A/N: I was so annoyed with myself because I can't think of plots to save my life. Then I realized I can just do what Moffat and Gattis do: steal Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's plots! Then I found out that's a lot harder than it sounds. But here's my first crack at it. I tried to adapt "The Dying Detective" because although Original Sherlock is usually much much nicer than BBC Sherlock, in this particular story he is a total prick, dovetailing nicely with BBC Sherlock. Also, the Glasgow case is from "The Adventure of the Gloria Scott." Please note, there is no Victor Trevor in this fic. "Gloria Scott" is the story with Victor Trevor, Sherlock's only friend/boo before John, and therefore a slashfic favorite. No Victor here. No slash either, just the bromance.

~~MONDAY~~

Where are you?
SH

Leaving surgery, heading home.
JW

Don't.
SH

Why…?
JW

Flat's a bit contaminated. Spend night elsewhere.
SH

What did you do?!
JW

Calm down, it's all under control.
SH

Why don't I find that comforting?
JW

John closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed. Then he dialed his sister's number.

~~TUESDAY~~

Leaving surgery now. Safe to come home?
JW

Yes. We're out of milk.
SH

As soon as he entered the flat, John smelled something he couldn't quite identify. Apparently whatever bizarre experiment had gone awry the day before still lingered in the air. John investigated the kitchen thoroughly but saw no fire damage. Relieved, he put the milk in the fridge and put the kettle on for tea. Sherlock's coat was hanging on the rack but he was nowhere to be seen.

"Sherlock?" John called out. He heard an answering grunt from the bedroom. "You alright in there?"

"Of course," was the reply, in the very familiar tone that implied this was the stupidest question ever asked.

"No side effects from… whatever happened?"

"Really, John. Don't be so dramatic. I'm fine."

John chuckled. "You telling me not to be dramatic? I like that. G'night then."

~~WEDNESDAY~~

Need you to go to Glasgow for a few days. Emailed you ticket.
SH

I have a shift at the surgery tomorrow.
JW

Not anymore.
SH

John set his phone back on the bedside table and rubbed his bleary eyes. Glasgow? There had been an email two weeks ago from a woman in Glasgow; John had forwarded it to Sherlock, who only snorted, "Three, at best."

You turned that case down.
JW

Changed my mind. Interview client, check in tomorrow.
SH

Downstairs, he saw that Sherlock's coat was gone. While he waited for the kettle, he searched in his email for the email from Glasgow.

From: Holly Ferguson
To: John H. Watson
Subject: Hoping to engage Sherlock Holmes

Hello Dr. Watson,

I was referred to your blog to a friend who knows about my situation. I'm hoping Mr. Holmes can help. My employer, George Mitchell, is an old family friend and has been like a father to me since my own father died. Recently he has been acting strangely. A woman, Gloria Scott, appeared out of the blue two weeks ago. The next day, he gave her a job though she has no relevant experience and we did not need anyone. She is thoroughly incompetent, treats the other staff horribly, and treats George himself with utter disrespect. He does nothing about it, which is completely unlike him. When I question him, he says nothing, which is also completely unlike him. I suspect blackmail, though I can't imagine what for. He has always been there for me and I feel he needs my help now, but I can't help him if I don't know what's going on. Please contact me and let me know if Mr. Holmes might take my case.

Sincerely,

Holly Ferguson

John quickly replied to Ms. Ferguson, since he couldn't be sure Sherlock had done so. He would sometimes take a case, solve it, and move on without even informing the client that they had become a client.

The next email was a plane ticket.

One way? Is this your way of kicking me out?
JW

Not sure how long you'll be needed there.
SH

I do have a job, you know.
JW

Exactly.
SH

John rolled his eyes. There would be no point in explaining to Sherlock that he was not centre of the world; he wouldn't comprehend it.

The flight was leaving in two hours. He slammed his laptop shut and headed upstairs to pack a bag.

~~THURSDAY~~

Update?
SH

5 minutes, Skype.
JW

John returned his mobile to his coat pocket and fished out his key. In the hotel room, he flipped on the lights and went straight to the desk. While his laptop powered up, he took off his coat and thought about Holly Ferguson. Such a warm smile, with a little mischief in the lines around her mouth. Deep, dark brown eyes, chestnut hair held back in one long braid, and such a cute little nose. He was looking forward to placing a chaste kiss on the tip of that nose and a not-at-all-chaste kiss on that smiling mouth, and to seeing her hair undone, twisted and tangled across the pillow.

He was fairly certain he'd be able to do all of that. After the case was closed.

He logged on to Skype. Soon, Sherlock's face appeared on the screen.

"Well?" Sherlock's voice sounded odd. Very annoyed and put-upon, but there was nothing odd about that. It was a little raspy. Maybe it was just the laptop speakers.

"Hello, Sherlock. Miss you too. So, Holly Ferguson. She's been out on business and wasn't able to meet till this afternoon. She didn't have much to say other than what's in her email. Swears that when Ms. Scott walked into the office, Mitchell went white as a sheet. He told Holly he knew Ms. Scott many years ago but would not say how. She says Scott continues to get more and more intolerable, does no work to speak of, abuses the other employees, and gets away with it completely."

"You interviewed Mitchell?"

"I tried. He wasn't in the office; out on sites all day."

"And Scott?"

"She was there. I tried to talk with her about where she came from and what she's done before, that sort of thing. Got absolutely nowhere."

"And you observed…?"

"In her 50s or 60s, and not in good shape. I'd say she's lived a hard life. Heavy smoker. Small tattoo on her left wrist, couldn't make out what it was, looked like it was done by hand."

"That's all?"

"I'm not you, Sherlock. If you wanted the science of deduction, you should've come yourself."

Sherlock sighed and rubbed his eyes slowly with the heel of his hand. Never seen him do that before, John realized with surprise. Never actually seen him tired before, or exhibit the usual human signs of it. He was either wide awake or dead with exhaustion; there was no in-between state with him.

"You alright, mate?"

"What? Yes, yes, I'm fine. What was I saying?"

"You weren't saying anything. You sure you're alright?"

"I said I'm fine. If that's all, I'll be going to bed."

Definitely odd. "Yeah, that's all. G'night."

"Good night."

~~FRIDAY~~

Update?
SH

5 minutes.
JW

John thought about Holly again as he waited for Sherlock to log in. "You're a charmer," she'd said as they walked across a construction site that afternoon." He'd protested.

"No, no, I know your type," she insisted. "I bet you were raised in a house full of women. You're close with your sister and your mum."

He'd lowered his head and laughed. How do I manage to surround myself with detectives? "You got me," he agreed. "Raised by my mum and my gran ever since we left my dad when I was nine. Sometimes my aunt and her daughter lived with us too. My sister… I don't know if I'd say close, but we've been through a lot together. My mum passed a few years back."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Her Scottish brogue was so warm and welcoming, he smiled despite the sadness in her voice.

"Thanks. She was Scottish, you know."

"No, I didn't."

"Yeah, from Melrose. So… how does that make me a type?"

"Oh, boys who are surrounded by women. They either grow up to be spoiled tyrants, or else sensible men who know how to talk with a woman. Know how to act." She held his gaze for a long moment, that mischief playing around her lips before she turned away.

John shook his head and laughed at the memory.

Sherlock was ringing in on Skype. John clicked the video icon, but the screen remained dark; he could barely see Sherlock's face. He was in the living room and it appeared that the fireplace provided the only light.

"Well?" There was that rasp in his voice again. Definitely worse.

"Sherlock, are you sick?"

"I'm fine. Enlighten me, please."

"Talked to Mitchell today. Holly introduced me as a friend interested in getting into the business. He talked to me briefly but wouldn't answer any of my questions. Holly said it wasn't like him to be so rude. He seemed haggard and rather distracted."

"Is that all?" Sherlock coughed into his elbow.

"You've seen his profile on the company website. That's what he looks like, only a bit thinner and paler."

"His ear?"

"Excuse me?"

"His ear, John. On the website, I think his ear is a bit misshapen but I can't quite tell."

John ran over Mitchell's image in his mind. "Yes, I reckon so, his left ear, sort of flattened, bit of a cauliflower ear. I'll confirm the next time I see him. Old rugby injury maybe?"

There was that cough again. "Or fighting injury. His nose was broken once, that much is obvious. It appears he's also had a hard life."

"Not according to Holly. She says he grew up with her dad in Edinburgh, went to America 40 years ago, graduated from business school in New York, and made his fortune there as a developer before starting his business here."

"Fascinating." Sherlock's tone made clear that it was anything but. He stifled a cough. "Did you observe anything useful?"

"How about a tattoo? On his left arm, near the inside of his elbow. He was rolling up his shirt sleeves as we turned to leave. It was definitely handmade, like a prison tattoo maybe? Initials J.A."

"At least that's something. It could…" Sherlock coughed. He opened his mouth to continue his thought and coughed again. The coughing fit continued for at least a minute; then he disappeared, leaving John to stare at an empty armchair. He could hear water running in the kitchen and Sherlock continuing to cough. Finally, the screen was lifted up, settled back onto Sherlock's lap, and his face re-appeared in the screen.

"Are you alright?"

"Fine, I'm sure. Something caught in my throat." His voice sounded a little wheezy now, but it was hard to tell through the laptop's tinny speakers, with the fire crackling in the background.

"You might be coming down with something. Take it easy, will you? Sleep, eat. Like a human."

Sherlock smirked. They both knew that was a preposterous request. Suddenly he started coughing again, more violently this time, and the screen abruptly went black. John frowned at it uselessly. He'd actually never seen Sherlock in anything but the peak of health. All things considered, his usual fitness was frankly bizarre. It made these coughing fits all the more troubling.

Check in tomorrow.
SH

Drink tea with honey and get rest. Seriously.
JW

We don't have honey.
SH

Just bought a jar. Bottom right cupboard.
JW

Used it for the maggots.
SH

Brilliant. You do remember where the Tesco is?
JW

You'd send me out in this rain? I'll catch my death.
SH

Ask Mrs. H.
JW

But don't let her go to the store for you.
JW

But do tell her you're ill.
JW

I'm fine, John.
SH

I will never trust your judgment on that score. Listen to your doctor.
JW

John plugged his mobile into the charger and went to the bathroom. It's only a cough, he thought as he stepped into the shower. You're completely overreacting. And Mrs. Hudson will make sure he drinks plenty of fluids.

Getting into bed, John imagined Holly sweaty and flushed, wisps of hair across her cheek and forehead. But his last thought as he drifted into sleep was that Sherlock's face looked all wrong. It must have been the fire.

~~SATURDAY~~

Interesting update for you.
JW

5 minutes.
SH

This time there was no fire, but the only light was from the lamp behind Sherlock's chair, so that he was entirely backlit.

"Interesting, you say?" His voice was definitely wheezy, and quieter than usual.

"Sherlock, would you mind moving to the kitchen?"

"Why?"

"I'd like to see your face. It's sort of the point of video chatting."

"Do you miss me that much?"

"If I say yes, will you do it?"

Silence.

"Right then. Yes, Sherlock, I miss you ever so terribly much. Now move your lazy arse to the kitchen."

The screen levitated and moved across the flat until it came to rest on the kitchen table. It swiveled, catching a blurred view of test tubes, microscope, dirty mugs and, John was gratified to see, a jar of honey, until it stopped in front of Sherlock's face.

John's eyes widened. "Sherlock, you look like hell!"

He did. His face was gaunt and improbably enough, even paler than usual. His skin seemed to have a sallow pallor to it, though John had to admit that color was never reliable on a computer screen. Still, there was no mistaking the dark circles under Sherlock's eyes or the sheen on his forehead. His breathing was audible and shallow, and then he went into another coughing fit.

"You are not fine. You have a fever and some kind of respiratory issue. Go see a doctor."

"I'm seeing one right now. You look fantastic." Sherlock smirked, but his voice was weak.

"Be serious, please. You're not well at all."

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "It's flu season. I caught a flu. I know it's hard for you to believe, but I am human, John. I can succumb to viruses like anyone else."

"I'll ask Sarah to come round and have a look at you."

"She hates me."

"Yes, she does. But she'll do it for me."

"I don't need a doctor. I'll be fine tomorrow, I'm sure. Mrs. Hudson has been up here shoving cup after cup of tea in my face, which I am drinking, and I'm eating her soup as well and getting plenty of rest, boring boring rest. I'll be better tomorrow, John, on pain of death, because I can't stand much more of this." He coughed into his arm.

John considered. Yes, if anyone could overcome a flu through sheer force of will, it would be Sherlock Holmes. And if anyone would do it simply to avoid the tedium of being sick, it would be Sherlock Holmes.

"Fine," he sighed. "I'm worried about you getting Mrs. Hudson sick. This would hit her much harder than you."

"I know. I've asked her not to come in anymore till I'm better. She just leaves the tray in the doorway and goes back downstairs."

"Good. Do you want your update then?"

"Please."

"Holly called me this afternoon and said she was just outside Mitchell's office when he received a text. She saw him turn pale, drop the phone, and run straight for the restroom. While he was gone, she read the text and copied it down." John pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket and read it aloud. "It's never been done. A good Scot with strong will can always tell if he has some 80 proof liquor to get good and ready. More reason for anyone to give it to me."

"She didn't know who the text came from?

"Undisclosed number. What do you make of it?"

Sherlock frowned and steepled his fingers in front of his haggard face. "Text it to me. Is that it?"

"That's it. Holly said he went home and hasn't answered his phone since."

"Find out if there's anyone here who was in New York with Mitchell." Sherlock started coughing again and turned off the laptop without another word.

~~SUNDAY~~

Update?
SH

Skype, I'm online now.
JW

Just text me.
SH

Why?
JW

Does it need to be a hearfelt conversation? Text.
SH

Why don't you want me to see your face?
JW

Don't be ridiculous.
SH

Skype now or I'm coming back tonight.
JW

The familiar alert sound rang out from John's laptop. He clicked the icon but the screen was dark, little more than a silhouette. He could see that Sherlock was in bed, propped up on pillows, but little more than that.

"Turn on a light."

"Why?" Sherlock's voice was strained and weak and nothing like any sound that he had ever made. John shook his head; it was surreal.

"Sherlock, turn on a light now."

"John, you're overreacting." A bedside lamp clicked on and John gasped. "John, it's not…" Sherlock's head suddenly fell forward as he collapsed into a coughing fit, more violent than any of the others. He grabbed a tissue to cover his mouth, and when he drew it away, John glimpsed specks of –

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, is that blood?"

Sherlock shook his head and tried to muster up a condescending look, but failed spectacularly.

"That's it, I'm coming home."

"You said…" Sherlock stifled another cough. "…you wouldn't."

"No. I said if you didn't get online I would come home tonight. I did not say that if you did get online I would not. You're extremely ill. You need medical attention. I'd tell you to go to hospital, but I know it would be a waste of breath." A twitch of Sherlock's lips told him he was right. "I'll be in London on the next flight. I'll call you from the Glasgow Airport and from Heathrow. Pick up when I ring you. Do you understand me?"

"But the case…"

"Oh, sod the case! I've got to go book my flight now. Don't… Just don't do anything. Except pick up the damn phone when I ring." John logged off and immediately opened a browser window to check the flight schedule. The last flight of the night would be leaving in 90 minutes. He could just make it.

An hour later he stood at the ticket counter, red flush spreading from his neck to his face. "It can't be declined," he said through gritted teeth, "That's not possible."

"I'm sorry sir," the attendant answered, beginning to grit her teeth as well. "As I've told you, both the bank card and the credit card are declined. There's nothing I can do."

He closed his eyes for a moment. "The next flight?"

"7:20 a.m. Sir, there are other customers behind you…"

John threw himself into a hideous orange plastic chair with a crack along the seat and typed out a text message.

Sherlock is very ill.
JW

Then why aren't you with him?
MH

Working on it. In the meantime, look in on him.
JW

Of course.
MH

John opened his laptop, found a wifi signal, and tried to log into Nationwide Bank. The User Name and/or Password entered is not valid. Please check your User Name and Password, and try again. If you continue to have problems logging in, please contact Customer Service at 877-I-Bank-NW (877-422-6569), Monday - Friday, 8:00 AM - 8:00 PM ET for assistance.

MasterCard website. Same result.

John groaned in frustration. He knew there was no cash to speak of in his wallet, but he pulled it out and checked anyway. Twelve pounds. He calculated quickly: an economy car should cost him about no more than 100 pounds, and the petrol would cost him at least 75. All told, almost twice as much as the plane ticket, but it should get him to London two, maybe even three hours earlier. He quickly typed out a message on his mobile.

Can I borrow 200 quid please? Urgent.
JW

The phone rang.

"Let me guess. Is this Sherlock-related?"

"He's very ill, Harry, and I'm in Glasgow, and something's gone wrong with my accounts, my cards are getting declined, and I can't fix it till Monday. I need to rent a car tonight."

"Because you're the only doctor in London?"

"Because I'm the only doctor he'll trust."

"Oh, I see. Self-importance is contagious, apparently."

"Harry, I'm being serious. Please."

She sighed. "Johnny, I'm sorry. I don't have it."

"You don't have 200 pounds?"

"I have… maybe 50. I get paid on Tuesday."

John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Harry. How can you be 40 years old and still living from paycheck to paycheck like a kid half your age? What the hell are you…"

"Listen, I'd love to talk about this, because really this argument gets more fun every time, but don't you need to look after your boyfriend?"

"Sod off." John closed his mobile and resisted the urge to throw it across the room. Then he took a deep breath and opened it again. He did not want to ask Mycroft for help. Ever. At all. But he knew Mycroft could fix this with a twitch of his pinky toe.

There seems to be something wrong with my bank account.
JW

John could almost feel his smirk reach all the way to Scotland.

What do you need?
MH

A car.
JW

Although I wouldn't turn down one of the Queen's helicopters…

Budget rental counter.
MH

John quickly found a map and started walking to the car rental area On the way, he dialed Sherlock's number and listened to it ring and ring and ring.

"You've reached the voicemail of Sherlock Holmes. I don't listen to messages. Send me a text." Beep.

I told you to pick up.
JW

You'd better be sleeping like a sodding baby right now.
JW

I hope your symptoms include severe gastrointestinal distress.
JW

~~MONDAY~~

John drove all night. Finally arriving at Baker Street at 7:54 a.m., he took the stairs two at a time. There was a tray in front of the door. Mrs. Hudson had left tea and soup who knew when; it was completely cold. John stepped over it and headed straight to Sherlock's bedroom.

"Stop," came a weak voice as John opened the door. It didn't sound like Sherlock; it sounded like Sherlock's voice stripped bare. "Stay in the doorway. Don't come any closer."

John pushed the door all the way open. The room was dark; the only illumination came from a little gray daylight squeezing through a crack in the curtains. John could just barely make out Sherlock's form on the bed.

"Sherlock?"

"John, did you hear me? Don't come any closer," he croaked.

"Why not?"

"I'm contagious, you idiot."

"And I'm a doctor. I treat sick people, you included." John started towards the bed but stopped in his tracks when he heard a familiar click. He still couldn't make out Sherlock's face, but he could see the arm, raised just barely above the rest of the body on the bed, and the gun pointed directly at John.

"Sherlock. Put down the gun."

"Get back. Back to the doorway." Sherlock coughed, making the gun shake in an unnerving way.

"You're delirious."

"Yes, I should think so. Back to the doorway now, John."

"Jesus." John backed up slowly, hands in the air. "Ok. I'm in the doorway. Put down the gun?" He heard a sigh, then the click of the safety, and the soft pum of something landing on the bed. "Turn on a light please?"

The bedside lamp came on. John shook his head. So much worse than he thought.

"You must go to hospital, Sherlock."

"No."

"Has Mycroft been here?"

"Yes, yes, her royal highness graced us with her presence last night."

"And what did he have to say?"

"Oh, you'll have to ask him. I'm delirious, remember? Have you ever had dengue fever, John? It's a bit like this, but it doesn't kill you. Obviously it didn't kill me. I had it in Indonesia. Have you been to Indonesia?"

"Sherlock, I'm taking you to hospital."

"No. John, I asked you a question. Have you been to Indonesia?"

"No."

"Well, it's interesting. It has 17,508 islands, whereas we've just got 806. Or over 6,000 depending on how you count them. You'd like Jakarta. We should go. We should go at once. Book us train tickets, will you? Use my card."

"We're not going to Jakarta, we're going to Bart's."

"To Bart's? Do you think I'm dead already? That's where the dead people go, John. Will you have Molly Hooper cut me open and see if I really have a heart after all? Don't be ridiculous. There's no reason…" Sherlock seemed to drift away, his pale eyes starting at some undefined point between his face and the wall.

"Sherlock. Sherlock!"

He slowly swiveled his face back around to John and seemed to recognize him as if he'd just walked in.

"John. You're here." He coughed into a tissue. John strained to see if there was blood again this time, but couldn't tell.

"Yes, I'm here, and you're extremely ill, and you need medical attention."

"You're right," Sherlock sighed.

"You'll go to hospital then?"

"No." Sherlock slid his finger into the trigger of his gun. John froze.

"One good reason why not?"

"I don't want to."

"That's all you've got?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. There was a long silence, and John started to wonder if he'd fallen asleep. If he had, John could creep up on him… He took one tentative step forward and Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

"No closer."

"Ok, ok." He backed up into the doorway.

"I have a phobia, John. Do not take me to hospital. It would be bad." He lifted up the gun as a reminder.

Sherlock? Has a phobia? Process that later. John raised his hands. "Alright. But you agree you need a doctor."

"Yes."

"So you'll let me take a look at you."

"Absolutely not." There was a sudden firmness in Sherlock's voice that stopped John cold. "You're a decent doctor, John, and you've fixed me up competently more than once. But I have to admit this thing has got a bit more serious. Not just a flu. You're an army doctor. You're trained to patch up holes so they don't get worse, hold people together until they can get real medical attention. And now you just work at a little neighborhood surgery, don't you? Think about it, when the stakes are high I need to pull in someone a bit more suited to the task. Don't pout, you know I'm right."

John knew nothing of the sort. Life with Sherlock meant a constant barrage of insults, and he didn't mind in the least. Initially, it had been a bit of a shock, but he had quickly calibrated the toughness of his skin and adjusted quite easily. (A lifetime of practice as Harriet Watson's little brother had helped.) Sherlock's insults were like a steady rainfall – almost comforting in their consistency, softly pitterpatting upon him – or like a baby slapping his face, easy enough to tolerate or ignore outright most of the time, occasionally annoying, but never painful. But this… this was a knife in his gut. If John knew nothing else about himself, he knew that he was a good soldier and a good doctor. He was not decent. He was not competent. He was good. No one on earth was better qualified to care for Sherlock Holmes than him. How could Sherlock, the genius, not know that? He held the door jamb with one hand and his stomach with the other and wondered what he could possibly say.

"There's a doctor who can help me," Sherlock continued. His speech seemed to have taken a lot out of him; his voice was weaker than ever. "Go get her, bring her." John blinked. The knife twisted in his gut. "John, please."

John looked up to meet his eyes. Clear, cool eyes like water, but his voice was urgent, breathing too fast. "Her name is Anita Grace. I met her through a case years ago, her husband had died. She's a genius. She's like me. What crime is to me, disease is to her. She'll know. She's a researcher at Oxford, you'll find her at the lab there. Tell her my symptoms. She'll know. She has to come. Tell her you're a doctor so she'll listen to you. And then you come back, John, by yourself. Make an excuse so that you get here first, and don't tell her you'll be here. That's important. Got it? Will you do it? Of course you will. You've never let me down."

...

Sherlock is worse. Won't go to hospital. Can't you make him?
JW

Do you think I can make him do anything?
MH

I have no idea what you can and can't do. Just do something.
JW

...

This is insane. I am a doctor, my best friend is gravely, possibly fatally ill, and I am not treating him and I am not calling an ambulance, I am running a bloody errand. I am strolling across the lush green lawns of Oxford University while Sherlock's incomparable brains simmer and boil over and out of his ears.

John found her in a research lab, one of the new gleaming white buildings on campus, awkwardly out of place among the towers. He told the priggish young woman the front desk his name and purpose. She sniffed at him and pressed an intercom button. "Dr. Grace? There is a Dr. John Watson here to see you, regarding a Mr. Sherlock Holmes, he say's it's…" "I'll see him in my office," the voice on the end interrupted.

The receptionist brought him to a well-appointed office and left without a word. He sat in an armchair, tapping his foot anxiously. A moment later a woman entered. She was in her late 50's or early 60's, gray hair cut in a stylish bob. Thin rimmed glasses balanced on her long, straight nose before sharp brown eyes. Her face was round and soft; it seemed like it ought to have more wrinkles, somehow, besides the deep furrows on her forehead. She wore a white lab coat over her light blue button up and gray trousers. She extended her hand confidently and John stood to shake it.

"Dr. Watson? Anita Grace."

"Dr. Grace. I apologize for my interruption. It's quite urgent."

Her brow furrowed with concern. "Please tell me," she urged as she sat in a chair facing his and leaned forward in anticipation. Her face seemed almost eager, which was a little disturbing, but John remembered Sherlock saying she's like me. Appropriate or not, Sherlock was nothing if not eager when hearing about an unsolved murder, so perhaps she was just reacting the same way to a mysterious disease.

John described Sherlock's conditions and symptoms. She complimented him on his attention to detail and medical knowledge, and then remembered he was a doctor himself. She raised her eyebrows. "And you're not treating him?"

The knife twisted in his gut. He held it there with one hand, determined to ignore it until the crisis was past.

"Dr. Grace, he says you're the only one who can help him. I think you're the only one he'll trust." The knife ripped through his intestines. "He says you are a genius of disease. Would you come have a look, please? Now?"

"Well." Dr. Grace smiled just slightly. "I had no idea he held me in such high regard. I'm not sure his faith is warranted, but of course I will come and try my best. If you'd wait, I can be ready to leave in 20 minutes at most."

"I'm very sorry, but I must go see a patient in Dartford. Now that I know you'll be with Sherlock, I can attend to her. Do you mind coming straight to the flat? It's 221B Baker Street. And here's my mobile number, just in case. Thank you, Dr. Grace. Please call if you need anything at all."

…

She's coming. I'm on my way back.
JW

Thank you.
SH

Don't know if you've ever said those words to me non-sarcastically.
JW

I still haven't.
SH

John hit his head against the steering wheel three times and turned the key in the ignition. Maybe he should've taken the train. With traffic, it might've been faster. But if he was driving, at least he was doing something, not just sitting still watching the city crawl past him. And Mycroft was still paying for the bloody car, might as well use it.

Back at Baker Street, John took the steps two at a time again. He opened the bedroom door quickly but paused in the doorway, checking first to see if – yes, Sherlock was still holding the gun, casually, relaxed, on his stomach. He looked just slightly perkier, John thought. He was sitting now, propped up on pillows, and though his face was still gaunt and clammy and frighteningly pale, there was a little more life to it. He gave John a familiar crooked smile, the one that arrived at the left corner of his mouth long before the right.

"Well? The good doctor?"

"Coming right behind me, if she took the train. Traffic was bloody awful."

"Her reaction?"

"Very interested in your condition. Are you going to tell me why you needed me here first?"

"I'll need you to step into the closet in a moment."

"In the… what?"

"In the closet, John. You'll be quite comfortable there, I'm sure. And while you're in there, you must be perfectly quiet. No matter what happens out here. No matter what you hear, do not make a sound. Do you understand me?"

"No, I absolutely do not. You're on your bloody deathbed for all I know, you won't let me near you, and now –"

"Shh!" Sherlock held up a hand and hurriedly hid the gun under a pillow. "That's her cab outside. In the closet now, John." His voice lost all of its wheezing and croaking and slid into that familiar timber, his most commanding tone, that seemed to reverberate just slightly around the room. "Catch." Suddenly he was throwing something small and John caught it without thinking. A digital recorder. "Red button. Make sure it's lit. Go."

John shut the closet door firmly and pushed the red button. He remembered a particular day in Afghanistan, very early in his first tour: one moment he'd been enjoying a lively debate about Ipswich and Norwich, and the next he was crouched behind a jeep being shot at by men who, he was pretty sure, were really just boys, much too scrawny to play football for any team. He had realized, at that moment, my life has suddenly become quite insane. And now, hiding in Sherlock Holmes' closet, he knew, my life is just going to keep getting more and more insane. He checked to make sure the red light was on and held his breath.

"Mr. Holmes." That was Dr. Grace's voice.

"Dr. Grace. You came. Thank you." Sherlock's voice was again a horrible wheezing, croaking skeleton of itself. "Please be careful, I don't know if I'm contagious. Shouldn't you wear a mask?"

"No need." She sounded quite calm and not particularly concerned.

"Then you know what it is. It's not just a flu, is it? Tell me what's wrong with me. Please."

"Why, I'd be happy to." John heard a chair being dragged nearer to the bed. "I know exactly what's wrong with you."

There was a long pause, during which Sherlock went into a severe coughing fit and then lay still, wheezing.

Finally Dr. Grace spoke again. "What's wrong with you, Sherlock Holmes, is that you are much too curious and much too clever. It's terrible for your health. It's a congenital condition, I suppose, but it was bound to become fatal sooner or later."

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock croaked.

"Don't play stupid with me. I know all about you. You think you know all about me, but you're wrong."

John heard a little whimper of confusion and then Dr. Grace's chuckle.

"Look at you, the great Sherlock Holmes! You're pathetic. You're a mess. You don't know what in hell is happening, do you? Imagine that. You're dying. Can you wrap your wonderful, celebrated brain around that little fact? You are dying."

John clenched his jaw so tightly it hurt. What the hell am I doing, hiding in a closet like a coward while my best friend is dying a couple meters away? But he couldn't shoot a disease. All he could do was what Sherlock asked. He clamped a hand over his mouth and listened.

"But… why? What did you do? Why?" Sherlock had never sounded so small.

"So many questions, hm? Why? That's simple. You accused me of murdering my husband."

"I didn't," Sherlock replied urgently. "I mean, yes, yes, I admit I had a theory, but I couldn't prove it, so that was the end of it. There was a flu outbreak that year… the flu was the most probable cause. That's what the coroner found, and rightly so."

"Then why did I, three weeks ago, receive an untraceable email containing information suggesting I was responsible?"

John heard Sherlock draw his breath in suddenly. "I… I have no idea."

"Your innocent act is unconvincing. I'll chalk it up to your condition. You asked why. Because you threatened to ruin my life. What did you think I would do?"

There was a long silence. Sherlock's breath seemed to be coming shallower and more uneven.

"I've come here to watch you die, Mr. Holmes. It will be fascinating."

"I would hate… to keep… you waiting."

"Oh, that won't be a problem, I assure you."

"How do you… know?"

"I didn't answer your other question, did I? And I really do want you to know how stupid you've been. You received a package about a week ago, do you recall? No? Oh yes, now you remember. Well, it contained your death. I made it. There's no other quite like it in the world. There, I knew you'd like that. You like to be special, don't you?"

"What is… what is it?"

"Ricin. Modified to look just like a flu, until it is quite too late. Which is just about now. You've got an hour or so left."

There was a low, rattling moan. "Brilliant."

"Thank you. It is nice to be appreciated."

"I knew… your husband… not a flu… Something off… blue tinge… and fluid in the… lungs…"

"Yes, yes, very clever, but you couldn't prove it, could you? And now it's too late. You're looking a little blue yourself."

"But that's… that's just…" He succumbed to another coughing fit. "That's just… blue eyeshadow."

Complete silence, and then the click of the safety and the deep timber of Sherlock's voice, his real voice. "No, no, please stay, Dr. Grace. Your company has been so entertaining, I'm not quite ready to let you go. John?"

John stepped out of the closet, beaming. Dr. Grace's expression transformed from shock to anguish.

"John." Sherlock returned his smile, and grotesque as it was with his near-death face, John thought it was one of the most beautiful things he'd ever seen because Sherlock definitely wasn't dying at all. "Would you please send a text for me?"

"Gladly. Lestrade?"

"No, this has gone way beyond his division. Please tell my brother I got him something special. And he'll need to pick it up soon." John sent the text. "You got it all recorded, didn't you?"

"Yes, of course," John replied. Dr. Grace made a noise somewhere between a sob and a groan. John frowned. "Sherlock, you were very convincing."

"Makeup. Blue eyeshadow mixed with baby powder and foundation. Black eyeliner for the circles under my eyes. Glycerin, for sweat and clamminess, liberally and frequently applied. Oh, and I haven't eaten for a week. Or slept. Or drank much at all. It was easy to fool you on a computer screen, or a few meters away."

"But not any closer."

"Of course not, John. You are a doctor, a good one. You'd have found me out immediately."

The knife eased out a few centimeters. "And that would be bad, why?"

"You're a good doctor but a terrible actor. I needed you to convince Dr. Grace to come here. She planned to murder me but she didn't plan to come gloat over my deathbed, she's not that stupid. She needed to be drawn here. And to have another doctor come to her, describing my symptoms just as she had designed them, and begging for her help – well it was just to delicious to resist." He narrowed his eyes at her. "Isn't that right?"

Dr. Grace returned his stare but said nothing.

"Sherlock, you could've just asked me."

"No, I really couldn't," he replied in an offhand manner. "I needed you to believe it."

John took a deep breath. "I'm very glad she didn't kill you," he said, "because I'm going to need to do that myself." He thought a moment. "And Mycroft?"

"Mycroft still hasn't figured out why, but he'd deduced by the time he got here yesterday that I was faking it."

"How?"

"He knew that if I was really ill I'd have done anything to have you here with me."

The knife in John's gut melted away.

"Let me take that gun for you, Sherlock. You might not have ricin poisoning, but you're very weak and frankly a little unstable."

Sherlock handed over the gun amiably. John sat next to him on the bed, pointing the gun at the woman sitting in front of them. She tried to kill Sherlock, he thought. She believed she'd done it and she was laughing. I could kill her right now. No, she's no threat now. But I could hurt her.

"No, don't." Sherlock interrupted. "We have to save her for – oh, speak of the devil!"

The elder Holmes stood in the doorway, one eyebrow raised at medium height.

Sherlock grinned. "Happy Birthday!"

Mycroft's other eyebrow followed the first.

"Surprise! I hope you like it. I got you a homicidal biochemist! She's mentally unbalanced and not nearly as intelligent as she thinks she is, but still quite innovative. Unparalleled, actually."

Dr. Grace regarded Mycroft with fear and confusion. He smiled at her in a reptilian way that clearly did nothing to allay her concerns. "Ms…?"

"Dr. Grace," she whispered. "Anita Grace."

"Of course," he answered with a small frown. "Dr. Grace of Oxford, your work on the biochemistry of communicable disease is renowned."

"You are less familiar with her hobby of bioterrorism," Sherlock interrupted. "Not at all familiar, apparently." He made no attempt to hide the smugness in his voice. "I think you'll have a lot to discuss."

"Indeed." Mycroft's frown grew to its most extreme setting; all his features pressed themselves into their sternest shape. But his eyes, John was astonished to see, were laughing. He'd never seen that before, even when Mycroft actually was laughing. The two brothers stared at each other in silence for a long moment, and it seemed to John that they had an entire conversation in that time.

Finally Mycroft turned away from Sherlock and inclined his head slightly toward Dr. Grace. "You will come with me," he said. She seemed to agree she didn't have much of a choice.

"I'm sorry I don't have a sample for you," Sherlock said. "I had to destroy it to test it. Oh, but John, give him the recorder! It's part of the present."

John started to toss it across the room, but Mycroft's slight flinch made him stop. He walked over and placed it in his hand instead. "Her confession," he explained. "Very thorough."

Mycroft placed it in his pocket and grasped Dr. Grace's arm. They looked like they were heading out for a very awkward date.

As soon as they left, Sherlock hopped out of bed and brushed past John towards the bathroom. John followed.

"Well, aren't you pleased with yourself?"

"I am!" Sherlock turned on the water and began washing the makeup off his face.

"A clarifying question?"

"I would've thought this was all laid out simply enough for even you to grasp, but yes, go ahead."

"That untraceable email, the veiled threat, that was from you."

"Obviously."

"Tell me if I got this right then. You goaded a known murderer into making an attempt on your life by introducing biochemical weaponry into our flat, sent me to Scotland, starved and dehydrated yourself for a week, disabled my bank account and credit card, held me at gunpoint, and convinced me that you were at death's door… all so that you could show off how clever you are."

"For Mycroft's birthday. But yes, you got the rest of it right. Good for you!"

"And my money?"

"Oh, I put that right while you were off fetching Dr. Grace. It's all there."

"Ta," John said dryly.

"Well, I'm famished. I'll just throw on some clothes and then, Angelo's, I think, yes?"

"Enjoy."

"Right, 5 minutes."

Ping. The message alert sounded on John's mobile.

If he were actually ill, I trust you would have let me know much sooner.
MH

And I trust you would have been at his side much sooner. Do not disappoint me again.
MH

I don't work for you, Mycroft.
JW

That's hardly my fault, now is it?
MH

John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. It will be a miracle if I leave this earth without trying to take a Holmes with me.

He went to the living room and fished around in Sherlock's coat until he found what he was looking for, then settled into the sofa with his laptop and Sherlock's credit card. A couple minutes later Sherlock emerged, fully clothed. "Ready?"

"I am. I've just used your card to buy my ticket. My flight leaves in a little over two hours and I've still got to return the rental car, so I'm off."

"What?" The look of astonishment on Sherlock's face was so rare, John had to stop and marvel at it, to hold it up in the light and regard it like a precious gem.

"Glasgow," he explained.

"Glasgow? Oh, John, don't be stupid! Obviously I only sent you to Glasgow to keep you away."

"Obviously."

"And obviously I already solved the case. The message, it's every third word. 'It's done. Scott will tell, has proof. Get ready. Forgive me.' Mitchell will have a friend who was in America with him, or more likely, is an American – that's why he said 80 proof rather than 40 proof. Gloria Scott tried to blackmail the both of them, and the friend wasn't able to satisfy her demands. There was a shooting in Edinburgh 40 years ago, a police officer was killed, the timing fits, so does the tattoo, and Holly Ferguson's father was a suspect though never charged. Mitchell is a coward and an idiot. With a crime that old it seems unlikely that whatever proof she has is ironclad. He should never have capitulated to her demands in the first place."

"Brilliant, I thought you'd have figured it out. Holly will be relieved to have an answer."

"But email her! You don't have to go back to Glasgow to close the case!"

"No, I'm going back to Glasgow for a date."

"A date…?" Sherlock's face suggested that John had just announced his intention to spend the evening crawling about London's sewers. Which, come to think of it, they had done more than once, and it was never John's idea.

"Yes, a date. It's when two people – "

"I know what a date is." Sherlock spat, as if something disgusting had been forced into his mouth. "How could I not, you go on enough of them, don't you? Unbelievable. You're going to leave me in this condition to go on a date. You won't even have dinner with me."

"Yeah, it is pretty unbelievable, isn't it? Well, don't wait up. I bought a one-way ticket. Not sure how long I'll be needed there."

John grabbed his coat and his bag and was gone, leaving Sherlock at the top of the stairs with a dark scowl on his face.

When he got to the Budget office at Heathrow, John had a chance to check his messages. There was just one.

Don't stay long. I miss you ever so terribly much.
SH