"Oh Sherlock. For God's sake." Lestrade groaned as entered, wrinkling his nose at the sudden smell of urine. He seemed much less haggard than he usually did when he visited Baker street, seeking assistance on a case. It seemed as if some of the load was taken out of the bags under his eyes and his hair was combed by something other than fingers.
Sherlock shrunk away from Lestrade's sight, suddenly painfully conscious of his own… state. "Lovely to see you too. If you could just leave the morphine on side table and leave, I would be most thankful. Enjoy your date with the wife." He enunciated carefully in an attempt to appear functional.
"Oh, shove it. I'm not going anywhere." Lestrade sighed, carefully hanging his good jacket on the hat stand. "John, go draw a hot bath."
Knowing he wasn't quite in his depth with this matter John left and did as he was told, not that there was room for anything else in Lestrade's tone of voice. Just as the bathwater started flowing warm, he heard the sounds of struggle at the end of the hall but before he could get up, he caught some snatches of conversation that cooled his panic. He watched the clear, glass green waters rise slowly higher and breathed through his nose in attempt to steady himself.
"I'm not a toddler." John heard Sherlock bark, his voice slurred and muffled.
"No, of course not. You just pissed yourself, forgot how to walk and had a tantrum. Nothing childish about that." Lestrade said, clearly just outside the door. "John open the door."
He did. Just in time to see Sherlock, half slung over Lestrade's shoulder, glare hard enough to give himself an aneurism.
"John, could you help me get him undressed?" Sherlock blinked as he was dropped onto the toilet like a sack of potatoes. He listed worryingly to one side, Lestrade caught his shoulder.
"No." He spat as he wriggled away from Lestrade. Or tried to anyways. "I'll undress myself. Just- give me a little… privacy."
"Fine." Lestrade nodded, but otherwise didn't budge. "John, turn around."
John turned around.
"Could you at the very least look away?" Sherlock huffed at Lestrade.
"Someone has to make sure you don't pass out. Would you like it to be me or John?"
Sherlock said nothing, only reached for the edge of his shirt.
"I am a doctor, you know." John pointed out, speaking mostly to the wall. "I have experience with naked bodies."
"Not up for discussion." The words sounded forced, as though physically pushed through his throat. "Lestrade. Give me a hand."
With some measure of awkwardness and careful maneuvering, Sherlock was deposited into the steaming bath water and John was released from his time out.
"Sherlock said that this was all the effects of starvation. Is that true?" John asked as they watched Sherlock's consciousness fade.
The detective inspector sighed, slouching against the bathroom wall. "They call it Consumption."
"Not tuberculosis, I'm assuming?"
"No. No, it's much more literal than that. It's basically the late stages of starvation. When a vampire goes without blood for too long, the body starts cannibalizing itself by digesting it's own blood supply."
"So what good's a hot bath going to do him? He's starving, so he needs food right? Well, I've got a pocket knife. Open his mouth" John began rolling up his sleeve, eager to do something other than just stand around and watch his flatmate suffer.
"No!" Lestrade protested immediately. "He's under too much stress. He wouldn't be able to keep anything down and it'd make recovery just that much harder. Heat's a pain reliever. It can't make his body stop digesting itself, but it makes the process less destructive. If we're really lucky, we might not need drugs."
John ground his teeth as he watched Sherlock, sopping wet and wearing nothing more than a towel, stare blearily into the middle distance. He rolled his sleeve back down. He wasn't used to this. He hadn't been so lost on what to do with an injured person since before medical school. Even as a child, he knew how to deal with most seasonal illness and whatever scrapes and bruises his father could throw at him. "Why would he do this to himself? Why would he let it go so far, if he knew this was going to happen?"
"Consumption is something of a chronic condition for a lot of unmated vampires. I don't understand it either, but that doesn't change anything."
"I can hear, you know." Sherlock murmured, his voice just as substantial as the steam drifting around him. "Not dead yet."
"You're not going to die. You'll be fine." Lestrade assured. "I'm sorry. I was supposed to be looking after you."
Sherlock flicked his wrist, splashing Lestrade. "I don't need a babysitter. You're only here because Mycroft pays you to be anyways."
"No one pays me." Lestrade said with the flat voice of someone bored of repeating the same line. "And if I was getting paid, it bloody well wouldn't be enough."
Sherlock smirked weakly, awkwardly lifting himself to a sitting position in the water with one hand clutching the towel acting as his only shred of privacy. "Money, power, sex. It's all the same. I've always wondered how you could've possibly become a detective inspector so quickly." Lestrade rolled his eyes, but didn't respond. Sherlock sighed and reached for the shampoo. "Get out."
"Feeling better, then?" Lestrade asked, already beginning to stand.
Sherlock squirted a ridiculously expensive gob of goo into his palm and completely ignored the fact that they hadn't left the room yet.
"I'll take that as a yes." Lestrade sighed, gently directing John out the door before him.
"But-will he be alright?" John asked as Lestrade shut the door. "He won't… lose consciousness and drown?"
"He'll be fine." Lestrade sighed, walking towards the kitchen. "Do you have tea?"
"Yeah, right next to the kettle."
