in the hallway watching her husband rummage through his medical backpack. "Pulse ox?" She said, and John started.
"Ah! That's what's missing. I left it with Sherlock the other day."
"So you have everything else?"
"Looks like it." John stood, slinging one loop of the backpack over his shoulder. He turned to Mary, pausing a moment to take her image in. His crazy, fantastic, marksman-assassin wife stood before him, heavily pregnant with their child and wrapped in a fluffy pink dressing gown. It was surreal.
Mary quirked her head at him. "What?"
"Nothing." John stepped forward and enfolded her in a hug, kissing her head as she rested it on his shoulder. "I'll see you soon."
She smiled. "Say hello to the Holmes brothers for me."
"Will do. Save me a crumpet."
She grinned wickedly as he opened the front door. "Fat chance."
John shot her a mock wounded look as he pulled the door shut behind him. Alone in the spring darkness, he allowed the concern for his ailing friend to wash over him again. He was painfully aware there wasn't all that much he would be able to do. 'Well, you can do better than brood,' he told himself resolutely, before picking up the pace towards his car parked a few hundred metres down the street.
Sherlock walked the hallways of his mind palace. Everything was dimmer than usual; doors were harder to push open and corridors seemed longer. The lights in the panelled hallways flickered gently. The floors seemed less polished, and dust gathered in the corners of rooms. His footsteps echoed less. Areas he knew had once splayed before him like a maze were no longer there, replaced by blank walls and empty space.
This was not what he had expected. Illness was a strange thing. Before, when he had suffered through violent comedowns, or when Mary had shot him, his palace had been shattered. The walls had cracked and warped, rooms and corridors had flowed into one another like rivers, and the sound of his footsteps had been sharp against his ears. This was different. Rather than violently, catastrophically breaking, his great database had simply shrunk and dimmed. It had softened around the edges.
A hand on his shoulder spurred Sherlock out of his reverie, the pain in his body increasing in increments as he swung upwards into consciousness. The room was dark when he opened his eyes, the only source of light coming from the lamp on the bookshelf above Sherlock's armchair. He focussed on his brother.
"Sherlock, are you with me?" Mycroft asked him quietly.
Sherlock replied with a tiny nod. Talking took a little too much at the moment. His skin felt clammy. His head ached, his chest ached, his muscles ached. His bones ached.
"How are you feeling?" His brother prompted him again. Sherlock blinked slowly at him, distracted by the uncharacteristic amount of concern in his brother's blue eyes. 'Is that because of me?' he thought sluggishly.
A cool hand on his forehead snapped him to lucidity. "Hm?" Sherlock asked hoarsely. "What?"
"How do you feel?" Mycroft asked him again, his palm still against his brother's forehead.
"Like I've been fed through a wood chipper."
Mycroft grimaced at him. "You couldn't have thought of a less gory description…" he chided as he placed the thermometer under Sherlock's tongue.
The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked up slightly as he shook his head.
"You're incorrigible." Mycroft took the temperature gauge and looked at the display, sighing. "As I suspected. It's gone up again. I'm sorry, Sherlock."
Sherlock's expression quickly went from confused to horrified as Mycroft tugged both blankets off of his brother, leaving him only with his slightly damp pyjamas. "Oi!" he squawked weakly, scrabbling for the fabric as it slipped off his feet. Mycroft simply quirked an eyebrow at him as he folded the blankets. "Mycroft…" Sherlock began pitifully. He could already feel the shivers coming.
"No. Stay here."
'I don't have the energy to go anywhere else…' Sherlock mused as he watched Mycroft carefully place the blankets over the armrest of John's chair before leaving the living room. Sherlock let his eyes wander towards the bookshelf, idly scanning the myriad of colours and titles pressed tightly next to each other against the wall. He tried to ignore the ice prickling up his arms and legs and the involuntary shuddering that was gaining momentum. He flattened his palms against his chest, the heat radiating off his skin a strange juxtaposition to the feeling of cold.
Mycroft rejoined him in the living room, holding a plain grey t-shirt and a pair of pyjama trousers. His eyebrows dipped as he observed Sherlock's shuddering, but he chose not to mention it. He handed Sherlock the clothes. "Put these on."
Sherlock took the bundle and dropped them onto his lap as his fingers found the first button of his pyjama shirt. Mycroft watched his trembling fingers fumble at the button for a moment, before huffing and kneeling to take over undressing his little brother. "Weren't these pyjamas the ones you vowed never to wear when you received them last Christmas?" He mused as he quickly dealt with the buttons.
"Indeed. John found them… somewhere. I would have burned them, but Mrs Hudson hid my bunsen burner."
Mycroft quirked a smile as he shrugged the offending item off his brother's shoulders and helped him into the t-shirt. "They aren't that bad."
"No, I suppose not. Not as bad as that jumper you got from Aunt Margo."
Mycroft's expression darkened as he remembered the lurid red and green hand-knitted Christmas jumper he'd been forced to wear on pain of dismemberment by their Mother. He couldn't recall what he'd done with it after that - probably something unnecessarily violent.
"Yes," he replied grimly. He attempted to help his brother out of his cotton trousers, but his hand was slapped away. Sherlock stubbornly managed the rest himself. Neither of them mentioned Sherlock's haggard breathing after he'd shimmied on the clean pair.
The sound of a key being pushed into the door to 221B alerted the brothers to John's arrival. Sherlock shot Mycroft a sharp look. "You called John?"
"I did. Don't argue with me, Sherlock. I would stay but I can't, and you are unwell."
"I'm fine by myself!" Sherlock countered, his voice rising a little as footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Mycroft didn't deign to answer such a ludicrous claim. Instead, he smiled at the sandy haired man who had just entered the lounge. "John. Good evening."
"Hi. Everyone alright? Don't answer that, Sherlock." John said, walking over to the two and sitting next to the sleuth. "How have you been today?"
Sherlock's sour, tired expression told John all he needed to know. He turned to Mycroft. "You alright?"
"Fine, thank you." Mycroft turned on his heel and walked towards the kitchen to fill the kettle. "We just changed Sherlock's bedclothes," he called back to the men in the living room.
"We?" Sherlock mumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. It was definitely more comfortable wearing dry clothes, but he sorely missed the sleeves on his last shirt. He was still trembling like a newborn colt. His mind felt sluggish and foggy and his body weighed him down like an anchor in a sea of malaise. John reached into his bag and pulled out an ear thermometer, placing a disposable cap on the end. He put it to Sherlock's ear.
There was a pause as John read the display and Mycroft returned holding 3 cups of tea - one half full for Sherlock. "Let's not have another spillage, shall we?" Mycroft drawled as he handed his brother the cup. Sherlock ignored him.
John looked to Mycroft. "What and when was the last temperature reading you took?"
"39.4, twenty minutes ago. I took away his blankets."
John frowned. "It hasn't dropped at all. Mycroft, would you mind getting me a cold flannel please?"
John returned his attention the ailing sleuth, clipping the pulse oxygen monitor on to Sherlock's finger. "It's low, but that's to be expected…" he mumbled to himself as he hooked a stethoscope into his ears and ignored Sherlock's protestations when he lifted his t-shirt and pressed the disc to his chest. Used to it by now, Sherlock begrudgingly let John take his vitals and answered the questions fired at him in quick succession. He'd realised by now that the less fuss he made, the quicker it was over with. John pressed the cold flannel that Mycroft had just handed him to Sherlock's forehead and finally allowed him to lean back against the sofa. John sat back, sighing deeply. "Your vitals aren't any better or worse than yesterday, but I'm worried about that temperature. You were right to call me, Mycroft."
Sherlock watched Mycroft nod through slitted eyes. There was too much going on around him, and it was tiring him out. His skin was riddled with goosebumps, there was a thin sheen of sweat on his face and back, and his body hurt. He longed for the softness of his bed, but the distance between him and it may as well have been a hundred miles. John spotted Sherlock's pained expression. He placed a hand gently on Sherlock's arm.
"What's wrong?"
Sherlock turned his head slowly towards John and met his eyes, blinking slowly. The expression John found there made his chest tighten. "I know," he said, his fingers briefly tightening in sympathy.
Sherlock's mouth opened, forming tired words, his eyebrows crinkling with the effort. "I would like to be in bed."
John nodded. "Alright. Stay awake for a little bit longer." The pressure of John's weight on the sofa next to him lifted as he stood up and began moving items from the living room to the bedroom in preparation of Sherlock's short migration. "Mycroft," he called, "will you help us move to the bedroom before you leave this evening?"
"Of course." Mycroft said, rising from the armchair he had been observing the proceedings from and joining John in front of Sherlock. John sat down next to Sherlock and lifted one of his long arms, placing it over his shoulder and around his neck. Mycroft stood in front of them and took the outstretched hand that Sherlock offered him. At John's count, they worked in tandem to help Sherlock to his feet, John bearing most of Sherlock's weight, and Mycroft providing the momentum needed to get him upright. As soon as he was standing, Mycroft pulled Sherlock's free arm over his own shoulders. Sherlock was already breathing heavily, the exertion of simply standing almost too much for him. They stood for a moment, letting the dark haired man catch his breath.
"Ok," John said after a moment. "No rush. You ready to go?"
Sherlock nodded mutely and the three of them made their slow way across the length of the flat and into Sherlock's bedroom, the two men bearing most of his weight. The bed was sweet, soft bliss on his exhausted body. John had arranged the cushions so he could lean comfortably against the headrest. Mycroft pulled the duvet over his knees. Sherlock could hear them talking to each other, but he was unable to distinguish words in the haze as he succumbed fully to sleep.
John's watch alarm jolted him awake - he'd set it to go off at midnight so he could check on Sherlock. His temperature had plateaued at a worrying 39.2, and John hadn't felt comfortable leaving him alone for the whole night, so instead of going upstairs to his bed, he'd hunkered down on the sofa in the living room in preparation for regular checks. Yawning, he eased himself up, his neck stiff from the uneven surface, and reached for his medical bag. Still half asleep, it took him a little while to remember he'd left it by Sherlock's bed.
John padded towards Sherlock's bedroom and pushed the door gently open, shedding a chink of light onto the wall facing the doorway. He eased himself through, flipping the bedside lamp on. Sherlock didn't stir. His face was flushed, his skin and hair slick with sweat. John placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, intending to rouse him, but was shocked at the heat radiating from his friend's body through his clothes. He moved his hand to Sherlock's clammy neck, his worry deepening as Sherlock still made no sign of waking up.
"Sherlock," John said, shaking his shoulder. "Sherlock, wake up." He tried to quell the prickle of panic that ran down his spine when his friend still did not awaken. He leaned over him, one ear hovering over Sherlock's lips, his eyes on his chest, and was partially reassured when he felt and heard a puff of warm, if wheezy, breath. 'Still breathing,' he told himself, before lightly slapping the sleuth on the cheek and speaking loudly into his ear. "Sherlock. I need you to wake up. Come on, wake up."
The rush of relief that washed over him when Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion was substantial. "That's it, Sherlock. Wake up. Come on." He watched his friend very slowly return to consciousness, until he finally opened bleary, delirious eyes and looked towards the disturbance.
"Jhn?" He murmured.
"Yep, It's me. Can you sit up a bit for me?"
John helped Sherlock move up the pillows a little, continuously talking to him in an effort to prevent him falling asleep again. "Okay, there we go. I'm going to take your temperature in your ear, alright?"
Sherlock nodded slowly, slightly listing to the side as John leaned down and prepared the thermometer before placing it in Sherlock's ear. He wasn't surprised at the reading, but it didn't make him feel any better. He looked back at Sherlock, who's eyes were drooping once again. "No you don't," John quickly chided, patting Sherlock's cheek again. "Stay awake."
Sherlock's bottom lip puckered a little. "Tired…"
"I know you are. But you can't go back to sleep." He handed Sherlock a glass of water. "Sip this for me." John watched as Sherlock began taking tiny sips from the glass, before fishing around in his pocket for his mobile. He thumbed in the password, brought up the keypad, and dialled 999.
The translation for this chapter is Robber of Youth, which was a term used to describe tuberculosis in the 18th and 19th century.
Thank you for reading this chapter, and I hope you enjoyed it!
I wrote this in a cafe; I think I'll do it more. It was nice.
Please leave a review. They fill me with inexplicable joy, and that joy makes me write faster.
See you soon!