Chapter Text
There was warmth somewhere and gentleness. Sympathy?
Sherlock didn't want pity if that's what it was.
He was injured once (a few times). So what. It was a physical thing that would heal (should have healed). Didn't heal properly.
The correction sounded a lot like John, but John wasn't here.
Or was he? It was hard to see through the blur of hot and cold and the sensation that was overwhelming. There was the back of a work-worn hand on his cheek. Disinfectant? It was hard to know, his sense of smell felt dulled and blurred and there was a bad smell behind it. Infection? Something else?
Either way, Sherlock felt like he was going to throw up now because he was dizzy and he closed his eyes.
He moved his hand and felt ... that he was lying down, in a bed.
That wasn't great, that meant they'd followed up on their threat...
He had to be ever so still so no one knew he was awake.
He heard murmuring in the other room. It sounded like John.
"...important to his wellbeing... running a fever of 37.8..."
He sounded ... argumentative. John was ... attractive when he did that. There was a stabbing pain in Sherlock's ribs that he didn't want to do anything about, that he couldn't ... it was hard to breathe, and he had to lay there and be still and it was awful. Breathe in small, short breaths so he wasn't gasping or whimpering. They'd hear him. That thought didn't make sense, but he felt it.
John made other sounds of tense agreement. "...need to be able to reference it... as his doctor..."
It's Mycroft.
It wasn't a difficult deduction, if Sherlock do it this fevered and out of it.
"... no. There wasn't a list... not that I found." John was moving into the washroom now, Sherlock could see it in his mind's eye - phone cradled against his shoulder and ear, rooting through Sherlock's clothes.
He wanted to tell John there wasn't a list, that he'd exposed himself to a toxin and was trying to synthesize a cure but John couldn't hear him, and thinking about talking made his head throb.
"fever reducer... IV... has a probable infection..." There was a tense silence that could be felt. "...injuries...think he has an infection...could figure out...closer examination... ...more expedient to have the file. You know I'll understand if it's classified." John was closer in the room now, still on the phone.
Sherlock closed his eyes, or were they already closed?
"Respiration's not the greatest," he heard John observe aloud, but in a quieter tone. He felt Sherlock's head again, with the back of his hand. Sherlock liked that feeling, but the hand was gone again. "He's still running one, but it's down a degree or so." He checked Sherlock's eyes with a penlight which made him flinch. "Myokymia," John recited, either telling himself or the person on the phone. He had more questions but he was holding back. Sherlock could tell. John was tense.
He adjusted Sherlock's pillows gently, in a way that felt like Sherlock wasn't being jarred or jerked or - whatever else he wasn't thinking about. He was thinking. He put the phone on the bed and on speaker and gently moved Sherlock's arm.
John knows. Sherlock wasn't ready to cope with that knowledge yet. He wanted to pretend John didn't know, that it was easier that way. "Can't have you going without liquids you know," the way he spoke, with less of a professional tone, so he certainly wasn't speaking to Mycroft. "We'll start on the Liquid IV first and then go from there."
There was a pinprick in Sherlock's arm that extended to his shoulder and immediately throbbed but he was used to that discomfort and didn't complain, which John thought wasn't like him.
He took the phone off speaker and went out of the room.
Sherlock only heard. "Alright. Thank you." And a ring off.
He couldn't think of what John was asking for. Maybe he didn't want to know.
He was exhausted and apparently fell asleep without really knowing it. When he woke again it wasn't daylight anymore.
There was a dim light in the hallway, and John sat in the chair near him, with his eyes closed. How late was it?
He shifted a little, seeing if he could analyze anything else and John immediately woke. "Feel like the loo?" John wanted to know. He knew Sherlock hated hospitals, but he'd set up clearly in here, with his laptop on the bedside table - keeping track, obviously. Keeping a chart. When he'd given the IV, how steady it was, the data required.
It took Sherlock too long to comprehend the question but he nodded anyway.
John clamped off the IV, and felt Sherlock's head. "You're still feverish," He observed. Sherlock realized he hadn't moved from the bed, and he probably should try and sit up. "Let's take this slow, your blood pressure isn't the greatest right now. Don't want you dying on me yet." He was trying to half-joke, but he was mostly serious.
Didn't know you cared, Sherlock frowned, but the words didn't come out.
"Okay." John wasn't arguing. "I know you're going to hate this, but you're pretty sick, and I'm going to keep telling you that. You're going to need some help for a while. So. You can fight me and make it harder on the both of us, or you can let me help you. I promise I won't ... overdo it and fuss because I know you hate that. You're going to need help getting into the loo. If you need more help than that, that's fine."
John waited for Sherlock to comprehend this.
There was a slow nod. Sherlock wondered why he wanted to wind his arms around John's neck, breathe in his scent and feel safe there. He wasn't one for ... outbursts though. He moved to push the covers off.
"Alright." He didn't like how weak he sounded. "I'll let you help me."