Lessons in Friendship 7 – Needing something

Standard disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

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Chapter 9

Sherlock drank another mug of stirred stale ginger ale without really waking up. This and the last mug had stayed down, which hopefully meant he was finally getting better.

John packed the samples he had taken earlier according to regulations. If this was contagious there was no need to endanger anybody else.

Afterwards he returned to his flatmate's room to check on him again.

The sick man was sleeping, neither having bad dreams nor looking as if he was going to be sick.

Some moments later John stood in the kitchen, exhausted and not sure what he should do next, he heard a soft knock on the front door downstairs.

How respectful not to use the door bell.

A pleasantly smiling and perfectly styled Anthea stood before him when he opened the door, though a large emergency backpack over her shoulder, a large red medical bag in her hand, and a plastic shopping bag kind of spoiled her professional appearance.

"Keep a distance, no need to risk infection," he tiredly informed her.

"In here is everything you need," she handed him the bags and put the backpack down, "You have samples for me?"

John tried to smile nicely in return, but knew he was pale and looked as worn out as he was, he probably failed completely at smiling at all.

He handed over the professionally wrapped plastic containers in a large envelope.

"Are you alright, John?" she asked carefully while straightening her costume, "You look sick, too. Do you need assistance?"

"Just tired, thanks."

She nodded politely and headed back to the waiting limousine.

John wondered what kind of 'assistance' she might have meant. Sending over a nurse or helping herself?

Laden with the new equipment he closed the door and went up the stairs, he was indeed feeling slightly sick, but was sure he was just stressed with the whole thing.

When he opened the bags on the kitchen table, he smiled.

The medical bag was a fully equipped rescue bag - the kind ambulance crews carry - it had the size of a medium travelling bag. Might become handy in other situations, too.

But John decided he'd better remove several medications and store them seperately. No need for them to be found during another 'drug bust'… or Sherlock wasting them for experiments.

The bag should be stored in the wardrobe later, where it was easy to find, together with the backpack, which contained even more emergency stuff, customised for their situation though... There were IVs to fight dehydration and several meds for this kind of illnesses.

Great, Mycroft had thought of it all.

He peeked into the plastic bag and grinned. Someone had been shopping. There were several medical isotonic drinks, some fresh bread, cheese, milk and… Grappa? He looked closer.

What was that supposed to mean? He found a note on the bottle:

'Our father used to drink one of those whenever anyone puked, he stated it would kill all the germs before he got infected. It worked, whenever someone got a bug in our family, he didn't (well, most of the times Sherlock managed to not get them, too… without this 'remedy' I might want to point out) but our father managed not to get a single one. Hope this will do the same for you, good luck, John.'

John smiled, he had met Mycroft several times since he first 'kidnapped' him. That was the only time John had been alone with him, at every other meeting Sherlock was there and they were constantly quarrelling.

The call they had half an hour ago was the first time Mycroft and John had really talked. He saw a whole new and different side of the older Holmes, who was really caring for his brother. Sherlock seemed not too eager to let him, though. Therefore Mycroft had obviously decided to do it in the background, maybe hoping that Sherlock wouldn't realise it, or hoping he'd accept it easier this way. Kind of a passive way to help Sherlock by helping John to take care of him.

He needed to treat Sherlock's dehydration, as fast as possible. He knew he should have pushed it earlier but he was afraid Sherlock would throw it up immediately if he went to fast… starting an IV line was still not the right option. His flatmate was just starting to show the tiniest bit of trust in him as a doctor… He couldn't jeopardise this by adding an invasive medical procedure to this fragile trust, and especially not in his bedroom, which needed to keep the status as a safe place.

Maybe - when trust had grown in the future - things like that could be taken into consideration, but not yet. Which meant: back to drinking fluids, and he'd wake him this time to examine him.

John filled a cup with the isotonic drink, fetched two throw pillows and some off the pills from the bag and headed for Sherlock's room.

The consultant was fast asleep and he reached out to encircle his wrist, pulse still slow.

"Sherlock, wake up, you need to drink this."

His friend didn't move. He placed the mug on the bedside table and the pillows on the end of the bed.

"Come on," he gently shook his shoulder.

Suddenly Sherlock jerked awake, sucking in air in distress and trying to sit up immediately.

John reached for him in fear he might fall off the bed in disorientation.

"Easy. You're okay."

He listed to one side for a moment, then straightened and stared up at John. He had held his breath but now inhaled a forced slow and deep breath, obviously trying to hide his distress. His face was a mask and two breaths later he was awake enough to realise the doctor was holding his upper arm to stabilise him.

"Le' me go," he tried to shift to get more distance.

With his free hand John placed the pillows behind the other man's back.

"Lean back against," John asked quietly, observing Sherlock's behaviour.

But he didn't move.

"You need to take these and drink to stay hydrated… You'll feel better soon," he held out the pills in one hand and the mug with the other.

"Won't stay down."

"It will, try it."

"I'm not 'p for another round o' vomiting yet, leave me alone," Sherlock slurred, clearly not himself.

"Sherlock, take these… Come on… Open up," John urged, fully aware that this meant Sherlock was getting worse. He didn't cooperate, he was out of it, eyes scampering through the room. John would never make him swallow the pills like this, not an option. He returned to the kitchen and dissolved the medication in the liquid, then returned with a towel.

"Drink."

Sherlock's hadn't moved, but his eyes were closed now.

He gently rested the rim of the mug against Sherlock's lips. To John's surprise some automatism kicked in and his flatmate lifted his head and started to drink.

"Slowly, that's it… You'll feel better soon."

John paused after a few sips to give his stomach time to adjust.

It took some time but Sherlock managed to drink the whole mug and then sank back into the pillows, appearing to be totally spent.

When John put the mug down on the night table he frowned, it was smelling bad in here… like vomit.

"Sherlock, did you throw up into the bed?"

He slowly took away the duvet and searched the bed.

Everything fine… until his eyes fell onto Sherlock's shin, the pyjama trousers' leg had been shoved up by movements and bared the skin. There was a large red and blue bruise, maybe a few hours old.

He covered him again.

"Sherlock, did you fall?"

No reaction.

"Did you puke in here?"

The addressed man blinked, so he was hearing his questions?

"I need to make sure you are okay, can I take a look at you?"

When Sherlock once more didn't react the doctor went to the kitchen to get the medical bag. Moments later he was back and placed it on the ground next to the bed.

He frowned, the smell of puke getting into his nostrils again, he started searching the room… and found the bin with the closed waste bag. He cursed silently and brought the thing into the bathroom.

"I'll examine you, relax," he addressed the still figure. He gently lifted Sherlock's eyelids and looked into his eyes. The other man frowned but otherwise allowed it to happen.

The former army doctor listened to his lungs and his heart, everything as expected for a patient in his condition.

He shoved the duvet closer to Sherlock's hip to have room to sit down and take his BP. When Sherlock flinched, it made John's inner red alerts start.

"Hey, you need to wake up fully for a bit and tell me where you hurt!" he took the duvet away once more.

"Go away," Sherlock mumbled, half asleep.

"No, I need to know where you hurt."

"I don't know… 'nd I don't care."

No way of getting answers this way, the hard way then.

John pressed three fingers into the side of Sherlock's hip, who flinched once more.

"All right…"

He needed to do this fast, Sherlock would not allow it as soon as he understood what was happening.

John tried to roll him onto his side - easier said than done, Sherlock looked limp but he wasn't. He was tense all over.

With a few fast but gentle movements John turned him, away from the pillows and himself, then dragged down the side of the pants, gladly they had an elastic ribbon at the waistline.

"Blimey, Sherlock!"

Another large bruise went from the outside of his hip joint down the upper half of the thigh. It didn't look dangerous and he let the fabric slip over it again.

Gently, he pressed into the flesh around the outside of the joint. Sherlock's only reaction to the whole thing was a voiceless grunt when he pressed harder into the side of the bone, so probably no further injuries there. But the reaction was far less than it should be to this amount of pressure.

The doctor removed the pillows from the bed, rolled Sherlock back into a prone position and covered him fully again. Once more he checked his patient's temperature.

Definitely getting worse. Sherlock had no longer a raised temperature, he had a fever.

"Did you fall?"

Sherlock either ignored him or was too much out of it.

"Come on, Sherlock, wake up!" he ordered, and tapped his cheek.

Sherlock stirred and tried to evade the touch.

"That's it, come on. Open your eyes."

The other man did, and blinked slowly.

"Can you hear me?"

Sherlock nodded slowly.

"Did you fall?"

"When?… I fell sev'al times during the past thirty years, could'ou be more specific?"

John rolled his eyes.

"Did you fall since you puked for the first time on Friday?"

"I don't know…" Sherlock frowned and appeared to honestly try to remember.

"Did you wake up on the ground since Friday?"

"Maybe…"

"Do you hurt in some way that feels more like an injury than sickness?"

Sherlock frowned, "I don't know."

"Okay… Drink this, you need liquids," he once more aided his friend to drink the isotonic beverage.

"You want something else? A book? Your laptop? Listen to a CD?" John doubted Sherlock would be able to concentrate on reading or anything else.

"M'violin," Sherlock informed.

"You want to play?… You can barely sit."

"No, I want it in here."

John wondered what this was about but stood up and brought the case with the instrument, he placed it on a chair on the far side of the bed so the detective would not bump into it running to the bathroom.

"Okay like that?"

Sherlock nodded, "Open?"

John opened the case but didn't take out the violin.

"Thanks," Sherlock closed his eyes and John saw him drift back into sleep.

Now, what was that about?

Back in the living room John sat down on the couch. He hadn't heard Sherlock fall. His friend had kept the door shut when the runs had started, since the term privacy was usually not one of Sherlock's concerns John suspected it was shame or something similar.

He would keep the door open from now on, the detective's pride was already bruised, no need to get any more bruises on his body, damage control. So if Sherlock would make any noises that might indicate he was getting up John would be at his side. The detective would be pissed about that.

The doctor felt exhausted and his stomach was uneasy. Probably, he just needed some sleep, too. He set the alarm of his mobile to ring in an hour. First priority remained to get as much liquids into Sherlock as possible. He had indeed not seen the dehydration fast enough, in a hospital he'd already have started an IV line but he wanted to try this orally for at least two or three hours until considering that again.

He crawled under the blanket and slipped into sleep almost immediately.

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John got up ever hour and helped Sherlock to sip more tea or some other drink.

The detective was just passive. He said nothing, he didn't complain, he didn't refuse, his facial expression was a mask, showing nothing, he didn't even move without John's guidance.

And it became more and more creepy over the night. The doctor tried to talk to Sherlock repeatedly but could not make him react.

The fever was not getting better and when John probed Sherlock's abdomen again in the early hours of the morning his patient also failed to respond. He tried to pinch his hand, but the resulting flinch was minute.

Sherlock seemed to have switched off his reception almost completely, like on auto-pilot. Well, at least he was drinking and the vomiting seemed to have come to an end. At this pace the dehydration should be under control by lunchtime.

John went to the couch to take another nap.

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A/N:

Feedback welcome.