John did not call Lestrade. He stuffed everything back into the pouch, tied it shut with the belt, and added it to the drawer among his gun and the patches.
Instead, John spent the morning rearranging the sock-drawer. Frequently, he checked Sherlock's breathing, and dismissed the dreams he described. There would be no lecture or penalty.
When the detective properly awoke, John was sitting in his chair before the fireplace. Sherlock leaned against the bedroom door and demanded a drink. John shrugged and poured two cups of black coffee; he brought Sherlock his packets of sugar, so he could determine whether the shaking had subsided overnight. It had; with ease, Sherlock stirred his coffee, and moved it steadily to his mouth. He inhaled the steam and sighed, while John watched.
"I'm fine." urged Sherlock, between sips.
"Of course you are," sighed John, "Better wrap your arm up, though."
"My arm?" Sherlock returned to the bed, and leaned against the wall.
"Yeah. Would've done last night, but I didn't want to keep the blood and… everything in."
He brought in a towel from the kitchen, and bandages and peroxide from his first-aid kit. Once the skin was clean and dry, John inspected the incisions.
"I don't remember." Sherlock offered, refusing to admit he was afraid, "Poison."
"That's what I'd call it." he made sure his tone was welcomingly flat. Sherlock did not like hearing critiques, and John did not like giving them. For this reason, he found it worthless to speak to Harry.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, thin and filmy, while John unrolled a similar bandage. As John wrapped his arm, he stared at the ceiling and muttered to himself:
"The snake." he said, most often. John stopped and caught his attention.
"Hmm?"
"I can't remember the name," Sherlock was agitated, and twitched impatiently, "Moriarty was…"
"Moriarty?"
"The snake." Sherlock corrected him, and his shaking worsened. With just his eyes, John asked if he was feeling better. Sherlock understood and vaguely listed his symptoms, like a frightened child. With his temporary knowledge of astronomy, he claimed his stomach had become a black-hole and reclaimed all of his organs. His head, apparently, was a hollow gun-barrel, craving a bullet. John did not like this analogy, and quickly cut him off:
"When did you eat last?"
"Today's…?"
"Sunday." said John, accustomed to this sort of pattern. Sherlock continued disappointing himself:
"I don't remember."
"We'll start with that, then. That'll help."
"Fine." Sherlock agreed, pulling the sheets over his face. Content, John left.
As much as the battlefield cried out for John, the thing he missed most was healing. When there were others in need of his help, he even found it possible to heal himself. Otherwise, he was at the bottom of his list of priorities. Sherlock, of course, had scribbled out the rest of this list by now, and written his name across the whole thing in bold, bright letters.
John considered this as he prepared toast in the kitchen. Toast and tea. Something gentle.
"Here," he said, setting the plate atop the blanket, over the outlines of Sherlock's hands, "I'll be upstairs."
He was not thanked, and Sherlock did not bother moving until John was out of the room.
Sherlock sighed as he ate, and focused only on the blinding bandage. It was coiled around his arm, and John did a perfect job of hiding every mark.
For most of the day, they sat in silence. John did make it to his own room, and glanced between his laptop and newspaper. Sherlock sat on the bed and thought.
"John," he began, after many hours. His throat was dry and the word scratched him. He had only finished half of his toast and none of his tea. Boring.
The doctor appeared at his side and looked him over:
"You alright?"
Sherlock was comfortable speaking, once entirely hidden by blankets. His voice was muffled:
"I was selfish."
"No," said John, kindly, "You were an idiot."
Sherlock laughed, and John joined him. This was typical, when they shared serious discussions.
"Kept the toast down?" John was always first to recover the conversation.
Sherlock nodded, but indicated the plate. He had set it on top of the end-table. This was the extent of his daily activity.
"Good." John decided, "So you're feeling better...?"
Sherlock dropped the blanket from his face and forced himself to sit up.
"No. I couldn't solve the case, yesterday," he was quiet, "Or remember the name, or eating, or the holes, or…"
"It's alright," said John, offering his hand. Sherlock stared at it and did not move from the bed. John shrugged, yawned, and decided to sit down beside him.
Ever so slightly, Sherlock trembled beneath the sheets. John noticed this, then the sky, darkening against the window:
"Want a nicotine-patch?" John could not force himself to say 'need', even though the detective's frail frame and empty eyes demanded it. He was determined to be a decent doctor, even though he knew Sherlock would be a rubbish patient:
"God, yes. Two."
"One." he indicated the uninjured arm with a light tap. The other, where Sherlock generally applied his patches, was speckled with blood and constricted by the cast. Standing up, John promised to refresh it in the morning.
John went upstairs to retrieve the box from his drawer. It was the new one he'd purchased last night, with the blood-stained corner torn off. Compulsively, he yawned again, after noting the time on his watch. Swiftly, he returned to Sherlock.
"One." he repeated, standing in the doorway and tossing him the box, "I'll be—."
"Upstairs." Sherlock interrupted, selecting a patch and peeling it open. He practically inhaled the label.
"Next-door." breathed John, "I'll be next-door, if you need me."
"I won't." as he reached for a second patch, John snatched the box away.
"Right, well… you owe me."
"Yes. I'll remember that." said Sherlock, in the tainted tone he usually reserved for Mycroft, "Sleep well."
Simultaneously, John accepted two things: first, he would consider this a genuine message despite being buried irretrievably beneath sarcasm, and second, he would ignore it. He would not sleep well at all.
He retired to his armchair and ignited the fireplace. His dreams were short and glowed among the coals.
Moriarty liked to keep his visits consistent; he arrived at the same time as he had the previous night. Now, though, he knew to be quicker and quieter.
He was silent as he climbed the stairs. He did not bring a briefcase.
The gloves he wore, of course, were new and expensive. Between his hands he held a knot of red ribbon. Absently, he braided it and twisted it. He stood in the common area and glanced at the doctor. His eyes were shut but he was not sleeping. His breathing was heavy and troubled, and sweat shaded his brow.
Typical, Moriarty thought as he passed him, the guard-dog at the door...
He was thrilled to find the detective asleep, buried in blankets. Moriarty slid open the sock-drawer and placed a single needle at the back. Then, his mission called him further upstairs. He dug through John's desk for the leather case, grinning as he uncoupled it from the gun. Always loaded.
How original.
He set the pouch on tabletop and untied it. None of the contents were altered; just the belt. Moriarty was fond of its history and, conveniently, its style. He exchanged this for the ribbon, and returned the package to the drawer.
Sherlock would not search for his syringes, in fear of disappointing John.
John would not open the drawer until he needed to. Even then, he wouldn't call Lestrade.