The client turned out to be a middle aged man who wanted help retrieving his missing watch collection. It sounded dull to John and he thoroughly expects Sherlock to turn him down. He doesn't, instead the consulting detective looks rather enthusiastic as he plonks himself down in front of his laptop with a satisfied grin across his face.
"You can go, I'll call you when I've solved it" Sherlock directs the client who nodded and slinks away obviously a little intimidated by Sherlock's frantic energy.
"John I need you to search the Southbank for any cigarette butts you can find, and make sure you label them carefully so I know where you found them" Sherlock directs and John looks at him incredulous.
"You are aware that I have been constantly throwing up and sleeping for most of the weekend… I really would rather not spend my first day of feeling remotely human trailing up and down the Thames picking up rubbish. Can't you use the homeless network?" He asks with a tired sigh..
"They are to sloppy, not careful enough. I need someone who can label properly, I need you John." And that is the magic word. It is like a code punched into John's subconscious by Sherlock's dexterous fingers. When Sherlock says those three words John is helpless to refrain from obeying. 'I need you' automatically triggers John's most desperate need to help, to be useful… to anyone but particularly to Sherlock and he automatically nods, picks up the necessary supplies along with his jacket and heads out the door.
He has absolutely no idea why Sherlock needs him to clean up the Thames path but he trusts that in one way or another it is of vital importance.
Two hours and forty-six cigarette butts later John is exhausted. His illness, though now abated is catching up with him and he is desperately aware that he has eaten little for the whole weekend. He is beginning to seriously contemplate going into a coffee shop to have a rest when his phone pings with a text message.
'I have solved it. Cigarette buts no longer needed. Come home. SH' he reads and frustration surges in his chest. He has been wasting the past couple of hours completely. He is partially angry because he could have been sat at home with a cup of tea, watching telly or reading the morning paper instead of dragging himself wearily along the shore of the Thames searching for litter. However he is more angry and a little sad at finding himself completely mistaken in his notion that Sherlock had any need for him. Sending him out to look for cigarette butts was tantamount to that ancient trick of having panicked relatives boil water when a woman goes into labour… He had not been needed at all.
John remembers the early conversation he had with Sherlock about his role in Sherlock's mad crime solving antics. He had jokingly asked if he was just a substitute for the skull Mrs Hudson tried to confiscate from Sherlock and his friend had responded by reassuring him that he was doing fine… today that phrase takes on a whole new meaning. John is doing fine imitating an inanimate object… he is doing fine in being so inactive and unimportant that he is in fact able to respond in no way at all when the genius thishrows wonderful deductions at him… John is essentially a skull… a dead and unresponsive skull, and it hurts to try to accept it.
Heart beating hard against his chest John pushes himself forward, dumping the bags of cigarette butts in a bin and makes his way up the steps to the footbridge that will bring him over to Embankment tube station. He is almost at the top when a man touches his shoulder halting him in his steps.
"John Watson" the voice says, gaining his attention. "If you don't tell him, things will get worse… consider this a warning"
And John knows that voice and it only takes a second to register from where and an image of the pub toilet from two weeks ago flashes in the back of John's mind as he looks into the eyes of a tall, well-built young man with short cropped dark hair and an angry glint in his eyes.
Without a moment's hesitation the man kicks out impacting with John's knee which bends unnaturally and sends him toppling backwards down the stairs. John let's out a strangled scream which is swiftly cut short as he slams into the stairs and the wind is knocked out of him. His head bounces off the steps and he sees stars but instincts cut in and he throws his arms out to stop the fall and comes to a rest in the middle of the stair with a painful grunt.
He lies still, panting and gasping for air as he tries to get his bearings. Suddenly people are swarming in around him, leaning down, touching him and it feels uncomfortable. He tries to sit down but he has come to rest with his head pointing down the stairs and his legs twisted out to either side and sitting just isn't an option at the moment.
"Are you alright?" a very calm voice above him asks and he looks up at the kind face of a woman in her forties, wearing a very colourful jumper. John just blinks up at her trying to collect himself.
"Don't move. I'm a nurse… I can help. What hurts" she asks and John can tell that she is experienced in her job, this is not her first time dealing with an injured patient on her own.
"Right leg, knee… dislocated or broken I don't know. Hurts like holy hell" he gasps.
"You've obviously hit your head… do you feel dizzy at all… nauseous…" she asked as she presses a paper towel she had removed from her purse against the back of his head. He hisses in pain as she presses against the wound he has not yet had time to identify.
"Yes, fuck… yes… don't do that… " he moanes as the world tils slightly while waves of pain wash over him from his head and knee simultaneously colliding somewhere near his groin and making him want to hurl.
"Sorry, you probably have a concussion. There's an ambulance on the way." The woman soothes, easing up on the pressure a little.
John wished someone would help him to turn into a more comfortable angle… lying on the stairs with his head pointing downward all the blood is rushing to his head and it makes him feel even more dizzy, a painful pounding establishing itself at the top of his spine. "Please help me move… I think I might pass out." He whispers and the woman shakes her head. No, we're not moving you until the paramedics get here. I know it hurts but you have to stay still.
Two minutes later and John really wishes that he had been right in his assessment when he said he might pass out… His head is pounding… his knee feels like someone is twisting a knife inside it and he can't focus properly on anything…. There is just to much dull pain and way to many people pressing in on him from all sides with worried looks.
"Can I call anyone for you, someone to meet you at the hospital?" the woman at his head asks as she puts something soft under his head to cushion it. He thinks of Sherlock, of the threat that the toilet man had made… but he knows that telling Sherlock something is unavoidable… judging by the state of his knee he will be on crutches for a good few weeks at the least so he will have to decide on what to tell Sherlock… he honestly doesn't know and he is secretly a little relieved at the woman's offer to call for him. "Sherlock." He gasps. "Speed dial one… tell him to meet me at St Thomas' A&E… that's where they'll take me"
The woman smiles down at him a hand carefully brushing his cheek as he looks up at her gritting his teeth against the pain, unwilling to show his discomfort. "I know, I work there." She says as she slipps the phone out of his pocket just as the sirens of the ambulance make themselves known above the din of the nattering crowd which has gathered to gawp at the man sprawled across the steps of the staircase.
John feels tired and frustrated…. He hurts more than he knows how to put into words… but more than anything he is furiously angry. How dare this man try to control him, what makes him think John will be willing to be a pawn in a war against Sherlock…. It is nog going to happen… while before he had wondered if it wouldn't be best to tell Sherlock about what was going on, about the threats, the problems at work… the possible poisoning… now he was determined… this man would not win… he would not speak a word of what had happened… Sherlock would not know.