Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
Hi, everyone! Thank you, as always, for your support and encouragement. I'm so pleased by the response to this story and it's doing wonders for my case-writing confidence. I hope you enjoy this chapter … some answers (not all, but some) here and more to come soon! Enjoy =)
"John?" Sherlock asked once they were in a taxi. "John, can you hear me?"
The taxi driver glanced over his shoulder.
"Is he alright? He's not going to hurl in my car, is he?"
"Drive."
Sherlock rolled his eyes at the back of the cabbies' head. What a stupid question; of course John wasn't alright. He was passed out over Sherlock's lap. Sherlock gently smacked John's left cheek, only to have John's head roll to the right.
"John, wake up." Sherlock said again, shaking his shoulders and John let out a low groan.
"John, can you hear me?" Sherlock repeated, louder this time.
"Stop yelling," John muttered, barely opening his eyes.
"John, look at me," Sherlock instructed, ignoring John's comment. John fought to focus his eyes on Sherlock.
"We're almost at the hospital," Sherlock said. "Don't worry, you'll be fine."
"I always worry when you tell me not to," John mumbled, his eyes sliding closed again. Sherlock couldn't argue that John had a point; he was worried so John, logically, should be half scared to death … which was ironic because, if Sherlock was judging by how his friend looked, John was already half dead.
The cab pulled up to the A&E entrance. Sherlock paid the fare before hauling John out of the cab and helping him into the hospital. Immediately, a nurse was there with a wheelchair, for which Sherlock was grateful. John was heavier than he looked, despite the weight he'd lost in the past three days.
Much like John had suspected, there was no waiting involved in this visit. He was whisked away into an examination cubicle. Sherlock followed and watched as the nurse changed him into a hospital gown and took his vitals.
"A doctor will be with you shortly," she said briskly, pulling the dividing curtain closed behind her. Sherlock stoically watched John's laboured breathing and he could tell when John's breath hitched in his throat that his friend was about to vomit. In one swift movement, Sherlock had John sitting and a bin in his lap.
"You are lucky," Sherlock murmured with a raised eyebrow, although his voice filled with worry. "I wouldn't do this for just anyone."
John was too busy vomiting to respond – not that he had really heard much of that; he was on the edge of consciousness to begin with – and by good luck, the doctor arrived at that moment. He didn't look phased by what was happening. He simply waited till John was done and Sherlock had wiped John's mouth with a towel.
"Dr. Watson," the doctor said, checking the chart. "I'm Dr. Santos. Can you tell me what you're feeling, please?"
John swallowed.
"Headache, nausea, vomiting, stomach cramps, dizziness, weakness, cough, sore throat ..." John's voice trailed off.
"Fever? Aches and pains?" Dr. Santos asked, not looking up from his notes.
"Yes," John mumbled.
"And how long have you been ill?"
"Three days."
Dr. Santos nodded and noted the information.
"What have you been doing in terms of treatment?"
"Paracetamol." John said, wishing he could stop talking.
"What about food and drink?"
"Drinking water, juice …" John paused as he coughed. "Haven't kept much down, though."
Dr. Santos nodded again before looking at Sherlock.
"I'm assuming you brought him in," he said and Sherlock nodded. "Is there anything that you can add?"
"I haven't been taking care of him," Sherlock said. "He was with his … female acquaintance. She was quite insistent on him not coming into hospital so finally I went over there and brought him myself."
"Was there anything unusual about where he was staying? Any strange pets, maybe?"
"No." Sherlock answered. Of course, he hadn't seen them but he had deduced they weren't there. "She was meticulously clean, you could tell from the fresh water glass by John's bed and the arrangements of pillows on her sofa indicate she was obsessively organized."
Dr. Santos raised an eyebrow but nodded.
"Alright," he said. "Dr. Watson, I'm going to perform a quick physical exam before I take some blood samples. We'll start you on a drip to help with the dehydration while we wait for the results."
John nodded as Dr. Santos pulled on a pair of gloves. He glanced at Sherlock.
"Do you mind stepping outside?"
"He can stay," John murmured. "It's fine."
"Alright," Dr. Santos said with a shrug. It didn't bother him any. "Dr. Watson, I'm just going to systematically check you for any bites or strange marks. Let me know if there's any pain or discomfort."
John nodded again. He knew how this worked and closed his eyes as Dr. Santos worked over his neck, chest, back, arms, and legs.
"The good news is that I didn't see anything that should cause alarm," Dr. Santos said, stripping his gloves to make a note. "Now I'll get a blood sample and then we'll make you a bit more comfortable."
Sherlock watched wordlessly as the doctor collected his sample and then started an IV line. He observed with little interest as the clear liquid snaked down the tube and into John's arm.
"Try to get some sleep, Dr. Watson," Dr. Santos said. "And I'll be back shortly."
The doctor left with his sample and Sherlock pulled up a chair next to the bed. John cracked open his eyes, glancing at Sherlock.
"If you have somewhere else to be," he muttered. "Don't feel like you need to stick around here."
"No, I'm fine," Sherlock said immediately. "Besides, someone has to make sure you don't choke on your own vomit."
John would have laughed if he didn't feel so awful. The two of them lapsed into a slightly awkward silence, although John fell asleep quickly.
After about an hour, Dr. Santos returned with the file containing the test results.
"And?" Sherlock asked, standing. Dr. Santos did not look happy.
"There's nothing abnormal about his blood work, besides an elevated white count." He said, studying the piece of paper.
"Is there a chance it's just a bad case of flu?"
"Perhaps," Dr. Santos said. "But the symptoms don't match up perfectly and if he's been this ill for three days, that tells me that there may be something else causing it. I'm going to admit him and we'll run further tests."
Sherlock nodded and accepted the clipboard from the admitting clerk when she came. He pulled John's wallet out of his coat – he had grabbed that, plus John's mobile, on their way out – and filled out the relevant information.
"Perfect," the admitting clerk said. "An orderly will be by to take him to his room."
Sherlock didn't say anything in response and watched John sleep until an orderly came and moved him. John didn't really wake up throughout the transfer – he opened his eyes momentarily but that was about it – and soon Sherlock was settled into the visitor's chair of a private room. His fingers were steepled under his chin as he watched John's chest rise and fall.
There was something wrong with this.
John didn't get sick … not like this.
So something had to be causing it.
But what?
The blood tests were clean … or, at least, ruled out the most probable explanations.
Poisoning seemed like a good guess.
But what sort of poison? And how did it get into John?
The woman John was staying with seemed like the obvious candidate but Sherlock wouldn't rule out other possibilities … the people at the restaurant, for instance. They could have easily put something in his food or drink.
But wouldn't that have showed up on the toxicology report? And unless it was meant to kill him and had failed, the poison would have worked its way out of John's system by now. If anything, he should be getting better, not worse.
A drug then, not poison. Obvious.
Again, the toxicology report cleared all the obvious ones – heroin, marijuana, crystal meth – but none of those drugs manifested these symptoms, even with an overdose.
What could it be, what? There had to be some sort of clue, something he was missing.
Who … what … why … how … all these questions were swirling around in Sherlock's mind.
Okay, break it down.
Who: the people at the restaurant hadn't known John was coming. They didn't have a reservation that night and had shown up spur of the moment. The woman, then.
What: a drug of some sort.
Why: Sherlock didn't have the foggiest.
How: John had been staying with her since their date that night, plenty of time for her to slip him something. John had been sick for three days, meaning he was ill the morning after their night out so whatever she gave him, it had been that night. Food and drink were obvious methods but they had just come from dinner. John wasn't a big snacker and if their evening had been romantically successful (as Sherlock thought it had been), they wouldn't have had much to eat at her flat. Drink, then. Tea, most likely, but that seemed like a long shot. There wasn't a guarantee of getting the drug into John with tea. He could have refused or not finished the beverage.
Oh.
Of course, Sherlock thought, standing and going to the door. He flipped the lock and closed the blinds before going back to John. Completely disregarding John's privacy – the doctor was unconscious at the moment so he couldn't complain – Sherlock lifted the blankets and hiked John's hospital gown up. Sherlock knelt down so his nose was inches away from John's leg … any other time, an awkward sight but Sherlock was looking for something.
He focused on the left leg (John had been on the left side of the bed, making his left leg the one closest to the edge), mid to upper thigh. He pulled out his magnifying glass, noting that John had an annoyingly large number of freckles.
Still, it only took him a moment to find what he was looking for. Once he found it, he pulled out his phone and snapped pictures of the puncture mark.
An injection, of course. That woman – Sherlock would have to learn her name now – had administered some sort of drug via an injection while John was sleeping.
Interesting.
Sherlock covered John up again and tucked the blankets around him before striding out of the room. He found Dr. Santos, who told him the case had been transferred to a Dr. Williams. Sherlock drummed his fingers impatiently while Dr. Williams was paged and when he short, bald man finally appeared, Sherlock shared his findings. Dr. Williams had looked surprised but promised to look into it.
"As will I," Sherlock said, putting his mobile back in his coat. "The nurse has my number, text me if anything changes."
With that, Sherlock tightened his scarf, buttoned his coat, and left the hospital.
He had a case to solve.
The game, as Sherlock likes to say, is on! I hope to update soon but I have a very busy couple of days towards the end of the week so no promises but I'll do my best =)
Reviews are always lovely and make me smile!