A/N: My HSC Trials start next week, but the first exam block will be finished by next Friday, so look forward to an update then. :)
.:':. .:':. .:':.
Being as utterly unable to move as he was, John's other senses seemed far more sensitive than usual, like they were compensating. He could hear Molly's worried voice tumbling through the phone's speaker, even though Sherlock was in the next room.
"I've run every test there is, Sherlock, and I've rerun them. I can't find anything out of the ordinary, it all matches up to the blood taken when he donated last week. There are so many natural poisons that the tests just won't pick up. Not to mention there's some compounds, synthesised ones - really expensive - that can escape detection through breakdown processes that occur once the body's been poisoned, but... It's impossible to know which. And it's not like I have the resources to be able to test them all. Molly let out a shaky half sob, half bitter laugh. There's thousands - maybe even tens or hundreds of thousands - of possibilities, and that's just known poisons. I could try, but it would be worse than looking for a needle in a haystack."
There was silence on both ends of the call.
Sherlo-
Sherlock savagely stabbed his thumb at the 'end call' button. John heard the soft thump of the mobile being flung onto his armchair, and the louder one of Sherlock flopping down into his own. Quiet strains of music drifted from Sherlock's violin as he began to play, a sad, haunting tune.
John felt numb. And it wasn't just the not being able to move. That was a different kind of numb.
He was still dying.
Sherlock hadn't saved him in time.
.:':. .:':. .:':.
Despite Sherlock constantly plying him with soup - it was the only thing John could stomach without being shamefully and violently sick - he was wasting away. His face, once healthy and full, was now almost thinner than Sherlock's, and even paler, aside from the black eye that was taking forever to fade. His hands were twisted knots of bone, vein and flesh, and when he wasn't covered by sheets - which still seemed to do nothing to keep him warm - his ribs showed painfully thin through his clothes and bandages. The only time he could even move without extreme effort was when he was in the grip of periodic bouts of delirium, which always drained what little energy he managed to regain.
He hated it.
.:':. .:':. .:':.
"Sherlock, look out!"
"John, it's quite alright-"
"No, it is not! Sherlock, run!" He twisted frantically under his blankets, unable to get up. "Don't stay for me, there's no point!"
"There's nothing he-"
"They're going to get you!" John bawled, tears streaming down his cheeks as he lost the war with his bedding.
Sherlock hovered at the foot of John's bed, distressed. John had been hallucinating for several minutes now. It would have been scientifically interesting for him to observe if it had been anyone else; instead, Sherlock was extremely disturbed. He had no idea what to do. What were you thinking, saying you'd take care of him? Mycroft was right, he thought bitterly. You aren't equipped to deal with this.
Hesitantly, he sat on the edge of the bed, attempting to reach out to his friend to reassure him that there really was no danger. John thrashed about hysterically, swiping Sherlock across the face. "Get away! Leave us alone! Don't hurt Sherlock!"
He recoiled, bringing a hand up to his cheek. The blow itself had been weak, ineffectual; rather, Sherlock was reacting to the fact that John thought that he was the aggressor in this latest hallucination. "John, stop." Sherlock pinned down John's flailing arms. "No one's trying to hurt you, no one's trying to hurt me."
"No, no, no…" John sobbed, his head rolling limply from side to side.
More sternly now, Sherlock told him, "John, stop it. You're hallucinating. The poison in your system is impairing your cognitive processes." A little more desperate. "Look at me, keep your eyes on me. There is no danger."
John just stared at him. Stared right through him.
"Please, John." Sherlock's voice cracked.
"Hoo, hoo." Mrs Hudson entered the room, carrying in a tea tray. "Heard John yelling from downstairs," she whispered, casting a worried glance at the stricken doctor. "Thought I'd bring up some chamomile tea, help calm him down. Does wonders for my sleeping in the winter, the cold always makes my hip play up, but the tea always helps." Sherlock nodded distractedly, indicating with a jerk of his head that she could approach. His hands were still keeping John's from lashing out.
Bit by bit, Mrs Hudson force-fed John the tea, cupping his chin so that he was forced to swallow. His arms quivered and strained, but Sherlock kept him from jerking out and spraying tea everywhere, one arm trapping John against the headrest, the other restraining his arms. A stray drip of tea trickled from John's mouth, tracing its way down his chin. Mrs Hudson tipped his head back further, and a miserable John convulsively swallowed the last of the tea.
"I've been poisoned again." John told Sherlock dully, his eyes dilated with fear so much that almost none of their blue could be seen.
Mrs Hudson set the empty cup in the soup bowl sitting on John's bedside table. "I used to be a nurse, you know, until my hip stopped me from being able to stand up for hours on end." Sherlock couldn't bring himself to berate her for her nattering. He knew it was her method of coping with stressful situations, even if it did grate on his nerves - and he'd only have to glance at her to be able to tell that she'd worked in a high-end hospital for a number of years during the '80s. "I've dealt with my fair share of delirious patients. He'll be alright, though, won't he, Sherlock?"
The words stuck in his throat as he slumped into his chair. "...I don't know."
She cast a worried glance first at Sherlock, then at John.
"They're hurting you, Sherlock," John whimpered pitifully. "I couldn't stop them… 'm sorry…" His eyelids drooped closed, tensed limbs slackening as he finally surrendered to the realm of unconsciousness.
Mrs Hudson and Sherlock stared down at his shrunken, inert form.
"What's going to happen to him?" she asked quietly.
"The... the delirium will come in increasing and prolonged fits, if they follow the same pattern," Sherlock replied distractedly. "Most likely, he'll eventually slip into a comatose state and then..." He trailed off, as saying the words would be too painful and the implication was obvious enough.
She let out a small whimper, her hand pressed against her trembling lips. "I-I'll go and check how much I have left of my chamomile tea," she said, voice wobbling. "The satchel seemed rather empty when I was making John's cuppa just now, I might have to buy some new." With that, she padded out of the room, surreptitiously wiping at her eyes.
Sherlock gazed at John's face for a few moments. Even in unconsciousness, pain and worry carved deep lines on his forehead and around his mouth.
Bored, Sherlock thought.
His eyes widened. No. You can't let this happen.
Clutching his hair, he stood quickly, his chair toppling over. He couldn't allow himself to get bored, he just couldn't. He needed to take care of John.
Violin.
He raced into the next room, picking up the instrument. But when he put the bow to the strings, for the first time that he could recall, his mind came to a blank.
Bored, bored, BORED.
Throwing the violin carelessly onto his armchair, he tore out of the apartment, nearly crashing into Mrs Hudson as he bounded recklessly down the stairs.
"Oh, sorry, love. Are you alright?"
"No. Take care of John for a bit, I need... I need a distraction." With that, he brushed past her and left 221B.
.:':. .:':. .:':.
It was several hours before Sherlock returned to the flat, far calmer than when he had left. Mrs Hudson never found out where he had gone, but it wasn't for lack of trying. She asked him on several occasions, and his reply was always the same: it was best she didn't know.
.:':. .:':. .:':.
"I still can't believe I've been poisoned," John mumbled. Sherlock said nothing. "I survive the war, and then I get poisoned." He laughed, a faint, humourless sound. "I think about it a lot. The war."
"Yes, I know. A fair number of your hallucinations revolve around your wartime experiences."
John looked down, seeing his painfully thin hands splayed on the counterpane. Not wanting to be reminded of his body's pitiful physical state, he met Sherlock's gaze.
"Are they getting worse?" He could never remember anything that he had thought was going on in a hallucination once he had reached lucidity. Only the deeply unsettling sense that something was very wrong remained.
"Yes, they are."
He nodded to himself a few times. "...What else do I... What sort of things do I say?"
"Your hallucinations about the war seem to be invariably about your injury." John nodded again. That made sense; it had certainly been one of the more traumatising experiences in his time abroad. "Other times, you think that we're both in danger, and you offer to sacrifice yourself so that I can get away. I suspect a few of these are flashbacks to the pool. There have been a few instances where you've made what I assume were allusions to what happened in the lab at Baskerville. You mentioned something about 'spirits', once. The rest is indecipherable nonsense."
"...Huh." John replied eventually, unable to find the words to formulate an adequate response.
They sat in an uncomfortable silence for several moments before Sherlock drew a sharp breath and stood. "Well, the day's getting on, I'd better go make some more soup."
"Oh, yes, of course, please do," John said, talking over the end of Sherlock's sentence and only slightly babbling. A few more uncomfortable seconds ticked by as Sherlock hovered in the doorway.
"...I don't think I've said this yet, Sherlock, but... Thank you, for doing this, for taking care of me. I really do appreciate it."
Sherlock cast him the flicker of a smile. "Well, taking care of someone in a time of need... That's what friends are for, apparently."
.:':. .:':. .:':.
Days passed, and John's condition continued to worsen. Most of his time was spent sleeping, long periods of unconsciousness that varied from the listless tossing of fevered dreams to a coma-like stillness. John's moments of clarity grew increasingly sparse, and were almost always clouded with depression. He felt responsible for his body's inability to expel the toxin, as if it was a physical weakness that was reflecting poorly on his character. He was also becoming very lethargic in these moments that he was awake and aware. Every time he blinked, it was a gargantuan effort just to lift his eyelids again.
It reached a point where the hours John spent asleep were almost double those he was awake. Sherlock was forced to feed him at times when he was still unconscious, as it was almost impossible to rouse him when his body decided it was time for rest.
One such time, after having spent the previous half-hour slowly dribbling soup down John's throat, John suddenly lurched from his deceptively peaceful slumber, making Sherlock jump. Eyes wild, he clutched Sherlock's arm, nails digging in.
"The spirits have her," he rambled earnestly. "They take her away, hide her away; she'll be gone for days, weeks, never there, always spirits, spirits instead." Sherlock tried to drag his arm free, but John's grip was like a vice. In the part of his brain that had recovered from the suddenness of John's waking, he wondering how taxing this episode would be on his friend's already depleted strength. "She's tried to stop, but she can't help herself, the spirits are too strong, she'll go back under, I don't like it, she doesn't really try to give it up, she says she does, but she's lying, she needs help…" His words slurred like a drunk's as he quickly slipped back into unconsciousness. He mumbled something else (Sherlock thought it might have been 'hurry') and went under.
.:':. .:':. .:':.
A/N: Mostly pulled that sciencey stuff at the beginning out of my ass. Oh, and a warning – those who were expecting a scientifically accurate illness for John, I'll have to disappoint you. All the symptoms of the poison were whatever I felt fit the story (I doubt I'll even name the drug). But that's one of the things I love about fanfiction - you can just make shit up. I do hope it seems viable though. :)
-pixie.