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If Gene comes out, take him to hospital. Harry.
Explain. SH
Deduce it yourself. H
Sherlock glared at his phone as he trudged up the stairs to the flat, brushing the wet curls clinging to his forehead aside with one hand. The thunderstorm raging outside had come on suddenly with little warning while he was in the middle of Richmond Park, a long way from the gates and the relative comfort of a cab. He had at least gathered enough information from the autumn foliage to keep him going and hoped that John was home to take care of prising him out of his wet coat, making tea to warm him through and so on and so forth while he focused on the details of the case.
The door to the flat was off the latch, which gave him pause for a moment, but he could hear voices from the television. Tinny, not brilliant sound quality, with the style and accent of a classic Hollywood film. 1950s judging by the imperfections in the audio. He had never bothered to learn to tell one from another, of course. Sherlock pushed open the door and walked in to see John curled up in his chair, the blanket tugged around him and a cup of tea in front of him. It looked like he had got caught in the same downpour on the way back from his visit to Harry’s, come in, got half dry and fallen asleep in front of the TV.
Sherlock wondered briefly if it would be easier to wake John but the ensuing argument would most likely be distracting, and decided it was simpler to make his own tea. He shrugged out of his coat, grabbed the towel hanging over the back of one of the chairs (damp but usable: John must have got this out when he got home, similarly soaked) and scrubbed it over his head. There was still warm water in the kettle and he flicked it on and dug around for a clean mug before letting his attention wander back to the television.
“This California dew is just a little heavier than usual tonight,” the woman in the film was saying, as music began to swell behind her. The man with her made a somewhat sickening comment about the sun shining from where he was standing, and then in that inexplicable way that characters in musicals did, wandered off into the rain and began to sing happily, using his umbrella as a dancing prop rather than a rain defense. He was dressed in a blue-grey suit, and Sherlock entertained himself for a few minutes mentally replacing him with the image of Mycroft, prancing down the road in a rather more portly way and singing loudly and out-of-key. He laughed out loud at the thought of Mycroft jumping up to swing around a lamp-post (and like as not bending it under his weight) and that was when John stirred and gave a wet-sounding cough.
Sherlock glanced down as he shifted and that was when he noticed the thin sheen of dampness coating John’s skin. He frowned, and decided that the direct approach would be best after all.
“John?”
John stirred again, but didn’t seem to be waking. Sherlock reached down and gripped his shoulder, shook it firmly.
“John!”
John coughed again and winced, before blinking blearily.
“Sherlock?”
“Yes.”
“Make your own tea,” John mumbled. “I’m tired.”
“Did I ask for anything?”
“You never ask,” grumbled John. “You demand. And I’m tired. Let me watch my movie.”
“You’re not watching it, you’re sleeping.”
“I can hear it in my sleep.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
John did not respond, and Sherlock turned back to the kitchen, satisfied that if John could argue, he was probably all right, when a thought struck him.
“John?”
John produced a non-descript muffled noise.
“John!”
“Sherlock, go away.”
“What film is this?”
“Why do you care?”
“Answer the question and I’ll leave you alone,” Sherlock lied.
“Singin’ in the Rain,” John replied grumpily.
“Who’s that?”
“Who?”
“The actor who looks like he stole Mycroft’s clothes and shrank them in the wash. Who is he?”
John cocked his head up at that, looking straight at him. “Sherlock, I know your modern pop culture knowledge is rubbish, but how can you not know who Gene Kelly is?”
Within seconds John was shrinking back into the chair as Sherlock knelt in front of him, eyes darting across his face. John tried to look stern but coughed again, this one threatening to become a small fit. Before he could recover sufficiently to ward him off Sherlock had his fingers pressed to John’s forehead. His skin was clammy, but more alarmingly, blazed heat as though a small furnace burned beneath the surface. He would estimate a body temperature of 40 degrees, possibly a little higher. Enough to be alarming. John tried to pull away but Sherlock followed him, noting now that he was paying attention that John’s breath was not his normal deep pattern but shallow, rapid breaths that were not quite gasps but certainly not comfortable.
“Put your shoes on.”
“What?”
“We’re going to the hospital.”
“What? Sherlock, there’s no need. I’m fine, I just got caught in the rain. ”
“No, I got caught in the rain. You have a temperature around 40 degrees, clammy skin, difficulty breathing, slightly glazed eyes and I will stake my reputation on your having chest pain, even though you will refuse to tell me about it. You had a mild cough this morning when you left and now you have a chesty cough, and the fact that you came home early suggests that you realised you were ill enough not to risk travelling after it had got worse.”
“I’m fine, I just need to rest...”
“Finally, you are watching Gene Kelly.”
John froze and glared at him, but the effect of it was ruined by another wet cough.
“Harry,” he ground out through his teeth, when he could speak.
“Well deduced,” said Sherlock. “Put your shoes on.”
Deduction complete: John watches saccharine 1950s musicals to distract himself from his own symptoms in a type of denial based on a belief in his own infallibility and his mistaken insistence that he as a doctor will remain clear-headed enough to realise when there is a problem. SH
In taxi bound for University College Hospital. See you there. Any further tells I should know about? SH.