I woke up screaming and covered in sweat. My heart was trying to rip itself out of my chest, it was beating so fast. Each beat flashed back to a dream. Sherlock standing on the roof. Sherlock dropping his phone, his arms spreading out. Me pulling my phone away from my ear, shouting "Sherlock, why wouldn't you let me save you!" Sherlock falling off the building and crashing into the ground. I thought for sure that, as the dream continued to flash with every heart beat, I was going to lose my mind. I felt a hand on my shoulder.
""John, Its okay. I'm right here. You saved me, didn't you? I'm still right here, aren't I? I did let you save me."
Then Sherlock enveloped me in a hug. I lost control, sobbing uncontrollably into his shoulder. He just held me as the tears came faster. I don't know how long we sat like that, but by the time I had stopped, the sun was high in the air.
"So everything is okay? Really, John?" Sherlock asked, mocking my comment from out earlier conversation last night.
"Shut up, Sherlock." I said, drying my eyes.
That topic wasn't brought up again between us. Over the next three days, I lived in the living room with Sherlock. You would have thought that he would be getting better over those three days. I thought so, too.
We were both wrong.
It stared with headaches. When Sherlock told me about it, I figured that they were caused by the surgery. The chloroform was just taking longer to exit his system. Then he was having muscle pains. He was cold, even though he was sweating, hit temperature slowly beginning to rise. The second day, he was having fits of nausea, he wasn't able to keep any food down.
I was sitting in a chair as Sherlock made his way back from one of his vomiting sessions. He was using the counter in the kitchen to help him walk, then he stopped.
"Sherlock, are you okay?"
He didn't answer me. Both his hands were gripping the counter, his eyes shut tight. I could see his legs shaking.
"Sherlock?" I asked, standing up and walking toward him.
It was a good thing that I began walking toward him because he sank to his knees. I was able to catch him.
"Sherlock, what's wrong?"
"The room won't stop spinning."
I helped Sherlock back to the couch. He leaned on me heavily. When I sat him down, I ran a few quick tests. Based on the results of those tests, I could see nothing wrong with him.
"Sherlock, I want you to stay on the couch."
"Okay." Sherlock whispered, with a nod of his head.
"Why don't you take a nap?"
"Good idea." Sherlock closed his eyes as I walked away.
I pulled a pail out and put it by Sherlock incase he was over come by nausea again. I also dampened a cloth to put on Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock's skin was hot to the touch.
I needed to find out what was wrong with Sherlock.
I dug through a medical crate and pulled out a syringe. I tapped Sherlock on the shoulder lightly.
"Sherlock, I'm going to take some blood to test then attach you to the heart monitor."
"Alright." Sherlock whispered, his eyes staying closed as he responded.
Sherlock was so sick that it was very easy for me to find a vein. When I was done, I brought the syringe to the dining table and prepared a slide for the microscope. I then ran to my room, grabbed a pen and paper and every single book on medicine that I owned at 221B. I placed the books down on the ground quietly and turned my attention to the pen and paper. I began to catalogue Sherlock's symptoms.
"101.5 temp, chills, sweats, headaches, muscle pains, dizziness, nausea, vomiting. No signs of infection at surgical sight. Increased heart rate and blood pressure. Conclusion: signs of dehydration."
If I did not know what was actually wrong with Sherlock, I at least needed to keep him alive until I did know. I started Sherlock on a bag of fluids and recorded his vital signs. After that, I got down to work. There were twenty medical books on the ground and I was sure that the illness that plagued Sherlock would be in here. I spent the rest of the afternoon and the entire night scouring through the books, recording the aliments that match with each symptom. Sherlock slept through the time, but his rest was fitful. These fits would pass quickly followed by long periods of peaceful rest.
I was finishing up with the last book when I heard Sherlock stir.
"John, have you been up all night?" Sherlock inquired in a whisper.
I sat back in my seat, my hands rubbing my eyes. I could see the sun light coming through the sides of the curtains.
"I have Sherlock." I replied, now standing. "How are you feeling?"
I went and knelt by Sherlock, checking various machines that he was hooked up to.
"Cold and tired." He answered.
I took hold of his hand.
"Can you squeeze my hand as tight as you can?"
Sherlock tried to make a valiant attempt, but it just came out as a feeble squeeze. I went and felt his face, checking his temperature. He was still burning up, his temperature was now 101.8.
"Sherlock, we need to get your temperature down." I threw the blankets off of Sherlock. "Please stay right here, I will be right back." I informed him before going to the bathroom to start the water in the tub. I then got Sherlock, brought him into the bathroom and left for a second.
When I returned, I had a pail in my hand along with a glass of water and some aspirin.
"I understand that you can't keep anything down, but I need you to try. We need to bring your fever down."
I placed the aspirin and the glass of water on the side of the sink basin. Sherlock looked up at me with a lost look in his eyes.
"I don't know if I can, John."
"I just need you to try." I urged, kneeling in front of him. "Try for me, Sherlock."
He nodded his head in agreement and took the aspirin.
"Just a sip of water. We don't need you to throw up now." I commented.
He nodded again, slowly sipping the water. When he finished, I helped him undress and get into the bath. Sherlock didn't seem at all embarrassed that I was helping him. I guess he knew that he needed my help.
"I'll be right back, Sherlock. Call me if you need anything." I informed him as I left the bathroom.
I walked back out to the living room and picked up my pad of paper.
"Obvious weakness. Temp: 101.8" I recorded and then picked up another pad of paper with all of the symptoms and possible aliments on them.
I tucked that pad of paper under my arm and went back to the bathroom with a change of nightclothes for Sherlock.
"Here's a change of clothes for you, Sherlock. Call me if you need my help." I said, beginning to turn.
"John, can you stay here?" Sherlock asked.
I turned around in a sense of astonishment. Sherlock Holmes didn't want to be left alone.
"Sure." I answered.
I sat beside the tub, eliminating illnesses that didn't match with the new symptoms.
"Sherlock, can I ask you something?"
"Yes, John."
"How did you know that it was the Brother's friend who killed that girl?"
"A girl ends up dead somewhere she has no business being. What's she doing there? Is she tied up in something she shouldn't be? Its possible, but she's a straight A student. She's not the type of person to get roped into that sort of stuff. She followed someone there? That's the more likely option, but who? Definitely none of her friends, they are all straight A students as well. Family? Most definitely, but who? Mom said that she was at home. That's true because officers said that they could smell whiskey on her breath and there was an open bottle of it in the kitchen. Dad? It couldn't have been Dad because he went to work on the other side of town. Brother? I think so because its the only other option. What is he doing there, you ask? Its obvious, he needs money. For himself?, no. For the family that just sold two cars and a boat, now that seems more likely. Dad is a trader, who is getting hit hard by the economic downturn."
"How is he getting the money? One of two options really. He's either working for a gang or he's working for a smuggler. It can't be a gang though because no one really gets paid in a gang, but why a smuggler? Well, if you find the right dealer and smuggler route, you can make quite a bit. Now, why is it the friend that killed the girl? The brother is not going to kill his younger sister, who he has practically raised because dad was always at work and their mother is an alcoholic. Therefore, the brother's friend killed her in that shipping yard, one that is notorious for drug running."
Sherlock explained it all very slowly, whether for me or the mysterious illness, I will never know.
"I can tell you that you were right. Lestrade picked up the brother's friend and he confessed to everything."
"And to strengthen my observations, I had one of my homeless network witness the attack. I know for sure that Lestrade has questioned him."
"Of course." I whisper to myself, before asking. "How are you feeling, Sherlock?"
"Tired." He answered.
In all of the time that I had known Sherlock, I never thought I would hear those words coming out of him.
"Why don't you get out and we can go back out into the living room?"
I helped Sherlock out of the tub and into some night clothes.
"Really, John? Shorts?" Sherlock asked with an outlandish tone of voice.
"Yes, Sherlock, We need to get your temperature down and it needs to stay down."
Suddenly, we could hear the door to our flat slam against a wall.
"Boys...Boys, where are you?" It was Mrs. Hudson. "I have some great news for you."
"Give us a moment, Mrs. Hudson." I called back.
I helped Sherlock out to the living room. We moved slowly, for Sherlock still leaned on me heavily.
"Can I sit in my chair, John?" Sherlock asked,
While I wanted to protest, knowing that Sherlock should be lying down, he had a look on his face that I couldn't ignore.
"For a few minutes, Sherlock. When you start feeling weak, you need to tell me."
Sherlock nodded his head in agreement. I helped Sherlock into his chair, then took my seat across from him.
"What is the big news?" I asked Mrs. Hudson.
"You've been cleared, Sherlock." She said, handing each of us a copy of a newspaper.
I looked at the front page. It held a picture of Sherlock in the deer stalker hat. The headline read: "Sherlock Holmes Not A Fraud: New Evidence Brought To Light In Defense Of Infamous Detective."
"This is very good news, Sherlock. It seems, for once, that Mycroft came through for you." I commented, folding the paper back up.
"It would seem so." Sherlock mumbled.
I listened to Mrs. Hudson say something about running to the store and asking if we needed anything, As I answered with a polite no, I saw Sherlock stifle a yawn behind his hand.
As left, I turned to Sherlock and stood.
"Let's go back on the couch." I said, holding out a hand for him to grab, but he didn't grab it. "Sherlock, I know your tired. I just watched you stifle a yawn behind your hand. I may not be like you with your deductive skills, but I do have peripherals."
Sherlock grabbed my hand and I led him to the couch.
"Try to sleep, Sherlock. I will be in the kitchen doing some work if you need me." I explained as I, once again, hooked Sherlock up to the heart monitor.
I logged his vitals and walked into the kitchen, where I would work for the next seven hours.