CREDIT BELONGS WHERE CREDIT IS DUE

Chapter 6

Once they went through the whole ordeal of choosing a film and manage to watch a good portion of it before Sherlock felt the need to voice his 'brilliant' deductions.

Well he could not keep his mouth shut forever, could he? Of course not! He is Sherlock Holmes, the one who has to have the last word always. He will try to outlive God having the last word. That will be the death of him one day. His stubborn pride. Just as the adage says pride before a fall...

Little by little Sherlock stopped talking and started to pay attention the film. John relished those precious moments of silence and enjoyed the film knowing at any moment those rants would start up again.

Surprisingly those two hours was not as dreadful as John thought it would have been. Usually watching a film was a great task for either of them so they rarely did that. Sherlock had fallen asleep nearing the last quarter of it and slept soundly.

He continued to sleep on the settee until the sun rose the following day. John had not the heart to wake a man so desperate of sufficient rest. Besides Sherlock spent so much time on the settee sometimes in a catatonic state, he figured it must have been just as comfortable as sleeping in a bed.

Now it was nearing midday and Sherlock had not stirred slightly.

John felt very concerned. The medical training instinctively switched on and was soon examining Sherlock thoroughly with his medical supplies. His body temperature was dangerously high; it was obvious Sherlock felt very cold, flinching at every movement of John's touch. Little tremours escapes his body every time John examines him.

He called out softly to rouse him, "Sherlock. Sherlock. Wake up. You need to get up. I know you haven't slept much recently but you need to get up. I have to look you over and make sure nothing wrong. You have a fever and it is far too high. Dangerously high."

Sherlock stirred slightly at John's touch and moaned. He then slowly became semi-coherent. His eyes were glassy but clearly in pain by his expression causes by his head which seemed to have intensified when he was sleeping.

"My head! John",he rasped. "It hurts! So. Much." Then squeezed his eyes shut and trembling suddenly trying to fight a bolt of pain went through his body when the midday sun flooded into his eyes.

John held a cold cloth over Sherlock's face to ease the tension in his brow, "Relax Sherlock. That will make you feel more comfortable. Breathe slowly. In and out. Slow deep breaths. Yes. Just stay calm. I will go fetch the medication. You must take now it will help with the pain."

John returned with a glass of water and the pills in hand.

"Here Sherlock you need to sit up. Just for a moment until you can take them. Come on. I will help you up."

Supporting the frail man on his arm sent shivers through John. It terrified him, Sherlock was so thin and feeling in distress, he didn't even have the energy to speak a word of protest. With Sherlock holding the pills in one hand and groping for the water glass with the other nearly sent John into an emotional fit.

His best friend. His only friend was so ill. He was so scared.

"Alright. I'm letting you lay here for a bit longer, if you do not improve within the next hour we are going Saint Bart's. I will have Molly and Mycroft alerted. No protest. I don't want your fever to climb any more than what it already is." John spoke softly.

No John. Keep it together. You are doctor. Do not show your emotions until you are done being "doctor". Think like Sherlock! Emotions are dangerous.

The next hour dragged on slowly, Sherlock was still shivering even under two duvets and a thick blanket, and the worst was just confirmed with the 'beep' of the thermometer. His fever had gone up.

Wonderful! Just wonderful! He needs medical attention. A high fever is the perfect medium for many other complications.

"Sherlock. I need you to wake up. We are going to the hospital," he pulled the duvet off him, "Your fever has risen and needs to be treated quickly. I know you're in a lot of pain but I need you to sit up. Mycroft's men are here to transport us to St. Bart's."

Reluctantly Sherlock struggles to pick his torso off the settee falling back into John's arms keeping him propped up.

Since when did I ever take ill? I hardly succumb to bacterium or virus. What is happening to me? Why am I aching and freezing all over? Where is John? I need John. Why will my head not stop pounding on my brain? It hurts too much to think.

Taking in the surrounding as best he could, Sherlock saw nothing more than a few hazy outlines of figures. He had heard John's voice, with that confirmation of his best friend's presence, Sherlock lapsed back into a catatonic state.

Then John saw something he prayed he'd never have to lay eyes on again. He saw Death. His only friend was not breathing. Those clear blue eyes were staring emptily at the ceiling and his face was nearing the colour of his favourite shirt. An ever so faint pulse confirmed he was still hanging onto life, but Death's murderous hands started to suffocate Life. Death was waiting for the Moment. Not yet, but Death was biding his time to finish what he had planned.

A-N: Thank you for reading.