FIC: The Adventure of the Delirious Detective
Title: The Adventure of the Delirious Detective
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing/Characters: John/Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, Greg Lestrade
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 6200
Summary: Sherlock is back in 221B, but John isn't yet--until he receives a frantic phone call from Mrs. Hudson begging for his help.
Note: A BBC Sherlocked version of the ACD story "The Adventure of the Dying Detective."
"Mrs. Hudson, please--"
"--John, you must come, you absolutely must."
"I'm sure he's just sulking." But he was already pulling on his coat, of course he was.
"You think I don't know a Sherlock sulk?" Mrs. Hudson's voice was indignant through her tears. "This, John, is not a sulk. I know you two have been having some kind of spat lately--"
"--Spat? Mrs. Hudson, he let us think he was dead for over a year!"
"And I know you're still angry at him about it, but still, he is--"
"--It's not that I'm angry," John said, tucking the phone between his shoulder and face to pull on his shoes.
"But you haven't moved back to Baker Street."
"It's just--it's just complicated," John said, grabbing his wallet. "I mean, I've got a lease here, and he seems to think I'll just drop everything and come back, and it's not that simple, is it?" He wasn't sure why that little question had appeared at the end of his assertion. "It's not that simple," he repeated firmly.
"If you had been here, it would never have gotten so bad, John. He hasn't eaten or drunk anything for three days--"
John frowned. Going without eating wasn't so uncommon for Sherlock, but without drinking... "--Are you sure?" He grabbed his medical bag.
"Of course I'm sure!" He could nearly hear her hands wringing over the line. "I'm keeping an eye on him!"
John grimaced at the phone.
"And if you could see him, oh John, it's so terrible." She was weeping again, and the sound pushed John out of his bare little flat like a blow between the shoulderblades. "His poor face, it's all bones--"
"--Well, it always was."
"--more bones, John, please stop being flippant! He refuses to see a doctor, he even refused to let me call you, he said he didn't need you--oh, I'm sorry," she said, and John realized he had made a small sound at the back of his throat.
"No matter," John said, turning it into a cough. "So if he told you not to call me, why..." He let the unspoken question trail away.
"John--" Mrs. Hudson broke off, and when she spoke again her voice was eerily calm. "John, I think he's dying, and I don't know if either of us can bear that again."
Clutching his medical bag, John broke into a run down the stairs and out to the street.
: : :
By the time he got to Baker Street, of course, he had half-convinced himself it was just Sherlock being a troll again. He patted Mrs. Hudson on the back a few times ("I can't go back in there, I can't look at him again, oh John, whatever will we do?") and slowly climbed the stairs to 221B.
The door was unlocked; it swung open to reveal the familiar chaos of papers, beakers, and random mystifying paraphernalia. There was a scattering of bones across the table, a map of Southeast Asia stuck with pins in various places on the wall. John frowned as he stepped inside for the first time in over a year, as the familiar sights and scents enveloped him. The door to Sherlock's room was ajar. "Sherlock?"
There was a faint rattling sound from within, a rasping breath.
John knocked slightly and the door swung open more at his touch. Cautiously, he stepped inside.
It was dim in Sherlock's room; John tripped over something and squinted down to see the skull grinning up at him. "What are you doing here?" he muttered, bending down to pick it up.
"What are you doing here?" said a weak voice from the bed, and he straightened up hastily. "Is that you, John?"
Mrs. Hudson hadn't been exaggerating, was John's first thought when he saw Sherlock's gaunt face against the pillows, his eyes sunken and feverish. His jaw was smudged with something that John realized with surprise was stubble--he'd rarely seen Sherlock less than immaculately shaven. His hair was lank and greasy, and his lips were chapped and cracked, even bleeding in places.
"My God, you look like hell," John said without thinking.
"Why are you holding my skull?" Sherlock said peevishly, tugging his blue dressing-gown tighter around his frame. "Put that down at once. I said, what are you doing here?" he added as John put the skull down on the dresser.
"Mrs. Hudson called me. Said you were sick and begged me to check on you."
"I knew she would," Sherlock muttered as if to himself. "So predictable." He sighed loudly. "Well, you can just turn around and leave again. I'm fine."
"Look," said John, pulling out his stethoscope and starting to cross the room to him. "Let me just--"
"Stay back!" Sherlock lifted a hand in a sharp gesture; John fell back a step.
For a long moment they looked at each other--John frozen in his advance, Sherlock commanding him away--and the room echoed with old pain.
Finally, Sherlock dropped his hand and looked away.
"Don't come near me," he whispered.
John's heart was pounding and his mouth was dry; he threw his hands up and sank into a chair. "Fine," he said. "Fine. I can do that. I'm good at that."
"It's contagious, John," said Sherlock.
"What is? Being an arrogant prat?"
The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched and he began to cough, racking spasms that bent him forward in the bed. John found himself on his feet again, and Sherlock's head jerked up in fury. "I said--"
"Right." John dropped back into the chair. "Right. You've got a cold or something, it's not the end of the world," he said firmly, although there was a feverish light to Sherlock's eyes that he didn't like at all.
"If you won't leave me alone, I must insist you at least put a mask on," Sherlock said. "It's--" He broke off and gasped for breath for a moment, "--It's infectious. Just do it!" he snapped as John hesitated.
Frowning, John pulled a medical mask out of his bag and slipped it on, feeling foolish. "Are you just jerking my chain, Sherlock? Is this some kind of punishment for not moving back in?"
"Some kind of--" Sherlock doubled over again and John realized with some shock that he was laughing: a thin, humorless laugh that seemed to cause him pain. "No, John, the punishment is all mine."
"Look, you've gotten yourself all worked up over something. It's happened before," John said. "When was the last time you ate? Sometimes you just forget to eat and--"
"I need you to find someone for me," Sherlock said. "William Culverton-Smith. He is my only hope, John. If you can't convince him to help me..."
John rolled his eyes. "Let's not get melodramatic, Sherlock. I am a doctor, you know. If you'd just let me take a look at you--"
Sherlock laughed, a sharp bark. "Forgive me, John, but I need someone who has a good grasp of rare diseases, and you are not that person. Let me prove my point: what do you know of Rockhill's Disease? Or Andimeshk Fever?"
John pursed his lips. "I've never heard of them."
"Exactly. And what I suffer from now is more obscure than either of them, a disease so rare that--what are you doing?"
John had his cell phone out. "There isn't a single hit in Google for either of them, Sherlock."
"Well--" Sherlock seemed for a moment nonplussed; he made an angry huffing noise like an annoyed cat. "I said they were obscure. Discussion about them is limited to a few highly selective, invitation-only mailing lists. Don't even think of mentioning them to Mycroft or he'd threaten to kill me before I... My point is, Culverton-Smith is my only chance, John." He took a wheezing breath, wincing in pain. "My last hope."
John felt exasperated, which was better than feeling worried, so he clung to it. "Care to explain exactly why you're so in need of his attentions?"
"He's a biochemist. His father founded a pharmaceutical company, and he worked for him, and then his older brother and nephew after when they inherited the family business. Some years ago he was in Indonesia, studying medicinal endangered species, when a rare disease broke out on the company compound. It was a hemorrhagic fever, quite contagious, and extremely deadly. He--" Sherlock broke off to cough once more, curling up for a moment on the bed. When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse and weaker. "He blogged about the experience in great detail, and gained some renown in epidemiological circles for his insights into the pathology of the disease. I--" He closed his eyes. "I believe that is what I have contracted."
"Good God," John said, torn between horror and complete disbelief. "How in the world--"
"I was interviewing some recent Indonesian immigrants, that may have been the vector of a recent outbreak. Culverton-Smith knows the disease--and he has a keen and observant mind."
"Unlike mine?" John couldn't resist putting in.
Sherlock looked away. "I didn't say that. But..."
"Right," John said. "I got it. Go on."
"I need his insights. Unfortunately..." Sherlock winced. "I may have made some...comments on his blog that he took offence at."
John groaned. "Didn't we agree you wouldn't comment on blogs anymore? It never ends well. What did you do, tell him his methods were flawed?"
"Slightly more inflammatory than that," Sherlock said. "I...may have slightly accused him of murdering his nephew."
"You--" John took a breath. "You accused someone of murder in a blog comment?"
"Not in so many words," Sherlock said. "I merely noted that his nephew had died suddenly of a mysterious disease whose symptoms were extremely close to the disease he studied in Indonesia, and that I found that a curious coincidence." He turned his head restlessly on the pillow, face twisted in annoyance. "But there was no proof. He accused me of libel--"
"--he may have had a point, if there was no proof--"
Sherlock glared at him. "--and so he may refuse to come to my aid. But John--" A feverish light kindled in his eyes, "--if you talked to him in person, appealed to him as a doctor, I believe you might overcome his dislike of me."
John's sigh puffed out his ridiculous medical mask. "I think you've let this case get to you, Sherlock. You've just got a touch of the flu or something. I'm not dragging some pharmacist here to look at you when you won't even let me look at you."
"John." Sherlock's voice faltered. "Please."
John shook his head. "Let me get you some food. You'll feel better."
"I can't possibly eat," Sherlock said, his voice shrill. "I can't keep anything down, it hurts--" He grimaced, his hands clenching on the blanket. "At least I'm still lucid, no delirium yet," he muttered. Then he looked at John with some worry. "I'm not delirious, am I?"
"Ah, no. I don't think so."
"They rave, near the end," Sherlock said. "Their minds become unhinged entirely as their brains boil in their skulls."
"Well, just lie still for a little while," said John. "I'll keep you company."
"You won't come near me?" Sherlock said warningly. "Swear it."
"Just shut up and stop being a drama queen," John said.
Sherlock's eyes slid shut, with just the faintest glitter remaining under his lashes, and he fell silent.
John took the opportunity to look at his face at more length. It was, as Mrs. Hudson had said, even more gaunt than usual, with a sickly pallor that made John uneasy. His upper lip was beaded with sweat, and his hands jerked spasmodically on the blankets, twitching as if racked with pain. But it was still Sherlock's face, and John's eyes ran along the familiar planes and angles that he had thought he would never see again as if he could never see enough of it.
The clock in the other room chimed quietly, and John realized he had been staring at Sherlock's face for perhaps a full twenty minutes. Well, if he won't let me touch him, that's all I can do, he thought irritably. Sherlock took a stuttering, pained breath, his hands jerking slightly as if to ward something off, and John found himself on his feet as if to reach out and seize those hands in his own.
He shoved his traitorous hands in his pockets instead and turned his involuntary motion into a circuit of the room, eyeing the litter and detritus of Sherlock's life: test tubes, scattered paper, more bones (human?), scraps of cloth and bits of metal. He would have said there was something lonely about it, if he felt Sherlock Holmes had any capacity to be lonely.
His eye fell on the skull grinning from the drawers; beside it was a beige USB stick in an small, open box. John idly picked it up. It was one of the ones that retracted, and he went to click it open--
"John!" Sherlock's voice was strident, panicked, nearly a cry. "Drop that right now!"
Without thinking, John let the USB stick clatter to the floor. "What the--"
Sherlock was sitting up in bed, his eyes wild. "How dare you touch my things, John!" he gasped. "You know how I hate it!" His cracked and bleeding lips were trembling and he took a long, shaking breath, then swallowed hard, looking as though he might be sick. "God," he choked. "You--you moron, you idiot, you complete imbecile."
"Hey," snapped John, "There's no need to--"
"Reckless, arrogant, careless--" Sherlock's voice was shaking, and he broke off and took several deep breaths with his eyes closed. "Please just sit down and stop annoying me, John," he finally muttered, staring at the wall. John started to bend down and pick up the stick, and Sherlock snarled, "For God's sake, leave it," and closed his eyes again.
"Look," John said as he abandoned the stick and sat down again. "I understand you're angry I haven't moved back, but I don't have to sit here and be insulted by you endlessly." Which was true, so he wasn't sure why exactly he was still sitting in Sherlock's room. "You can insult the skull if you want, it's less likely to talk back or to punch you in the face. Lack of a tongue and hands, you know." He waited for Sherlock to respond, but was met by only silence and slow, ragged breathing. John considered slipping to his side while he was asleep and checking his pulse, laying his hand on that pale forehead--but decided not to risk the torrent of invective he would probably receive if Sherlock woke. Instead, he left the room and got some digestives together--there was nothing unspoiled in the refrigerator--in case Sherlock woke up less sulky and was willing to eat.
Pulling his mask back on, still feeling ridiculous, he sat back down in Sherlock's room. There was nothing to do except look at Sherlock, so he did, and felt many things that he wasn't inclined to look at too closely.
Sherlock's hands moved restlessly on the blankets, and John could see his eyes shift behind his eyelids. His breath stuttered and broke and he made a small, choked sound, then sat up straight in bed, staring at John.
"Where is Dr. Watson?" he cried. "Where is he?"
"I'm--I'm right here, Sherlock," stammered John, but the wide pale eyes looked through him as if at a stranger.
"Can't you make him come? Can't you tell him I need him here?" He frowned, almost angrily. "No, of course you can't. You're just bones. No soft palate. Useless."
John's hands clenched. "Sher--"
Sherlock's lips were trembling again. "Who are you? I don't need you, I need John, I need my friend." he drew a deep, sobbing breath. "But he won't come. I broke that. I shattered it, didn't I, and I don't know how to tell him I'm sorry, I don't have the words, I can't find the words, damn it, damn me."
John yanked his mask off. "Sherlock, it's me! I'm here!" He expected Sherlock to snap at him about the mask again, but Sherlock didn't seem to notice him at all, seemed locked in some world far away from John.
"You don't understand," Sherlock groaned. "There he is, I see him so far away, his face is so small and far away and I can't--I can't--but I did, I said goodbye, and now I don't know if I can ever come back, I'm back but I'm not back, the flat is empty all the time--not the good kind of empty, not the quiet empty when he was absent and I wouldn't notice but--he'd always come back. He was never gone, never." Sherlock threw a hand in front of his eyes and laughed like a sob, a laugh that started low and pitched upward into shrillness, raking at John like claws. "--I tried to talk to him, I talked to him all last year, I pretended he had just left for a moment and I would talk and talk and wait for him to come back, and it would grow dark and he wouldn't come, and then I would remember I had sent him away, and he was never coming back." He lowered his hand and looked at John again, his eyes empty, his voice utterly flat. "He won't come back. I broke it."
"I'm back, Sherlock." John struggled to keep his voice low and soothing. "I'm here."
"I broke it in a thousand pieces. Broke us. I have to tell him I'm sorry," Sherlock said, his voice far too lucid to be sane. "Even if he never forgives me, he has to know that I'm sorry, that I missed him every day, that I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry--" He struggled to rise and fell back on the pillows, gasping for air. "Can you tell him that? I know, I know, you don't have vocal chords, stop grinning like that--I need you to try, damn it. Will you find a way to tell him I needed him to forgive me? Please, I'm begging you."
"Okay, Sherlock, okay, clearly you need help," John said. His heart was hammering. "I'm going to get you some help. Just--just rest, don't move." There was a business card on the table: William Culverton-Smith. He grabbed it. "I'll get you that fellow you told me about, he'll figure out what's wrong with you."
"John?" Sherlock's voice was a tiny, exhausted sound. "Is...is that really you?"
"Yes," John said, grabbing his things. "I'm only leaving for a moment."
"Will you...come back?"
"I swear I'll be right back," John said. "I'll come back with this Smith person."
"Not with him. Come back before him, I need you here," Sherlock stammered. "Please don't leave me alone so long. Please, John. I can't bear it."
"Right. Okay." John paused in the doorway. "I'll come back immediately. I won't leave you alone."
He ran down the stairs, clutching the business card, stumbling to the street and trying to hail a cab.
"John!" called a cheerful voice. He turned to see Greg Lestrade sitting at one of the cafe tables, grinning at him. "Good to see you!" The smile shifted into a frown. "Are you okay? You look..."
John waved frantically at another cab, which ignored him completely. "It's Sherlock. He's--he's very ill."
"Ill?"
"Yes, ill! He's raving, he's totally out of his head," John stammered. "He says it's some kind of super-rare disease, I thought he was just exhausted but if you could hear him, the crazy things he was saying, he would never--" John broke off, giving Lestrade a narrow look. "You bastard, you're enjoying this, aren't you?"
"Who, me?"
"Don't try to hide that smile. You're practically gloating!" John resisted an urge to grab Lestrade by the collar and shake him. "You haven't forgiven him, have you? You're still holding the last year against him. Well, you listen to me," he said, jabbing at Lestrade's chest with an angry finger, then pointing to the window, "That man up there saved your life, and you don't have to approve of his methods, but you should be damn well be thanking him for sacrificing so much--for risking his life--to save yours. To save ours," he finished in a rush, glaring at Lestrade's amused face. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to try and save his." He waved frantically at another cab, which sailed by.
"Let me." Lestrade put his fingers to his mouth and whistled sharply, and a cab swung to the curb.
"Thanks," snapped John, climbing in.
"Welcome back, John," Lestrade called as the cab pulled away.
: : :
The cab inched through traffic at an unbearable rate; John stared at the GPS on his phone as if he could will it closer. When he was two blocks away he could stand it no longer: he threw money at the cabbie and bolted from the car.
"What the hell is the meaning of this?" barked a thin, pale man as John muscled the door open and bulled his way into his house.
"You're William Culverton-Smith?" John demanded breathlessly.
"I am."
"I need you to come with me, it's an emergency."
"I don't care what--"
"--It's Sherlock Holmes," John said, and Smith stopped abruptly and turned back to face him.
"Oh?"
"He's got some kind of rare disease, and he says you're the only person who can help him."
Smith frowned. "What are the symptoms?"
"He's--he hasn't eaten or drunk for days, he says he can't keep any food down. He seems feverish, and he's--raving like a madman, he's babbling, he thought I was a skull or something and--" His voice broke off and he found himself unable to repeat any of the other mad things Sherlock had been saying.
Smith's face was grave. "Hallucinations already? That's...not good. That's one of the final stages. Did he say where he might have contracted this?"
"Does it matter? I mean--" John struggled to remember the details, "--he said something about investigating a case with some Indonesian immigrants--"
"Ah, yes," said Smith. "That could be it. How unfortunate for him."
"God damn it, he needs your help, not your pity!" John heard panic lacing his own voice. "Now, I know you two haven't gotten along--" Somehow he had the man's lapels in his hands, shaking him, "but you will help him, or so help me God, I will--"
"--I will be happy to see Mr. Holmes," Smith said.
John dropped him. "You will?"
"Of course I will," he said, brushing himself off indignantly. "I'm not so inhumane that I would refuse to help even a boor like Holmes. No true man of science would refuse."
"Well...good," said John, feeling somehow let down. He realized dimly that he had rather hoped he would have a chance to punch this bloke in the face. He definitely needed to punch something at the moment. He remembered Sherlock's frail voice begging him to return as soon as possible and the urge to pummel something crested agonizingly, then subsided. "221B Baker Street," he said. "Go there as soon as possible. I have to...get some medicine for him," he announced, and ran back out of the house to hail another cab.
He took the stairs to the first floor two at a time and was back in Sherlock's room. "He's on his way," he said breathlessly.
"Good work, John," said Sherlock. "I never doubted you could convince him."
Something in his voice caused John to stop and look closely at him. Sherlock's eyes seemed clearer, his voice less wandering. "Are you feeling better?"
"Much," said Sherlock in a cool, crisp voice. "And I'll feel even better when--" He stopped and tilted his head. "Here is our visitor now, as a matter of fact." He gestured wildly at John, his face alight with anticipation. "Quick! Hide!"
"What? Where--"
"The closet," hissed Sherlock, "Hide there! Hurry!" The urgency in his voice pushed John into the little closet. "Listen carefully and don't come out until I give the word," Sherlock announced as John pulled the door closed. "You'll know when."
John found himself surrounded by Sherlock's clothing, nestled in fact right up against that damn purple shirt. It smelled faintly of tobacco and iodine and oranges, and John resisted the urge to put his face to the collar and breathe it in.
Then he heard footsteps in the living room and snapped his attention back to the present.
"Holmes?" Smith's voice came tentatively from the other room, and Sherlock groaned wordlessly. "Well, well," Smith said from within the room a moment later. "What have we here?"
"Smith," groaned Sherlock. "Thank God you've come." His voice was weak and thready once more, and John frowned sharply at the closed door. "You...you must help me."
"You look like you're in a great deal of pain," Smith observed.
"I'm burning up," croaked Sherlock.
"Terrible stomach cramps, I suppose?"
Sherlock broke into a cough that lasted until he was retching. "Smith," he gasped, "Is it the disease you observed in Indonesia? Will I--will I die?"
"It can't be much longer now," Smith said, almost kindly, and then he giggled, a sound that made John's hair stand on end. "Yes, I'd say your time is short."
"Is this what your nephew suffered? This--this terrible pain?"
"Indeed. And for much the same reasons."
Sherlock drew a long, agonized breath. "Reasons? I don't understand," he faltered.
"Oh, he discovered some of my...let's call them side projects, and had some silly ethical complaints about them."
"Side projects?"
Smith was too busy enjoying himself to hear the faint note of glee that had crept into Sherlock's broken voice. "Yes, the outbreak in Indonesia was unfortunate, but it did give me a chance to see the fruits of my painstaking labor on human subjects, so I couldn't regret it too deeply."
"But how?" Sherlock burst out. "How did he contract the disease--how did I--"
"--Oh, I see you got my present," Smith said.
"That USB stick?" rasped Sherlock. "It came in the mail--it had some epidemiological data on it, but nothing--" His voice broke off. "You can't be implying--"
That chilling giggle again. "But it's so simple, my dear Holmes! A monofilament needle in the release--the victim hardly even notices it, but my tiny gift is happily crawling around in his bloodstream. Such an elegant little virus, and one that should be in great demand by certain interested parties quite soon. Once you're out of my way."
Sherlock's breath rattled. "Can't breathe...open the window...I beg you."
"Very well, Holmes. And then I will be on my way." Smith's voice receded slightly. "While I would love to watch your final agonies, I'd rather not risk prolonged contact with you." The sounds of traffic from the street grew clearer. "There. A little fresh air for a doomed man. So I must bid you--" Smith's voice broke off. "What the hell are you smiling about?"
Sherlock's chuckle was weak, but quite smug, and from his hiding place John rolled his eyes, torn between relief and annoyance. "Thank you so much, you've been quite obliging," he murmured. "I do so love how you mad scientist types can't resist bragging."
"I'm not a mad scientist! I--" Smith's voice faltered. "You're...not actually dying, are you?"
There were footsteps on the stairs, familiar voices.
"Please," said Sherlock, his voice dry. "I'm not quite such an idiot that I'd just start using a USB stick without checking it. I'm perfectly well, thank you for asking. And when you so kindly opened the window, you let Detective-Inspector Lestrade know I was ready to have him show up." Sherlock raised his voice. "Lestrade, Mr. Culverton-Smith has confessed his murder and--as a bonus--his illegal dabbling in disease engineering."
"How nice," came Lestrade's dry voice. "You sound like you've been having fun."
"Oh, I have, I have."
"It's his word against mine!" snarled Smith. "Who will people believe, a respected pharmacist or a discredited charlatan who's been exposed as a fraud and a fake?"
"I knew I forgot something!" There was a gleeful chuckle. "I do tend to forget him, how careless of me. John? You can come out of the closet now."
John's hand was already on the doorknob, but at Sherlock's last words he paused for a moment and rolled his eyes before swinging the door open and stepping out into the bedroom.
At the sight of him, Smith stared wildly, then made a sudden break for the door. Before the police could respond, John stepped forward and sent him staggering back with a neat right hook to the jaw. "Don't call him a fake," he added for good measure.
There. That felt quite good indeed.
He shook out his stinging hand, not looking at Sherlock as Smith was cuffed and charged and led away, the incriminating USB stick carefully wrapped up and taken. "You both need to come down to the station," said Lestrade.
"It can wait until tomorrow," announced Sherlock. Lestrade looked at him. "Can't it? I haven't eaten anything for three days and I'm feeling a bit peckish."
"Three days?"
"I needed to convince Smith I was truly ill. After all, the best way of successfully acting a part is to be it. In this case, starving and dehydrated." He gave Lestrade one of his best puppy-dog imploring looks, catching his blood-stained lower lip in his teeth, and Lestrade made an exasperated noise.
"First thing tomorrow morning, then." He glanced at John. "I'm looking forward to the headlines on this one. 'John Watson Comes Out of the Closet, Tells All.'"
"Confirmed Bachelor John Watson," Sherlock corrected him absently.
"Ha ha, yes," John said. "Lovely."
"I could have tucked you behind my bed," Sherlock noted.
"Not much better."
Lestrade clapped him on the shoulder and headed out, whistling.
John left the room.
"John?" There was a hint of alarm in Sherlock's voice. John came back with a glass of water and held it out to him. "Oh. Thank you." He sipped it slowly with hands that were trembling a little.
"Eat one of those digestives," John said.
Sherlock put one in his mouth, chewed slowly, and sighed. "I think I could eat a full meal, actually." He looked up at John, standing with his arms crossed, glaring at him. "What?"
"Look. I understand faking dying--apparently that's just one of those things you're going to do now and then. And yes, you needed me to be convincing to Smith, I got it. But pretending to be delirious and saying all that rubbish--"
"--You kept insisting I just had a cold, John. I needed to convince you I was truly, dangerously ill. What was I going to do, natter about a random topic like the ten-pound note or oyster reproductive processes? You would never have believed that. No, a person dying in fever and agony tends to latch on to more...intimate topics."
John heard himself make a strangled sound in the back of his throat, and he threw his hands in the air. "Making me listen to all that bullshit, going on and on about how sorry you are, and how much you missed me, and your tragic loneliness and how you need me--"
Sherlock was looking down at his hands, plucking at the threads of the blanket. He muttered something indistinct which might have been "The best way of successfully acting a part is to be it," and avoided John's eyes.
After a long moment, John pulled out his phone.
"What are you doing?"
"Getting some Chinese delivered," said John. "I'm pretty hungry." He glanced at Sherlock. "And you don't seem in any shape to go out." After he hung up, he rummaged in his medical bag and came up with a small pot of lip balm. "Nothing spicy tonight. It's going to be difficult to eat at all with your lips such a mess," he added. "I have one more question, Sherlock," he said as he approached the bed. "Why wouldn't you let me get close to you?"
Sherlock's eyes flickered. "Your medical training--you would have realized I didn't actually have a fever, that my pulse wasn't elevated..."
"Bull. You know biofeedback, you can raise your own pulse on command." John sat down on the edge of the bed and took Sherlock's wrist in his fingers. "It's a bit elevated right now," he observed. "Proving my point."
"Uh. Right," said Sherlock.
John released his wrist and opened the balm, smearing a little on his index finger and thumb. He reached toward Sherlock's cracked lips, then paused a breath away. "So why were you so reluctant to have me touch you?"
He could feel Sherlock's breath on his hovering fingers; the ragged lips moved slightly, soundlessly.
"I'm sure you had very valid, case-related, scientific reasons," John said.
"I always do," Sherlock said haughtily.
"Yes," said John, "You always do." He moved his fingers to bridge that endless fraction of space, smoothing balm across the sharp curves of the upper lip, and felt Sherlock's sigh against his skin. He followed the full lower lip with his thumb, stroking and soothing, lingering much longer than was strictly necessary, as if there was something hypnotic about the texture of Sherlock's lips and the oddly staccato rhythm of his breathing.
Sherlock's mouth was trembling beneath his touch and--as if it were contagious indeed--John felt his fingers begin to shake, the tremor growing until he had to cup Sherlock's face in his unsteady hands, seeking some anchor to cling to.
"Of course I'll move back," he said, and Sherlock drew in a small, sharp breath and closed his eyes. "You can't break me so easily. You can't break us so easily." The beginnings of a laugh trembled in his throat. "Maybe I just wanted you to ask me instead of just assuming I would."
Sherlock's eyes were still closed. "Please come back, John," he whispered.
"I'm already back," said John. "Where I belong."
Sherlock opened his eyes, reached up to take John's hands in his--
--and the doorbell rang.
"Damn," John muttered. "I'll be right back. Unless it's another crazed assassin, in which case I'll be a little longer."
Of course, when he came back five minutes later, the little white cartons swinging from his grip, Sherlock was out of bed and looking in his microscope. "I wish Lestrade had let me keep that USB stick," Sherlock grumbled as John came in. "It was ingeniously constructed, quite clever."
"We are not keeping samples of highly contagious, extremely deadly diseases in the flat," said John. Sherlock shot him a look, and John looked around in horror. "We're not, are we?"
Sherlock cast his eyes up, considering. Then he grinned. "Define highly and extremely."
John blocked the view with his hand when Sherlock bent back to the microscope. "Back to bed with you," he announced. "You may not be dying, but you are hungry and dehydrated, and your doctor says you need rest. Now, Sherlock," he said, grabbing him by the back of his collar and dragging him to bed over vociferous protests. He watched carefully as Sherlock consumed half of the food and a bottle of water, then took the carton away from him and pulled the blankets up. "Rest," he said.
"But bed is boring, John," Sherlock whined. He started to expand on his complaint, but fell silent as John clambered over him and collapsed face-down on the bed next to him, one arm slung over his chest. After a moment, he shimmied a few centimeters over, enough to bring his torso up against John's from shoulder down to glorious hip.
"Marginally less boring," he observed.
"Sherlock?"
"Yes, John?"
"Shut up and sleep."
John felt Sherlock move his arm; he looked out of the corner of his eye to see him with his eyes closed, his fingers brushing his own lips as if surprised to feel a smile there.
"Yes, John," said Sherlock.
---
Let him be my master elsewhere, I at least was his in a sick room. --John Watson, "The Adventure of the Dying Detective"
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing/Characters: John/Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, Greg Lestrade
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 6200
Summary: Sherlock is back in 221B, but John isn't yet--until he receives a frantic phone call from Mrs. Hudson begging for his help.
Note: A BBC Sherlocked version of the ACD story "The Adventure of the Dying Detective."
"Mrs. Hudson, please--"
"--John, you must come, you absolutely must."
"I'm sure he's just sulking." But he was already pulling on his coat, of course he was.
"You think I don't know a Sherlock sulk?" Mrs. Hudson's voice was indignant through her tears. "This, John, is not a sulk. I know you two have been having some kind of spat lately--"
"--Spat? Mrs. Hudson, he let us think he was dead for over a year!"
"And I know you're still angry at him about it, but still, he is--"
"--It's not that I'm angry," John said, tucking the phone between his shoulder and face to pull on his shoes.
"But you haven't moved back to Baker Street."
"It's just--it's just complicated," John said, grabbing his wallet. "I mean, I've got a lease here, and he seems to think I'll just drop everything and come back, and it's not that simple, is it?" He wasn't sure why that little question had appeared at the end of his assertion. "It's not that simple," he repeated firmly.
"If you had been here, it would never have gotten so bad, John. He hasn't eaten or drunk anything for three days--"
John frowned. Going without eating wasn't so uncommon for Sherlock, but without drinking... "--Are you sure?" He grabbed his medical bag.
"Of course I'm sure!" He could nearly hear her hands wringing over the line. "I'm keeping an eye on him!"
John grimaced at the phone.
"And if you could see him, oh John, it's so terrible." She was weeping again, and the sound pushed John out of his bare little flat like a blow between the shoulderblades. "His poor face, it's all bones--"
"--Well, it always was."
"--more bones, John, please stop being flippant! He refuses to see a doctor, he even refused to let me call you, he said he didn't need you--oh, I'm sorry," she said, and John realized he had made a small sound at the back of his throat.
"No matter," John said, turning it into a cough. "So if he told you not to call me, why..." He let the unspoken question trail away.
"John--" Mrs. Hudson broke off, and when she spoke again her voice was eerily calm. "John, I think he's dying, and I don't know if either of us can bear that again."
Clutching his medical bag, John broke into a run down the stairs and out to the street.
: : :
By the time he got to Baker Street, of course, he had half-convinced himself it was just Sherlock being a troll again. He patted Mrs. Hudson on the back a few times ("I can't go back in there, I can't look at him again, oh John, whatever will we do?") and slowly climbed the stairs to 221B.
The door was unlocked; it swung open to reveal the familiar chaos of papers, beakers, and random mystifying paraphernalia. There was a scattering of bones across the table, a map of Southeast Asia stuck with pins in various places on the wall. John frowned as he stepped inside for the first time in over a year, as the familiar sights and scents enveloped him. The door to Sherlock's room was ajar. "Sherlock?"
There was a faint rattling sound from within, a rasping breath.
John knocked slightly and the door swung open more at his touch. Cautiously, he stepped inside.
It was dim in Sherlock's room; John tripped over something and squinted down to see the skull grinning up at him. "What are you doing here?" he muttered, bending down to pick it up.
"What are you doing here?" said a weak voice from the bed, and he straightened up hastily. "Is that you, John?"
Mrs. Hudson hadn't been exaggerating, was John's first thought when he saw Sherlock's gaunt face against the pillows, his eyes sunken and feverish. His jaw was smudged with something that John realized with surprise was stubble--he'd rarely seen Sherlock less than immaculately shaven. His hair was lank and greasy, and his lips were chapped and cracked, even bleeding in places.
"My God, you look like hell," John said without thinking.
"Why are you holding my skull?" Sherlock said peevishly, tugging his blue dressing-gown tighter around his frame. "Put that down at once. I said, what are you doing here?" he added as John put the skull down on the dresser.
"Mrs. Hudson called me. Said you were sick and begged me to check on you."
"I knew she would," Sherlock muttered as if to himself. "So predictable." He sighed loudly. "Well, you can just turn around and leave again. I'm fine."
"Look," said John, pulling out his stethoscope and starting to cross the room to him. "Let me just--"
"Stay back!" Sherlock lifted a hand in a sharp gesture; John fell back a step.
For a long moment they looked at each other--John frozen in his advance, Sherlock commanding him away--and the room echoed with old pain.
Finally, Sherlock dropped his hand and looked away.
"Don't come near me," he whispered.
John's heart was pounding and his mouth was dry; he threw his hands up and sank into a chair. "Fine," he said. "Fine. I can do that. I'm good at that."
"It's contagious, John," said Sherlock.
"What is? Being an arrogant prat?"
The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched and he began to cough, racking spasms that bent him forward in the bed. John found himself on his feet again, and Sherlock's head jerked up in fury. "I said--"
"Right." John dropped back into the chair. "Right. You've got a cold or something, it's not the end of the world," he said firmly, although there was a feverish light to Sherlock's eyes that he didn't like at all.
"If you won't leave me alone, I must insist you at least put a mask on," Sherlock said. "It's--" He broke off and gasped for breath for a moment, "--It's infectious. Just do it!" he snapped as John hesitated.
Frowning, John pulled a medical mask out of his bag and slipped it on, feeling foolish. "Are you just jerking my chain, Sherlock? Is this some kind of punishment for not moving back in?"
"Some kind of--" Sherlock doubled over again and John realized with some shock that he was laughing: a thin, humorless laugh that seemed to cause him pain. "No, John, the punishment is all mine."
"Look, you've gotten yourself all worked up over something. It's happened before," John said. "When was the last time you ate? Sometimes you just forget to eat and--"
"I need you to find someone for me," Sherlock said. "William Culverton-Smith. He is my only hope, John. If you can't convince him to help me..."
John rolled his eyes. "Let's not get melodramatic, Sherlock. I am a doctor, you know. If you'd just let me take a look at you--"
Sherlock laughed, a sharp bark. "Forgive me, John, but I need someone who has a good grasp of rare diseases, and you are not that person. Let me prove my point: what do you know of Rockhill's Disease? Or Andimeshk Fever?"
John pursed his lips. "I've never heard of them."
"Exactly. And what I suffer from now is more obscure than either of them, a disease so rare that--what are you doing?"
John had his cell phone out. "There isn't a single hit in Google for either of them, Sherlock."
"Well--" Sherlock seemed for a moment nonplussed; he made an angry huffing noise like an annoyed cat. "I said they were obscure. Discussion about them is limited to a few highly selective, invitation-only mailing lists. Don't even think of mentioning them to Mycroft or he'd threaten to kill me before I... My point is, Culverton-Smith is my only chance, John." He took a wheezing breath, wincing in pain. "My last hope."
John felt exasperated, which was better than feeling worried, so he clung to it. "Care to explain exactly why you're so in need of his attentions?"
"He's a biochemist. His father founded a pharmaceutical company, and he worked for him, and then his older brother and nephew after when they inherited the family business. Some years ago he was in Indonesia, studying medicinal endangered species, when a rare disease broke out on the company compound. It was a hemorrhagic fever, quite contagious, and extremely deadly. He--" Sherlock broke off to cough once more, curling up for a moment on the bed. When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse and weaker. "He blogged about the experience in great detail, and gained some renown in epidemiological circles for his insights into the pathology of the disease. I--" He closed his eyes. "I believe that is what I have contracted."
"Good God," John said, torn between horror and complete disbelief. "How in the world--"
"I was interviewing some recent Indonesian immigrants, that may have been the vector of a recent outbreak. Culverton-Smith knows the disease--and he has a keen and observant mind."
"Unlike mine?" John couldn't resist putting in.
Sherlock looked away. "I didn't say that. But..."
"Right," John said. "I got it. Go on."
"I need his insights. Unfortunately..." Sherlock winced. "I may have made some...comments on his blog that he took offence at."
John groaned. "Didn't we agree you wouldn't comment on blogs anymore? It never ends well. What did you do, tell him his methods were flawed?"
"Slightly more inflammatory than that," Sherlock said. "I...may have slightly accused him of murdering his nephew."
"You--" John took a breath. "You accused someone of murder in a blog comment?"
"Not in so many words," Sherlock said. "I merely noted that his nephew had died suddenly of a mysterious disease whose symptoms were extremely close to the disease he studied in Indonesia, and that I found that a curious coincidence." He turned his head restlessly on the pillow, face twisted in annoyance. "But there was no proof. He accused me of libel--"
"--he may have had a point, if there was no proof--"
Sherlock glared at him. "--and so he may refuse to come to my aid. But John--" A feverish light kindled in his eyes, "--if you talked to him in person, appealed to him as a doctor, I believe you might overcome his dislike of me."
John's sigh puffed out his ridiculous medical mask. "I think you've let this case get to you, Sherlock. You've just got a touch of the flu or something. I'm not dragging some pharmacist here to look at you when you won't even let me look at you."
"John." Sherlock's voice faltered. "Please."
John shook his head. "Let me get you some food. You'll feel better."
"I can't possibly eat," Sherlock said, his voice shrill. "I can't keep anything down, it hurts--" He grimaced, his hands clenching on the blanket. "At least I'm still lucid, no delirium yet," he muttered. Then he looked at John with some worry. "I'm not delirious, am I?"
"Ah, no. I don't think so."
"They rave, near the end," Sherlock said. "Their minds become unhinged entirely as their brains boil in their skulls."
"Well, just lie still for a little while," said John. "I'll keep you company."
"You won't come near me?" Sherlock said warningly. "Swear it."
"Just shut up and stop being a drama queen," John said.
Sherlock's eyes slid shut, with just the faintest glitter remaining under his lashes, and he fell silent.
John took the opportunity to look at his face at more length. It was, as Mrs. Hudson had said, even more gaunt than usual, with a sickly pallor that made John uneasy. His upper lip was beaded with sweat, and his hands jerked spasmodically on the blankets, twitching as if racked with pain. But it was still Sherlock's face, and John's eyes ran along the familiar planes and angles that he had thought he would never see again as if he could never see enough of it.
The clock in the other room chimed quietly, and John realized he had been staring at Sherlock's face for perhaps a full twenty minutes. Well, if he won't let me touch him, that's all I can do, he thought irritably. Sherlock took a stuttering, pained breath, his hands jerking slightly as if to ward something off, and John found himself on his feet as if to reach out and seize those hands in his own.
He shoved his traitorous hands in his pockets instead and turned his involuntary motion into a circuit of the room, eyeing the litter and detritus of Sherlock's life: test tubes, scattered paper, more bones (human?), scraps of cloth and bits of metal. He would have said there was something lonely about it, if he felt Sherlock Holmes had any capacity to be lonely.
His eye fell on the skull grinning from the drawers; beside it was a beige USB stick in an small, open box. John idly picked it up. It was one of the ones that retracted, and he went to click it open--
"John!" Sherlock's voice was strident, panicked, nearly a cry. "Drop that right now!"
Without thinking, John let the USB stick clatter to the floor. "What the--"
Sherlock was sitting up in bed, his eyes wild. "How dare you touch my things, John!" he gasped. "You know how I hate it!" His cracked and bleeding lips were trembling and he took a long, shaking breath, then swallowed hard, looking as though he might be sick. "God," he choked. "You--you moron, you idiot, you complete imbecile."
"Hey," snapped John, "There's no need to--"
"Reckless, arrogant, careless--" Sherlock's voice was shaking, and he broke off and took several deep breaths with his eyes closed. "Please just sit down and stop annoying me, John," he finally muttered, staring at the wall. John started to bend down and pick up the stick, and Sherlock snarled, "For God's sake, leave it," and closed his eyes again.
"Look," John said as he abandoned the stick and sat down again. "I understand you're angry I haven't moved back, but I don't have to sit here and be insulted by you endlessly." Which was true, so he wasn't sure why exactly he was still sitting in Sherlock's room. "You can insult the skull if you want, it's less likely to talk back or to punch you in the face. Lack of a tongue and hands, you know." He waited for Sherlock to respond, but was met by only silence and slow, ragged breathing. John considered slipping to his side while he was asleep and checking his pulse, laying his hand on that pale forehead--but decided not to risk the torrent of invective he would probably receive if Sherlock woke. Instead, he left the room and got some digestives together--there was nothing unspoiled in the refrigerator--in case Sherlock woke up less sulky and was willing to eat.
Pulling his mask back on, still feeling ridiculous, he sat back down in Sherlock's room. There was nothing to do except look at Sherlock, so he did, and felt many things that he wasn't inclined to look at too closely.
Sherlock's hands moved restlessly on the blankets, and John could see his eyes shift behind his eyelids. His breath stuttered and broke and he made a small, choked sound, then sat up straight in bed, staring at John.
"Where is Dr. Watson?" he cried. "Where is he?"
"I'm--I'm right here, Sherlock," stammered John, but the wide pale eyes looked through him as if at a stranger.
"Can't you make him come? Can't you tell him I need him here?" He frowned, almost angrily. "No, of course you can't. You're just bones. No soft palate. Useless."
John's hands clenched. "Sher--"
Sherlock's lips were trembling again. "Who are you? I don't need you, I need John, I need my friend." he drew a deep, sobbing breath. "But he won't come. I broke that. I shattered it, didn't I, and I don't know how to tell him I'm sorry, I don't have the words, I can't find the words, damn it, damn me."
John yanked his mask off. "Sherlock, it's me! I'm here!" He expected Sherlock to snap at him about the mask again, but Sherlock didn't seem to notice him at all, seemed locked in some world far away from John.
"You don't understand," Sherlock groaned. "There he is, I see him so far away, his face is so small and far away and I can't--I can't--but I did, I said goodbye, and now I don't know if I can ever come back, I'm back but I'm not back, the flat is empty all the time--not the good kind of empty, not the quiet empty when he was absent and I wouldn't notice but--he'd always come back. He was never gone, never." Sherlock threw a hand in front of his eyes and laughed like a sob, a laugh that started low and pitched upward into shrillness, raking at John like claws. "--I tried to talk to him, I talked to him all last year, I pretended he had just left for a moment and I would talk and talk and wait for him to come back, and it would grow dark and he wouldn't come, and then I would remember I had sent him away, and he was never coming back." He lowered his hand and looked at John again, his eyes empty, his voice utterly flat. "He won't come back. I broke it."
"I'm back, Sherlock." John struggled to keep his voice low and soothing. "I'm here."
"I broke it in a thousand pieces. Broke us. I have to tell him I'm sorry," Sherlock said, his voice far too lucid to be sane. "Even if he never forgives me, he has to know that I'm sorry, that I missed him every day, that I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry--" He struggled to rise and fell back on the pillows, gasping for air. "Can you tell him that? I know, I know, you don't have vocal chords, stop grinning like that--I need you to try, damn it. Will you find a way to tell him I needed him to forgive me? Please, I'm begging you."
"Okay, Sherlock, okay, clearly you need help," John said. His heart was hammering. "I'm going to get you some help. Just--just rest, don't move." There was a business card on the table: William Culverton-Smith. He grabbed it. "I'll get you that fellow you told me about, he'll figure out what's wrong with you."
"John?" Sherlock's voice was a tiny, exhausted sound. "Is...is that really you?"
"Yes," John said, grabbing his things. "I'm only leaving for a moment."
"Will you...come back?"
"I swear I'll be right back," John said. "I'll come back with this Smith person."
"Not with him. Come back before him, I need you here," Sherlock stammered. "Please don't leave me alone so long. Please, John. I can't bear it."
"Right. Okay." John paused in the doorway. "I'll come back immediately. I won't leave you alone."
He ran down the stairs, clutching the business card, stumbling to the street and trying to hail a cab.
"John!" called a cheerful voice. He turned to see Greg Lestrade sitting at one of the cafe tables, grinning at him. "Good to see you!" The smile shifted into a frown. "Are you okay? You look..."
John waved frantically at another cab, which ignored him completely. "It's Sherlock. He's--he's very ill."
"Ill?"
"Yes, ill! He's raving, he's totally out of his head," John stammered. "He says it's some kind of super-rare disease, I thought he was just exhausted but if you could hear him, the crazy things he was saying, he would never--" John broke off, giving Lestrade a narrow look. "You bastard, you're enjoying this, aren't you?"
"Who, me?"
"Don't try to hide that smile. You're practically gloating!" John resisted an urge to grab Lestrade by the collar and shake him. "You haven't forgiven him, have you? You're still holding the last year against him. Well, you listen to me," he said, jabbing at Lestrade's chest with an angry finger, then pointing to the window, "That man up there saved your life, and you don't have to approve of his methods, but you should be damn well be thanking him for sacrificing so much--for risking his life--to save yours. To save ours," he finished in a rush, glaring at Lestrade's amused face. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to try and save his." He waved frantically at another cab, which sailed by.
"Let me." Lestrade put his fingers to his mouth and whistled sharply, and a cab swung to the curb.
"Thanks," snapped John, climbing in.
"Welcome back, John," Lestrade called as the cab pulled away.
: : :
The cab inched through traffic at an unbearable rate; John stared at the GPS on his phone as if he could will it closer. When he was two blocks away he could stand it no longer: he threw money at the cabbie and bolted from the car.
"What the hell is the meaning of this?" barked a thin, pale man as John muscled the door open and bulled his way into his house.
"You're William Culverton-Smith?" John demanded breathlessly.
"I am."
"I need you to come with me, it's an emergency."
"I don't care what--"
"--It's Sherlock Holmes," John said, and Smith stopped abruptly and turned back to face him.
"Oh?"
"He's got some kind of rare disease, and he says you're the only person who can help him."
Smith frowned. "What are the symptoms?"
"He's--he hasn't eaten or drunk for days, he says he can't keep any food down. He seems feverish, and he's--raving like a madman, he's babbling, he thought I was a skull or something and--" His voice broke off and he found himself unable to repeat any of the other mad things Sherlock had been saying.
Smith's face was grave. "Hallucinations already? That's...not good. That's one of the final stages. Did he say where he might have contracted this?"
"Does it matter? I mean--" John struggled to remember the details, "--he said something about investigating a case with some Indonesian immigrants--"
"Ah, yes," said Smith. "That could be it. How unfortunate for him."
"God damn it, he needs your help, not your pity!" John heard panic lacing his own voice. "Now, I know you two haven't gotten along--" Somehow he had the man's lapels in his hands, shaking him, "but you will help him, or so help me God, I will--"
"--I will be happy to see Mr. Holmes," Smith said.
John dropped him. "You will?"
"Of course I will," he said, brushing himself off indignantly. "I'm not so inhumane that I would refuse to help even a boor like Holmes. No true man of science would refuse."
"Well...good," said John, feeling somehow let down. He realized dimly that he had rather hoped he would have a chance to punch this bloke in the face. He definitely needed to punch something at the moment. He remembered Sherlock's frail voice begging him to return as soon as possible and the urge to pummel something crested agonizingly, then subsided. "221B Baker Street," he said. "Go there as soon as possible. I have to...get some medicine for him," he announced, and ran back out of the house to hail another cab.
He took the stairs to the first floor two at a time and was back in Sherlock's room. "He's on his way," he said breathlessly.
"Good work, John," said Sherlock. "I never doubted you could convince him."
Something in his voice caused John to stop and look closely at him. Sherlock's eyes seemed clearer, his voice less wandering. "Are you feeling better?"
"Much," said Sherlock in a cool, crisp voice. "And I'll feel even better when--" He stopped and tilted his head. "Here is our visitor now, as a matter of fact." He gestured wildly at John, his face alight with anticipation. "Quick! Hide!"
"What? Where--"
"The closet," hissed Sherlock, "Hide there! Hurry!" The urgency in his voice pushed John into the little closet. "Listen carefully and don't come out until I give the word," Sherlock announced as John pulled the door closed. "You'll know when."
John found himself surrounded by Sherlock's clothing, nestled in fact right up against that damn purple shirt. It smelled faintly of tobacco and iodine and oranges, and John resisted the urge to put his face to the collar and breathe it in.
Then he heard footsteps in the living room and snapped his attention back to the present.
"Holmes?" Smith's voice came tentatively from the other room, and Sherlock groaned wordlessly. "Well, well," Smith said from within the room a moment later. "What have we here?"
"Smith," groaned Sherlock. "Thank God you've come." His voice was weak and thready once more, and John frowned sharply at the closed door. "You...you must help me."
"You look like you're in a great deal of pain," Smith observed.
"I'm burning up," croaked Sherlock.
"Terrible stomach cramps, I suppose?"
Sherlock broke into a cough that lasted until he was retching. "Smith," he gasped, "Is it the disease you observed in Indonesia? Will I--will I die?"
"It can't be much longer now," Smith said, almost kindly, and then he giggled, a sound that made John's hair stand on end. "Yes, I'd say your time is short."
"Is this what your nephew suffered? This--this terrible pain?"
"Indeed. And for much the same reasons."
Sherlock drew a long, agonized breath. "Reasons? I don't understand," he faltered.
"Oh, he discovered some of my...let's call them side projects, and had some silly ethical complaints about them."
"Side projects?"
Smith was too busy enjoying himself to hear the faint note of glee that had crept into Sherlock's broken voice. "Yes, the outbreak in Indonesia was unfortunate, but it did give me a chance to see the fruits of my painstaking labor on human subjects, so I couldn't regret it too deeply."
"But how?" Sherlock burst out. "How did he contract the disease--how did I--"
"--Oh, I see you got my present," Smith said.
"That USB stick?" rasped Sherlock. "It came in the mail--it had some epidemiological data on it, but nothing--" His voice broke off. "You can't be implying--"
That chilling giggle again. "But it's so simple, my dear Holmes! A monofilament needle in the release--the victim hardly even notices it, but my tiny gift is happily crawling around in his bloodstream. Such an elegant little virus, and one that should be in great demand by certain interested parties quite soon. Once you're out of my way."
Sherlock's breath rattled. "Can't breathe...open the window...I beg you."
"Very well, Holmes. And then I will be on my way." Smith's voice receded slightly. "While I would love to watch your final agonies, I'd rather not risk prolonged contact with you." The sounds of traffic from the street grew clearer. "There. A little fresh air for a doomed man. So I must bid you--" Smith's voice broke off. "What the hell are you smiling about?"
Sherlock's chuckle was weak, but quite smug, and from his hiding place John rolled his eyes, torn between relief and annoyance. "Thank you so much, you've been quite obliging," he murmured. "I do so love how you mad scientist types can't resist bragging."
"I'm not a mad scientist! I--" Smith's voice faltered. "You're...not actually dying, are you?"
There were footsteps on the stairs, familiar voices.
"Please," said Sherlock, his voice dry. "I'm not quite such an idiot that I'd just start using a USB stick without checking it. I'm perfectly well, thank you for asking. And when you so kindly opened the window, you let Detective-Inspector Lestrade know I was ready to have him show up." Sherlock raised his voice. "Lestrade, Mr. Culverton-Smith has confessed his murder and--as a bonus--his illegal dabbling in disease engineering."
"How nice," came Lestrade's dry voice. "You sound like you've been having fun."
"Oh, I have, I have."
"It's his word against mine!" snarled Smith. "Who will people believe, a respected pharmacist or a discredited charlatan who's been exposed as a fraud and a fake?"
"I knew I forgot something!" There was a gleeful chuckle. "I do tend to forget him, how careless of me. John? You can come out of the closet now."
John's hand was already on the doorknob, but at Sherlock's last words he paused for a moment and rolled his eyes before swinging the door open and stepping out into the bedroom.
At the sight of him, Smith stared wildly, then made a sudden break for the door. Before the police could respond, John stepped forward and sent him staggering back with a neat right hook to the jaw. "Don't call him a fake," he added for good measure.
There. That felt quite good indeed.
He shook out his stinging hand, not looking at Sherlock as Smith was cuffed and charged and led away, the incriminating USB stick carefully wrapped up and taken. "You both need to come down to the station," said Lestrade.
"It can wait until tomorrow," announced Sherlock. Lestrade looked at him. "Can't it? I haven't eaten anything for three days and I'm feeling a bit peckish."
"Three days?"
"I needed to convince Smith I was truly ill. After all, the best way of successfully acting a part is to be it. In this case, starving and dehydrated." He gave Lestrade one of his best puppy-dog imploring looks, catching his blood-stained lower lip in his teeth, and Lestrade made an exasperated noise.
"First thing tomorrow morning, then." He glanced at John. "I'm looking forward to the headlines on this one. 'John Watson Comes Out of the Closet, Tells All.'"
"Confirmed Bachelor John Watson," Sherlock corrected him absently.
"Ha ha, yes," John said. "Lovely."
"I could have tucked you behind my bed," Sherlock noted.
"Not much better."
Lestrade clapped him on the shoulder and headed out, whistling.
John left the room.
"John?" There was a hint of alarm in Sherlock's voice. John came back with a glass of water and held it out to him. "Oh. Thank you." He sipped it slowly with hands that were trembling a little.
"Eat one of those digestives," John said.
Sherlock put one in his mouth, chewed slowly, and sighed. "I think I could eat a full meal, actually." He looked up at John, standing with his arms crossed, glaring at him. "What?"
"Look. I understand faking dying--apparently that's just one of those things you're going to do now and then. And yes, you needed me to be convincing to Smith, I got it. But pretending to be delirious and saying all that rubbish--"
"--You kept insisting I just had a cold, John. I needed to convince you I was truly, dangerously ill. What was I going to do, natter about a random topic like the ten-pound note or oyster reproductive processes? You would never have believed that. No, a person dying in fever and agony tends to latch on to more...intimate topics."
John heard himself make a strangled sound in the back of his throat, and he threw his hands in the air. "Making me listen to all that bullshit, going on and on about how sorry you are, and how much you missed me, and your tragic loneliness and how you need me--"
Sherlock was looking down at his hands, plucking at the threads of the blanket. He muttered something indistinct which might have been "The best way of successfully acting a part is to be it," and avoided John's eyes.
After a long moment, John pulled out his phone.
"What are you doing?"
"Getting some Chinese delivered," said John. "I'm pretty hungry." He glanced at Sherlock. "And you don't seem in any shape to go out." After he hung up, he rummaged in his medical bag and came up with a small pot of lip balm. "Nothing spicy tonight. It's going to be difficult to eat at all with your lips such a mess," he added. "I have one more question, Sherlock," he said as he approached the bed. "Why wouldn't you let me get close to you?"
Sherlock's eyes flickered. "Your medical training--you would have realized I didn't actually have a fever, that my pulse wasn't elevated..."
"Bull. You know biofeedback, you can raise your own pulse on command." John sat down on the edge of the bed and took Sherlock's wrist in his fingers. "It's a bit elevated right now," he observed. "Proving my point."
"Uh. Right," said Sherlock.
John released his wrist and opened the balm, smearing a little on his index finger and thumb. He reached toward Sherlock's cracked lips, then paused a breath away. "So why were you so reluctant to have me touch you?"
He could feel Sherlock's breath on his hovering fingers; the ragged lips moved slightly, soundlessly.
"I'm sure you had very valid, case-related, scientific reasons," John said.
"I always do," Sherlock said haughtily.
"Yes," said John, "You always do." He moved his fingers to bridge that endless fraction of space, smoothing balm across the sharp curves of the upper lip, and felt Sherlock's sigh against his skin. He followed the full lower lip with his thumb, stroking and soothing, lingering much longer than was strictly necessary, as if there was something hypnotic about the texture of Sherlock's lips and the oddly staccato rhythm of his breathing.
Sherlock's mouth was trembling beneath his touch and--as if it were contagious indeed--John felt his fingers begin to shake, the tremor growing until he had to cup Sherlock's face in his unsteady hands, seeking some anchor to cling to.
"Of course I'll move back," he said, and Sherlock drew in a small, sharp breath and closed his eyes. "You can't break me so easily. You can't break us so easily." The beginnings of a laugh trembled in his throat. "Maybe I just wanted you to ask me instead of just assuming I would."
Sherlock's eyes were still closed. "Please come back, John," he whispered.
"I'm already back," said John. "Where I belong."
Sherlock opened his eyes, reached up to take John's hands in his--
--and the doorbell rang.
"Damn," John muttered. "I'll be right back. Unless it's another crazed assassin, in which case I'll be a little longer."
Of course, when he came back five minutes later, the little white cartons swinging from his grip, Sherlock was out of bed and looking in his microscope. "I wish Lestrade had let me keep that USB stick," Sherlock grumbled as John came in. "It was ingeniously constructed, quite clever."
"We are not keeping samples of highly contagious, extremely deadly diseases in the flat," said John. Sherlock shot him a look, and John looked around in horror. "We're not, are we?"
Sherlock cast his eyes up, considering. Then he grinned. "Define highly and extremely."
John blocked the view with his hand when Sherlock bent back to the microscope. "Back to bed with you," he announced. "You may not be dying, but you are hungry and dehydrated, and your doctor says you need rest. Now, Sherlock," he said, grabbing him by the back of his collar and dragging him to bed over vociferous protests. He watched carefully as Sherlock consumed half of the food and a bottle of water, then took the carton away from him and pulled the blankets up. "Rest," he said.
"But bed is boring, John," Sherlock whined. He started to expand on his complaint, but fell silent as John clambered over him and collapsed face-down on the bed next to him, one arm slung over his chest. After a moment, he shimmied a few centimeters over, enough to bring his torso up against John's from shoulder down to glorious hip.
"Marginally less boring," he observed.
"Sherlock?"
"Yes, John?"
"Shut up and sleep."
John felt Sherlock move his arm; he looked out of the corner of his eye to see him with his eyes closed, his fingers brushing his own lips as if surprised to feel a smile there.
"Yes, John," said Sherlock.
---
Let him be my master elsewhere, I at least was his in a sick room. --John Watson, "The Adventure of the Dying Detective"