A/N: I have taken some creative liberties with the science here, so please suspend your disbelief, though the part about the plague originating in China is factual. This one is a lot less action packed, but this is the real part of the story I wanted to explore: Sherlock's views on his friendship with John.
And so, Sherlock found himself sitting in John's room at St. Barts for the third day in a row. Despite the fact John had been admitted to the hospital fairly early on in the progress of the disease, he was not responding well to treatment. The doctors were baffled when John's gums started bleeding, but this only proved what Sherlock had long suspected: Culverton-Smith had made an attempt on his life, but ended up putting the doctor on the deathbed meant for the detective.
Sherlock did not fear death. He saw it nearly every day in the walk of life he had chosen for himself. If he had been the one lying in the hospital bed, he would only regret that he could not live longer to use his massive intellect to clean up the streets of London, plagued by the knowledge that men who should have been imprisoned would continue to walk free. Now that he thought about it, though, he might have a second regret: leaving behind the select few people he actually cared about. And this was why Sherlock felt the cold grip of fear every time he looked at John because John had made him care about people, and he wasn't ready to have the doctor leave him behind.
John had been conscious for several hours during the first night in the hospital. He confirmed that he had picked up the magnifying glass, which had stabbed him, but he had just figured it was some sort of strange weapon of Sherlock's. John did not panic when Sherlock told him what the needle had infected him with.
"The possibility crossed my mind when I had that respiratory attack. It was similar to the way the victims died, and I was exhibiting many of the symptoms," John had said calmly. "I am a doctor after all, Sherlock."
"And a damn good one at that," Sherlock had complimented. John shot him a look of surprise and then a huge grin had spread across his face. Sherlock's mouth had responded in turn.
"Right then. So that's what it takes to get a compliment from you: a life-threatening illness. I'll have to put that in the blog," John had replied. And despite the fact that John might not live to make another blog post, and that the situation was not in the least bit funny, both men began to laugh. John's laugh quickly turned into a cough, and then he had begun gasping for breath. Sherlock pressed the emergency button and a team of nurses rushed into the room. One of the nurses had escorted Sherlock outside and told him he could come back once they had gotten John settled.
Sherlock paced in the hospital hallway, feeling even guiltier than before. John wouldn't even be here if it hadn't been for him, and now he had almost caused him to die of asphyxiation. 30 minutes later, a nurse came out to tell him John had stabilized, but they had put him on a ventilator to help ease his breathing.
"He's very lucky to have a friend like you," the nurse had said as she led Sherlock back into the room. Sherlock thought this couldn't have been further from the truth. When Sherlock sat down again, pulling his chair closer to the bed, John had reached out and patted Sherlock's hand, the look in his eyes telling him the laugh had been worth it.
Since then, John had remained in the realm of unconsciousness. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Harry, and even Anderson and Donovan showed up, brining flowers and condolences. Molly brought a cactus. When Sherlock had shot her a quizzical look, Molly had stated defensively, "I didn't think flowers suited him. This is more fitting for John." Sherlock couldn't have agreed more. To his surprise, Sherlock found that he didn't even have the energy to fire snide comments at Anderson and Donovan, who looked genuinely saddened at John's condition.
Harry had asked for some time alone with her brother, which Sherlock had reluctantly agreed to give her only when Lestrade forcefully led him to the cafeteria, telling Sherlock that John would have been furious if he had known the detective had not eaten in days. Mrs. Hudson had brought him a change of clothes as well as some books and his violin. Mycroft had used his influence and wealth to pay for a private room for John, so Sherlock would not disturb other patients with his playing.
But he hadn't touched the violin or the books. He spent most of the time reminiscing about the past and trying to commit every detail of John Watson to memory, from his physical appearance to his quirks. And today, he had finally started to mull over their friendship. The first (and now likely the last) Sherlock had ever been a part of. Countless times during their stint as flat mates Sherlock had wished for solitude, but now that he was faced with the prospect of an empty house, Sherlock found himself hoping for the exact opposite: many more years of companionship with the doctor.
What was it about John's character that made the idea of losing him terrify Sherlock so much? He was intelligent, not at Sherlock's level of course, but much higher than the rest of London. His courage and adrenaline craving made him a suitable partner in crime. He helped Sherlock navigate the murky waters of the social world and had taught him that people had feelings and that his words often hurt those feelings. But none of that explained the whole story.
Sherlock didn't even know why he considered it necessary to analyze his friendship with John. Maybe part of him felt that if he discovered why John was so important to him and proved that he needed the doctor, somehow John would get better. Completely irrational he knew, but he was starting to realize that life wasn't always rational, and when that occurred he usually found himself looking to John for assistance.
Suddenly, it dawned on Sherlock. John had accepted Sherlock for who he was, without asking him for much more than a bit of consideration, trust, and respect. John had willingly given these things to Sherlock, but the detective was still learning how to give them in return. And he found something rewarding in having another person care about him and in caring about another human being. For John was a man very worth troubling about, despite his modest and false assertion that he was completely ordinary.
That would be the very last word Sherlock would use to describe John Watson. John's status as a doctor and former military man already made him anything but average. He could shoot proficiently as well as remain calm in life-or-death situations. He also never backed away from an adventure, especially if Sherlock told him danger was involved.
John's capacity for caring, though, was what really set him apart from the masses. Sherlock had never met anyone with such a kindhearted temperament. As an army doctor, John had seen too much pain and darkness in this world, but still willingly kept looking, and even caring about the lives around him. It would make sense that the only ordinary thing in Sherlock's life (a best friend) would turn out to be such an extraordinary man. Now, this brilliant person would leave the world, and Sherlock's life, a little colder with his passing.
Sherlock obeyed the sudden impulse he had to grab John's hand. "I'm so sorry, John," he said softly, squeezing John's hand, knowing that in the doctor's eyes there was nothing to forgive. This only made him feel worse.
Sherlock didn't even look up when someone walked through the door and came to a halt next to his chair.
"Mr. Holmes, you are a sight," the visitor said silkily.
"You will be too, once they sentence you to a life in prison, Culverton-Smith," Sherlock replied icily, the emotion gone from his voice.
"Please, Mr. Holmes, you can call me Mr. Smith. Culverton is really such a mouthful," he drawled.
Sherlock looked up at him, curiosity getting the better of his cool indifference. Culverton-Smith, 62 years of age, did not look like a murderer, and even less like a laboratory scientist. Tall and athletic, he still retained some of the good looks he must have had in his youth. His tanned skin contrasted strongly with his gray hair. Wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, and his blue eyes held no cloud of regret for the lives he had ended. Sherlock hated him.
Before John had been struck down by his hand, Sherlock had been impressed by the man's ingenuity. He always enjoyed it when the criminal world got a bit more creative. Now that his friend's life was in danger, he felt nothing but disgust for the man standing before him.
"I suppose you're surprised to see Dr. Watson lying on the bed instead of me," Sherlock stated.
"Not particularly, Mr. Holmes. I have been eagerly perusing Dr. Watson's blog, waiting for him to describe your suddenly falling ill. So, imagine my astonishment when Dr. Watson began complaining of ailments caused by my disease," Culverton-Smith replied.
"I imagine it was quite a disappointment to you," Sherlock said disinterestedly. "Your little magnifying glass trick didn't work."
"I couldn't fool you, Mr. Holmes. You saw through that death trap right away. I should have sent you a pedometer instead," Culverton-Smith said jovially. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. The man was enjoying all of this far too much.
"At first," Culverton-Smith continued. "I was a bit put out that my virus didn't manage to make its way to you, but then I discovered the silver lining." He walked over to the other side of John's bed, leaning in close to study the doctor. Sherlock flinched, but remained seated, not wanting Smith to think he was ill at ease in his presence.
"I'm not going to hurt Dr. Watson any more than I already have, Mr. Holmes. Kind of bizarre that his gums are bleeding, don't you think? Normal Hantavirus wouldn't do that." Sherlock stared at Smith, and then suddenly, the pieces fell together.
"You've modified it," Sherlock whispered. Culverton-Smith smiled, a terrible grin that made his pleasant face turn into something much more sinister.
"I was beginning to think you would never catch on. Yes, during my exile in Asia, I took genes from Yersinia pestis and added them to the RNA of Hantavirus. Did you know, Mr. Holmes, the plague originated in China? With the right connections, a person can visit a plague pit and take away some samples from those ancient remains. With my technical know-how, I managed to make my rat-borne virus even more deadly. Alas, I couldn't make it as infectious as the plague, but it still does the trick."
"And all this just to settle a grudge?" Sherlock scoffed. "A bit elaborate, don't you think?"
"I only want what I deserve," Culverton-Smith hissed, his polite façade slipping away in an instant. "Victor and Margaret had something that belonged to me, so I took it." Culverton-Smith slowly collected himself and then continued, "Besides, it wasn't just the money, Mr. Holmes. I wanted a challenge. The inheritance was just the first step. I have much bigger plans for my creation. I'm going to sell my disease to terrorists. Those people will pay a lot of money for an effective killing machine, something that does its job from a distance."
"What makes you so sure you'll be able to do that? What's to stop me from calling in the police right now?" Sherlock mused softly, finally standing up from his chair.
"Two things, Mr. Holmes. First, I'm the only hope Dr. Watson has of survival. And second, I didn't walk in here without insurance. As to the first item, I have no intention of letting Dr. Watson live. I don't have a cure for you, Mr. Holmes, and judging by the good doctor's appearance, he doesn't have long for this world. I made his batch of virus, meant for you of course, extra potent." Culverton-Smith answered, the look of glee twisting his features into something sickening.
Sherlock staggered as if he had been hit by a physical blow. He had not thought it would be easy to get Culverton-Smith to save John, but he had not even considered the idea that Culverton-Smith would not be able to do so.
"And what…what is the second thing," Sherlock choked out, attempting to maintain his composure. Culverton-Smith pulled a small device from his pocket.
"I have several cages of infected rats scattered throughout the city. I push this button the second you call in the police, releasing all those rats into the world," he explained.
"You're bluffing," Sherlock stated simply.
"You can think that if you'd like, but I assure you, you'd be wrong," Culverton-Smith said shrugging. "I have a few acquaintances here in the city who aren't opposed to getting their hands dirty for the right price."
"Why are you here, then?" Sherlock asked, not quite managing to keep the quiver out of his voice. "Is it merely to boast? Because that is really quite dull." Culverton-Smith chuckled.
"I wouldn't want to bore you, Mr. Holmes. I have something more delectable in mind. Thanks to you, my plans have been ruined. The second I go to claim my inheritance it's off to prison for me. I want revenge, Mr. Holmes. I want you to rue the day you ever decided to take on this case. I want to watch your face as your only friend in this world dies before your eyes," Culverton-Smith stated, walking closer to Sherlock with every word, stopping a few inches from the detective's face.
"I will be here to see him fade from this world and then I will walk away. And it will kill you because not only will you have lost your best friend, but also the chance to bring me to justice, the man who murdered John Watson."
Sherlock began to breathe heavily, but fear, rather than rage, was the cause. He had never felt so helpless, and the feeling of not being able to do anything to change his situation terrified him. Even on the rooftop of this same hospital, Sherlock had known John would live if he could just play his part right. Now, despite his scheming brain, Sherlock could do nothing to change the hand fate had dealt him. Culverton-Smith read the defeat in Sherlock's eyes, and smiled.
"I wanted to get you out of the way, Mr. Holmes. Murder you before you could get a chance to pick up Victor's case. Once you started, I wasn't naïve enough to believe you wouldn't discover the truth. I figured I would have to confront you, and so I considered killing you in person or hiring an assassin. But it all worked out perfectly. I see now that taking your life would not be nearly as satisfying as this. By killing John Watson, I will have destroyed the part of you that made you human."
Culverton-Smith's voice rang with a seductive power. Sherlock could not resist the thrall of the words; he stood frozen at the foot of John's bed, unable to stop listening to the poison leeching out of his opponent's mouth.
"You will finally become the perfect crime-solving machine. Yet it won't matter to you. Your life will be empty. You will have no one by your side at the crime scene offering you support and praise. The emptiness of your flat will weigh on you, a daily reminder of all that you have lost. There will be no one to make tea or eat with. No one to worry about your health or remind you to sleep. No more blog entries of successful cases or complaining about your violin playing. No friend to ease the boredom when the cases run dry for a spell. No one to take a bullet for you or watch your back. No more laughter or words exchanged through glances and smiles."
Sherlock felt the sting of tears as they rolled down his face. Culverton-Smith's words were all true. Despair raced through his body as he thought of all the things he would have to endure without John. Bitterness may have been a strong paralytic, but despair was even stronger. And still the murderer continued, each word stabbing Sherlock like a knife.
"A never-ending guilt will consume you, eating you up from the inside. Only this flame doesn't burn, it freezes, Mr. Holmes. It will turn the blood in your veins to ice, but the numbness is worse than the pain because it is the absence of feeling and a vacuum like that is nearly impossible to fill. The years will stretch before you, endless and bleak. You will see him in every short man wearing a jumper, every male doctor with graying hair. For a split second, you will feel hope, then crushing despair when you realize John is dead and buried. And it will hurt every single time. And at the end of your days, you will look back on your life and grieve. Grieve for the lonely old man who will die as he lived most of his life: alone."
Sherlock let out a sob, seeing his future play out before his eyes just as Culverton-Smith described. The images flashed through his vision, each one more horrible than the last, culminating with a scene of a broken old man, dying in Baker Street with a skull as his only companion. It was too awful to imagine. Culverton-Smith looked down at the detective and laughed.
"And so I shall have my revenge, Mr. Holmes. And you will have noth—."
"That's enough of that," John cried as he leapt from the bed slamming the butt of his handgun into the back of Culverton-Smith's head. Culverton-Smith crumpled and fell to the floor. John looked up at Sherlock and grinned.
"He's almost as bad as you when it comes to mouthing off."
So I hope none of you saw that coming; if you did, then you are an amazing plot-twist predictor. The next chapter will be the last, and it shouldn't be too long. Just have to wrap up all of the loose ends. Thank you to all who have reviewed and followed!
Molly bringing a cactus to John while he is in the hospital is a reference to a scene in one of my favorite books, Hope Was Here by Joan Bauer.