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.
Thank you so much for your reviews and your support :)
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Chapter 14
Day 4 – Monday, about noon
Sherlock had slept through the night, or so John thought when he came downstairs at about 10:00 o'clock.
His flatmate seemed fast asleep with his back to the room. The IV bag was empty and the line dangled from the lamp, no longer connected. He stood on his toes and tried to see Sherlock's hand, which was hidden in between the blankets.
"I needed the bathroom," Sherlock's muffled voice came from under the blanket, "I plugged it properly using a sterile new cap." A hand worked out from under the chaos of the fabric and showed John the port.
He had indeed. John didn't ask how he was doing, he assessed his state by observation.
"Ta," John mumbled and headed for the bathroom himself.
About half an hour later he was freshly showered and shaven.
"If we put a plastic bag over your hand and you make sure the IV port won't get wet, you could have a bath," he suggested. Sherlock must be feeling quite uncomfortable by now.
"I'd prefer if you take it out."
"Not yet. Tonight, if you drink everything that I give you and it stays down."
Sherlock started to unwrap himself from the blankets and John went to fill the tub and fetch a large plastic bag as well as some elastics.
While John was still rummaging in the bathroom Sherlock shuffled in, fetched his razor and a mirror and sat on the closed lid, kind of like a sleepwalker.
"You're awake?"
"If I wasn't I probably hadn't sat down but got rid of my clothes already."
"Oh…" John grinned and helped him to make his hand waterproof.
"I'll make some tea then. Don't fall asleep in there," John left.
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Ten minutes later the doctor's phone rang.
Mycroft again.
John thanked him for the fast testing of the sample and updated him on Sherlock's condition.
The older Holmes offered to come by, but then they agreed it would be better for all of them if he stayed away for a bit longer. They doubted Sherlock would enjoy a sick bed visit. Mycroft thanked John for the good care of his brother and made him promise he'd call if they needed anything.
When they had just hung up Sherlock's phone signalled the arrival of a text. John would tell him to check it as soon as he got out of the bathroom.
Sherlock took his time.
Fifteen minutes later someone could be heard coming up the stairs, then knocked on the half open living room door.
Lestrade entered.
"Hi."
"Hello, John," the DI greeted, "Sherlock here?"
"He's… kind of busy right now, can I help you?"
"Any new ideas about the case?"
"Ehm… I don't think he worked on the case the past two days."
"Why not? What happened?" Greg looked worried.
"He got sick."
"What?"
"Yeah, can you believe it? He…"
"Wait, this was not about me not believing it… I'm not sure I would if this wasn't coming from you. The thing is Anderson is sick since yesterday with a kind of ugly… not a stomach bug, but… the word alone was ugly already."
"Wait, Campylobacter?"
"Er, yeah… I think so. His wife called an ambulance because his cramps were so painful she kind of panicked. Don't tell me Sherlock's got the same."
"Blimey. He has in fact, started Friday night. So, with this new information I can put all the food back into the fridge and we just significantly narrowed down the source of the infection."
"Christ, the chicken farm."
"The chicken farm, yes," John agreed.
"Why didn't we get it, then?"
"Well, Sherlock and Anderson were the ones knee-deep in the waste. This kind of undermines my lecture about protective clothes," John shook his head. "Anderson was wearing all of it according to regulations. And Sherlock was already kind of exhausted and dehydrated, before."
"Well, Anderson just got over the flue last week. The farm is now shut down by the disease control centre. The owner has to face not only the charges of covering up a murder, but also the ones of carelessly spreading the disease. There's a second investigation going how many recent Campoler- whatever- infections are from this exact bacteria stem."
"The amount of bacteria that is needed to fetch this is low, the fact that we haven't shown any symptoms yet, doesn't mean we didn't catch it. Can last up to a week."
"Oh, great! Any ideas how to avert an outbreak?"
"Someone recently suggest Grappa. I drank one, want one, too?"
"No drinking on the job."
"Hm, this is more meant like preventive medication."
"'kay. Sally is driving anyway. She's having a coffee next door."
John poured a small amount of the liquid into a glass and handed it over. Greg downed it in one gulp and his face contorted.
"Oh, this is…"
"Expensive, and reminds me of… rectified spirits. It's not my thing."
"This tastes like… for cleaning purposes only. I wonder why anyone would drink it if there's a choice."
"Cleaning your stomach… Mycroft gave it to me for medical purposes. My stomach was kind of uneasy but since I downed a dose of that it's better."
"Oh, let's hope it was worth it."
Sherlock could be heard going into his room.
"He's…"
"I know how he is when he's bad or incapacitated," Lestrade explained.
"Really, how?"
"How bad was it?" Lestrade ignored the question, "Anderson was pretty messed up."
"I… difficult to tell. He was kind of out of it and I had problems getting any information out of him."
"Sounds like him."
"He's on the mend but the next days won't be nice."
"Yeah, already heard how that thing works. Okay, so if you need help keeping him busy or you need anything at all, just give me a call."
"Busy?"
"As soon as he's able to think roughly straight he'll be bored… And he'll drive you nuts, when bored and in pain and unnerved… Trust me, better keep his mind occupied."
"I will. Ta."
"Call me," Greg raised his hand in greeting and John nodded.
Then the inspector vanished down the stairs.
John sat down in front of the telly with his tea, watching the news.
The chicken farm! The risk to get this from contaminated food was a lot higher than this. Sherlock refused to wear protective gear, but was very disciplined when it came to certain behaviours necessary for safety or to prevent contaminating a scene, for example he'd never ever accidentally touch his face with a gloved hand, or anywhere else where he shouldn't.
In Sherlock's presence Anderson was usually busy with making insulting remarks, complaining about his presence, proving him wrong and doing as if the consultant needed to be told how to behave on a crime scene. So very occupied by his aversion that he had made some mistakes himself in the past.
It was no use to speculate how exactly they had caught it. For now John was just glad it wasn't in the food or the flat, much easier this way. He was really relieved in fact.
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When Sherlock returned to the sofa a few minutes later John told him about what he had learned in every detail he remembered.
Sherlock just kept quiet, listened and looked even embarrassed when John told him where he got ill and that Anderson got it, too. To John's surprise he didn't ask anything, not even after the doctor had finished, neither for details and nor for the state of the investigation or if there were any news about it.
But he stood up and stumbled into the kitchen, he came back with a large rubbish bag and gloves. He carefully stuffed his coat his dress shoes and his scarf into it, then sealed the bag with a cable tie.
"Laundry?"
"Downstairs, I'll take care of it," John offered.
Sherlock sank back into the sofa after leaving the closed bag in the stairway.
"I don't think your usual drycleaner does shoes," John said with a grin.
"I don't know."
John took care of the laundry with gloves, to prevent Mrs Hudson from doing it and risking infection.
They watched telly for until the late afternoon but Sherlock napped most of the time.
The evening had Sherlock working on his laptop, barely speaking a word. But whenever John offered him something to drink he slowly sipped it until it was gone. It all stayed down and John was eased to see him getting better.
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After he shooed him towards his bed in the late evening and Sherlock was horizontal, he removed the IV-port and examined Sherlock again.
Later, he kept Sherlock's door open, while he checked his emails.
Sherlock's sleep was uneasy, John heard him moan softly in his sleep now and then, but wasn't sure waking him was a good idea. Sherlock had refused painkillers twice today, chances where high offering them to him once more was useless.
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Two hours later John decided this was an unnecessary ordeal and fetched some pills and a glass of water.
He found his flatmate sweating and clearly in pain.
"Sherlock?"
John gently shook the sick man's shoulder.
"Come on, wake up."
"What?" Sherlock jerked awake.
"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you," John rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder in a soothing gesture.
"How long did I sleep?" Sherlock's face showed he was not happy about the disturbance.
"Only for about an hour. You're in pain. Take are some painkillers. Come on," his tone was soft, but had an order in it.
Sherlock looked up at him in the semi-dark, the diffuse light from the kitchen shining in through the door.
After about five seconds of hesitation he reached for the pills John was offering and sat up slowly.
"Here's some water," he held out the hand with the glass.
"Obviously. Thanks," Sherlock swallowed the medication and handed the glass back.
When he was lying on his side again, the duvet pulled up to his ears, John heard a low sigh, of relieve? No way, the painkillers would at least need fifteen minutes to start to take effect.
"You're okay?"
"Yes, I am, I think… Thank you, John."
The doctor took a step back to see his face better.
Sherlock's eyes were closed.
"For what exactly?"
"For being kind and… offering… help."
"You're welcome. Good night," he gently patted Sherlock's wrapped shoulder and then left, leaving the door wide open once more.
Sherlock had really honestly - out of free will - thanked him!
And it had sounded as if it really was the result of him being grateful, not because he tried to meet social requirements. This was probably the nicest and kindest thing Sherlock had said to him up to now.
Shortly after that John climbed up the stairs to his own bed.
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A/N:
Please let me know what you think.