So this one is going to be a bit of a sick-fic, I had a request for some H/C and if I'm honest I've been wanting to write some. And finally I have the perfect excuse… Enjoy
There will also be mentions of self-harm.
It's nothing to worry about
Chapter 5- I'm just cold (I don't want you to see my scars)
In a normal flat at three in the morning there would usually be blissful silence which might only be disturbed by the occasional siren screaming past or by the cries of a small child. However 221b was not a normal flat. Time in 221b was different to the rest of the world, at three in the morning anything could be happening. The flowing melody of the violin might fill the rooms or, if the musician was not in such an amenable mood, the screeches would fill the rooms. The occupants might be hard at work trying to solve a case. There could be clinking of glass in the kitchen punctuated by the occasional explosion which was sure to bring the other flatmate running. In this situation any one of three things might happen; there could be a lot of shouting; or a medical kit may be yanked out of its place in the cupboard or there might be an unwanted trip to A & E. Sometimes there would be complete silence but that would only be when the two friends were out pursuing criminals. If the occupants were in then there was never silence at night. Except now there was silence and it worried John deeply.
He lay in bed listening out for a sudden crash or the pained sounds of a bow being scraped along violin strings but it never came and it was unnerving. The army doctor even found himself wondering if Sherlock had snuck out after he had gone to bed. John felt that something was definitely wrong with him if he could not sleep in the silence but would be able to sleep to the sound of the tortured violin. In the end he had to head downstairs to make sure Sherlock was still in and, if he was, he hadn't accidentally killed himself by inhaling some noxious chemical. He even found himself considering that the consulting detective had gone to bed at a conventional time but immediately dismissed the idea. The only time that might happen was after a long case and the longest one that week had lasted a day, much to Sherlock's dismay.
There were no lights on in the sitting room but light from the street flooded in through the gap between the curtains. It was enough for John to see the lanky detective stretched out across the sofa, his eyes open and flickering from side to side. His hands were not in the prayer position beneath his chin like they usually would be if the man was thinking but were simply laid on his chest. This struck John as slightly odd so he took a closer look. He is still too thin the army doctor thought much to his dismay, he had been making an effort to get more food into the man but evidently it was not working. Since Sherlock was not asleep he decided he may as well switch the light on, perhaps that would get a response from the man.
It did not, Sherlock continued with whatever it was he was doing as if he had not noticed anything change. This was entirely possible. But now John could see him better he could see the unmistakable grimace of someone who was not feeling well, Sherlock was in pain but John was wise enough to realise that his friend would not admit it. Instead he went into the kitchen and ran Sherlock a glass of water and got two paracetamol tablets. Placing them on the coffee table next to the sofa he shook the detective's shoulder gently and called his name.
Sherlock looked at him lethargically and somewhat blankly. "Are you feeling alright mate?" John asked, the expression on his friend's face alarming him even more.
"Me? Yeah, fine."
"There's no point lying to me Sherlock, I'm a doctor, not an idiot."
"Debateable," Sherlock muttered under his breath and John shot him his best stern look.
"Take these," John ordered placing the two paracetamol tablets in the detective's hand. "And drink the water." Sherlock glared at John but the army doctor just glared straight back at him. At this time in the morning John could be just as stubborn as Sherlock. In the end Sherlock conceded if not somewhat unhappily. "Good, now, I do think it would be helpful if you went off to bed. With the paracetamol in your system a bit of rest will do you a power of good."
"But John, I'm bored," Sherlock moaned loudly, wincing at the sound of his own voice. He must have a headache then John thought to himself. He could tell Sherlock's protest wasn't wholehearted; it was more of an obligatory protest than anything else.
It didn't take long for the doctor to persuade Sherlock to go to bed and was grateful when he, himself was able to fall into his bed and get some sleep. He woke at about 8:30 and headed down to check on Sherlock who was not in the flat. John presumed the man had been feeling better and had gone off in search of a case. He should have known better. Not an hour later the phone call from Lestrade came through.
"Hi John," the DI greeted, he sounded tired.
"Hi Greg, is everything ok? Sherlock isn't here right now if you were looking for him."
"He isn't there because he's here and I was rather hoping that you'd come and pick him up."
"Why, what's he done now?" John asked sighing, throwing back the rest of his tea.
"It's not that really, he isn't well John, he's collapsed."
"Crap," the doctor muttered as he grabbed jacket and practically ran down the stairs. "What happened."
"Well he appeared quite early this morning; he looked a bit tired but nothing out of the ordinary really. He asked if I had any cases for him which was unsurprising and I said no. Obviously this annoyed him so he started ranting about how utterly boring the criminal classes were. Unfortunately he does that a lot but I've learnt to work while he's like that. But then he stopped midsentence so I looked up and I swear John, I've seen corpses which were a healthier colour than he was. I thought he was usually pale but that was something else entirely. He was holding his head at the temple with his finger and thumb and he really looked like he was in a lot of pain. Unfortunately Donovan chose that exact moment to walk in and he collapsed on top of her. I can guarantee he won't hear the end of it."
"Mm, hopefully he's just exhausted or something. I'm in a taxi so I'll be with you soon, bye." John hung up without waiting for a reply and willing the taxi to speed up.
"…And then he just fell on top of me," John heard the Sergeant proclaiming loudly as he entered the office before he could even see her. "Freak's probably just high again; Lestrade will kill him if he is."
"Shut up Donovan," John snapped as he walked past, not even bothering to give her a cursory glance. "He's clean."
The blinds in Lestrade's office were closed secluding the small room from the rest of the office. John knocked gently and stepped quietly through the door. Sherlock was sitting down with his back against the wall. His skin was pale and pasty and purple smudges marred the skin under his eyes. The man looked exhausted and distinctly ill. The DI was crouched in front of him encouraging him to drink from the glass of water he had placed in the detective's hands.
"Hi," John said softly crouching down next to Lestrade.
"He woke up about five minutes ago, he's got a fever but I don't know how high." John nodded, thankful that he had remembered to grab his doctor's bag just before he dashed out of the flat.
He pulled out a thermometer and put it in Sherlock's mouth, the fact the man didn't protest in any way was a testament to just how rotten he must have been feeling. While it was reading the doctor then took his heart rate, slightly elevated but nothing too dangerous. Sherlock roused slightly when the beeping of the thermometer went off but, upon realising what it was, decided it was not worth the effort so went back into his slightly dazed state. 38.7◦C, probably slightly higher than that considering he had just had some water to drink. Lastly came the stethoscope. Gently, with some help from Lestrade, John removed Sherlock's big coat and his suit jacket. Feeling slightly weird he undid the top few buttons of his friend's shirt. Sherlock flinched as the cold metal met his fevered skin but he simply fell forward, resting his head on John's shoulder as the doctor crouched in front of him, listening. He then placed the metal on Sherlock's back which led to another flinch and Sherlock became slightly more aware. He looked at John confusedly. "What's going on John?" he asked. Confusion did not suit his features at all.
"You fainted because you're an idiot. Come on, we'll get you back to Baker Street." John helped his friend up and had to let him lean heavily on his shoulder as they made their way down to one of the police cars. Lestrade had offered to drive them home. An offer John accepted enthusiastically.
On the way back to the flat the normally unstoppable detective fell asleep and not even Lestrade's shouting at the traffic could rouse him. It was weird seeing the man sleep, and if it had not been illness induced then John may have enjoyed seeing the man acting human. But as it was Sherlock was being too human for John's liking. He shouldn't be sick, he was unstoppable and brilliant. Not weak and dependant on others. But John was damn sure he would help him get up and about as soon as possible.
The journey from Scotland Yard to Baker Street was not too long and soon the doctor found himself having to shake Sherlock to wake him and even then his friend seemed out of it, muttering incomprehensible things. There was something about Moriarty and then he started giggling about John invading Afghanistan. Of course he can't get ill like a normal person John thought to himself. Hardly any symptoms then suddenly he collapses, develops a fever and becomes delusional. In his mind John knew it would be better to take the man to hospital but was aware of how much Sherlock hated hospitals. So instead he and Greg helped Sherlock up the stairs and they were both aware of the heat that seemed to emanate off the younger man.
Once they'd got Sherlock into his room Lestrade apologised for having to go back to work but promised he'd drop by later to see how things were going. John regretted the fact Greg could not stay, after John Sherlock trusted the DI the most and he was sure he was going to need the help. Unfortunately he knew he had to get on, the fever was the most worrying thing as it appeared it had risen to 40◦C. Any higher and John would be forced to call the ambulance so he set about trying to cool Sherlock down. He got a cold compress from the kitchen before entering Sherlock's bedroom. "Sherlock, we're going to need to get that dress shirt and those trousers off you I'm afraid. You're too warm." There was no response from the detective who seemed to be fascinated by something on the ceiling. So instead John reached forward to undo Sherlock's shirt which seemed to trigger something in Sherlock's mind. "No! I want to keep it on," he protested, suddenly appearing more lucid.
"You're far too warm mate; we need to cool you down."
"I-I feel cold," he protested.
"Sherlock," John started, his voice taking his no-nonsense doctoring tone. "Your temperature is three degrees above normal, we need to lower it."
"You better not come near me!" Sherlock shouted sounding panicked. He crossed his arms protectively over his chest, tucked his knees up to his chest and rolled onto his side away from John. The doctor didn't know what to do other than to observe his friend's unlikely reaction in surprise and concern, hoping against hope that it could be entirely attributed to the fever and to nothing else. The thought was a fine thing.
Ok, this is going to be a little longer than I anticipated so this title will be extended over two chapters. I hope you enjoyed this instalment. Life is a little hectic at the moment so if it takes me a little longer to update again please do forgive me. I'll get there. Unfortunately real life sometimes has to take precedence over the world of fanfiction. Please, don't forget to review. ;)