A/N: So sorry that this is taking so long! I've had a rough couple of weeks and even now that I'm feeling better, I'm still exhausted! Thank you to everyone who is following along and especially those who have left comments! I'm very grateful that so many people are enjoying this! :) I'm hoping to move things along, I promise! :)
Matthews flew out of the doorway to help John assist Sherlock into the house, and John allowed him to do most of the work getting Sherlock up the stairs. Sherlock apparently regained some small amount of motor control – his loud protests echo down the stairwell long before John manages the stairs to the first floor.
Sherlock was curled up on the sofa, his tight jacket only on one arm and Matthews has clearly given up on the fight, standing above Sherlock with a resigned demeanor.
"It's alright, Matthews. Go downstairs and fetch a bowl of warm water, some flannels and a length of bandage, and some strong coffee. I'll see to it that Mr. Holmes is made more comfortable."
Matthews gave an efficient nod and disappeared. The warm water and stack of clean cloth appeared within minutes.
Sherlock's curled-up position exposed the back of his arm to John. Faint spots of blood marred the otherwise pristine fabric where Victor had jabbed him with his ring.
"Sherlock, you've blood on your sleeve. Please let me finish removing your jacket so I can examine your wound."
"Just leave me alone, John."
"I will not just leave you alone. I need to clean away the blood on your arm and properly bandage your hand."
"Go away!" Sherlock said. It would have sounded more forceful if Sherlock's voice hadn't been muffled by the sofa cushions.
John only moved closer and pressed the backs of his fingers to Sherlock's neck just below his ear, checking for an increase in temperature. Slightly warm, perhaps, but he couldn't judge for long; Sherlock shrugged him off.
"Don't be stubborn. We need to get you comfortable and tucked in bed."
"No. Bed is interminably dull."
"You said you were familiar with this drug, Sherlock. Will you be able to function in any capacity until it wears off?"
Sherlock didn't answer.
"When was the last time you slept, anyway?"
John didn't properly hear the response beyond its belligerent and petulant tone.
"Well, then, you have little choice in the matter; since you cannot properly investigate or experiment, you may as well get some sleep. It will kill two birds; perhaps you will sleep through some of the symptoms of this drug as well as store up some sleep during the enforced down time."
"Shut up, John!" Sherlock's voice was more than clear this time. "I don't wish to go to bed. I don't want you to try and soothe my temper or my wounds. You are not my nanny! Just go away and leave me to be wretched in peace!"
"Sherlock Holmes! I will not allow you to quarrel with me over this. I am most certainly not your nanny, over whom I'm certain you ran roughshod throughout your childhood!" John stood to his full height and pulled out his Captain Watson voice, the one that could dictate orders over cannon and gun fire. "I am your husband and a doctor and you have been injured. You will allow me to treat your wounds as I see fit."
Sherlock raised bleary eyes to his husband. But John was not finished.
"You may insist on familiarity with this drug, but that does not mean that Victor Trevor did not purposely add something to his mix, or that the unmeasured dosage you received is not dangerous. I will be observing you throughout, just to be certain. And you will allow this, without complaint!"
"But John…"
"No, Sherlock, not another word." John's voice softened, though. "I will concede to allow you privacy as you suffer certain indignities." John willed himself not to flush thinking of Sherlock handling certain matters on his own. "But the fact remains that this is very serious and you must let me handle it."
Sherlock was too weary from the drug to glare back to the height of his ability and John got his way. Sherlock lifted his scratched hand and held it palm up towards his husband with as much haughtiness as he could muster. It was endearingly pathetic.
"Sit up, then, get your jacket off. I know you've got other punctures on your upper arm."
Sherlock obeyed, his lips pressed tightly together and twisted into a scowl. John helped him tug the tight sleeve off his arm and laid the coat over the arm of the sofa.
"Shirt, too." It only took a moment for Sherlock to offer up his throat with a huff; his unusually clumsy fingers weren't up to the task of unknotting his cravat. John accomplished this with brisk efficiency, also unbuttoning Sherlock's waistcoat to avoid getting any of Sherlock's blood on the material; his stark white neck cloth had already been marred.
Sherlock slipped first his waistcoat, then his braces off his shoulders and, with a few tugs, his shirt was drawn over his head and fluttered to the floor. His chest and throat were pale as ivory, his shoulders broader than they appeared in the round-shouldered fashion of the day. John would have considered how much nicer disrobing Sherlock could be, baring that white throat to his lips, running his hands down that marble chest, but the thought broke his heart a little. He schooled his thoughts and his expression to his profession.
"Were your previous experiences with this drug intravenous?"
Sherlock nodded once, roughly, baring the crook of his arm where the skin was littered with tiny round scars. John examined their placement relative to the pale blue veins running below. He twisted Sherlock's arm gently, comparing the two pin pricks from the current dosage.
"The dose was delivered into the muscle, Sherlock, instead of the vein. The symptoms may last longer than you're used to as the chemicals slowly leach out of the tissue, though perhaps they will be less severe as well. Though with three doses, it could be quite the opposite."
Sherlock didn't comment, just turned his head to the side and let John examine him as he must.
The punctures on Sherlock's upper arm could wait. They were deep but had already stopped bleeding and there was little that could be done. John dampened one cloth, set it aside, letting a second soak in the bowl of warm water. He took Sherlock's hand in his and peeled away the handkerchief. It stuck in one spot where the blood had dried, but Sherlock didn't even wince. He stared icily at the fireplace. John bathed away the blood so he could judge the depth of the cut.
"You won't need any stitches," he decided once the scratch was bared. "We'll have to watch for infection, especially with the sorts of things you get your hands into, but it should heal just fine on its own."
Sherlock didn't answer, didn't speak even when Matthews brought a tray into the room with a pot of coffee, though his nose twitched at the warm smell of the roast beans.
"Bring that to Mr. Holmes' room," John ordered. Matthews jumped a little; John still had a touch of the Captain Watson in him. "Then come back down and help Mr. Holmes to bed."
"Yes, sir, of course, sir." The tray rattled a bit as Matthews moved instantly to obey. John sighed a bit and wrapped Sherlock's hand in a length of bandage. Once that was taken care of, he took the damp cloth he'd set aside and wiped away the blood crusted on the back of Sherlock's arm.
"It will be difficult to judge whether infection has taken hold, since you indicated fever as an effect of the drug. I shall have to examine the scratch from time to time to make sure it isn't red or swollen. If it begins to pain you unusually, do tell me."
Sherlock tossed his head, presumably in acquiescence, though John couldn't be sure. He didn't press the issue, however. When Matthews returned to the sitting room, hovering beside the sofa, Sherlock heaved himself up using his good hand and clearly gathered all his self-control to walk to the stairs to his room unassisted. Once there, he made use of the wall to prop himself up and Matthews followed close behind with care, but he staggered up under his own power.
John followed slowly behind, arriving at the bedroom door in time to see Matthews, having already removed Sherlock's footwear, assisting with the buttons of his falls. Sherlock's long, bare back was towards the door as he perched indolently on the far edge of his bed. His dark hair curled just slightly about the nape of his neck. It looked soft. John wanted to run his fingers through it, and down that straight spine.
John had to scold himself, remind himself that there was no point in looking. The pang remained; however, he busied his thoughts.
John realized he'd never seen Sherlock's room before, though Sherlock had visited his. It was Spartan in nature, kept tidy by Matthews and devoid even of books as if Sherlock only ever dressed and undressed in there. John hadn't witnessed Sherlock approaching the room with the intention of sleeping yet.
It was slightly smaller than John's, with no sitting area by the fireplace. The wardrobe was more austere and the screen in the corner merely functional, where John's furniture was elegant and expensive. Had Sherlock deliberately given John the better room, or did he just care so little for his surroundings that he decorated for himself perfunctorily?
Matthews was worth every penny of his pay, however, for he soon had Sherlock in nothing but his drawers, reversed his step quickly when Sherlock refused a nightshirt with a shake of his head, and had the bed turned down before John could even fully take in the room. Sherlock slid under the covers, arms curled around his pillow in such a way that his back to his waist was stretched.
"You should have a little coffee, Sherlock, or I can send for tea if you prefer." At the negative-sounding grunt from the depths of a feather pillow, John sighed. "You really should try to eat or drink a little something. No? Very well. Matthews, do bring up the chair from my sitting room if you can, and the book from my nightstand. I'll be spending the foreseeable hours observing Mr. Holmes."
"Yes, sir, of course, sir."
John stood by the bedside being ignored until Matthews had ever-so-carefully hauled the wingback armchair from John's bedroom up the stairs step by step and placed it a few feet from the bed. Then he sat and was ignored.
John drank his coffee. Sherlock's shoulders moved with every breath, or he would have felt the need to check his vitals continuously.
"If you really must remain, you will take notes," Sherlock said after long silent minutes.
"Pardon?"
"Notes, John, observations on my condition, details of my vital signs. This is an experimental dosage of an unknown strength of drug. It would be useful to compare the series of effects in comparison to previous reactions to doses I've recorded. That is to say, I've had recorded. It is a trifle difficult to retain a scientific demeanor throughout the process. I shall dictate to you as I am able and you will record your observations ever quarter hour as I am not."
"Agreed," John replied, if only because then he'd be allowed to check Sherlock's vitals regularly without receiving complaint. "You have notes on previous experiments with this drug?"
Sherlock muttered an affirmation.
"Might I see them?"
"No, not as of yet. It might skew the data."
Of course.
John settled in with a portable writing table Sherlock demanded Matthews retrieve from the first floor sitting room, listing the times (estimated to the best of his recollection) and details of the beginnings of Sherlock's unexpected dosing. Sherlock dictated a few things he wanted recorded as well.
After the first interval, Sherlock intoned, "Bored," when John takes his pulse. John notes that it has sped up noticeably from the last time and Sherlock must be aware of it.
"Would you like me to read aloud? It might distract you a while."
"Dull," he sulks, but doesn't offer any further objection. John starts over from the beginning of the travelogue Matthews retrieved from his bedside table.
When two more intervals have passed, and the early winter dusk began to fall, John noted Sherlock's skin glowing in the lamplight. His temperature had definitely increased, beads of sweat popping up across his forehead. Matthews brought a pitcher of fresh, cool water into the dim room, and John poured a bit of it into the washbasin he set on the nightstand beside Sherlock's bed. John swept back Sherlock's dark curls, pressing a cool, wet cloth against his skin. Sherlock kept his eyes closed until John required them open to examine the fever-bright orbs, but allowed John's tender ministrations. If he appreciated the cool water on his brow, the back of his neck, his bare chest, however, he said nothing. He flinched, though, when John's hands approached the sheets at his waist, so John quite deliberately avoided anything lower. When Sherlock felt the need to record his full reaction to the drug, he would.
John made sure to lift the dressings on Sherlock's hand to examine the scratch every so often, but it showed no sign of inflammation or redness, nor did gentle probing of the two punctures reveal any swelling. He tried to keep his worry in check, telling himself that it was just the effect of a drug, not an illness that would take Sherlock from him. It would be over soon, no more than a day, surely, and it was nothing like the illness that John himself had suffered for weeks after his injury.
He offered food and drink every time he rose from his chair, thankful when Sherlock finally accepted water. He was certain there was at least a few minutes where Sherlock had dozed off, though he didn't admit it when asked.
"It feels like insects are crawling all over my skin," Sherlock voiced for the sake of the notes. John paused, pen in hand.
"Is it worse when I rub the wet cloth on your skin?"
"No," Sherlock said reluctantly. "It… it's almost too good. Like it's the only cure against the incessant need."
He didn't speak, face buried in his pillow, for the next several intervals. John, in return, was a little extra generous in the application of his cool, damp cloth against Sherlock's sweaty neck and back.
When Sherlock did finally speak, it was in response to a sound from downstairs. The knocker. Sherlock simply said, "Mycroft," in an aggrieved tone.
"I'll go downstairs, tell him you're not available."
"He's not here to see me, anyway, John."
John gave Sherlock's flushed skin one last, soothing wipe-down.
"I'll be back soon."
"Knock."
John couldn't help but flicker his eyes downward. He'd seen Sherlock's torso bared to the waist despite the cool air of the room, but he'd allowed Sherlock a certain amount of dignity. It was impossible not to realize that Sherlock had become aroused since the last interval, and while John had recorded so in his notes, he hadn't spoken aloud of Sherlock's discomfort.
So when he left Sherlock a clean, dry cloth within arm's reach, he did so without comment.
"I'll give you some time before I check in on you again. Try to rest."