Fic: Assumption makes an ass of you and I (Sherlock)
Title: Assumption makes an ass of you and I.
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Lestrade, Molly
Rating: 15+
Summary: Sherlock told John not to eat from that place. He had no idea how right he was. Written for this story spoiling prompt.
Warnings: Descriptions of a person with gastro.
The sound of John being violently sick was distracting Sherlock from his thinking.
He was aware that John wasn’t doing on purpose, but that didn’t make the sound any less revolting or nauseating. “I told you not to eat that burrito.”
There was a pathetic groan from the bathroom.
“The hygiene standards were below acceptable. It was clear that their meat wasn’t well enough cooked, and really, cross contamination with raw meat?”
That image was enough to set John off again, noising heaving into the toilet. Sherlock wrinkled his nose and glanced to the doorway before looking back down to the ink samples he was testing. “Can you do that less noisily?”
“No!”
“Can you shut the door then, I can’t focus when you’re making that noise.”
John made a rude sound and the door slammed shut. It didn’t help much, because not two minutes later he heard the same noises, dragging him from his deep thoughts.
He sighed and got up, moving to the bathroom door. “Next time, will you do what I tell you and not eat from places like that. I did say this would happen.”
“I hate you,” John groaned inside.
“Only because I’m right,” he stated smugly. “This is your own fault.”
“Go away,” John wailed. “Just let me- urp-”
Sherlock wrinkled his nose again as John went back to throwing up. “Make sure you have a shower before you come out, you’ll drag that stench through the house with you otherwise.”
Luckily, John was too busy feeling miserable and throwing up to point out how the kitchen smelt when Sherlock had been at work in there.
Settling back into his chair, Sherlock finally gave in and put on headphones to drown out the sound of his flat mate’s misery and illness.
But really, he had told him not to eat from there. He had to expect this sort of thing if he would insist on doing it.
*~*~*
It was some time later that Sherlock finished his work on the ink saturation of the paper sample that he had been given. With careful elimination, even the police would be able to narrow down the rather expensive, bio organic ink that the blackmailer had been using.
He took off his headphones, relieved that John seemed to have stopped throwing up and instead retired to bed, since the house was quiet and peaceful.
Wandering to the window, he looked out onto the night street, gaze wandering to find something of interest.
He found it.
Three dead rats, lying on the footpath.
Just... lying there.
He grabbed his coat and bounced down the stairs and outside, crouching down next to the small bodies. They were contorted as if they had been wracked seizures and one of them at least had been throwing up.
Someone had probably baited them, they did have rat problems at this time of year but generally baiting worked that the rats would eat and leave and die. This seemed like they’d been in the bin when the toxin hit them.
He lost interest and stood up, but then he saw what they had been eating.
A burrito.
The remains of a burrito.
His eyes widened and he spun on his heel, running back inside and slamming the door far too loudly behind him, taking the steps two at a time, up to John’s room where he just barged in.
John wasn’t in there. His bed was still made from that morning.
Something cold and unpleasant coiled around Sherlock’s chest, far too similar to the cold and unpleasant he had felt in that moment when he realised there was an explosives vest under that parka that John was wearing.
He skidded back down stairs and shoved the bathroom door open.
John lay on the floor, soaked in sweat. He was pale and shaking, lying on his side in what was a close approximation of the recovery position. His breathing was shallow and laboured and their was vomit across the floor from where he clearly couldn’t get himself up off the floor.
“John?!”
He barely stirred, eyes opening briefly to look at Sherlock. “Nine... nine... nine...” he panted out at a whisper.
Sherlock pulled out his phone, dialling quickly. “Ambulance. I think my flatmate’s been poisoned, two, two, one b, up the stairs, the landlady will guide you up.”
He knelt down, pulling down a towel and putting it under John’s head, finding his hand lingering to push his hair back from his face. “I don’t know... strychnine or... no, nicotine.” His symptoms best matched that. “Yes, he’s in the recovery position... Are you going to give me useful advice or simply coddle me until the ambulance arrives, because I have no need of ‘comfort’ over a phone.” He hung up, shoving the phone in his pocket. “They’re on the way, given average response times, they’ll be here in seven minutes.”
John didn’t answer, just closed his eyes. Sherlock briefly checked his mouth; his gums were nearly white. It was nicotine poisoning, he was sure.
“Charcoal,” John whispered.
“Charcoal?” Sherlock looked around.
“Bottle. Cabinet.” His gaze went to the small cabinet in the corner of the room.
Sherlock pulled it open, finding what John was talking about. Activated charcoal, it would help absorb the poison from his stomach before more was metabolised. He got the bottle, breaking the seal and dropping to the floor to lift John’s head and shoulders from the floor and help him drink the solution down.
The time had been nearly eight when he called the ambulance. They had arrived home at about seven. If John could survive the next three hours, he had a good chance of recovering.
If he hadn’t had his headphones on to drown out the noise of John’s sickness, he might have heard him call for help when the weakness hit him. He had presumed on the cause without once thinking it could be something more serious.
“Don’t die,” he said softly. “You’re not allowed to die. I can’t find anyone else who will live with me.”
John gave a weak laugh.
“Mrs Hudson!” He looked to the door. “Mrs Hudson, there’s an ambulance on the way, show them up here when they get here!”
He heard her coming up the stairs, but he didn’t look back, focused on monitoring John’s condition. “Oh my gracious, Dr Watson?”
“He’s been poisoned. Go down stairs, wait for the ambulance, show them up here.” He lifted the solution to John’s lips again, encouraging him to drink more.
John was barely sipping now, struggling for breaths rather than drinking. Sherlock could hear the ambulance approaching as Mrs Hudson disappeared back down stairs, opening the door to show them the way in.
“Sherlock?”
He set aside the bottle. using both arms to hold John half upright in his lap. “Yes, John?”
“I don’t think I will eat there again,” he whispered.
Then paramedics swarmed the room and Sherlock stepped back to let them work, getting John safely bundled on a stretcher and moved downstairs.
*~*~*
Sitting crouched in the hospital chair, Sherlock bit at the pad of his thumb, staring intently at John’s somnolent face.
The ambulance hadn’t let him ride along, so Mrs Hudson had insisted on helping him pack a bag for John for when he woke up and made him change his own clothes before letting him head in.
By that time, they were settling John into a private room that someone had paid for and had Sherlock listed down on the authorised contact list so he had been allowed to come in and perch next to his friend.
The doctors had monitored him closely, giving him various transfusions and solutions for the next four hours before declaring he was out of imminent danger but would have to stay overnight for observation. John hadn’t woken the entire time, so Sherlock figured he probably didn’t care that much about where he was sleeping.
The nurses had called Harry, who hadn’t answered her phone. Sherlock thought she was probably too drunk, given it was a Friday and she wouldn’t have to work the next day.
A light knock on the door warned him of entry before Lestrade looked in. “The hospital called us. They said it was nicotine poisoning.”
Sherlock nodded, looking back to John. “It was dinner. John got a burrito from the Mexican take away, Los Fantastico, around the corner from us. He was sick shortly after. We thought it was food poisoning.”
Lestrade looked at the sleeping doctor. “Will he recover?”
“The doctors seem to think so. Nicotine has a good recovery rate if you survive the first four hours, sixteen hours roughly to purge it all from your system, but he’ll have to be careful for a while to let his liver recover.” He huddled into his coat further. “I thought he was going to die when I found him.”
“Found him? You were out?”
He shook his head. “I was wearing headphones while I worked. His throwing up was distracting. When I finished work I observed some dead rats on the sidewalk and was curious about what had caused it. I went down and realised they had consumed the remains of the burrito and died and concluded it was poisoned.” He buried his head in his hands, tugging at his hair. “He saved himself. Managed to lie on his side to prevent himself choking if he was sick again.”
They stood in silence for a moment.
“He was served by a girl named Annie. She had dark hair and white eyeliner.”
“We’ll pick her up immediately.” Lestrade hesitated, then squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder. “He’ll be okay.”
Sherlock said nothing as Lestrade left.
*~*~*
The next morning, by the time John awoke, Sherlock had already been on the move for several hours and was back in his chair again, watching John’s face for signs of life.
He waited for John to speak first, for his dark eyes to focus and then soften as understanding flooded him and he let them close again. “Morning.”
“Good morning, and it is good, because you have only another two hours until you are declared completely detoxified, our blackmailer has been arrested and he and his girlfriend are facing blackmail and attempted murder charges for poisoning you.”
John made a small sound of understanding and was quiet for a bit. “Nicotine poisoning?”
“Very well deduced.”
“Thanks. Can I have water?”
Sherlock looked at the jug and cup on the rolling bed table and pushed it over.
“Let me rephrase. Sherlock, will you pour me a cup, I don’t feel strong enough to handle a jug.”
He poured the cup half full of water and handed it over. John gratefully sipped and then downed the rest in a long gulp. “IV hydration just doesn’t stop that cotton in the mouth feeling.”
“No, not really.” He looked at the bag. “I brought you clothes. Mrs Hudson packed them. You can leave as soon as you’ve had a last check over.”
John nodded slightly. “Thank you.”
“All I had to do was carry the bag in here.”
“No. For... back in the bathroom. All of that.” John wouldn’t meet his gaze.
That was all right, Sherlock didn’t feel much like making eye contact himself.
“I know you don’t do displays of compassion easily.”
“No.” He thought about his words. “But it came naturally with you.”
As naturally as John taking his hand and squeezing it and the two of them just waiting in companionable silence for John’s final assessment, hands still curled together on the bed.
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Lestrade, Molly
Rating: 15+
Summary: Sherlock told John not to eat from that place. He had no idea how right he was. Written for this story spoiling prompt.
Warnings: Descriptions of a person with gastro.
The sound of John being violently sick was distracting Sherlock from his thinking.
He was aware that John wasn’t doing on purpose, but that didn’t make the sound any less revolting or nauseating. “I told you not to eat that burrito.”
There was a pathetic groan from the bathroom.
“The hygiene standards were below acceptable. It was clear that their meat wasn’t well enough cooked, and really, cross contamination with raw meat?”
That image was enough to set John off again, noising heaving into the toilet. Sherlock wrinkled his nose and glanced to the doorway before looking back down to the ink samples he was testing. “Can you do that less noisily?”
“No!”
“Can you shut the door then, I can’t focus when you’re making that noise.”
John made a rude sound and the door slammed shut. It didn’t help much, because not two minutes later he heard the same noises, dragging him from his deep thoughts.
He sighed and got up, moving to the bathroom door. “Next time, will you do what I tell you and not eat from places like that. I did say this would happen.”
“I hate you,” John groaned inside.
“Only because I’m right,” he stated smugly. “This is your own fault.”
“Go away,” John wailed. “Just let me- urp-”
Sherlock wrinkled his nose again as John went back to throwing up. “Make sure you have a shower before you come out, you’ll drag that stench through the house with you otherwise.”
Luckily, John was too busy feeling miserable and throwing up to point out how the kitchen smelt when Sherlock had been at work in there.
Settling back into his chair, Sherlock finally gave in and put on headphones to drown out the sound of his flat mate’s misery and illness.
But really, he had told him not to eat from there. He had to expect this sort of thing if he would insist on doing it.
*~*~*
It was some time later that Sherlock finished his work on the ink saturation of the paper sample that he had been given. With careful elimination, even the police would be able to narrow down the rather expensive, bio organic ink that the blackmailer had been using.
He took off his headphones, relieved that John seemed to have stopped throwing up and instead retired to bed, since the house was quiet and peaceful.
Wandering to the window, he looked out onto the night street, gaze wandering to find something of interest.
He found it.
Three dead rats, lying on the footpath.
Just... lying there.
He grabbed his coat and bounced down the stairs and outside, crouching down next to the small bodies. They were contorted as if they had been wracked seizures and one of them at least had been throwing up.
Someone had probably baited them, they did have rat problems at this time of year but generally baiting worked that the rats would eat and leave and die. This seemed like they’d been in the bin when the toxin hit them.
He lost interest and stood up, but then he saw what they had been eating.
A burrito.
The remains of a burrito.
His eyes widened and he spun on his heel, running back inside and slamming the door far too loudly behind him, taking the steps two at a time, up to John’s room where he just barged in.
John wasn’t in there. His bed was still made from that morning.
Something cold and unpleasant coiled around Sherlock’s chest, far too similar to the cold and unpleasant he had felt in that moment when he realised there was an explosives vest under that parka that John was wearing.
He skidded back down stairs and shoved the bathroom door open.
John lay on the floor, soaked in sweat. He was pale and shaking, lying on his side in what was a close approximation of the recovery position. His breathing was shallow and laboured and their was vomit across the floor from where he clearly couldn’t get himself up off the floor.
“John?!”
He barely stirred, eyes opening briefly to look at Sherlock. “Nine... nine... nine...” he panted out at a whisper.
Sherlock pulled out his phone, dialling quickly. “Ambulance. I think my flatmate’s been poisoned, two, two, one b, up the stairs, the landlady will guide you up.”
He knelt down, pulling down a towel and putting it under John’s head, finding his hand lingering to push his hair back from his face. “I don’t know... strychnine or... no, nicotine.” His symptoms best matched that. “Yes, he’s in the recovery position... Are you going to give me useful advice or simply coddle me until the ambulance arrives, because I have no need of ‘comfort’ over a phone.” He hung up, shoving the phone in his pocket. “They’re on the way, given average response times, they’ll be here in seven minutes.”
John didn’t answer, just closed his eyes. Sherlock briefly checked his mouth; his gums were nearly white. It was nicotine poisoning, he was sure.
“Charcoal,” John whispered.
“Charcoal?” Sherlock looked around.
“Bottle. Cabinet.” His gaze went to the small cabinet in the corner of the room.
Sherlock pulled it open, finding what John was talking about. Activated charcoal, it would help absorb the poison from his stomach before more was metabolised. He got the bottle, breaking the seal and dropping to the floor to lift John’s head and shoulders from the floor and help him drink the solution down.
The time had been nearly eight when he called the ambulance. They had arrived home at about seven. If John could survive the next three hours, he had a good chance of recovering.
If he hadn’t had his headphones on to drown out the noise of John’s sickness, he might have heard him call for help when the weakness hit him. He had presumed on the cause without once thinking it could be something more serious.
“Don’t die,” he said softly. “You’re not allowed to die. I can’t find anyone else who will live with me.”
John gave a weak laugh.
“Mrs Hudson!” He looked to the door. “Mrs Hudson, there’s an ambulance on the way, show them up here when they get here!”
He heard her coming up the stairs, but he didn’t look back, focused on monitoring John’s condition. “Oh my gracious, Dr Watson?”
“He’s been poisoned. Go down stairs, wait for the ambulance, show them up here.” He lifted the solution to John’s lips again, encouraging him to drink more.
John was barely sipping now, struggling for breaths rather than drinking. Sherlock could hear the ambulance approaching as Mrs Hudson disappeared back down stairs, opening the door to show them the way in.
“Sherlock?”
He set aside the bottle. using both arms to hold John half upright in his lap. “Yes, John?”
“I don’t think I will eat there again,” he whispered.
Then paramedics swarmed the room and Sherlock stepped back to let them work, getting John safely bundled on a stretcher and moved downstairs.
*~*~*
Sitting crouched in the hospital chair, Sherlock bit at the pad of his thumb, staring intently at John’s somnolent face.
The ambulance hadn’t let him ride along, so Mrs Hudson had insisted on helping him pack a bag for John for when he woke up and made him change his own clothes before letting him head in.
By that time, they were settling John into a private room that someone had paid for and had Sherlock listed down on the authorised contact list so he had been allowed to come in and perch next to his friend.
The doctors had monitored him closely, giving him various transfusions and solutions for the next four hours before declaring he was out of imminent danger but would have to stay overnight for observation. John hadn’t woken the entire time, so Sherlock figured he probably didn’t care that much about where he was sleeping.
The nurses had called Harry, who hadn’t answered her phone. Sherlock thought she was probably too drunk, given it was a Friday and she wouldn’t have to work the next day.
A light knock on the door warned him of entry before Lestrade looked in. “The hospital called us. They said it was nicotine poisoning.”
Sherlock nodded, looking back to John. “It was dinner. John got a burrito from the Mexican take away, Los Fantastico, around the corner from us. He was sick shortly after. We thought it was food poisoning.”
Lestrade looked at the sleeping doctor. “Will he recover?”
“The doctors seem to think so. Nicotine has a good recovery rate if you survive the first four hours, sixteen hours roughly to purge it all from your system, but he’ll have to be careful for a while to let his liver recover.” He huddled into his coat further. “I thought he was going to die when I found him.”
“Found him? You were out?”
He shook his head. “I was wearing headphones while I worked. His throwing up was distracting. When I finished work I observed some dead rats on the sidewalk and was curious about what had caused it. I went down and realised they had consumed the remains of the burrito and died and concluded it was poisoned.” He buried his head in his hands, tugging at his hair. “He saved himself. Managed to lie on his side to prevent himself choking if he was sick again.”
They stood in silence for a moment.
“He was served by a girl named Annie. She had dark hair and white eyeliner.”
“We’ll pick her up immediately.” Lestrade hesitated, then squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder. “He’ll be okay.”
Sherlock said nothing as Lestrade left.
*~*~*
The next morning, by the time John awoke, Sherlock had already been on the move for several hours and was back in his chair again, watching John’s face for signs of life.
He waited for John to speak first, for his dark eyes to focus and then soften as understanding flooded him and he let them close again. “Morning.”
“Good morning, and it is good, because you have only another two hours until you are declared completely detoxified, our blackmailer has been arrested and he and his girlfriend are facing blackmail and attempted murder charges for poisoning you.”
John made a small sound of understanding and was quiet for a bit. “Nicotine poisoning?”
“Very well deduced.”
“Thanks. Can I have water?”
Sherlock looked at the jug and cup on the rolling bed table and pushed it over.
“Let me rephrase. Sherlock, will you pour me a cup, I don’t feel strong enough to handle a jug.”
He poured the cup half full of water and handed it over. John gratefully sipped and then downed the rest in a long gulp. “IV hydration just doesn’t stop that cotton in the mouth feeling.”
“No, not really.” He looked at the bag. “I brought you clothes. Mrs Hudson packed them. You can leave as soon as you’ve had a last check over.”
John nodded slightly. “Thank you.”
“All I had to do was carry the bag in here.”
“No. For... back in the bathroom. All of that.” John wouldn’t meet his gaze.
That was all right, Sherlock didn’t feel much like making eye contact himself.
“I know you don’t do displays of compassion easily.”
“No.” He thought about his words. “But it came naturally with you.”
As naturally as John taking his hand and squeezing it and the two of them just waiting in companionable silence for John’s final assessment, hands still curled together on the bed.