A/N: I hope I've stressed enough that our guys don't do proper health and safety, so don't go taking ideas from them. Except to create your own board game. Always make your own board games if you have friends who will join in.

Also, again, they don't have *the novel virus*, and my sympathy goes out to those who do. I'm not trying in any way to trivialise what some people are going through. I may be next, in which case I'll take solace from the fact that in this story theirs is totally fictitious, half-sci-fi, and highly implausible.

I'll give you guys the last installment tomorrow, as compensation for frequent delays. -csf


III.

'Hey, the orange blasting light stopped', Greg verbalizes the obvious with a hopeful glance up to the ceiling. The multipurpose carbon monoxide alarm is now looking subdued and harmless once more.

'Mycroft', Sherlock growls in lieu of a proper explanation.

'Will he send medical help?' the inspector asks, full of brimming hope. Oi! Am I here for decoration purposes only? 'No offense, John', he adds, sensing my mood.

I shake my head in silent disbelief. What am I now, a plot device?

Sherlock insists, pacing the rug in tight circles: 'Mycroft will send no one until they are all propped in hazmat suits and all the contingency plans have been thoroughly inspected and thrice checked. It's a deadly virus, remember?'

'Yeah, but you're his brother, mate, and we know big brother bends a few rules for you.'

Sherlock looks darkly at the inspector. 'Not when he perceives our predicament as fair punishment.'

'What do you mean?'

'Governmental facilities, Lestrade. Not a rogue foreign potency.'

'But you said—'

'Actually, no, I didn't. You inferred. Incorrectly, I may add. You have a tendency to do that.'

'Blimey! Remind me not to piss off Mycroft ever again!'

'You ask me the impossible', Sherlock answers pointedly.

I clear my throat, calmly.

'Have a seat.'

My quiet request is aimed at Sherlock, but only Greg seems to react to it, by turning his head.

Fatherly, our friend tries to second me: 'Your highness, John wants you to sit down.'

The detective mutters tersely: 'I'm fine! John is a worrier.'

'That wasn't a question. Have a seat, let John examine you before he gets a heart attack. We're all anxious about you.'

'That is illogical. Have I not made myself clear that I'm fine?'

'Sherlock', Greg tries to protest, finally approaching our distrusting friend.

I state, coolly: 'Fine, you don't trust me as a physician. Let Greg come near you and he can be a judge of the fast shallow breathing, the flushed cheeks and the dilated pupils. I can see them for miles, Sherlock.'

He snaps: 'I'm not ill!'

I cross my arms in front of me.

'You can't wish it away, you know?'

'I can't be, it's wrong!' Sherlock keeps walking in circles now.

'Who are you trying to convince?'

'I can't be ill because you two need me!' he shouts, temper lost, halting suddenly.

I blink. Then feel overwhelmed by sadness. I'm the doctor here, I knocked the vial off the table, let me carry the burden of responsibility. The ugly, dark, nauseating weight of guilt and regret. You're Sherlock, you're too young, too great, too unblemished to be carrying such hateful shadow. Let me. I've seen hell and faced it with a smirk. If anyone needs to carry more ghosts and regrets, give me those, for I'm the veteran here. I carry them with me wherever I go. You should be free, Sherlock, you were only trying to do good.

Sherlock ponders me with deep green eyes, full of loss and hurt and admiration. His face softens, as he deduces out loud for my benefit, because he knows it grounds me to hear him be Sherlock. 'You keep telling me to eat right, sleep right. You knew one day some illness would catch up with me.'

I shake my head. No, please no. I can only try to plead. To Sherlock, to some unbeknown divine entity more willing to listen to me than the usual ones. 'But I'm older, got more than my fair share of near-death experiences.'

He actually smiles, a sad smile, but pleasured that I'm not winning this competition. 'You are full of good sense, John. It serves you well.'

'But—'

He suddenly snaps to a different, colder expression of himself. 'You're hardly a nurse, but I trust you can draw some of my blood for analysis?'

'How can we get it a lab? We are in a lockdown.'

He looks down on me, condescendingly. 'I can do a better and quicker job of it. John, you must monitor my progression but keep enough distance so to not get infected by—'

He stops abruptly, gulps and looks absolutely dumbstruck. His carefully crafted controlled façade crumbling to dust. I'm even the tiniest bit proud.

Only John Watson can undo in an instant the indomitable force that is Sherlock Holmes.

You see I've just swiped a finger off his sweaty forehead – low fever setting in, not worrying yet – and licked it.

'There, if a full glass vial shattering wasn't enough, now whatever you got I'm sure to catch it.' I squint. 'Or do you need me to have a second go just to be sure?'

He draws back from my wet finger. I have a four year old's urge to chase my friend around the house.

Looking on over at the inspector, he raises his open hands defensively; please, don't lick me.

Oh, dear.

I focus back on Sherlock. I may have stepped too far into Sherlock's personal space bubble by intruding into the privacy of his germs, I realise, as I see him look a bit consternated and a lot confused. He looks derailed from his tracks, and not returning to his normal functioning soon.

'John— I was trying to keep you safe', my friend finally utters.

'Same here.' I also know one little thing even Sherlock doesn't know about himself; he works better under the pressure to save the lives of his friends.

Greg surmises, shifting uncomfortably in his chair: 'That was plain weird, sorry. You've weirded me out, John.'

I shrug. I had a sibling, growing up. That was nothing, trust me.

.

Sherlock Holmes swipes at the table's contents with a throw of an arm, toppling books, labware and nearly the beloved microscope out if the kitchen table.

'Any luck?' I ask, trying to keep my voice as neutral as possible.

'Nothing, John! Nothing I can detect with what I've got here!'

His voice is tense, his forehead is bathed in sweat and precocious wrinkles, and I've a felling he's only answering me out of kindness. The wounded scientist wants nothing more than to hide and brood until he can come up with a better scientific hypothesis.

I sigh and refocus on the inspector. His heart rate is a bit high and he looks a bit haggard, as the virus sets in. The progression is stunningly quick and I shudder to think how long we've got until we are all rendered useless.

.

The first couple of hours pass and I'm concerned for my two best mates. Sherlock is looking a bit peaky and I'm constantly monitoring him for fever spikes or difficulties breathing. Greg is much the opposite to the languishing genius taking up all of the long sofa in a dejected posture (it may, or may not, be related with the inspector having removed his additions to cluedo, the board game, branding them ludicrous). No, Greg is up and about, exhausting himself, full of a nervous jittery energy that is getting to my nerves already. I wish he'd seat down and conserve his energy to fight the inevitable disease.

'Secret passages? Why would I have secret passages?' Sherlock answers, indignant to the inspector's freedom of information request.

'Come on, because you're Sherlock Holmes and this is 221B Baker Street!' Greg won't accept the denial. 'It's "expect the unexpected" with you, Sherlock, that's why!' Greg assures, convinced. 'Tell us already!'

The inspector's got a point. I look on over to Sherlock.

The languishing genius rolls his eyes, and admonishes us with a look full of reproach, for making him out to be this heroic figure, this magician creature to save the day, and then sighs, giving in.

'There's a locked closet upstairs, after John's room. It contains a door leading to Mrs Turner's next door.'

'Wait!' I interject. 'You told me that was a closet where you kept your summer clothes stored.'

Sherlock stops, baffled. 'Yes. Did you really think that little space would have been a big enough wardrobe without the passageway into next house? Honestly, John, do I really need to spell out the obvious every time?'

Greg catches on quick. 'Where do you keep stored your winter wear, then? The basement?'

'Of course not, I creating my personal museum there. I've rented out a flat across the street for winter wear. I've got several copies of my long coat, since it got discontinued, it was the only sensible thing to do.'

'How about buying a different coat?'

'Why should I? I like mine.'

Greg Lestrade has this uncanny ability to make the skinny detective fess up to things even I was unaware of. I'm just not entirely convinced he wouldn't lie to Greg, in order to further mystify his image.

I bring the revelations back to the point where Sherlock mentioned a museum.

'You're putting together some educational exhibition on the science of deduction, you said?'

He smirks. 'Come on, John, you always knew the website wasn't big enough for me. It's my life mission and my personal gift to the Yard. Literally, the latter, as I'm autographing tickets to your people, inspector. They need the educational value.'

'Sherlock, wow, that's—'

'Thorough?'

'Ugh...'

'Pivotal?'

'Ugh...'

'Generous and abnegated?'

'How about "self-centred"?'

His grey eyes narrow.

'Unlike you, John, I have never erroneously claimed not to be such. You must admire the integrity and honesty of my careful choice.'

'Don't be a git, I know you.' And I raise a defying eyebrow.

He shrugs and looks away, pointedly. 'Anyway, John, I'd must favour a doctor Watson museum, if you'd be so kind to indulge me with the plans for one.'

'What? I'm boring! What would I have to put out there?' I protest.

Sherlock looks keenly towards me. Tantalising, he assures me: 'If you ever change your mind, you'll find I'm a great help. In fact, I have most of it laid out already.'

'What? When did you find the time to think about my life?' My voice keeps pitching higher.

'You work too much. With the sickly people, I mean. Worry not, there's a room dedicated to your medical career.'

I glance at Greg. I've got many questions, but I'll leave them until such time we've got full privacy.

Sherlock might still be pulling my finger.

A big part of me hopes he is.

.

Escape is nigh. Our gang of three storms the upper corridor's closet under the detective's quick directives.

Greg and I insist on ignoring the nest rows of identical slim line suits in identical hangers that pend from a chromed rail in a nice mahogany inbuilt wardrobe. Sherlock violently yanks aside the rows of navy, dark grey and black – and is that a posh tweed outdoors suit, flanked by a police officer's uniform and some NHS scrubs at the very end? – in order to expose the false back. Looks solid and sturdy to me, made of the same material as the wardrobe throughout.

'Are you sure—' I start, only to stop as I see my friend reaching for a concealed brass ring, partly inlaid in the woodwork. Sherlock swirls an elegant violinist index finger in the ring and inserts the tip just enough to get a precarious grip. Always the showman, Sherlock stills, glances at each member of his meagre audience, gaging our rapture at his furtive moves. The occasion calls for an elusive manoeuvre and we subconsciously fall into a quiet obeisance, I notice. Sherlock refocuses his deep green grey eyes on the minute handle and slides it in one swift move.

It exposes the brownish dirty back of a big piece of wall plaster. The path is blocked. Some redecorating has been going on Mrs Turner's side. The married ones. I sigh. Sherlock would never remember long, but one of them is an interior designer – although I can't say many great things about his flamboyant style.

It's a running theory that that's how Mrs Hudson ended up with such non-matching furniture and wallpapers. Mrs Turner supplies her with the unwanted and spares from the boys next door.

Much like me, Sherlock's baggage on arrival was complicated, and did not include a set of matching dining table and chairs.

I sigh, and a wave of cold runs down my spine, causing me to waver and lean my body against the closet's sturdy side wall.

'Don't crease my suits', the humiliated detective snaps at me. I ignore it easily, knowing it's just immature behaviour. It's Greg who immediately descends upon me, a strong hand squeezing my shoulder, as he checks:

'Still with us, John?'

I frown. Do I look that bad? I focus what I hope are my best innocent blue eyes on the inspector and say out loud to the detective by his side:

'I'm alright. There's nothing wrong with me yet.'

And I mean to keep it that way.

.

TBC