The Edge of Sanity
Author: Lady Sam Mallory
Disclaimers: Boys not mine; I just borrow them from time to time when the muse moves me.
Special Thanks to: My exceptional Beta Queen, Zoe, without whom I'd be doomed to a life of grammatical inaccuracy. You are truly my conductor of light. Thank you for thirty years of friendship.
For my beautiful friend, Heather, whose incredible command of the English language allows her to provide me with individually needed words at a moment's notice.
Warnings: H/C, Angst, Smarm, Some violence, and usually a bit of colorful language.
Spoilers: None
Author's Comments: This story deals with non-consensual drug addiction and is very graphic in what withdrawal looks like. I did a lot of research on fevers for this story and am sharing the following information. A sustained fever of greater than 107.6 is the magic number where organs may start to shut down. Everyone is different, so there can obviously be exceptions. Another interesting fact: July 10, 2004, a man named Willie Jones in Atlanta, Georgia (USA) was admitted to Grady Memorial Hospital suffering from heatstroke. His temperature was 46.5ºC (115.7ºF). He spent 24 days in hospital before being discharged. (Guinness World Records)
3:42 AM, Saturday, January 4, 2014
John sits up in his bed. Something has awakened him. He doesn't sleep well since Sherlock disappeared. He looks at his watch on the bedside table which reads 3:42 in the morning. Sherlock disappeared 31 days, 17 hours and 43 minutes ago.
He tries to figure out what has unsettled him. It is neither violin music nor a small explosion "for the sake of science."
Donning his dressing gown, he pulls his Sig from the bedside table drawer, checks that it is loaded, and makes his way toward the door.
John hears the noise again and quietly opens his bedroom door. Keeping close to the wall, he carefully makes his way down the stairs to the main room.
Stopping to check the kitchen, he brings his weapon around with him and clears the room. His eyes rove the sitting room and still he sees nothing.
There! Another thump. Front door.
Leading with his weapon, he opens the main door to the flat slowly. A weight rests against the door that falls inward causing John to readjust his aim.
He notices that the body does not move otherwise, and his concern increases.
Bending down, his weapon ready, he feels for a pulse and is pleased when he finds one.
It is dark, but John recognizes the barely conscious man instantly.
Sherlock Holmes.
3:48 AM, Saturday, January 4, 2014
"Sherlock!" John bellows, causing the trembling man to flinch away wildly.
John calms himself down before touching Sherlock again, "Shhh. It's okay. What the hell did they do to you?"
Sherlock struggles to open his eyes. "J'n?" He slurs, reaching shaking fingers towards John's face.
John intercepts the filthy hand holding it gently in his own, "Can you make it to the sofa?"
Sherlock tries to get up, and John helps him to the sofa closing the door behind them.
John gets him settled. "I'll be right back. I've gotta grab my med bag. Will you be okay?" he questions Sherlock quietly, placing a steady hand on his head to feel for fever.
Sherlock nods and John takes off up the stairs and returns less than a minute later. He pulls out his stethoscope to listen to Sherlock's heart rate.
"A bit high, Sherlock. Do we need to go to hospital?" John asks quietly, using his penlight to check Sherlock's pupil reflexes. "Decreased papillary reflex."
Pulling out a portable blood pressure cuff, John moves to push up Sherlock's sleeves when the newly found man curls away from him.
"It's okay, Sherlock. I just wanna take your blood pressure. It won't hurt," John reassures his friend gently.
Sherlock shakes his head and curls further in on himself.
"Do you know what's wrong?" John asks Sherlock firmly.
Sherlock nods without speaking, crossing his arms protectively across his chest.
John closes his eyes, then opens them again and reaches for Sherlock's left hand. Holding it resolutely in his cool hands, he pushes up the sleeve, and then balks at what he sees. There are dozens of track marks in Sherlock's left arm. He quickly pushes up the right sleeve to see the same marks mirrored there.
John sighs. "We need to get you to hospital, Sherlock," John advises, holding the man's shaky hands in his own steady ones.
Sherlock closes his eyes. "No," he whispers quietly, his voice raw and broken.
John's anger surges and he clenches Sherlock's hands tighter and growls, causing the younger detective to flinch away from him.
He fights to calm down before dealing with Sherlock and this very difficult situation. John knows that he will need more time to process that Sherlock has been returned to him.
"When did they start dosing you?" John inquires, his blue eyes filled with compassion.
Sherlock looks up at John in surprise.
"You've been mostly clean for over seven years, except for the occasional experiment, and never anything like this. I know you, Sherlock," John reassures him softly.
Sherlock's mouth quirks in a near smile. "First day," he manages, laying his head down on the arm of the sofa opposite John.
"Shit! Do you know what they were giving you?" John asks tentatively, unable to keep the hope from his voice.
"Mor…phine an' rohyp…nol," Sherlock answers unsteadily.
"It would be better to take you to hospital. You're going to be very sick, Sherlock," John reasons, placing a supportive hand on his shoulder.
"No. Please," Sherlock nearly begs breaking through John's defenses. Sherlock does not generally say the actual word. It's more an implied thing. The fact that he's used it here means something to John.
John places a hand tentatively on Sherlock's head, "Let me see what I can do."
4:07 AM, Saturday, January 4, 2014
"I need a big favor, Colonel Sterling," John whispers into the mobile trying not to disturb Sherlock.
"It's after four in the morning, son," the Colonel notes, a bit surprised.
"I know, sir, but this favor makes us even," John promises.
"You saved Hugh's life, John. We will never be even," the Colonel reports openly. "What do you need, Captain?"
"It's quite a list and discretion is of the utmost importance," John warns the British officer.
"Makes no matter. Let me grab a pen," he says as rustling is heard in the background. "Okay, go ahead."
"I need a 2 bed furnished flat outside London with at least one bedroom with a loo and a car to get there," John begins bringing a low whistle from the Colonel.
"I told you it was a big favor," John reminds him quietly.
"I also need the following medical supplies: four bags saline, an 18-gauge angiocath, several 23-gauge butterfly needles, six ice packs, six emesis basins, and a Vera-Temp Non Contact Thermometer," John requests casting his gaze to a dozing Sherlock.
"That it?" the Colonel asks when John pauses to check on Sherlock.
"No, I'm also gonna need the following pharmaceuticals: nitroglycerin pills, a thrombolytic, liquid aspirin, Subutex, Ondansetron and Caldolor," John lists, checking items off the list he made when it was clear that Sherlock had absolutely no intention of going to hospital.
"Tall order," the Colonel answers quietly.
The man is no fool.
"I know, but it can't go through channels and he won't go to hospital," John replies, running a hand through his hair.
"I understand, son. Where do you want it brought?" The Colonel asks, writing down the Baker Street address that John provides to him.
"Discretion, Colonel," John reminds him succinctly.
"Yes, of course," the man answers before ringing off.
4:42 AM, Saturday, January 4, 2014
There is a tap at the door just over an hour later. John opens the door quietly and is surprised to see Colonel Sterling himself standing there.
"Colonel?" John questions, his voice choked with emotion.
"You said discreet. I was able to get everything on your list. I'll drive so you can help your friend," the Colonel informs the former Captain standing before him.
"Our bags are ready," John says, indicating two bags sitting next to the door. "Thank you, Colonel."
"Think nothing of it. My grandson is alive today because you had the balls to charge into a firefight and pull him out," the Colonel reminds him.
John steps over to the sofa and rousts Sherlock to waken. "Come on, it's time to go," John whispers as he pulls the weary man off the sofa.
The Colonel strides forward quickly to give John a hand. John mutters a quick thanks as they get Sherlock to the parked car at the kerb. He gently lowers Sherlock into the back seat of a large model sedan.
"Give me a sec?" John asks as he runs back into the flat, grabs the bags and leaves a note for Mrs. Hudson, letting her know that Sherlock has returned, but that they must go away for a bit.
John slips into the backseat and tries to make Sherlock as comfortable as possible. "How far a drive is it?" He inquires as Sherlock's head tips onto his shoulder.
"About half an hour. A friend loaned us a place he has in Radlett. I told him I needed it, and he dropped the keys off within ten minutes," the Colonel informs John as he pulls away from the kerb.
John nods affirmatively and pulls out his mobile to send texts to Mycroft and Lestrade.
Sherlock returned
We are going to a safe house
More later
JW
He huffs out a breath and shoves the mobile back into his pocket.
"He was kidnapped and dosed against his will," John informs the Colonel unable to allow this well-respected man to believe Sherlock would do this to himself.
"I figured it was something like that. I read about the kidnapping, but to do this to him is inhuman," Colonel Sterling spits out disdainfully.
John closes his eyes and nods but is unable to respond for the moment.
"Thanks for this," John tells him laying a hand on the man's shoulder.
The Colonel turns slightly in the seat. "No problem, John. He doesn't deserve this and neither do you. You're a good man, Dr. Watson," he commends causing him to flush with embarrassment.
"So is he," John whispers then adds again subvocally, "So is he."
5:37 AM, Saturday, January 4, 2014
"You'll be okay here with him by yourself?" Sterling asks John quietly in deference to the man sleeping in the bed only a few meters away.
"Yes, we'll be fine. Thank you, Colonel. I don't know how I can repay you for this," John says, turning to look at a very pale and shaking Sherlock.
"We're still not remotely even, John," the Colonel reminds the stubborn former Captain gently. "I'd better get to the train station. There's a train that leaves at 6:35 this morning, and I'd like to be on it."
John reaches forward and shakes his hand, then turns back to Sherlock as the older man leaves the small cottage.
John kneels down at the side of the bed and checks the perspiration-soaked young man who is still trembling, "Sherlock?"
Sherlock's eyes fly open, then he relaxes as he sees John's blurry face materialize in front of him. He reaches out to the doctor with shaking fingers, which John grasps tightly in his own hand. "We'll get through this, Sherlock. Do you have any idea how long it's been since your last dose?"
Sherlock shakes his head.
"Okay, that's fine. You seem a little shaky but okay for the most part. Is that correct?" John inquires of his new patient.
Sherlock nods again.
"Let's get you into the bath and get you cleaned up. Once the symptoms start, we won't be able to do that for a bit," John informs him quietly.
Helping Sherlock to stand, they make their way into the adjoining toilet. John helps him to sit, then turns on the tap to run the bath.
"There's not gonna be any privacy for awhile. I can't leave you alone, in case you start to cramp up or be sick. Right?" John asks as he helps to lower Sherlock into the warm water.
"I know. I'll…not…be…difficult," Sherlock promises worry lines evident on his haggard face.
John smiles knowingly. "It's going to be very difficult," John reminds him.
Sherlock just nods in agreement, closing his eyes and laying his head back on the edge of the bath.
11:57 AM, Saturday, January 4, 2014
Sherlock settles back under the duvet as John adds another blanket to the already growing stack upon the consulting detective.
"C-cold," Sherlock complains, his eyes closed, teeth chattering as he curls down onto his side.
"Sherlock? We need to come to an understanding before things get bad," John broaches the subject both men would prefer not to talk about. He knows the time has come, and he has put it off longer than he should have.
Sherlock nods and looks John directly in the eyes to prove that he is paying attention.
"Okay, first of all, I'm the doctor. You're the patient," John clarifies, gesturing with his left hand to emphasize the point he needs Sherlock to understand. "You're going to have to listen, and yes, even defer to my judgment. I will be making the decisions where your health is concerned right now. Do you agree?"
Sherlock looks petulantly at his best friend.
"I can ring for an ambulance to take you to hospital, you know?" John reminds the soon to be very ill man.
Sherlock nods his head in defeated acquiescence.
John takes the opportunity to check his vitals again. "Still raised a bit but not dangerously so," he announces as he pulls out the Vera Temp Thermometer and holds it just above Sherlock's forehead.
The unit beeps and John checks the display. "37.8ºC (100.1ºF). That's a bit elevated but not too bad," John says as he pats Sherlock on the shoulder.
Sherlock's eyes have not left the device, and John smiles at the analysis he sees taking place there.
"It specialized for hospitals. Helps avoid cross contamination. I asked for it because there's going to come a time when it won't be easy to take your temperature," John states, before inclining his head. "And no, you may not take it apart to see how it works."
Sherlock frowns with disappointment and throws the blankets off as he sweats profusely.
"Too hot," he gasps, needing to move. Sherlock's legs vibrate restlessly on the bed and he shakes with longing for the drug his body knows is absent, but his mind does not want.
John hands Sherlock a cold pack that he's retrieved from the freezer. "See if this helps. I'll put these back," he mumbles, grabbing the warm packs.
Sherlock pushes himself out of the bed and paces the length of the room anxiously. His anxiety mounts as his boredom increases. "Need something to do!" He hollers out his boredom using his standard war cry.
John returns to the room, a book under his arm as well as a cup of broth in his right hand and a glass of water in his left, only to have Sherlock wave him off.
"Can't," Sherlock says the one word with considerable effort and annoyance.
"Headache?" John guesses to the other man's utter dismay. Sherlock hates to be so damned predictable.
John hands him the water and the broth. "How 'bout I read to you?" John asks, sitting in the recliner in the corner and opening to the first page.
Sherlock eyes him suspiciously, looking disdainfully at the broth that he knows he should drink.
"I think you'll like it," John suggests, although by the expression on the lanky detective's face, Sherlock is not quite as sure.
Sherlock takes a deep breath, "The book or the broth?"
John smiles patiently bringing his eyes upward to meet Sherlock's dubious expression.
"The book. It's called The Encyclopedia of Unsolved Crimes by Michael Newton, and you really need to eat something. I'm hoping to save the IV's for later," John informs him, his smile growing a bit.
"Something to look forward to," Sherlock replies dryly. "You're very pleased with yourself," Sherlock notices and feels he must announce.
"You know, I really am," John admits, chuckling a bit as he covers his mouth and looks towards the floor.
"Very well. You may proceed," Sherlock permits, his stature becoming familiar to John as that which he adopts when he is on a case.
"Drink the broth," John orders gently, gesturing to the mug in the taller man's hand.
Sherlock's nose wrinkles faintly at the thought.
"Doctor," John reminds him pointing a finger to his own chest, before switching the gesture and pointing to Sherlock. "Patient."
Sherlock sighs deeply, feeling completely put upon, and takes a tentative sip of the rich warm broth.
John opens the large book, using it to hide the wide grin on his face, and begins to read the first case, pausing to listen to Sherlock's predictions that he poses intermittently during the reading.
6:12 PM, Saturday, January 4, 2014
John looks down at Sherlock, stuffed under several blankets again and wracked with uncontrollable shivers. It's been like this most of the day. Fluctuations between freezing and burning up, his fever climbing another half degree and John knows that the worst is yet to come.
John blows out a breath and settles back into the recliner where he will be spending the next several days, if not the full two weeks. He hopes that the detective's higher than normal metabolism will work in his favor to rid him of the poisonous drugs in his system.
Sherlock has been very quiet, which frankly has John very worried. John grimaces as he hears Sherlock crying in his sleep. He gets up, once again, to check on the young man but knows that excessive lacrimation is just another part of the withdrawal package.
John grabs a flannel and leans forward over Sherlock to clean the other man's face of the tears and mucus that have accumulated there. Throwing the flannel in the bowl of cool water, he pulls yet another flannel out and places it across Sherlock's forehead.
Satisfied that he's done all he can do, he settles once again into the recliner and closes his eyes. After several minutes, his exhaustion wears him down, and he falls into a very light sleep.
1:13 AM, Sunday, January 5, 2014
John startles at the moan coming from the blanketed lump on the bed.
"Sherlock?" He inquires, stretching and pulling himself up out of the armchair, making his way over to the bed.
He grabs the thermometer taking Sherlock's temperature again. "38.4ºC (101.2ºF)," he mumbles, replacing the instrument back on the bedside table. John lays his hand on the other man's forehead and cringes at the heat and perspiration he feels there.
Sherlock curls in on himself as the lower abdominal cramping begins and groans even louder.
John rubs a comforting hand over the sweating back. "It's okay, Sherlock. Just try to relax, okay?" John whispers softly, soothingly and Sherlock settles a bit before the next wave of cramps hits, and he curls up shoving his face downward into the pillow.
Sherlock opens his eyes and shoves off the covers. "Hot. Need up," he bellows, scrabbling for the edge of the bed, as John helps him try to get more comfortable.
John checks Sherlock's pupils to find that they are extremely dilated, and his face is once again coated with tears and mucus. Grabbing a fresh flannel, he gently rubs it down Sherlock's face and neck, hoping to simultaneously clean, cool and soothe.
"Up!" Sherlock is more insistent this time, and John realizes that he may need the loo. Helping Sherlock to stand at the side of the bed, he takes most of the taller man's weight and helps him to the toilet.
Sherlock leans against the wall to relieve himself and curls forward as another cramp hits his intestines.
John settles him on the toilet and allows him to finish his business before helping him clean up and get back to bed.
Sherlock cannot look at him. His shame-filled blue eyes close, and he rolls onto his side away from John.
John comes round the bed and lays a gentle hand on Sherlock's forehead before once again placing a cooled flannel there. "You have nothing to be ashamed for," John assures him. "Let's just get through this together. This wasn't your choice, right?"
Sherlock nods affirmatively and angrily swipes at the tears streaming down his face.
"It's normal. It's not actually crying. Your body is just purging all your fluids," John reminds him quietly.
"Know…" Sherlock slurs exhaustedly, his abdominal cramps rolling in one on top of another.
"Sherlock? I brought a few Subutex pills for the times when it's really bad. They help alleviate the symptoms. You don't have to swallow them; they're sublingual," John informs him, continuing to use the damp flannel to cool Sherlock down.
Sherlock grunts, unable to speak for the moment because of the cramping that is seriously starting to upset him. He begins to rock back and forth hoping to bring a small measure of relief from them, but it makes him feel nauseous, so he concentrates on being perfectly still.
Sherlock's face screws up with the pain John knows that he must be feeling. His eyes are closed tightly, and his right hand clutches the sheet that John placed over him when he returned from the toilet. John wipes down his tortured friend's face and neck knowing that they must make it through the next 48 hours.
3:24 AM, Sunday, January 5, 2014
Sherlock tosses and turns under the thin burgundy sheet which has twisted around his legs. His legs twitch and contract mercilessly as he's struck with the curse of involuntary leg movements.
His body is drenched with perspiration. He groans as John pulls a clean flannel out of the bowl of icy water and wipes his face, neck and chest.
Sherlock's eyes pop open and widen fractionally, and before he can even ask, John is in front of him with an emesis basin immediately. Sherlock groans as he retches into the bowl, his insides churning. He continues to gag, vomit pouring from his mouth as John holds both the bowl and places another cold cloth on his neck.
"It's gonna be okay, Sherlock," John whispers, hoping that he speaks the truth.
Sherlock rocks forward around the bowl and retches weakly yet again. His stomach cramps and he curls in on himself trying to stay over the basin and nearly succeeding.
John continues to be there for him. After thirty minutes, Sherlock is still heaving, and John considers using one of the Subutex pills. Sherlock reads his expression and waves him off.
"Not yet," he gasps in between bouts. "Gets worse."
John pats his back and changes out the basin for a new clean one. "Okay, just hold on," he says quietly.
Sherlock's breathing is erratic and gasping.
"Sherlock? Sherlock! I need you to slow down your breathing," John requests, pushing sodden curls off the detective's forehead so he can set another cool flannel there.
Sherlock nods gratefully and attempts to follow John's suggestions, but he's having too much trouble focusing on what he's been told.
The exhausted doctor reaches for Sherlock's wrist and takes his pulse and respirations. "Pulse rate is 104 and respiration rate is 28. These are too high. Come on, Sherlock. You need to bring these back under some control," John urges.
Sherlock nods again and John gives him a count for his breathing. Together they achieve success, and the rates fall slowly to closer to normal numbers.
John helps Sherlock to sit back a bit more and props some pillows behind him.
"Think you can take some water?" John asks unsurely, holding the cup out in front of him.
Sherlock shakes his head then beckons for the basin as he throws up bile into it.
John looks into the basin. "You've got nothing left, Sherlock," he complains, as the pale detective throws up in the basin yet again.
"Apparently, I do," he groans causing John to smile sympathetically.
John reaches for the Vera-Temp and takes a reading. "39.7ºC (103.5ºF), Sherlock. It's getting much higher. I want to give you some aspirin, and I think it's time to start an IV," John reports, reaching for his medical bag where most of the equipment is stowed.
He pulls out the IV kit supplied by the Colonel and preps the area, first placing the tourniquet, then swabbing a site on the back of Sherlock's left hand with an alcohol swab. Wiping the swabbed area with sterile gauze, he pulls the skin taut and inserts the 18-gauge needle, advances the catheter and removes the needle and tourniquet.
He removes the plastic applicator, attaches the IV tubing and tapes everything down. Removing the bag from over his shoulder, he hooks it on a hook just above the headboard.
The whole procedure takes him a few minutes, and Sherlock is surprised at how quickly and painlessly the job was done.
"There we go," John says, cleaning up the packaging and tossing it in the bin.
"Amazing…" Sherlock says, looking over the work.
John's eyes open in surprised pleasure at the compliment.
"A nurse taught me," John admits sheepishly. "You never know when there's going to be an emergency."
Sherlock closes his eyes in exhaustion; his hands braced on his cramping abdomen.
"Why don't you try to rest?" John suggests helpfully.
Sherlock opens his eyes. "Can't," he whispers, not elaborating further.
John nods once in understanding, "How 'bout some more of the book?"
Sherlock nods, tips his head back, and waits for the next case to solve.
5:09 AM, Sunday, January 5, 2014
John sits upright in the recliner when he hears Sherlock vomit again, "Sherlock?"
Additional retching answers the question, and John leaps from the recliner massaging his shoulder and makes his way over to the bed.
Sherlock meets his eye.
"How long?" John asks, grabbing the thermometer when he can feel the heat radiating off Sherlock.
Sherlock lets loose again before telling him it's been about eight minutes.
John pats his shoulder and takes a reading with the Vera-Temp. "40.3ºC (104.3ºF)," John whispers under his breath, reaching for his med bag once again. He pulls out the liquid aspirin and prepares a syringe to dose the detective once he stops heaving.
Sherlock groans and curls forward over the basin.
John places another flannel on the back of Sherlock's neck. "Better?" He asks quietly, noting that Sherlock still has the headache.
Sherlock nods between bouts of sickness and finally seems to calm down after another forty-minute bout.
"You need to rest, Sherlock. I'm going to dose you with aspirin and Subutex now and see if that gives you a few hours uninterrupted sleep," John informs the very ill man in front of him.
He reaches for the IV and injects the liquid aspirin. "Place this under your tongue," he orders, handing Sherlock a small white oval pill.
Sherlock looks at the pill, looks up at John, then back to the pill before taking it. He had given his word to be a good patient and a Holmes was always true to his word.
7:19 AM, Sunday, January 5, 2014
John leans over his patient and takes his temperature again.
40.9ºC (105.6ºF)
He lays another cool flannel across Sherlock's forehead and prepares to give the man an alcohol bath. The involuntary leg tremors occur even though the man rests as well as can be expected.
He groans occasionally from the cramps and has been lying on his side curled in the fetal position since that last bout of illness.
John grabs the basin of alcohol and a new clean flannel. He wets the cloth and wrings it out carefully, before lightly scrubbing it over his best friend's fevered skin.
Sherlock unconsciously sighs at the relief that the cool bath brings. John finishes quickly and efficiently finally understanding why in the name of all that is holy, it was necessary to date so many nurses.
He sends them each a silent thank you for all the care knowledge they have bestowed upon him over the years.
Covering his friend with a light sheet, he dumps the basin in the sink and rinses it thoroughly.
He blinks the exhaustion from his eyes, scrubbing at them tiredly, and wishing he felt comfortable sleeping.
He elects to kneel by the side of the bed and rest his head next to Sherlock's shaking form. This keeps him close, and while he may get puked on, he knows it will ensure that he is right there if Sherlock needs him.
9:53 AM, Sunday, January 5, 2014
"John," Sherlock croaks, moving his hand gently against the side of John's head.
John straightens with a groan as Sherlock begins throwing up yet again. John's mouth tightens into a fine line as he thrusts the basin under Sherlock's chin catching as much as he can.
He continues being sick for nearly an hour until he is reduced to dry heaves which do not seem to stop.
John rubs Sherlock's head soothingly as he bends over the basin unable to expel anything further.
Sherlock hands John the basin, then laces his fingers up behind his head, falls to his side with a groan and draws in on himself even more until he rests in the fetal position.
John takes the basin, providing a new one in its place, and pushing up the sleeves on his jumper, rinses it under the tap with alcohol before returning to put it back on the stack.
Sherlock moans exhaustedly, and John pulls out the Ondansetron.
"Sherlock, this should help with the nausea. Just let it dissolve on your tongue," John suggests as he places the tiny white pill directly into Sherlock's mouth.
Sherlock makes a face. "Tastes metallic," he complains, his face screwed up.
"I know, but it really helps some people," John reassures the ill young man. "I need to change the sheets. I can do it while you're in the bed, okay?"
Sherlock shakes his head. "Want up. Need to bathe," Sherlock requests, his voice weak.
"Tell you what. Let's see if we can get you into a cool bath. I need another temperature reading first, and then we'll go," John explains grabbing the thermometer.
"40.7ºC (105.3ºF). That's come down slightly from the last reading. Good," John says, his face lit with a pleased smile.
Sherlock turns on his left side, and John helps lift him to sitting on the side of the bed.
"Good?" John asks.
"Fine," Sherlock answers.
John regards him closely, "Except for the dizziness?" John asks his expression tight.
"Yeah, except for that," Sherlock replies innocently.
John smiles and helps him to the cool bath he's drawn. He helps Sherlock into the tub and cleans him up with a flannel.
Gently, he washes the consulting detective's hair to help him feel much cleaner.
After several minutes, Sherlock starts to nod off in the tub.
John rouses the exhausted man, helps him to stand and wraps him in clean warm towels. Supporting Sherlock's weight, he leads him to the recliner, so he can change the sheets on the bed.
Removing the sheets soaked in sweat and filth, he bundles them up and tosses them in the corner then replaces them with crisp clean linens.
He puts Sherlock's arm over his right shoulder and assists him back into bed.
"Thanks," Sherlock says quietly.
John smiles tiredly and puts his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, "You're welcome."
8:22 PM, Sunday, January 5, 2014
John tosses the thermometer onto the bedside table and runs to the kitchen. The digital readout is 41.7ºC (107.1ºF). He tears open the freezer and grabs several of the ice packs there.
Racing back into the room, he efficiently wraps them in flour sack towels and pulls back the duvet. He arranges two of the packs at Sherlock's groin and slides one under the back of his neck.
Pouring alcohol sloppily into the basin he begins to rub the man down with alcohol after starting the timer on his watch. "Twenty minutes," he whispers, continuing to place cool cloths on Sherlock's overheated body.
He grabs a syringe and injects Caldolor straight into the intravenous line which he opens up even more to quicken the flow of the medication.
Keeping calm, he continues to work efficiently over his friend until the timer on his watch goes off, and he removes the ice packs quickly.
He pinches Sherlock's ear to test his response and smiles when Sherlock pushes his hand away.
Grabbing up the Vera-temp, he measures again and is pleased to see that the temperature has fallen nearly half a degree. He closes his eyes, his steady hands beginning to tremble from the adrenaline let down.
"Thank you," he whispers to the room at large.
12:27 AM, Monday, January 6, 2014
Sunday was hell.
John hasn't been this tired since medical school, and he feels the ache of exhaustion in his bones as he performs another vitals check on Sherlock and obtains another temperature reading.
The entire sodding day was filled with Sherlock in pain and retching up anything he'd eaten since adolescence. His fever spiked at 41.7ºC (107.1ºF) before starting to come down a bit after intense cool therapy. John has been checking his vitals every hour to ensure that there are no complications.
John stretches trying to work some of the kinks out of his back, neck and shoulders. The left shoulder catches and he flinches. It's been nearly five years since he took that bullet in the shoulder, shattering his collarbone, but he still feels it and occasionally it really pisses him off.
John is swiping another cloth across Sherlock's sweating forehead when his mobile vibrates.
"Bugger," he whispers, grabbing it up out of his pocket after tossing the flannel into the basin.
Upon seeing who is calling, John reluctantly answers his mobile.
"Hello, Mycroft," he whispers out of deference to Sherlock who finally seems to be sleeping comfortably.
"Do you require assistance?" Mycroft asks succinctly, not one to waste words.
John sighs pulling at the back of his neck. "I've got it under control, Mycroft," John informs him.
"I'm sure that you do, but that is not what I asked, John," Mycroft Holmes says in his usual careful tones.
"Sherlock wanted to keep this completely under the radar, so, no, I do not require assistance, which does answer your question," John snaps, closing one eye, looking to heaven in hopes that this conversation would end quickly.
"Very well, we'll talk later about the lapse that lead you to take this on by yourself. My little brother can be…. difficult…. even at the best of times," Sherlock's older brother says with a long-suffering sigh.
John shakes his head, closing both eyes, and pastes on a tight smile then replies, "Looking forward to it, Mycroft."
"Yes, I'm sure you are," Mycroft finishes before ringing off.
John shoves the mobile in his pocket as Sherlock starts to waken.
"Everything's fine, Sherlock. Go back to sleep," John soothes as he swipes sodden curls off Sherlock's forehead and places another cool flannel there.
Sherlock settles at the touch of the cooled cloth and pushes deeper into the pillows with a sigh.
"Happy Birthday, Sherlock," John says with a sad smile patting the younger man on the head.
6:17 PM, Monday, January 6, 2014
Sherlock moans from the bed clutching his stomach and rocking despite the nausea.
"Good you're up!" John welcomes with an exhausted smile as he returns from the kitchen. "How 'bout some birthday broth?"
Sherlock puts a hand over his mouth simultaneously shaking his head.
John sighs, "Look, I know it's not anywhere close to your favorite…."
"No," Sherlock states emphatically.
John sympathizes with the dark haired detective. "It may help to settle your stomach," John suggests quietly.
"Five," Sherlock replies, burying his head beneath the duvet.
"Five what?" John inquires perplexed, still holding the bowl of broth.
"Number of times you've said that," Sherlock grumps, the blanket moving in time with his rocking motion.
"You need it," John reasons, pulling the duvet back with his free hand.
He sets the half filled bowl of broth on the bedside table and helps the drained detective sit up in the bed.
Sherlock lets out a low groan as John pushes pillows behind his back.
"Drink! Doctor's orders," he directs, handing Sherlock the bowl of warm broth.
"You are a cruel man, and your bedside manner is deplorable," Sherlock responds dryly.
John laughs startling himself. He realizes that he hasn't really done so in over a month, and now that he's started, he worries that he won't be able to stop.
Tears of relief prick his eyes as he looks at Sherlock in the bed, finally bringing himself back under control.
"Sorry," John mumbles swiping his eyes with the back of his hand.
"You're tired," Sherlock excuses, waving it off with the flick of his own.
Sherlock takes a tentative sip of the warm chicken broth and is pleasantly surprised that it tastes slightly different.
"This is different than the others," Sherlock deduces, taking another small sip.
"Yes, it is," John admits, his blue eyes soft with exhaustion and amusement. "How do you feel?"
Sherlock's head comes up, and he looks at John with irritation.
"I'm a doctor. It's part of the job description," John reminds the stubborn detective.
"Bay," Sherlock responds lightly, the change of subject throwing John off a bit in his exhausted state.
John glances up at Sherlock with surprise, before a wide smile breaks out on his face and he nods affirmatively. "Yes, I cooked the broth with a bay leaf. I thought it would be a nice treat and easy enough on your stomach," John supplies reaching for the thermometer.
John measures his temperature and nods approvingly with a weary smile. "Much better. 39.1ºC (102.4ºF)," he announces before setting the thermometer back on the table.
"You said birthday broth earlier," Sherlock whispers, his eyes coming up to meet John's.
"I did," John replies.
"I was taken on December 2, 2013, at 10:42 PM," Sherlock states factually. "I was gone over a month?"
"You were. Made for a hell of a Christmas, and I do mean that literally," John's expression darkens in reminiscence.
"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock apologizes, finishing the little bit of special broth, feeling relief at the fact that it seems to be staying put.
"Not your fault. Think you can get up?" John asks the pale man in the bed.
Sherlock nods and grasps John's cool hand in his own. He pulls himself up to stand shakily.
"Thank you," Sherlock whispers gratefully, giving John's hand a firm squeeze.
"Friends protect you," John replies in a hushed whisper, helping him across the room.
Sherlock's expression turns introspective for a moment before he discloses quietly, "Yes, you do."
7:01 AM, Tuesday, January 7, 2014
John glances up and smiles broadly as Sherlock drags himself into the dining room.
"You're up," John says brightly.
"Obviously," Sherlock responds then adds petulantly, "I want waffles."
John shakes his head negatively, "We talked about this last night. Not until the fever is below 37.8ºC (100ºF)," he starts as Sherlock hands him the thermometer he pinched off the bedside table.
John chuckles as Sherlock leans his even ganglier form forward, his head tilted down, and his expression long suffering.
"You are such a child," John chastises, bringing the thermometer down to read it. "37.7ºC (99.9ºF)," he reports to Sherlock's absolute delight.
Sherlock lowers himself gingerly to the table with a low moan.
"You'll be sore for awhile," John informs him.
Sherlock just nods. "Where are my waffles?" He demands laying his head down on the table.
John bites his tongue, refusing to be baited by the impossible detective.
He pops four waffles into the toaster and pours the tea taking it to the table. Several minutes later, he returns to the table placing the two plates of waffles there.
"Peanut butter?" Sherlock asks hopefully.
John shakes his head.
"A spot of milk," Sherlock tries again, raising his teacup.
John shakes his head again. "Let's not press our luck. Bland will have to do," he states, his tone brokering no argument.
Sherlock deflates slightly, slouching in his chair, his face adorned with a sulky pout.
"Stop it, right now," John demands, pointing at Sherlock. "You've been puking for days in case you've forgotten."
Sherlock shrugs and takes an experimental bite of his waffle. All seems well, so he continues to eat slowly.
John's mobile vibrates and he retrieves it from his pocket.
We caught the kidnappers
Robbing a bank
They were idiots
Tell Sherlock
It will annoy him
GL
John breaks into a fit of laughter and hands the mobile to Sherlock.
Sherlock reads the message through, and his face screws up into disgust. He huffs pushing the phone back to John who begins to laugh even harder.
"Well, it is good news," John reminds him snickering, which he hides behind taking a sip of his tea.
"For Lestrade," Sherlock complains, clasping his hands together and resting his head on them after pushing his plate to the center of the table. "Apparently, I was kidnapped by incompetents."
John lays a compassionate hand on Sherlock's head, "Honestly, they were incompetent bank robbers, but I believe they were exceptional kidnappers."
Sherlock studies John's face for any hint of misdirection or mirth to find John's expression is sincere.
"It's still annoying," Sherlock rasps, his throat scratchy from the recent abuse it suffered throughout his withdrawal.
"I'm sure it is," John says with a twinkle in his eyes. "But we all have bad days."
Sherlock smiles and remembers the scuffle where John had first said that to him.
"Obviously," Sherlock replies, grateful for John's friendship, but mostly for the man's understanding.
The End