Sherlock sighed inwardly as she knocked on the door. Of course, he knew it was Harry; she'd come to the flat at the same time every evening to see John, whether he was unconscious, hallucinating or lucid. She showed quite a level of determination, he had to admit, going from almost constantly having some form of alcohol in her system to having absolutely none. Still, they maintained a wary tension. Sherlock's initial opinion of her had improved somewhat with the advent of her alcoholic fast, but he was still far from having even a neutral opinion of her.
Harry clomped up the stairs and marched straight to John's room, not even looking at Sherlock as she knelt at the sleeping John's beside. Sherlock wished Mrs Hudson would stop letting her in. "How has he been, Mr Holmes?" She was still uncomfortable with using his first name, and Sherlock was fine with that. He didn't want that level of familiarity with her anyway.
"No improvement, if not worse." He leaned back in his chair. "He was awake and coherent for a few hours last night, but he started hallucinating about the war again around six in the morning. It was almost fifteen minutes before I could calm him down, and he's been asleep since."
She nodded a few times, pressing her lips together in an effort to stop their trembling. "Okay. That's not... Okay." John stirred slightly, and she sat forward eagerly, but he was only shifting in his sleep. After a few seconds, she sighed, adding, "Met a fan of yours today."
He turned his gaze on her, interest piqued. "Really? Who was he?"
"He's part of my AA group. Jim, I think his name was. Named his son after you."
"Hmm." Sherlock sat back again, steeping his fingers. If Harry had happened to tear her eyes from her brother, she would probably have been confused at the bright spark of interest gleaming in his eyes.
Jim Moriarty, he mused. What are you up to?
.:':. .:':. .:':.
Delicate, poignant music drifted from Sherlock's violin. The apartment was otherwise completely silent - John was asleep (unconscious) and Harry had left hours ago. Sherlock stopped playing, back to the door.
"I'd say it's nice to see you again, but..."
"Oh, you really are quite good, aren't you?" Moriarty replied mockingly from the doorway.
Sherlock said nothing as he turned around, merely using the bow as an indicator as to where Jim should sit. Moriarty rather deliberately chose the other chair, propping one foot on the opposite knee. Sherlock settled himself in John's usual armchair, leaning his violin against it.
"So, you have a drinking problem. That's new."
He waved a hand affably, then put on an exaggeratedly timid and hopeful expression. "I've been an alcoholic for years, and my wife took my son away because I'd become unstable," he moaned dramatically, crocodile tears glimmering in his eyes. "I'd do anything just to see my little Sherlock again." He smirked at Sherlock, who gazed impassively back at him. "But, obviously, Daddy's not on a social call." He cocked his head. "You want to know why I'm here?"
"I already know why you're here."
Moriarty grinned savagely. "That's my boy."
"It's about John."
He made a neutral gesture. "You know, I was interested to see what would happen if I did something to your pet. Disappointingly boring, as it turns out."
"I knew you were behind this somehow."
The consulting criminal raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "How easy it is for people to say they knew all along," he mused. "Funny thing, isn't it? The wisdom that comes with hindsight."
"What did you have them poison John with?"
"Oh, right, that." Moriarty grimaced, making a show of unfolding his legs, then grasping the arms of his seat and readjusting himself. "I guess I should have thought ahead with that one a little more, in hindsight." He smiled wolfishly. "I know what you're really asking, of course. There's no cure."
Sherlock gave a non-committal shrug. "I never really expected that there was, with you involved."
"And yet you ask."
One eyebrow quirked. "Did I?"
He rolled his eyes. "You were going to."
Silence pervaded the room for several seconds, the tension almost palpable.
"He'll get better," Moriarty told him. "Should only take a day or two. That is, if it doesn't kill him first. How long was he breathing it in before you swooped in and saved him?"
All was quiet for a few more uncomfortable moments.
"Am I going to have to contribute everything in this conversation?"
No answer.
"Good thing I love the sound of my own voice."
Still nothing.
"They're all dead now, you know. That's what happens to things that outlive their usefulness to me."
Sherlock inclined his head, finally speaking. "I'll keep that in mind."
Moriarty gazed at him piercingly, getting to his feet. "You should." He straightened his suit emphatically. "It happened to them, and it'll happen to you. Your death will be far more spectacular than theirs, of course, but you won't exactly be around for long enough to appreciate the true mastery of it."
"Never a dull moment with you, is there?" Sherlock gave him a slight smile, not looking perturbed in the least.
Moriarty paused at the door. "No, not really." Then he opened it and left the apartment.
Tendrils of music twined down after him as he descended the stairs.
.:':. .:':. .:':.
Sherlock sat at John's bedside, fingers knotted, a single line furrowing his brow. John had been asleep for over sixteen hours, tossing all the while. Any fluids Sherlock managed to get into him were promptly vomited back out again. His sweating had increased dramatically, leaving his forehead and cheeks still burning with fever, but the rest of his skin as clammy as a corpse's. His breathing had grown ragged and laboured, eyelids quivering as they struggled to escape the trappings of his feverish dreams.
He had been ignoring it mostly up until that point, but as both Mycroft and Moriarty had pointed out, there was an unfavourable probability that John would not survive his affliction. The more time that passed, the more John's body weakened, and the smaller his chances of recovery grew. Sherlock rubbed his temples, frustrated and anxious. He was really not equipped to deal with this (any) level of emotion.
John's back arched suddenly and he lurched forward, eyes flying open. Sherlock fell back in shock. Chest heaving, John cast his gaze wildly around the room, only regaining some semblance of calm when he saw Sherlock sitting in his familiar spot - if looking a sight more alarmed than when he had seen him last.
"That chair looks bloody uncomfortable," John told him once his breathing became regular, slouching back on his pillows.
Sherlock glanced down at his seat, as if only just realising it was there.
"It's fine." He couldn't quite stop the twitch of his lips into a smile.
"Why don't you just get one of the lounge chairs from the living room in here?"
He shrugged. "Because then it wouldn't be in the living room anymore."
John shifted slightly under his blankets, giving him an odd look. "You make very little sense sometimes, you know that?"
"It's been mentioned to me before, yes."
They grinned briefly at each other.
"Could you get me some soup? I'm starving." Sherlock obediently stood and left the room, returning a few minutes later with a steaming bowl. "I made some earlier, I just reheated it," he told John, explaining his speedy return.
"Would you... Would you give me the spoon?"
"John-"
With some effort, the doctor pushed himself up onto his elbows. "I think I can do it, Sherlock." Sherlock sighed, but put the soup on the chair and helped John sit up before passing him the bowl and the spoon. John grasped the utensil tenderly, almost like he had forgotten how. Then he scooped up a spoonful of soup and swallowed it. He repeated the action until the bowl was clean, at which point Sherlock put it aside for him. A smile of pure joy lit John's features. "I can eat by myself again," he said wonderingly.
Sherlock smiled tiredly. It was only then that John noticed the bags under his eyes, black as bruises.
"Sherlock, how long has it been since you slept? More than a few minutes, I mean?"
"It's Tuesday now, isn't it? That would be Monday..." John raised an eyebrow. "Last week..."
His jaw almost dropped. "And you've just, what, been making soup, trying to calm me when I'm hallucinating and... and watching me sleep that whole time?"
"And being annoyed by your sister, yes."
He raised a thin hand to rub his disbelieving face. "Well, that's... touching, in an unsettling kind of way. But I'm obviously getting better now. You're going to burn yourself out if you keep going like this."
"What are you on about, I'm fine." His protest was marred by a poorly smothered yawn.
"Go to bed, Sherlock."
"No, no, I'll stay here..." he murmured, already slumping against John's covers.
Suddenly, John felt very tired too. He might have been getting better, but it was still a long road to recovery. After such a long period of weakness, even eating soup had proved a strenuous activity. John yawned, and was soon swallowed by the realm of dreams.
.:':. .:':. .:':.
Mrs Hudson bustled in at her usual time with her chamomile tea, only to find both John and Sherlock sound asleep. She smiled fondly at seeing the two boys folded over one another, Sherlock leaning across from his chair over John's multi-blanketed legs, John using his back as a pillow. I'll come back later.
.:' :. .:':. .:':.
John stretched languorously, sighing with satisfaction as the bones in his shoulders popped. His ribs had finally finished healing, giving him back full motion of his torso. He found himself rather pleased at the fact.
He looked down in surprise as he realised that Sherlock was sleeping on his lap, torso curling over John's legs and barely keeping his own backside on his seat. The taller man seemed to fold up impossibly small, a sad frown playing on his lips, making him look both childish and vulnerable.
He'd never seen Sherlock asleep before - unless you counted the time he'd been drugged into insensibility by Irene Adler. Even then, he'd been spread-eagled on his bed from where John had thrown him, face mashed into the pillows. It was interesting. The layers of Sherlock Holmes were simply stripped away, and it was hard to reconcile him with the supremely arrogant genius that John knew so well.
The movement of John's body stirred Sherlock. He'd always been a light sleeper. He stretched like a cat, arms extending over his head as he yawned hugely. "Morning, John. I'll go get some soup."
"No, Sherlock - I'm recovering, you can go back to the case. Fever's broken now, and everything. I'll get my own soup; I'll be good as new in a few days."
Sherlock eyed him sceptically. "We still have very little idea of what you were poisoned with, or as to the nature of its psychological effects." And no matter what he said, you can't trust Moriarty. Besides, he only told you John would get better if he didn't die, not that he would stay that way. Although, if you do believe him, there isn't much of a case to go back to. "It's very possible you could suffer a relapse." His tone became condescending. "You're a doctor, you should know that."
.:':. .:':. .:':.
A/N: I've just gone back and checked this, and it was an entirely subconscious action, but I've put all John's thoughts in first person and all of Sherlock's in second. Which I guess makes sense, really, personal versus impartial if directed at a thought process... Weird how things can just work their way into my writing without me even noticing!
Also, Moriarty was disturbingly easy for me to write for. That's a pretty bad sign, isn't it? I thought so, so I asked a friend what his thoughts were. He replied that we were similar, and that was why it was really easy for me to write for him. Something about inflicting unnecessary violence. That's definitely a very bad sign, isn't it? I only punch him in the arm if he's making inappropriate comments, I swear!
-pixie.