A/N: Big thanks to sashaxh, charlie167, and MarliGibbs for reviewing the last chapter! This is one big freaking chapter where a lot happens and we finally get some answers…okay maybe one or two for now. Thank you to everyone who continues to read and review. I hope this chapter is just as enjoyable as the last! Happy Thanksgiving to everyone :)

Chapter Eight – Into This Abyss

John sighed out loud and leaned forward against the warm fireplace with both hands. Taking the weight off his bad leg felt good. He'd certainly be feeling something worse than the current throbbing for the next few days. But it was a necessary evil. He was only thankful he'd given thought to visiting Holmes after he finished at the practice. If he had to run home for his medical bag…well, he'd be feeling pain for more than just a few days. They had all been lucky.

Lucky that Watson felt guilty for not keeping his teatime with Holmes.

Lucky that he had come just as the detective's fever was starting to spike.

Lucky that he caught Lydia in her fainting spell before she broke her neck on the staircase.

They were close shaves on all accounts. And now that he'd managed to get Holmes to take an aspirin and calm down, he only had one real worry on his hands. Sherlock's fever would break soon, but Lydia's was only just beginning. What he didn't like was how fast her temperature was rising in comparison to Holmes'. And, as he now sat downstairs in the second floor sitting room amongst all the various clutter and half-finished experiments of Sherlock's, he considered trying to wake the poor girl so he could get some medicine into her sooner. How he had hoped it was nothing more than a simple fainting spell… Exhaustion, he would have taken that too. But it was far too likely that she had caught the same thing in such close quarters.

What made it easier was that Holmes seemed to be a fair bit farther along, so what ailed him John would be ready to deal with a second time if need be. And, after all, it was only a cold. If all went according to how he expected things to progress, this would all be over with as little fuss as possible in the next couple of days. What he didn't relish was the time he would surely need on the settee, getting his much needed rest.

Or what little he could find.

She was hot. Uncomfortably so with all the layers on her. It was stifling. She tried to move, to shift, or remove the coverlet on her, but it was no use. She simply didn't have the strength to lift her arm. But she did manage to toss her head upon the pillow and knock some of the hair out of her face. She made a quiet moan in her efforts, wondering if someone or anyone could hear her…but then she remembered that she was on the third floor.

And what was the use of all the effort if no one would come to her aid? What was the use since she felt so tired? So she closed her eyes and resolved to rest in the horrible heat, or at least rest until she had the proper strength to get out of this bloody bed. Some time later there was a hand on her shoulder, shaking it, trying to wake her-She had fallen asleep?

"Lydia?"

She turned her head away from the incessant shaking-perhaps the person would leave her to her sweaty throbbing misery.

"Lydia."

But she knew that voice. Against her better judgment she cracked her eyes open, shutting them against the light from the fireplace that seemed as bright as a sunny summer day in the countryside. Why did she have such a headache? Was that why she was in bed? She certainly wasn't sick-she never got sick-the mere thought was absolutely ridiculous. This must be what Thomas complained about when they had to fetch a doctor for his fever when he was a boy. It certainly didn't feel pleasant.

"Sorry to wake you, dear," the doctor said. "But I need you to take this. It will temper that fever of yours a bit."

She opened her eyes again and squinted up at Doctor Watson who was offering her a glass of water and a little pill. Medicine? If it would make her pounding headache go away she would gladly take it. She tried to push herself up but was having some trouble.

"Here-"

She waved him off, wanting to do it herself. And eventually she did manage to sit up against the pillows, more sweaty than before and exhausted to the point of barely lifting a hand to drink the glass of water. Once she swallowed the pill he set about checking her temperature, and to her embarrassment, helping her change into more appropriate clothing for bed rest. Though he told her numerous times that he was a doctor and that she had nothing to worry about it still felt rather strange.

She hadn't known him long but long enough to consider an acquaintance at least, and dare she think a possible friend. After all, he could partially understand her, he saved her from that nasty fall, and he was selflessly taking time away from his life to see to not only her comfort but Mr. Holmes' as well. There had to be a way to repay him, to send him home with promises to call if things got worse-that at the very least.

"Absolutely not," he said with a stern look. "You and Holmes are both sick with the same virus. It won't do either of you any good to be mixing germs-no matter how much the idea appeals to him. I am staying here until I'm certain one or both of you is on the mend."

'Mrs. Watson,' she enquired sluggishly. 'Mr. Holmes told me…'

John reached over and held her hands together, speaking softly. "That's nothing for you to worry about. All you need to do is focus on your rest. Alright?"

Caroline closed her eyes and nodded. Suddenly, she jerked a hand out of his grasp, finding it very uncomfortable.

Itchy.

She tried to scratch without much notice, but the moment she did it grew worse. Then the same happened with her other arm. It was completely inappropriate but the urge was just too powerful to ignore. Wordlessly, John took her arm in his hand and lifted the sleeve up, thinking that perhaps some bed bugs had gotten in, but what the two of them found was far more troubling.

"What is that," John muttered with a confused look.

He rose from his position on the bed and tilted her arm towards the light from the fire and stared in shock, as Caroline did. On her wrists were large patches of inflamed red itchy bloated looking skin. She stared in shock more than fear and ripped the sleeve farther up her arm, remembering that her elbow had also been itchy. Sure enough, the same ominous patches, as big as pocket watches glared out from her otherwise white skin. She turned frightened eyes to the doctor, asking what, how, and why all in one look. He hadn't taken his eyes off the spots and breathed out a deep sigh of what sounded like disappointment and something else, something Caroline didn't like the sound of.

"Oh no."

"Holmes?"

"Yes, Watson?"

"What are you doing?"

The sick detective looked over to his companion who stood in the doorway to his flat, noting the slight lean onto his good leg before turning his attention back to his work.

"Perusing some papers, matching signatures-"

"I mean out of bed," Watson interrupted. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Your medical skills know no bounds, Watson," he said, abruptly turning and flashing that deceptive smirking smile. "I'll be right as rain by the morning. In fact I can feel the antibodies doing their work as we speak."

"You are not feeling better."

"Am so," Sherlock said with a muffled cough.

John strode across the room and made to haul the man up by the arms like a child if he had to. "You're a terrible liar, Holmes. Now, get back to bed."

"You're spending an awful amount of time seeing to our needs. What of Mrs. Watson? What has she to say in all this?"

John frowned. "You needn't worry about that. Mary's off visiting with her parents. She won't be home for another two weeks."

"Ah." A sliver of relief sliced through his hazy mind, but that was only the influence of the fever, surely.

Watson leaned over him and spoke in what Holmes knew was the last of his patience, infused with a little of his military experience for show. "Get. In. Bed. Now."

Holmes sighed, inwardly admitting his mind was of no use in this sluggish state. "Yes, yes. No need to be so bossy, mother hen."

He wrapped his dressing robe around himself and stood up with relative ease. Although he wanted to say something to the effect of 'I am not a complete invalid,' for the sole sake of having some personal room to get to his bedroom unassisted, the thought died the moment his balance betrayed him in the slightest. Predictably, John steadied him and didn't let go until he was crawling back under his comfortable mountain of blankets. He had successfully kept the coughing fit inside until then.

"Still the dry cough," John asked, helping him settle in.

"Regrettably."

"Pray it stays that way. Pneumonia is not a laughing matter."

"Neither is this blasted fever. I can't think Watson-It's completely hateful."

John smirked at Sherlock's complaining and went to stoke the fire.

"Yes, well, be happy you have medicine on your side of things."

"Is our dear landlady giving you trouble, Watson," Sherlock asked, turning his back to the rest of the room, sounding disinterested. "Clarkie's only down the street around this time of day."

"No, it's no trouble of her own doing. Just her poor body's intolerance to the only thing known to doctors that can reduce a fever."

Sherlock stilled and turned around in bed. "An allergy?"

John nodded. "I watched the rashes blow up myself. Poor girl. She'll have a much rougher go of it than you have. You're apologizing to her once this thing is over, by the way."

Sherlock frowned. "Do have some faith in my character, Watson. Not one of my shining moments, I'll give you-but in my defense-"

"The fever, yes, we know-now, do us all a favor and rest!" Watson put the poker back with a clang and crossed the room to sit down in a chair by Sherlock's bedside. But before he could get there the detective noticed faint creases around his eyes and forehead.

"Go have a lie down, old boy. Your leg needs it."

Watson flashed him a suspicious look. "Not until you're asleep, I think."

Holmes huffed. "As you correctly deduced, and I admit I am not yet feeling up to bouncing around as you say I normally do-though bouncing isn't quite the term I'd use-I am still sick with this virus. I don't think either of us will see me up for the next few hours, so do have a thought to trust me when I say I am staying put."

John leveled a calculating gaze on him. A rather pleasant surprise he would have marveled in had the room not started spinning again. "I think you about tired yourself out telling me all that, didn't you?"

"Perhaps," Sherlock groused. But that made Watson smile, so mission accomplished.

"Sleep well, old cock. I'll come and check on you in a couple of hours."

Two days after that saw Holmes on the mend with only a slight fever and few symptoms to complain of. Caroline, however, was completely bedridden with body aches, a splitting headache, and chills despite the warm temperature of the room. Without the painkiller to temper the symptoms, what would have normally passed by as nothing more than a cold was instead a full-blown rush of crippling sickness. If there was a point where a blissfully comfortable bed turned into a lumpy insufferable mat, she had already passed it.

The doctor came to check on her from time to time, sorry for offering nothing more than a cool washcloth and some water. But her sudden allergy was not his fault. And though neither one of them could explain it, she still found herself angry that it happened in the first place. She could remember taking it when she was a little girl for colds and such. Why she would be allergic to it now was a complete mystery. A frustrating one at that.

As the day wore on into night she could hear the two men below, probably settling into bed, then nothing beyond the crackling of the fire in her room. She tried to sleep. She tossed and turned, growing more uncomfortable and weak by the moment. Sometime late into the night she started shaking and shivering from the cold. She looked up to find the fire roaring as it had been when she fell asleep, and beneath four layers of clothing and blankets it felt as if someone had let a blustery winter chill into her room.

She tried burrowing further into the warmth of her bed and when that failed she resolved herself to crawling across the floor to sit in front of the fire. She shrugged on her dressing robe and curled into a ball in front of the flames but found no comfort. She tried to stand but nearly fell from the dizziness and weakness. All of this was both frustrating and frightening, She had never in her life felt this weak and vulnerable, so completely feeble and truly dependent on someone else's aid. And what was more frightening was that she wanted someone to help her-needed someone, desperately.

"Help," she breathed, unable to find the strength to put behind her call. "He-elp?"

No one.

Not a sound.

She moaned aloud, though it was quiet, at her misfortune. Perhaps if she got to the hallway…But getting to the door was hard enough. An irrational amount of fear filled her chest and spurred her onwards, giving her a shaky strength to open the door, crawl onto the landing and somehow get down to the second floor, unseemly as it may have appeared. She couldn't be alone. She didn't want to be alone. If she stayed alone something would surely happen. Something bad.

When she opened the door to the flat there was no one there. So she crawled, on her hands and knees, to the fire in the sitting room. A terrible feeling of dread swept through her, making her believe she was at death's door under all the pain, discomfort, and haziness. If this was indeed what dying felt like, then she was afraid. She was terrified.

He woke after another round of tossing and turning and failing to find a comfortable position in which to fall asleep. All he'd been doing for the past fifty-eight hours or so (not counting the misery he spent prior to Watson's heroic entrance) was sleeping. Resting. Lying upon this detestable piece of furniture that held empty promises of relaxation and recuperation. Sherlock scoffed, then immediately regretted it after suffering a round of sneezes and a horrid amount of bodily congestion.

Watson, thankfully, hadn't woken in his state of vulnerability, due to his exhaustion and still aching leg-Holmes knew this by the occasional wince and shift in position during his sleep. But that didn't mean another fit wouldn't drag the poor man from his much-needed rest. So Holmes dragged himself out of bed, pulled on his robe and went to find some distraction in the other room to tire him out, yet again.

He hadn't set foot beyond the threshold of the sitting room when he found it, huddled…or rather bent over in front of the fireplace, on his tiger rug, shaking to the point of convulsions. The closer he got the more his mind struggled to wake up. He knew that form, that bundle of red hair, but not the crying-or was it gasping-and most definitively not the pitiful sounds of discomfort.

He laid a single hand on her back and her head slowly turned. Her face was a ghostly white, bordering on a tinge of yellow or sickly green in the dim light of the room. Her eyes were bloodshot and glassy, as well as unfocussed, but when they locked onto his, he got more than a taste of what she was experiencing. The shaking still had yet to cease-in fact, it may have gotten minutely worse in the past couple of minutes.

"C-cold," she moaned, out loud. "It's-It's-cooold-please..."

Besides the obvious fact that it was sweltering in the room, complaining of a chill did not sound like a good thing. At all.

"Watson," Sherlock shouted.

In the short time it took the doctor to wake and reach the two by the fire, Sherlock had wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against him in a way that would allow her the best position to share his body heat in the meantime. That shaking was simply unacceptable, and it lessened a little, releasing some of the stiff muscles in her small body. He'd already gotten a read of her pulse by the time Watson was checking for it.

"Too fast," he muttered.

"I know," Watson growled.

She whimpered and tried to struggle out of Sherlock's arms, probably to get away from all the hands and warm appendages that she could suddenly feel on her (for such was the logic of the worst of fevers), but she didn't get far. Her eyes became wild in her poor attempts and some strength seemed to return to her, but John, thankfully, was quick to Sherlock's defense and grasped her tossing head in both of his hands, trying to catch her attention.

"Lydia-Lydia! Look at me-listen to me. You need to calm down, do you understand? Calm down. Just calm down."

"Am I go-ing to d-die," she rasped.

It was no surprise to Sherlock, so when Watson turned an astonished look to him, his mind took a second to catch up. He'd known for a while, of course. And he'd been planning on telling Watson sooner or later. But, he supposed, this served the situation much better.

"Did she just-?"

"Later, old boy-She's freezing-"

This time it took the doctor a second, but he sprung into action and returned with the blankets from Holmes' bed.

"This is not proper by any means," Watson whispered. "But it serves the purpose, rather you do."

"Noted," Sherlock said, pulling her closer to him under the warmth and settling his hands above the blankets so he wouldn't be completely suffocated. John placed a hand against her head and the seriousness on his face told Holmes all he needed to know about the girl's condition.

"Should we get her to Barts?" Holmes asked.

John sighed. "They're overrun, Holmes. She wouldn't get past the front door."

"An ice bath, then?"

"We don't have the resources here. And…I'm not so certain it would help, not now that it's so advanced."

"Devil things they are anyway. The shock would certainly kill her. The alternative?"

To his surprise, John rose and started to slowly pace in front of the door, as if he had to think about their next move. Though his mind wasn't completely recuperated yet, Holmes knew that Watson wasn't debating between choices. He was looking, grasping for one.

"John."

He stopped pacing and looked at Holmes. For one heart-stopping moment Sherlock thought he saw a look of defeat cross those features, but the light tricked his eyes and revealed resignation a second later.

"We'll have to keep her as warm as we can and hope…pray that fever breaks. It's already too high. If I'd known it would be this bad…"

"It will break," Holmes said with confidence.

Watson shook his head as he offered a false smile. "You're not even a doctor and you're so certain."

Holmes shifted to lessen the weight on his lower back while keeping a tight hold of the smaller person clinging to him. Then he looked John Watson dead in the eye and made sure his words struck home. "I am certain in your medical skills as a doctor and survival skills as a soldier. Both of which make for an exceptional physician and we are in desperate need of one at the moment, are we not?"

John closed his eyes and nodded, opening them a second later with the burning resolve that Sherlock was used to seeing.

In the time it took him to completely cover the pair by the fire in the sitting room and make them as comfortable as possible with what pillows he could find on the second floor, Sherlock had followed Lydia into a light slumber. John tried to ignore the throbbing pain in his leg, but after his third trip to the loo for fresh water and clean washcloths, he finally decided to allow himself a short catnap. When he returned and set the bowl and towels aside, he settled down into an armchair opposite the sleeping pair. He almost groaned aloud at the relief his body has been screaming for during the past couple of days…few days…however long it had been.

John snapped awake, hours later. He looked over to Holmes and Lydia, both still sound asleep. He got himself up and checked Lydia first, noting that some of her color had returned. Then when he felt for her temperature, he couldn't help but laugh instead of sigh in relief. Despite the amount of sweat, she was much cooler.

"The fever," Holmes murmured in question.

"You were right. Again."

Sherlock smirked in his half-waking state. "I usually am."

Once dawn broke over London, John went about the task of warming up Lydia's room since the fire had gone out sometime in the night. He was in the middle of pulling the coverlet back onto the bed after changing the bed sheets when Holmes cleared his throat by the door. In his arms was the sleeping girl, blissfully ignorant to John's sudden ire.

"How did you?-Nevermind, bring her in."

Holmes wasted no time and together they had her settled in with no fuss. His nose picked up the faint floral smell from her hair, still soft after days of matted bed rest, and he found himself searching the confines of his cranium to place the smell and find out why he thought it so pleasant. But he soon stopped when it was something else that started to overpower his senses.

"Funny how a room spins so easily when you're ill," the detective muttered.

Watson frowned and sent a scathing glare at his companion. "That's because you carried yourself and another person up a flight of stairs, you idiot. Sit down on the bed before you fall down."

"Hardly proper-"

"What's not proper is me manhandling you out of this room and back down a flight of stairs on a bad leg. Now, sit."

Holmes happily and wearily obliged. After checking the girl's temperature again Watson descended to the kitchen in search of some food. Sherlock cracked his neck with a sigh of satisfaction and leaned back against a post at the foot of the bed to wait. It didn't take long for her to wake up, and when she did, he was happy to see a measure of awareness present.

"I would say welcome back to the land of the living but for the obvious fact that you hadn't left us."

Lydia smiled. 'How are you feeling,' she signed.

"I? I, as it would seem, am on the mend. But it is you that we should be examining after last night."

'Last night?'

Sherlock looked at her. "You don't remember, do you? Or perhaps you do. You thought it was a dream."

Her eyes grew big and she thought for a moment before replying. 'That was real?'

"Quite real, my dear. And for that, I have something to return to you."

He pulled not one but all the pens he had confiscated from her out of his pocket, reached over, and deposited them on the bed beside her. She looked on with barely concealed shock. Then, when she collected herself, she raised a hand to press against her throat.

"I…spoke," she asked.

"That you did," he replied, softly.

She took a deep breath before continuing. "What…was-the point?"

"You thought your voice was lost. One day you stopped talking altogether, not by inability but by choice. I learned this quite early on in your employment here. You, of course, were not aware of it but from the moment we met you have been begging me to help you find it again."

She bit her bottom lip and struggled to keep calm, and keep from crying. He could tell she wanted to disagree, to argue that he was making things up, but she remained silent, with eyes stuck on something across the room.

He took a deep breath and steeled his thoughts, knowing that what he would say next needed to be said. "What you've done with the boys is…acceptable. I've been limited in what I can teach for some time, partly due to time and partly because I couldn't stand the thought of letting them down if I had to reschedule. The work of a consulting detective is far from consistent to say the least."

She nodded, seemingly understanding his point.

"And I…I've been," He stopped to clear his throat and risk a quick glance out the door to make sure he wouldn't be overheard. Funny thing was she was already speaking when he opened his mouth.

"I for-give you," she whispered.

"What," he croaked.

She grimaced after rubbing her throat and switched to signing again. 'What you said was because of the fever. '

"You…"

'I forgive you, yes.'

A soft knock sounded from the door. "Feeling better," Watson asked.

"Much," Caroline said. "Thank-you."

"Don't thank me yet, you're both still fighting off the after effects and I want to be sure you make full recoveries."

A pregnant silence followed. Holmes' eyes darted between Lydia and John, noting with not a small glimmer of glee that things were about to get very interesting. But, leave it to Watson to be the patient one-perhaps he was waiting for the bait.

"You're curious," Holmes stated.

John quirked an eyebrow and looked between Lydia and Holmes for an answer. "Perhaps a little more than curious."

"Understandably so. It's not everyday that a supposed mute regains the power of speech. But then again, you're not really a mute, are you, Ms. Collins?"

Lydia lifted her head and shook it, admitting what had already been let out of the bag. But Holmes wasn't done there, not without a real explanation. She gave him a look, the same she did before when she guessed where his train of thought was going. There was a strange feeling that bloomed in his chest under that scrutiny, small, but most certainly new. And interesting.

'You know of my condition?'

"Spasmodic Dysphonia. A disorder of the voice in which muscle spasms often hinder a person's normal pattern of speech. But you're already familiar with this, aren't you, Watson?"

"Well, I…I knew a girl, a patient, once who had the same disorder."

"Really," Holmes enquired with a shark's eye. "Do tell."

Watson waved a hand dismissively. "What's to tell? It was years ago. As a matter of fact she would be…ah, right about your…"

"Take care, Boswell," Holmes whispered. "And observe."

A few moments passed. Then a few more. The girl began to look at Watson the same way he was looking at her. But it was his Watson who had reached the conclusion before she did. His eyes widened, and Holmes wasn't so sure Watson would speak for all the staring and open-mouthed gaping that was going on.

"Oh my God," he whispered. "Your name isn't Lydia Collins…"

"Spot on," Holmes said, before turning to her. "If you wouldn't mind, dear, might we have your real name now?"

A myriad of emotions and thoughts passed through her face, as the two men waited on bated breath for their answer. When it came it was confident, and not at all fearful nor hesitant.

"Caroline Andr-rews," she said.

A/N: So, Caroline's allergic to aspirin…I personally am allergic to Tyelnol and Advil and due to my family history (which also involves a deathly aspirin allergy) I can't take anything over the counter, nor some of the prescription stuff…actually nobody knows what I can take which is just peachy. Since I didn't find any other kind of painkiller used in Victorian times I thought I'd keep things simple here. Needless to say my allergies suck and they are completely annoying and uncomfortable, but let me tell you-what Caroline experienced here? Girl got off easy.

Anyway, Happy Thanksgiving again! Thankful for my readers, reviewers, and supporters for this past year. I hope all is well with all of you and I hope to hear from you soon. Next chapter in a couple of weeks!