Once again, all the best lines are stolen directly from dear Sir Arthur, with my apologies, and are in italics.

000

"Please, Mary," Sherlock gasped as if fighting for every breath. "I want John to remember me with friendship. But how will his memories of me be anything but angry and resentful if I should cause your demise as well as my own?"

Mary's kindly blue eyes filled with tears. Yes, it was working! She would obey his every wish now! He pressed on. "And think of his bereavement, should he lose us both at once. Don't put that on my conscience. Please, if you love him, stay well back."

She sniffed softly, pulled a tissue from her pocket, and blew her nose. "My lovely idiot," she murmured endearingly, using her second favourite pet name for him and palming the tears from her eyes. "But, Sherlock," she sighed. "You are not yourself. A sick man is nothing but a child, and so I will treat you as a child. Whether you like it or not, I will examine your symptoms and treat you for them." And into the room she started again.

Mary Watson was undeniably the most intractably stubborn human being on the face of the earth. Yet another change in tactics was clearly called for. He glared at her with venomous eyes and snarled, "If I am to have a doctor whether I want one or not, let me at least have someone in whom I have confidence."

She stopped short again. It was strange, how the bitter hurt in her face made his chest ache. "Then you have none in me?" she whispered sadly, and his iron resolve nearly faltered. But The Work must be paramount!

"In your friendship, certainly," he assured her in his weak voice. "But facts are facts, Mary, and after all you are only a general practitioner with very limited experience and mediocre qualifications. It is painful to have to say these things, but you leave me no choice."

Mary was very still for a moment. This time, surely, he could convince her to do as he asked. But would it be worth it? She was obviously grievously stung by his blunt words. He was beginning to wonder if solving a case would be worth losing her valuable friendship. But he must not waver. He must focus on The Work!

"That remark was unworthy of you, Sherlock," she said at last, generous with her forgiveness as always. "But I'll chalk it up to your illness and the fever. Are you certain that this can be nothing but this rare disease you came into contact with?"

He nodded. At last, they were getting somewhere!

Mary whipped out her mobile. "Well, then, I'll get Mycroft on it right away. If anyone can find a specialist who can help you, he can. I'm surprised you didn't call him yourself before this." She looked at the sour face he was making and amended, "No, of course, you'd rather die than ask your brother for help." She sighed and punched the speed dial. This was not worrisome—Mycroft was well aware of the situation and had arranged to be unavailable for the time being.

"Bloody useless British Government!" Mary exclaimed in frustration as she got onto Mycroft's voice mail. "Well, that's it, then, I'm calling an ambulance and getting you into hospital immediately. At the very least, they can hook you up to an IV to treat your dehydration and make you comfortable until . . . ." Her breath hitched in a sob as she punched the emergency number into her phone.

Sherlock groaned showily, inwardly pleased. She was putty in his hands now. He must strike while the iron was hot, to completely mix his metaphors! "Please, no hospital, Mary," he moaned. "They can't help me. There's no specialist that can help me. There's only one man who might have a cure, but his research is unorthodox and unaccepted by legitimate medical facilities. I hesitate to ask you to go outside the law, but . . . ." he trailed off dramatically, then softly added, "It is the only hope I have."

She looked at him, frowning in thought. Time hung suspended between them as she cast about, weighing the options in her mind. "All right," she said at last, to his great relief. "We'll do this your way. Always your way to the very end, right? Hold tight, I'll just be a moment."

Sherlock watched her rush out of the room, bewildered. His plan did not include Mary going off on whatever errand she had suddenly invented for herself; she was meant to be hanging on his every word for his explicit instructions. And then she was meant to be carrying out said instructions to the letter. If only John had come instead of Mary—he could be depended on to behave predictably.

In bustled the unpredictable Mary carrying the medical kit John kept in his old room and another case which Sherlock wasn't certain he'd seen before. Snapping on a pair of surgical gloves and pulling a mask over her face, she walked over to his bedside. Swiftly, she put together an IV pole and set it up beside his bed. "Fortunately for you, John has been stocking up on all kinds of medical equipment, since you're so loathe to go to hospital," she informed him.

"Mary," he croaked in his raspiest voice. "I asked you to stay well back. Please, it's pointless to risk yourself when there's nothing you can do."

"Don't be an idiot," she told him sternly. "You'll die from dehydration before we ever get hold of your miracle man. I can at least get you on a saline drip to keep you alive for the time being." She had just doomed his entire endeavour. The charade was over. Now he was in for it. He held his breath for the inevitable.

She took his arm, and then she froze. She looked into his face, seeing it clearly for the first time in the dim light of the bedroom. Then she pressed her lips tightly together, that tell-tale little muscle in her cheek twitching as it always did when she was angry, and snapped on the bedside lamp, throwing the room into a brightness that illuminated all deception.

"Sherlock Holmes! You bloody bastard! You're no more ill than I am!" she exclaimed, furious.

"Mary!" He was astonished by her language. John was certainly a poor influence on her vocabulary.

She pulled off her mask and threw it at him. "You insufferable, self-centred, heartless, imbecilic beast!" she continued, and snapped off her gloves to throw in his face as, in a deceptively calm and quiet voice, she let loose a stream of invectives that would have made even John proud, turning the very air around them a hazy shade of blue. As she pronounced him fit for the deepest pits of hell, she continued to snatch items from his bedside table and throw them at him: a box of tissues, a phone charger, a paperback book.

And then her hand stretched to pick up a small, wooden Chinese puzzle box. "No! For god's sake, don't touch it!" he cried, his heart leaping in his chest in sudden stark terror. She snatched her hand back and looked at him in astonishment. He now felt truly ill, his stomach churning with the horror which had almost occurred. And now he suddenly understood Mary's fury, as he considered how he would have felt watching her die a painful death from the poison to which she had so nearly unwittingly exposed herself. Astonishing, how quickly fear could turn to anger.

He sat up and tried to take her hands in his, but she was too hurt to let him touch her. "Stop, Mary, calm down and let me explain," he insisted firmly. But did Mary Watson ever do as she was told?

"Oh, if you try to tell me that this was an experiment in human emotional response, I'll wring your neck!" she hissed at him. "Do you know that poor Mrs. Hudson is downstairs right now crying her eyes out and planning for your funeral? After all the kindness she's shown you, how could you do this to her?"

"It was for a case. And is she really?" Sherlock's curiosity was piqued in spite of himself. "What do you think she'll say in her eulogy?"

"She'll say what an annoying git you are and how you tormented her relentlessly day by day," Mary told him scathingly. "The entire crowd of mourners, all bloody four of us joining her at your graveside, will say the same. That is if John can persuade the police to let me off with a warning when they investigate your murder. Honestly, I don't know whether to strangle you with my bare hands or go and fetch John's gun."

"Surely there must be a third option," Sherlock mused thoughtfully, unintentionally succeeding in making her laugh. And suddenly, without warning, she threw her arms around him in a heartfelt embrace.

"I really believed you were dying," she told the bewildered consulting detective. "Thank god you're all right. I hate you right now. I'm definitely going to kill you as soon as I've finished hugging you."

Sherlock may not have meant for this venture to be an experiment in human emotional response, but he was certainly gaining an education in spite of himself.