There was an almost freakish quiet about the place when John slipped in the front door at half-past five. Neither Molly nor Harry were in sight. He wandered through to the kitchen where, predictably, he found Harry hovering over the contents of the fridge.
"What's going on?" he asked.
"Upstairs, feeding her." Harry pointed vaguely to the ceiling above. "God, she was a right little bugger this time."
"Harry!"
"Well, she was. We figured she was beside herself because she was hungry, but she was too worked up for a while to even remember how to nurse."
"Gee, I wonder where she gets that kind of energy and lack of logic from." John rolled his eyes and went upstairs, knocking briefly on the bedroom door before opening it. He found Molly practically slumped against the headboard of the bed, Charlie at her breast.
"I'm sorry." She shifted Charlie slightly in her arms. "I didn't want to drag you away from Sherlock when he's sick, but Harry wanted to call you..."
"He's not that sick," he reassured her, sitting beside her on the mattress and touching Charlie's fair hair gently with two fingers. "He'll cope without me. He wasn't exactly in a talkative mood when I left, anyway. Um. Harry says she was pretty awful this time."
"She was just hungry, I think. I feel like an idiot for not realising -"
"Hey, Lolly, what did we say about you being an idiot, or not being an idiot?" he reminded her quietly. "I don't think you're any worse at guessing what she wants than me or Harry or anyone else, and that includes Brooke Cade."
Molly considered this in silence for a few seconds. "Well," she murmured, "she's about falling asleep now, at last. I hope she'll be down for a couple of hours."
"Me too. For everyone's sanity." John leaned over and kissed her forehead, then went back downstairs to where Harry had made herself a cup of tea and was sitting at the table with it. He'd just noticed that she looked almost as tired-out and miserable as Molly. To do her credit, she'd helped out a lot with Charlie over the last few weeks.
"What's that Turkish place on the main road?" he asked her without warning. "Something Baklava? Here." He shoved a twenty-pound note into her hand. "Take Molly there when she's done with Charlie, will you? I've heard the ice cream is good."
Harry looked at the notes in her hand. "Okay," she said slowly. "What about Charlie?"
John frowned. "What about her?"
"Well, I assume you want us to go without her. Are you going to be okay with her on your own?"
"Oh, for God's sake." John rolled his eyes. "Yes. I'm not babysitting, Harry, she's my kid. And she's nearly asleep, anyway. Just give Molly at least an hour, and talk about TV together, or something ordinary like that."
Sighing, Harry put the money in her wallet. "Fine," she muttered. "An hour."
"At least."
Harry had to practically drag Molly away. When John was sure they'd actually left the house and were walking up toward the main road, he went upstairs to the nursery door. Behind it, he could hear Charlie snuffling in her sleep.
Thank God for that.
He went back down to where his phone was sitting on the coffee table and sat down, thumbing out a text:
Everything OK?
The reply came through almost instantly.
I'm fine - S
Arriving at the psychiatric care unit of the hospital at half-past nine, Mycroft half-expected to see Adelaide Bartlett sporting a straitjacket. But of course, they didn't use such things in modern psychiatric medicine. He found her sitting forlornly on her flat little hospital bed, garbed in a checkered hospital gown, her bare feet swinging close to the linoleum floor. In her tailored, fashionable clothing, she had looked slim and graceful; in an oversized hospital gown, she simply looked skinny and fragile. She glanced up at him as he shut the door behind him and took a few paces into the room.
"Monsieur -"
"No," Mycroft told her. "No, Adelaide. I don't believe you. Drop the act."
She exhaled deeply and put her face in her hands for a few seconds. "Who are you?" she asked him.
"My name is Mycroft Holmes. I'm a minor government employee, and you attacked my little brother earlier today, which is why you're here."
Adelaide looked sulkily at the floor. "I didn't mean to attack him," she muttered.
"I'll be sure to let him know." Mycroft looked around. "Well, this is a delightful room, for a psychiatric ward. Doesn't it bother you to be remanded here because of an act? Not to mention the future possibility of your being drugged for no reason, and at the mercy of patients who really are mentally ill. And the pretence of mental instability must be exhausting to have to keep up when you're under constant surveillance." He glanced at the closed door, then smiled slightly. "Well. Almost constant surveillance."
"What do you want?" She had drawn back slightly, and her pupils were like saucers. Mycroft smiled again.
"I want you to tell me how you did it, Mrs. Bartlett."
"I didn't kill Edwin!"
"And the only other solution is that he killed himself, which we both know didn't happen," Mycroft told her serenely. "Your statement was particularly poorly thought out in that respect, and I'm referring to the one you gave while sober. Several rather ludicrous inconsistencies. Have you ever heard of Occam's Razor?"
Adelaide frowned. Mycroft reflected that while she both understood and spoke much better English than she led most to believe, she was genuinely confused about who Occam was and what a razor had to do with things.
"Put simply," he said, "it means that you must always assume the most simple and direct solution to a problem. For example, we have the case of Edwin Bartlett, an eccentric hypochondriac who was quite literally crawling with parasites, and a young wife revolted by him. He dies by drinking chloroform. Occam's Razor in action: you killed him. What I want to know is how you did it without him aspirating or inhaling it."
"Monsieur Holmes!" Adelaide lifted her chin. "How is it that you speak to me like that? Do you know who I am? I'm a lady."
"Not quite," Mycroft said. "Was it Margaret Thatcher who said that a woman who declares herself to be a lady is most definitely not one? And yes, I know who you are. I know a great deal about you, in fact. I know you're a year older than your falsified birth records claim you are, that you weigh fifty-five kilograms and are allergic to an ingredient in most soaps - probably pentasodium pentetate. I know that you're afraid of cats, that you vote Tory, that you've been recently sexually active - with Edwin's brother - and that you have a calcium deficiency. More to the point, I know that you do not have schizophrenia, though you're the daughter of poor Claire Demotte. And on that note, I also happen to know who your biological father is."
She looked up at him sharply. "Then tell me," she demanded.
"No, I don't think so." Mycroft shook his head. "Suffice it to say that he's trying to help you, but your behaviour is making it difficult for him. If you simply confess that you killed Edwin in despair at a loveless marriage and the hope of a fresh start without the scandal of divorce... well. We can help you. If you tell us how it was done, we have a a very good chance of arguing that you were temporarily insane at the time. But this obstinacy is only going to end in a guilty verdict and a life sentence, Mrs. Bartlett."
"My father -"
"Your father won't want to associate himself with such a scandal, so it would be very irresponsible of me to reveal his identity at this time. Think about it. Make some effort at seeing sense, for heaven's sake." Mycroft got up. "I'll be back to speak with you tomorrow," he said evenly. "Do forgive me for how brief this visit has been, but I wanted to give you something to consider overnight. I hope to find you a little less intractable after a night in here. Goodnight."
He went directly to the door, and did not look back at the forlorn woman on the bed.
Sherlock woke with a gasp into a room so dark that he wondered for a second if he'd been struck blind. After that second, there were two things alone that registered: he was in agony, and he had to vomit. Now.
He flailed over the mattress for the bucket. Days later, he realised why he'd been unable to locate it - he'd tipped it and it had rolled under the bed. He struggled against the tangled blankets for a few seconds, then tumbled onto the hardwood floor with a thud. Pulling himself free of the folds around his legs, he finally staggered into the adjoining bathroom, making it to the toilet just in time to heave.
His knees buckled and he slumped down onto the floor, which turned out to be a mistake. More pain jolted through him, bringing on another round of vomiting. It didn't quite all make it into the toilet this time.
The pain was making him vomit. The vomiting hurt. This was not a cycle he was likely to be able to get out of on his own.
Think.
He shut his eyes, trying to remember where he'd last seen his phone... had he... yes, he'd sent another "I'm fine" text to John at around nine-thirty and then put the phone on the bedside table.
Propping himself up using the splattered toilet seat, he struggled up until he was finally, unsteadily, on his feet. He scrabbled for the shower screen for support, then the towel rack, then the door frame. He stopped, swallowing down hard and taking as deep a breath as he could manage. Fumbling blindly for the bedside table, his fingers closed around his phone and he dropped onto the mattress.
John picked up his phone on the fourth ring, sounding groggy. Sherlock wondered what time it was, but he wasn't wondering for long.
"Ten past one, Sherlock," John mumbled. "Are you okay?"
Sherlock felt a sudden hot surge of humiliation. He was calling John at ten past one in the morning to come out to help him, because his stomach hurt. Ridiculous. Really ridiculous... He heard a slight shuffle on the end of the line that sounded as if John had just sat up in bed. The change in his breathing pattern confirmed it.
"Hey," he said. "What's wrong? Are you - "
"It's fine. It's... nothing." Another wave of nausea had started to build, and Sherlock had just realised he was clenching the phone in his shaking hand so hard that his fingers burned.
"Yeah, I don't believe you, sorry," John responded flatly. "You sound terrible. I'll -"
"I said it's fine." Sherlock gritted his teeth as more pain twisted at his gut. He could feel cold sweat breaking out on his forehead and temples, and the room spun drunkenly. He closed his eyes. "I forgot how late it was. Case related. I'll - I'll talk to you in the morning."
"Sherlock -"
"I'll call you in the morning."
Before John could protest any further, Sherlock hung up on him. He threw the phone down onto the bed and pulled himself to his feet using the bedside table as leverage. His stomach spasmed viciously in protest and he doubled over, sucking in a breath through his teeth.
In his lifetime, Sherlock had been beaten and punched and stomped and strangled. He'd fallen from heights and been hit by a car on no less than three occasions. He'd burned and poisoned himself experimenting with chemicals and taken so many blows to the head it was a miracle he could still say his own name, but none of it had ever hurt quite like this.
And all the same, he was not going to vomit on the floor, or on himself. He lurched forward, grasping blindly for the safety of the door frame and gripping it under his white knuckles. The few feet to the toilet seemed like a vast and hostile plain, but he staggered over somehow, and was vomiting in the approximate direction of the toilet bowl when the phone on the bed started to ring again.
When Sherlock failed to pick up the second call, John swore gently to himself in the darkness and got up, fumbling around for yesterday's jeans. As he put them on with one hand, making another attempt to call Sherlock's phone with the other, Molly stirred and sat up blearily. Her soft hair tumbled down her shoulders and over her pale face.
"John -?"
"It's Sherlock," he said, picking up his watch from the bedside table and putting it on, then searching around in the top drawer for the spare keys to 221 Baker Street. "Something's wrong. I've got to go out there. I'm sorry."
"Will it be dangerous?"
"Not for me, no. I think he might need a trip to the hospital this time, though." John knelt down beside the bed, rummaging underneath for the medical case that he still kept on hand in case of emergencies. "I don't know what he's got, but I'll bet it isn't diverticulitis. I'll call you as soon as I know what's going on."
At this convenient moment, both of them heard Charlie stirring in the nursery across the hall. John looked back at Molly, torn.
"It's okay," she said. "She needs to be fed, that's all. You go to Sherlock."
"Are you sure -?"
"Yes. Go to Sherlock."
What an end for Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock thought to himself with a sort of passive delirium. Survived the attacks of London's most evil criminal masterminds. Died on his bathroom floor from... whatever's causing this ungodly pain...
He chuckled a little... oh, God, the irony of it. But all thoughts of amusement or irony fled as the pain abruptly spiked again. This time he vomited without even trying to reach the toilet bowl.
Back in the bedroom, his phone had surely been ringing for hours.
For God's sake, John, just make a deduction for once in your life and get over here... Sherlock shuddered, drawing his thin, shaking arms around himself as the hairs on his arms prickled up. I'm quite possibly and literally dying.
That isn't helping.
But he was incapable of thinking of anything that would help, or of doing it if he thought of it; his usually linear, eloquent thoughts were presenting as a series of exclamation marks. Around him, the room spun wildly, and grey shadows were closing in on his vision. He slumped over with his forehead resting on the toilet seat, just as another violent shudder ran through him.
Maybe if I can sleep... it might make it better... just need to sleep... few minutes...
Sherlock had no idea how much time passed between when he curled up against the toilet and shut his eyes and when the warm pressure of John's hand on his shoulder blade invaded the darkness.
"Sherlock...?"
He forced his eyes open; John was crouched on the tiles beside him. Much later, Sherlock remembered that John had been analysing the scenario, in much the same way that he himself would analyse a crime scene -
He heaved again. A surge of bile stung his nostrils and the pain followed, crashing over him and leaving him breathless.
"Yeah, I'm afraid you don't look very 'fine' to me," John said. Sherlock felt cool pressure on his forehead. "I knew it. I bloody knew this wasn't diverticulitis... Can you sit up? Come on, sit up... don't put your face there, it's not clean."
Sherlock, struggling upright, felt the rough kisses of a wad of toilet paper scraped along his mouth and chin for a few seconds. He opened his mouth to say something logical and helpful and useful about the situation. What came out was a miserable little whimper.
"I know it hurts. We're going to get that sorted out." John laid two warm fingertips on the inside of his wrist and curled the other hand firmly around his neck to keep him upright.
"I'm going to pass out," Sherlock gasped out urgently, eyes flickering wildly to and fro as he chased black blotches out of his vision.
"No, don't you dare. I need you awake for now," John said, starting to get up. "And not on the bathroom floor. Hold onto me, I'll help you up..."
No sooner had Sherlock got to his feet than his knees buckled and he sank down again, stifling a yelp between his teeth. John staggered and swore under his breath. Grasping Sherlock awkwardly under the armpits, he steered him two steps back to the wall and propped him up against it.
"Okay," Sherlock heard him saying, but it seemed more to himself. "All right. Just a few steps, Sherlock..."
John was a much steadier support than Sherlock would have expected the smaller man to be, and he staggered back to the bed somehow. Stricken, he curled up shivering on the mattress, his hot face half-buried in his pillow.
"There... that's an improvement on the floor, anyway." John sat on the side of the mattress. It sounded like he was lifting something, and then Sherlock heard the soft click of the latches on his medical case being sprung open. "Just stay still for a second."
As miserable as he was, Sherlock was struck by a sudden memory. Three weeks after Moriarty had tried to kill him and John at the pool, he'd been sitting in the kitchen experimenting with copper wiring, which he'd been cutting with a Stanley knife. The blade had slipped off one of the coils of wiring and plunged straight into his thigh. He'd tried to stop the bleeding for almost ten minutes before being forced to conclude it wasn't something he could do on his own and had called up the stairs for John, who'd come down to find his kitchen and flatmate awash with blood.
John had gone into meltdown: you're a bloody idiot! Why the hell didn't you call me when this first happened? Have you got any idea how close that came to your femoral artery?! But first, he'd got to work and stopped the bleeding while waiting for the ambulance to arrive. In fact, he'd got his stitched-up, pallid patient back to Baker Street and settled in the armchair with a cup of strong, sugary tea and a blanket before he'd even raised his voice.
This was like that time, only worse. John was afraid.
"Just hold still and let me look, Sherlock..." he heard him say. Sherlock, breathing through his pillow, braced himself, awaiting cold fingers.
"Ow!" Involuntarily, his eyes flew open and he drew in a jagged breath. His first irrational thought was that John had dropped something onto his stomach. Something heavy. A brick... a cement block...
"Take it easy, I barely touched you," John said. "Where does it hurt the most? Right there?"
Sherlock nodded, biting down hard on his own hand.
"Okay." John pulled his shirt back down. "I'm going to call an ambulance."
"Don't want -"
"Too bad. Something's seriously wrong, Sherlock. We need to get you to a hospital right now, and you can't walk. Move your arm a bit... there, keep that there." Sherlock felt a cold thermometer slid under his armpit. Still breathless with the sudden avalanche of pain, he felt hot tears stinging his eyes and clamped them shut defiantly. I am NOT going to cry in front of John...
"Holding your breath won't help." John pulled Sherlock's hand away from his mouth, giving it a squeeze. "And neither will biting yourself... stop that. Keep breathing... you're okay, Sherlock."
"I am not okay!" Sherlock snarled at him. "I am the least okay I have ever been in my life!"
"You'll be fine. And yelling about it isn't doing either of us any favours..." The thermometer under Sherlock's arm suddenly bleeped and John retrieved it, then swore softly to himself.
"What? What is it?"
"It's high..." John stood up. "Stay still."
Sherlock started to tell John to piss off with his ridiculous orders. What actually came out of his mouth was a hoarse gasp; he decided to save the snarling for later and conserve his energy. Trying his best to stay still, he heard John wander out into the hall. Half a minute or so later, John's words filtered in and out of his mind in drabbles that didn't always make sense to him.
"Been down since last night, I think... uncontrollable vomiting... bloodstained... dehydration. Axillary temp is 39.3. He's been on Flagyl for the past nine hours... three doses... paracetamol, but I don't know when his - look, this is an emergency, so just get an ambulance here quickly and they can ask me twenty questions then, okay?"
39.3? Sherlock foggily tried to remember the average body temperature of a man his size, but facts and figures were a lost cause, bouncing at random in his brain like captive insects. The next wave of nausea was brief and brutal. Before he could even recognise it, he'd heaved over the side of the bed again. John's voice, which had become vague and low again, suddenly hissed into clarity.
"Mycroft, I don't care where you are or what important thing you're doing, your little brother is being rushed to hospital and you will be there -"
Mycroft? Oh. Oh, no. No-no-no...!
Gripping the edge of the bedside table, Sherlock dragged himself upright and then to his feet before the pain slammed into him. He cried out and sank back down onto the mattress just as John threw the door back open, phone still at his ear.
"I told you to stay still," he scolded, urging Sherlock back down by one shoulder. "Lie down. Mycroft, are you hearing this? Is this enough for you to tear yourself away from your precious work for one night? We'll meet you at the hospital."
And then John did something he'd never done to Mycroft Holmes before. He hung up on him.
"Okay," he said. "Well, that's all sorted. Ambulance is on the way. Won't be long now. Now listen, I don't suppose you'll be back here for a while, so it might be worth throwing a few things together. Nothing like being stuck in a hospital without a toothbrush. Is there anything in particular...?"
"Mhhn," Sherlock grunted, waving vaguely in the direction of the doorway. "Strongbox. On the table..."
John frowned. "What?"
"My will." Sherlock took another jagged breath and curled his knees up to his stomach. "It... hasn't been..."
"Oh, for God's sake," John snapped. "No. You shut up about your will."
"But..."
"Yeah, I know... I know." John's hand felt cool on his soaked forehead. "But you're not dying, Sherlock. The ambulance will be here in ten or fifteen minutes, and I need you to be conscious when it does come - they'll have questions I can't answer. Hold on."