Sherlock had locked the door behind him - of course, John had checked as soon as Sherlock had left. And he had taken John's keys along with his own. Mrs Hudson, John knew, was out of town for the rest of the day, so he couldn't call out to her for help. No doubt Sherlock would have managed to convince her to not let him out even if she had been home. John sighed and laboriously started to make his way to his room, feeling free to wince and swear quite vociferously when he jolted anything exceedingly painful now that there was no one around. The rate at which he was already beginning to weaken alarmed him. Still, with nothing else to do, John knew it was best to try and sleep off some of the effects of whatever poison his heart was pumping through his body.
He almost didn't make it to the bed. As it was, he simply collapsed on top of the doona and instantly fell asleep. The last thought he had was how Sherlock was going to give Molly a blood sample when he hadn't taken any of John's blood...
.:':. .:':. .:':.
"Taxi!" Sherlock raised one hand, dragging the other through his curly locks. He didn't actually need to go to Molly - he'd already dropped by when John was unconscious, letting her do a blood test and bandage John up (Really, John didn't think Sherlock had performed first aid on him?). Instead, he was going... He didn't really know where.
Somewhere that wasn't 221B. He clambered into the back of the taxi pulling up to the kerb, barely waiting for it to stop.
"Where to?" the cabbie asked in a bored drawl.
"Doesn't matter. Just go."
The cabbie turned and gave him an odd look. "You alright, mate?"
"Hm? Yes, I'm fine," Sherlock replied distractedly, pulling his feet up and rocking back and forth slightly.
"You sure?" The cabbie asked doubtfully. Then, more heatedly, added, "Hey, you can't have your feet up on the seat like that! That's a finable offence, you know." He was seriously regretting picking up this fare.
"My feet aren't even on the seat, they're on my coat," Sherlock told him absently. "Now will you go?"
"You still haven't told me where," the cabbie replied, clearly disgruntled.
"St. Bart's," Sherlock decided, figuring he could talk to Molly and see if she'd made some progress.
.:':. .:':. .:':.
"Sherlock, the test will take at least twenty-four hours, I'm bending the rules as it is, I already told you that..."
He stared at her pitifully and her shoulders slumped. "I can't make it go any faster. I would if I could, I know how much John means to you. But I can't. I'll call you as soon as it's done, I promise." He didn't move. "Sherlock, there's nothing I can do!" she said desperately.
Without another word, Sherlock turned around and stalked out of the hospital.
.:':. .:':. .:':.
John regained consciousness sluggishly, eyelids gummed together with sleep. Groaning, he arched his back, his spine popping and his bruised ribs twinging in protest. He quickly laid flat once more. He ran his tongue over his lips a few times, grimacing at the taste of morning breath. He went to rub away the grime in the corners of his eyes, but when he lifted his hand to do so, he barely recognised the pallid, trembling appendage. And was it just him, or was his whole arm thinner? Surely the toxin couldn't be affecting him that much already!
Suddenly, he was snapped from his panic, his nose twitching as he smelt something delicious wafting from the kitchen. Mrs Hudson must be making something for me, he thought happily, forcing away his worry at his rapidly deteriorating state. Having not eaten since lunch the previous day, John's stomach was loudly protesting its emptiness. He scrubbed quickly at his eyes, his arm flopping weakly back onto the bedcovers. It was then he registered that he was lying on his back, under numerous blankets.
But he had fallen asleep on top of his doona. So how had he ended up tucked in like this? Had Sherlock done it? Oh God, he's actually serious about taking care of me.
Footsteps padded softly towards John's room, but they weren't the quick patter of Mrs Hudson's feet. John frowned. It almost sounded like Sherlock-
"Good morning, John. I made you soup." He nodded his head to the steaming bowl he had cupped in his hands.
John's mouth fell open. "You made soup."
"Yes, I just said that."
"You can cook?" John was stupefied. Sherlock ignored him, pulling out a chair and placing the bowl on John's beside table. John's room was sparse, military (of course). The only other piece of furniture, beside the bed he was lying on, was his closet, tucked neatly against the far wall.
He lifted a spoonful of soup towards John's mouth, but stopped at the bed-ridden doctor's sullen glare. "I'm sick, Sherlock, not an invalid. Give me the spoon." He lifted his pale, sweating hand from on top the bedcovers, reaching for the utensil with quivering fingers. "So cold," he muttered absent-mindedly, shivering despite the pile of blankets smothering him. Almost as soon as his fingers curled around the spoon, his whole body spasmed and the soup spattered downwards, the spoon clattering on the floorboards, his arm limply trailing after them. "Shit." He sighed. "Sorry, Sherlock." Trying to draw his hand back underneath the mounded blankets (which, quite frankly, were doing nothing to warm him), John was alarmed to find that his fingers merely twitched, his muscles now too weak to even move. How is it even possible that I'm getting so bad, so quickly? Wordlessly, Sherlock picked up the spoon and went to put it back in the bowl. "What are you doing? You realise how unhygienic that is? I'm already sick, the last thing my immune system needs to cope with now is more germs!"
Some slight strength had returned to John's voice, some slight colour to his cheeks, as he berated Sherlock. He even managed, with a bit of a struggle, to prop himself up on his elbows. Suddenly, though, as if someone had flipped a switch, it all drained away, leaving him as white as the sheets he lay under. This outburst, however small, had cost him.
Glancing down at the metal utensil, Sherlock wiped it on his pant leg, ignoring the stain it left, just as he ignored the one on the floor. He set it and the bowl on John's bedside table, gingerly lifting the doctor's drooping arm and tucking it back under the sheets. Then, he scooped up another spoonful of soup. John let his head fall to one side, facing away from Sherlock. "I'm not hungry," he croaked dourly, almost childishly. And indeed, the prospect of food, only a few minutes ago so appealing, was now abhorrent to him.
"John, you're not like me. Over the years, I've honed myself, trained myself to the point where I can easily sustain normal function with minimal nutritious input. I throw myself into my work, feeding my mind rather than my body. That's all the sustenance I need. I'm a man of the mind, but you're a man of the body. Not only that, you're ill. Consumption of food is necessary in order to maintain metabolic processes, to keep yourself strong, strong enough to fight what's in your system." His voice, initially earnest, suddenly cracked. Damn those feelings. Where did they keep coming from?"...Please, John. Take the spoon."
No amount of pleading from anyone else could have convinced John to eat. But hearing Sherlock Holmes say please meant so much more than when anyone else said it. So John allowed himself to be spoon-fed the soup, resenting the small size of the portions Sherlock had to deliver because John's throat muscles couldn't cope with anything larger.
.:':. .:':. .:':.
The rest of the day progressed in a similar fashion - Sherlock would give John periodic doses of soup, as well as a foul-tasting concoction designed to help him sweat out the toxin (as if he hadn't been sweating enough already). Sweating made the numerous bandages he was draped with sticky, and the skin underneath became unbearably itchy. As soon as each wound healed to the point where a bandage was no longer necessary - which would take far longer than it normally would, as his body was more focused on fighting the poison in his system - it would be removed, providing a (temporary) sense of relief.
John marvelled that Sherlock hadn't yet grown bored of taking care of him, and was also exceedingly grateful of the fact. True, it had only been one day, but he had seen the man abandon a project in a matter of seconds because it wasn't intellectually stimulating.
Sherlock had actually left Baker Street a few minutes prior, to restock their almost perpetual lack of food. So John was surprised to hear the protesting creak of feet on the stairs. He knew it wasn't Sherlock, because he'd only just left (and besides, Sherlock never made those stairs creak). Mrs Hudson, then? No, it couldn't be, she was still in town...
John's fevered blood ran cold.
There was someone else in the apartment.
.:':. .:':. .:':.
Sherlock drummed impatiently on the window frame of the back seat of his cab. Shopping had taken him far longer than he'd expected. He wasn't sure how John always managed it so quickly (really, was there any need for the supermarket to stock seven types of the same beans? It was just ridiculous). He sighed and fidgeted when the taxi ground to a halt at a red light. It was only because he needed more food for John that he'd left 221B at all - he was far too paranoid that someone would attempt to finish what the poison had started.
As he clambered out of the cab, shopping bags in his hands, he felt a foreboding sense of premonition.
The front door of 221B was ever so slightly ajar.
Sherlock bounded up the stairs three at a time, carelessly scattering the groceries at the bottom step. "John!" he called, bursting into the apartment. Not waiting for a response, he raced into John's room, where he found John and Mycroft locked in an angry staring competition. Sherlock recovered himself with incredible speed. "Mycroft," he said coolly. "I was wondering when you'd turn up. You're losing your touch - you took longer than I expected."
Mycroft rounded furiously on his brother, ignoring his snide comment. "How could you let him get involved? I specifically told you not to get him involved!" Small flecks of spittle were splattering from his lips. Sherlock exaggeratedly wiped at the side of his face.
"I didn't get him involved. If anything, he got himself involved." Sherlock inspected his nails, no evidence of his earlier frantic dash present in his expression.
Mycroft turned to glare again at the ex-army doctor. John had never seen him so angry, so discomposed. Still, it seemed unfair to have that fury directed at him. "It's not like I asked to be kidnapped, beaten up and poisoned," John told him mildly, arms crossed on his blankets.
The slightly crazed look still flickered in Mycroft's eyes, but he was at least making a visible effort to get himself under control. He managed the facsimile of a smile. "Apologies." He returned his attention to his younger brother. "Well, this will certainly make your task more… challenging."
"Will it? Up until John being kidnapped, it's been rather dull." Sherlock looked more bored than ever as he took a seat.
"You know why," Mycroft retorted.
"I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about. Please, enlighten me," he replied innocently.
Mycroft's eyes flickered involuntarily to the bedridden doctor. "Sherlock, for God's sake, you know that I won't say anything in front of John! Stop being so childish. You're wasting my time - and you are no doubt aware of how precious it is. Will you continue with the case?"
"Of course not. Someone needs to take care of John."
"Sherlock, just let me go to the hospital, I swear I'll be fine," John complained.
Mycroft's lips compressed into a thin, hard line. "Let me rephrase, Sherlock. You will continue the case."
Slowly, Sherlock rose from his seat and drew himself to his full height, glaring up at his older brother with his pale green eyes. "No, let me rephrase. I need to take care of John."
"Sherlock, I'm touched, it does mean a lot what you're offering, but I really should just go to the hosp-"
"You have no medical training whatsoever, dear brother," Mycroft countered, completely ignoring John. "What makes you think he wouldn't be better off in the hands of a professional?"
"Far less likely that he'll be killed, for one."
His brother's eyebrows were raised, the corners of his mouth twitching into something that could almost be called a smile. "Ah, but if you… care for him,is it less likely that he'll die?"
John felt a thrill of horror course through his body as Sherlock stayed silent.
"I rather thought so."
"I'm not continuing the case. Do your own legwork for a change."
"One life is not worth risking-"
"It is to me!" Sherlock roared suddenly, then thrust both fists in Mycroft's face. "Go on, then, arrest me. Isn't that what you said you'd do? Of course, that still means I'll be off the case anyway, even though I don't get to do what I want. But that's how you've always been, hasn't it? If you can't have your fun, no one can. You have to be queen of the castle."
He dropped his hands at the slow, sad shake of his brother's head. "You're making a mistake, you know," Mycroft murmured softly. "But that's how you've always been, hasn't it? Always convinced you're right." His umbrella clunked against the floor as he turned to leave, but he stopped at the door and spoke over his shoulder. "You're not this time, Sherlock."
The younger Holmes brother just bowed mockingly. "Your majesty."
"Why are you doing this?" John asked him once the front door had clicked shut. "I know it's not just to piss off Mycroft, you just need to talk to him to do that."
Sherlock shrugged. "Talking's predictable. Boring. I thought I'd try something new." He grinned. "I'd say it worked fairly spectacularly, wouldn't you?"
"For God's sake, Sherlock, just go back to the case already! I'll be fine in the hospital, I promise."
"Don't make a promise you can't keep," Sherlock muttered, his smile fading.
"Then why not let Mrs Hudson take care of me?"
The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked again. "Because she's not our housekeeper."
.:':. .:':. .:':.
A/N: I have no clue if having your feet up in a taxi is a finable offence in England or not, but it is on trains in Australia, and I'm too lazy to look it up. :P
Also, longest chapter, almost 2,500 words! :D More words should mean more reviews, right? *cough cough*
On another note, I start back at school tomorrow, and I have my trail HSC in less than two weeks (D:!), and I've kinda been procrastinating on studying for that with fanfiction. As a result, updates will be further apart from now on, sorry. I'll try to have an update at least once or twice a week.
Until we meet again,
-pixie.