Ok so it's been a while and I couldn't leave you all hanging
Also, sorry for any mistakes in this story (e.g. previous chapter 'his step towards' which was left blank. That meant to end with 'the kitchen'), I'm no good at checking through my stuff. I notice the bad bits straight after though.
Anyway, Viola!
R
...
'I do wish you'd not be such a drama queen sometimes...' John sighed as he shook his head, stock still in the middle of the doorway. Sherlock did look rather pale, but to be honest, the 'bad' thing probably wasn't that awful to John: maybe the wrong chemical or some silly mistake by using the wrong ingredient from the fridge (i.e. toes, this time), whereas stealing money from Mycroft and accidentally attracting the attention of several trained assassins was nowhere near important to his 'superior brain'.
'...that...knife, what's it doing there again?'
'Errr...' Sherlock made some non-commital noise which meant he had no interest in answering.
'Sherlock.' John said warningly, still with his back turned. 'Ok, at least tell me about the gash.'
' I needed to see how long a certain strain of bacteria thives on a dead body compared to a live one... and, since i had no volounteers...'
John didn't believe him. Sherlock could lie to anyone face to face on a day to day basis but John, who had nothing to say. Yes, it was dangerous, but at the same time hardly surprising if it was true.
John decided that tea was the best option: his number one consultant. He filled the kettle in the overcrowded sink (he HAD to get some spring cleaning done) and clicked it on, popping a teabag into his favourite striped mug and getting a teaspoon from the drawer beside him.
'Want a cuppa?' John called from the kitchen. 'Probably not...' he mumbled, running hot water into the basin in the sink.
Silence.
'Sherlock. SHERLOCK.' John ran back through the door to see a sweaty, pale and half dead looking man lying, sprawled all over the couch, seemingly unconscious.
He slapped his friend's cheek in a feeble attempt to wake him up. He didn't especially want to hit him round the face, but any consciousness was not a good sign, though nothing improved once done. Doctor mode set in as John checked Sherlock's pulse: slow. Dull. Uneven. Worryingly so. John didn't dare move him, and since Sherlock was about two heads taller than John anyway, he'd best not risk it. He then checked Sherlock's breathing: shallow. Unsteady.
The only thought John could muster up was that maybe there was some chemical Sherlock had got on himself or the glass was unclean, but something as bad as this must've happened a while back for him to fall ill now.
What could Sherlock have cut himself on apart from the large knife anyway? John flung himself back into the messy kitchen to see the same piled miscellany of spread-out vials and test tubes, flasks and even a Bunsen burner with several toothpicks and a fork jammed in it. Impatiently, he began to dodge around the table, scanning for any clues as to what the hell Sherlock had let enter his bloodstream.
And there it was, in plain view, a single, smashed conical flask with a putrid brown liquid sloshed all over the place; on the counter, the weighing scales and even what looked like an eyeball, which appeared to be partially eroded and rotten in some places. John gagged and grimaced.
If it had damaged the eye in that way, god knows what it was doing to Sherlock now.
'You absolute arsehole!' John yelled as he covered the experiment up with a plastic bag and covered his mouth. 'You said-ugh! Right, I'm calling an ambulance.' John hissed, feeling stupid for yelling at someone who couldn't hear him.
'Next time, you get the shopping...'
...
Will find time to carry this on at some point, but for now, hope you enjoyed! I will always reply to your reviews