Laughter. "Oh my God! ... What was that, Sherlock, ... tell me: what?"

Gasp. "I admit that ... I misjudged some things." Grin.

"The next time your assessments have anything to do with a rocker gang you suspect the perpetrator under, please let me know first."

"We caught him, though."

"Yes, and I still can't believe that this plan actually worked."

"Now I'm offended."

More laughter.

"Looks like sodium sulfate poisoning."

"Oh, of course! That's brilliant, John, absolutely brilliant!"

" ... Thank you."

"There he is! Quick, John, after him!"

...

"John! Come on, he's getting away!"

Staccato on asphalt.

Panting. "I can't ..."

Footsteps. Stumbling.

Stop.

"Damn it! He's gone!"

Gasping for breath. "I'm ... sorry. I ... I couldn't ..." Coughing.

"Oh that case!" raved Sherlock, throwing his coat over the back of the chair as John followed him with heavy steps. "That case was brilliant!"

This morning, Lestrade had asked them for help on a case. They had been out and about in London all day, and now, with the sun already hanging low in the evening sky, they had found the crucial clue and told Lestrade. Sherlock was still pacing around the living room, psyched up from the adrenaline rush, once again explaining how brilliant the case had been and, more importantly, how brilliant he himself had been. "Make sure to mention that part in your blog."

John mumbled something back before dropping onto the couch with a sigh.

"It had been himself all along! The drug he was given every time erases short-term memory; not quite reliably, nor completely, but enough to leave him clueless himself! And he had no idea that he was committing the crimes himself all along! This drug is new and is most certainly synthetic, I bet there is a whole drug lab behind it. Remind me to tell Lestrade that," Sherlock spoke just as he reached for his coat and hung it on the hook in the hallway. As he walked back into the living room, he continued talking. "I'll make some tea, would you like some-" He stopped in the doorway as he spotted his friend asleep on the couch. Still dressed in his jacket and shoes, his head had fallen to the side as he breathed quietly and evenly.

For a while Sherlock regarded his friend thoughtfully. Of course, it hadn't escaped his notice that John had been declining in physical condition during the past few weeks. Chasing a suspect was no longer possible with him at all. He thought back to the case of The Study in Pink, as John had called it, when he had been able to chase that cab with him through London without any effort. Now he could barely run two blocks. He didn't blame him, of course, rather he was worried. Only once more had he asked John if he wanted to take it easy. John's answer had been silence.

"Good morning, Sherlock," John greeted his roommate, sitting at the table and reading the newspaper.

Sherlock just nodded in reply, not caring that John couldn't see it. With a cup of tea in his hand, he joined him at the table. "So? Anything interesting in there this morning?"

John looked up and pushed the paper toward his colleague. "There's an article about you."

He picked it up and read the headline. "Ah, the Homerton case."

"Yeah. You're coming off pretty well compared to the police."

A broad grin spread across Sherlock's face as he began to read the article. Meanwhile, John got up and filled a glass with orange juice in the kitchen. Just as he closed the refrigerator door, he heard a tentative knock followed by the cheerful "Yoo-hoo!" of their landlady.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson," John greeted her with a smile.

"Good morning, boys!" the old lady fluted, setting a small package down next to Sherlock, who neither seemed to notice the package nor Mrs. Hudson.

"This was just dropped off, so I thought I'd bring it right up."

John nodded with a smile before emptying the glass in one go. "Sorry, Sherlock isn't responsive right now," John apologized, and Mrs. Hudson waved it off with a laugh. "Oh, that's quite alright. How are you feeling?"

Sherlock glanced over to John as he replied, "Still better than others."

Mrs. Hudson was the first to know about John's illness other than him. When you lived in a house and ran into each other often, such things didn't stay secret for long. It was she, too, who now patted his shoulder comfortingly before turning to Sherlock. "Aren't you going to open it? I think it's from your mother. It's such a pretty package."

"Your powers of observation are astounding," Sherlock sneered, lowering the paper. "Well, you're welcome to open it for me, I'm good with ignoring-" Sherlock's gaze widened as he caught sight of his friend.

John's face was contorted, his hands clenched into claws. A strangled groan escaped his throat as he sank to the floor, his limbs strangely twisted and his whole body spasming.

Startled, Sherlock tumbled from the chair and knelt beside him. Mrs. Hudson slapped her hand over her mouth in horror. The body tension caused by the convulsion was so strong that the glass John had still been holding shattered, while his fist immediately tightened more firmly, and the splinters bored through the skin deep into the flesh. The jaws had also been seized by the spasm, so that John could not control biting his tongue. A trickle of saliva and blood ran from the corner of his mouth.

"Mrs. Hudson, call an ambulance!" shouted Sherlock as John's limbs began to twitch uncontrollably. Quick-witted, the detective jumped up and pushed chairs, tables, and other objects out of the way that John might injure himself on during the seizure. It continued for a few seconds longer and then it was suddenly over. Motionless, John remained on the floor. Sherlock's heart quickened a beat as he knelt beside him again. Cautiously, he felt for his pulse. It was slower than usual, but not alarming.

"John?" he spoke urgently, grabbing him gently by the shoulder. "John!"

Slowly, he opened his eyes. "Sherlock?" he murmured.

"Take it easy, John," Sherlock replied to him in a soothing tone.

"What ... what happened? Ah, damn!" He groaned in pain as he moved his hand. There was a look of horror on his face when he saw the blood.

"John, stay down. You had a seizure. The glass broke in the process. There's already a doctor on the way here," he explained to him calmly.

"A ... seizure?" he gasped, confused.

He doesn't remember, it flashed through Sherlock's mind. "How do you feel, apart from your hand?"

"I'm tired," John whispered very hoarsely, letting his head sink powerlessly back to the floor.

Sherlock nodded in thought. The seizure had certainly been very tiring and had taken a lot of strength. Strength that John was increasingly lacking anyway. "The doctor will be here soon, then you can sleep, just hold on a little longer."

When he finally heard two pairs of footsteps hurrying up the stairs, Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief.