The Dying Detective - Molly Hooper, John Hamish Watson, SH-221B

“Yes. Molly.” The detective mumbled “Don't fuss.”

Sherlock took a laboured breath “John'll be worried.”

There was something Sherlock needed although he was not sure exactly why he needed it except all unsolved cases were important. He took a couple of breaths. “Molly, take samples from the dead artist for me. Where's John?”

Having left the pair of them alone to discuss the anomylous sample, John wandered to the canteen, casually humming to himself, wondering what they would have on the menu today.

Once he got downstairs the first thing he did was grab himself a cup of tea, and a coffee for Sherlock. He'd asked for extra sugar so he gave him three, wincing as he thought how bad all that sugar was for his friend's teeth.

He couldn't remember if Molly had asked for anything to drink or not, so he just got her a bottle of water and shoved it in his pocket. It was going to be difficult enough to carry everything back upstairs without having three hot drinks.

The hot meal's today were vegetable lasagne, fish and chicken. The chicken looked pretty nice but again, John thought about the logistics of carrying everything back to the lab, and in the end just picked up two cheese sandwiches and three packets of crisps, hoping he could maybe persuade Sherlock to have one of them.

They gave him a plastic bag for the food and bottle of water, then it was relatively easy to carry the two hot drinks with the bag hooked over his arm.

"Molly I couldn't remember if you said - " John burst through the doors of the lab, chattering away, stopping dead and almost dropping the tea and coffee everywhere when he saw Sherlock, even paler than usual, sat down in a chair and Molly standing over him fussing. He put down the lunch on the desk and headed straight over. "What happened? Are you alright?"

(( OOC life imitates art, a bit : ) ))


The noise the doctor made as he entered the lab was enough to cause Sherlock to wince but he was very relieved to hear his voice.

With his head back, his eyes closed against the glare of the strong lighting, the detective's nose had stopped bleeding. He clutched the crimson stained hanky in his hand ready in case putting his head forwards started the flow again.

“John?” the detective looked at the blurry figure standing over him moving his head he tried to focus. “Houston, we have a problem.” he attempted a smile and then wearily closed his eyes again.

“Benzo tetronic acid.” the detective mumbled and left Molly to explain to John that it was a chemical component of common rodenticides. He knew he had two very capable, skilled and good friends at his side and he could just as easily work at home.

Molly tried explaining their findings to John but it proved quite difficult as the doctor didn't seem to be listening too closely. Well, and Sherlock still being kind of out wasn't helping either as Molly was not sure whether or not he was already recovering from the alarming incident or if he was still sitting limply in his chair, moving close to not at all.

"... so yeah, this is what we found. Can you make anything of it" she asked John, not expecting an answer.

"Hm, no" he said, without paying much attention to the woman next to him, his eyes still fixed on Sherlock. "Molly, what happened?"

Right, here we go Molly though, explaining the events of the past few minutes to John.

"We were working just fine but when I found some of that Benzo tetronic acid in the sample and told him to take a look he got up and well... I think he fainted." she explained in a hushed whisper.

"Sherlock fainted?" John seemed to be uncertain about whether he was more worried or a bit shocked that Sherlock Holmes of all people actually fainted. Well, or very nearly did.

Molly nodded in reply "well, and when I had just helped him sit down you came in" and nearly flooded my office with coffee she added mentally.

John was stressed out and not really listening to what Molly was saying, or taking any of it in. He was far too concerned with Sherlock and the state he was currently in. Whatever it was that had bloody happened, he knew one thing - he needed to get Sherlock back home and look after him for the rest of the day. And if it got any worse he'd bring him back to Barts and take him to the emergency room.

"Right, thank you Molly," he said finally, a little brusquely and distracted. He dropped down by Sherlock's side on the chair and lifted his arm up so it was resting on his shoulder, helping him up to his feet with a groan, a difficult task when the man was so much taller than him.

"Come on mate," he muttered. "Grab hold of me and we'll get you back to Baker Street, yeah?"

Sherlock had decided that he was not going to move until John agreed to take him back to the flat and Molly agreed to get him samples from the dead artist.

“Wasn't sausage.” Sherlock mumbled hearing his own voice as if it was in the distance, muffled and quiet whilst John, grunting a little with the effort to get him onto his feet, hoisted him off the chair.

“Molly.” the detective focussed on the white lab coat and made an effort to make sure he spoke loudly and clearly “You must bring the dead artist's samples, and all the others, all the notes, everything, to Baker Street, for me. After you finish work, i's important.”

Sherlock stood unsteadily with his arm on John, but obstinately refused to move until Molly agreed that she would do that.

“Thank you, Molly” Sherlock smiled at her deeply grateful. “We can go now, John.” he agreed and let himself be escorted out to the bench in front of the hospital to sit and wait for a taxi.

((OK...just the words 'the bench in front of the hospital' gave me so many feels you wouldn't believe. XD))


"Thanks Molly," John mumbled again as he led Sherlock towards the door. It took them quite a while to get outside because Sherlock was unsteady on his feet and it was obvious he wasn't able to see all that well either.

Once they got outside, John got him settled down on the bench and stood at the edge of the pavement, keeping his eye out for passing cabs. "So...let me get this straight," he suddenly spoke, turning back to face his friend. "What you're telling me is...it wasn't a dodgy sausage from the fridge, this isn't food poisoning, it's...some kind of...chemical poisoning? How the hell did it get in your system? What have you been doing?"

He frowned at Sherlock with a mixture of concern, disappointment, anger and worry. Finally a cab went past and John stuck his arm out, waving frantically as it slowed to a halt in front of them. He opened the door, gave the cabbie the address, then offered the sick detective his hand to help him up off the bench.

(( Yeah, 'We are friends, John' XD ))

Sherlock had long since got over any embarrassment if John saw his body betraying his emotions and logic dictated to him that it didn't make sense to get steamed up about being seen to be ill either but it did bother him greatly what John thought and felt. He sat outside and did the logical thing, he let John take care of his health and let Molly obtain the evidence that would explain why he was ill.

John was very agitated and Sherlock finding it difficult to concentrate found his questions were too confusing to give a straight answer to.

“Yes. No, it isn't.” Sherlock attempted to make it clear that it wasn't the sausage, he was sure he said it was not the sausage. He thought he heard John sigh.

It wasn't long before John got a taxi. Sherlock clambered in and huddled into his seat while John gave the cabbie his instructions. The journey gave the detective time to rest until he had the energy to say more.

Sherlock waited until they were at Baker Street to talk again. “I'll know for certain when we run a test on the sample that's still under my microscope. I've been got at. You're fine, but don't go in the fridge until I say it's ok. If you want tea get fresh milk.”

The journey back to Baker Street was pretty stressful. Sherlock obviously didn't feel like talking and John didn't want to push him. Instead he just stayed on his side of the cab and watched his friend like a hawk for any changes in his appearance that would indicate a deterioration of his condition.

As they pulled up outside Speedy's, John quickly paid for the cab, then opened the door and took Sherlock's hand again, gently helping him out of the cab. He unlocked the front door with his free hand and led them both upstairs, setting the detective down on the sofa, when finally his friend decided to speak. John perched on the edge of the desk, trying to take the information in.

"You're saying...someone's done this on purpose?" John could feel anger start to burn up inside him, already thinking what he'd do to whoever it was if he ever got his hands on them. He quickly stood up and walked through to the kitchen. He grabbed a binbag, opened the fridge door and began throwing everything out, clearing the fridge and freezer completely. "Want me to keep any of this food for evidence?" he called back through to the living room.

Sherlock sat on the sofa knowing that John was already angry with him but bore the doctor's grave disapproval without trying to explain that he hadn't realised that he was going to be in so much difficulty so quickly. He didn't have the wherewithal to argue, not that it would help in the slightest.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied quietly to John questioning what was happening “On purpose.” He watched John launch himself into the kitchen and prepared for noise to emanate from there. Then he suddenly realised what John was doing and was aghast.

“John!” Sherlock yelled as loudly as possible and tried, fearing for John's life, to get up and stop his friend “Stop! Now!” the detective made desperate strides across the room to the partition and collapsed into the kitchen.

“Don't!” Sherlock was horror-struck and it was written on his face and in his resolute attempt to protect John. “Don't touch the lung, you've not touched it have you?” he asked urgently reaching towards John, his voice strained.

After the two men had hurriedly left the morgue, Molly was, once again, alone with the body. Well, and the samples Sherlock had left her to bring over once she was finished.
It was just typical of him to never let her do anything on her own and then, when she really really doesn't feel like helping (to be honest, it wasn't really about the helping, more about timing), he does.

She wasn't too thrilled about having to stop by at Baker Street before going home, not after what happend at that horrible Christmas party a few years ago, but she felt bad for Sherlock. Nobody likes collapsing, right?
Besides, she was worried and sure that John might appreciate another doctor taking a look at Sherlock. Thinking about it now, the dark spot on the detective's hand came back to her mind.
Weird the pathologist thought. She could have sworn she had seen something like that on a victim not too long ago.

She made a mental note to look into it and set off to finish the corpse.

A few hours later, after another battle with the gloves, she finally packed her stuff, sent John a text that she'd be coming over in about half an hour and took off to where the reports on past autopsies were kept.

John heard Sherlock's strangulated, panicked cry and turned round to see the detective half collapsing into the kitchen, breathing heavily going on about the lung or something. By now the bin bag John was filling was half full. He had been pulling the items out of the fridge indiscriminately and disposing of them, all in a bit of a daze, his mind running through the events of the last twenty four hours and worrying about his friend.

At the mention of the lung, he glanced down at his hands, one of which was holding open the bin bag, the other was holding a polythene bag he'd just dragged out of the fridge, inside if which was the lung. He bit his lip and held it up in the air to show Sherlock.

"You put it in a bag last night remember?" he said gently. "I haven't touched the actual lung itself." All the same, he dropped the bag down on the floor, suddenly not wanting to even be near it anymore. "What's wrong with it?" he asked. "You think that's what infected you?"

“I said...” Sherlock began aggrieved, and immediately felt guilty, knowing that John could go incandescent when anyone threatened him and at fault in that he hadn't anticipated John disregarding his words and flying to empty the fridge. God help him he was blessed with such a loyal, caring friend.

“Good,” Sherlock replied, relieved, “Good, poison of some sort, it needs testing to be certain it's that. I'll have to wait for Molly, she knows what to do. She'll identify it.” he got on his hands and knees and let John help him back onto his feet. “Drink of water, please, John?”

John put the bag containing the lung to one side, ready for it to be collected and tested, then took hold of Sherlock's hands and helped him slowly to his feet, wrapping his arm around the taller man's waist.

"Come on...you need to sit down," he ordered, walking them back through to the living room and over to the sofa. "No more running around. Doctor's orders." He grinned, lifting up Sherlock's legs for him so he could lie down, then fluffing up the union jack cushion for his head. "I'll look after you," he whispered, trying not to get emotional or show the detective how worried he was.

"Water. Right. Yes," John snapped back into action, glad of the distraction as he went to the kitchen and fixed a glass of water for his friend. He carried it over to the sofa and handed it to him. "If there's anything you need just let me know," he muttered. "I'll just err...finish cleaning the fridge." And he returned to the task, filling up the rest of the bin bag.

It was already pretty late when Molly finally made her way from Baker Street station to the flat her two friends lived in and she was wondering if they were both still up. Her stomach suddenly gave an upset rumble and with a flash of longing she thought about the salate and potatoes she had planned on having for dinner. She almost regretted not grabbing lunch with John but then again, if she had done it, Sherlock might have collapsed in her office with nobody around.
Not a very happy thought.

Pulling her coat around her form more tightly against the cold, she reached 221B and knocked. She wondered whether they were expecting her, John hadn't answered her text earlier.

Sherlock wondered why he would have had fits about the idea of being taken to hospital and being attended to by anyone no matter how highly qualified but not his friend. He thought perhaps it was just that John actually cared that made it different. He thought it was silly but the warmth of John's hands made him feel a little warmer and there was a pleasant sensation of being close enough to feel the heat from John's body soothing him.

The detective's legs felt a little weak but he managed to walk with John helping and sank onto the sofa with a little grin for his very special friend who cheered him up. Running wasn't going to happen. Doctor's orders indeed from the one he had let into his life. He chuckled and closed his eyes until John came back with a glass of water. Water was good for flushing the system. He drank half the glass slowly then lay back with his eyes shut his head resting on the plumped up cushion and waited for Molly to arrive. He drifted off to sleep thinking how lovely and warm John was and dreamed that John was sitting beside him, the sun was shining and his hands felt warm.

He woke with a start when he heard the door knocker being rattled. He tried sitting up and his head swam “John? John, that'll be Molly!”

John was on his hands and knees in the kitchen, clearing out the last of the freezer when the door bell rang. He knew it might be a bit of a futile exercise, because Sherlock had already said he thought it was the lung, and he doubted his friend would be wrong, but just in case, he didn't want to take any precautions. He knew if the lung was infected there was a chance it could have spread to other items in the fridge, especially since it was originally just lying on one of their dinner plates, not even covered up.

He heard Sherlock's croaking voice and went back through to the living room. "Molly?" he asked, then noticed his phone lying discarded on the desk, the light flashing to show he had a message. He picked it up and quickly checked it, reading the message from Molly he had missed earlier. "Of course. Right. I'll get it."

John jogged hurriedly down the stairs and opened the door. "Molly, hi...um...sorry I didn't reply to your text, only just seen it." He stood back to allow her to walk past. "Go right on up, he's uhh...on the sofa, lying down. No better."

The detective, who was still supine on the sofa, turned his head to Molly as she entered the living room. “Molly, sorry you haven't had dinner yet. Can you make do with the equipment here and test the lung I had in the fridge for a tasteless poison. Soon as you are done I'll buy a takeaway for you and John.”

Sherlock took a laboured breath and propped himself up a bit “Last night I put a little bit of The Blue John sample, number 7 under my microscope to show John. It's the only sample I opened and touched here. Fluorite, Calcium fluoride (CaF2) is a neutral compound. Your Sample 7 was acidic John, and Molly you tested it and found a trace of Benzo tetronic acid.” he groaned with the pain in his head and behind his eyes and lay back.

“Someone wanted to make sure that I wasn't at Barts today because...John?” Sherlock asked confident that John would know.

Molly watched the exchange of the two men slightly baffled. It almost seemed like it was normal for them to have someone barge in at the break of night for some testing and experimenting. Then again, they were talking about a lung in the fridge as if it occurred every day.

John cocked his head slightly to one side, listening to Sherlock's quickly spoken instructions to Molly, brightening slightly at the idea of a takeaway, he was bloody starving, suddenly realising he never did get round to eating that cheese sandwich in the lab at Barts.

"It's just through here," he muttered to Molly, guiding her through to the kitchen where the offensive lung was resting in the polythene bag on the table. "Be careful," he added, before returning back to the living room, thinking through Sherlock's question.

"Wait...you don't think this had something to do with the dead artist and the car lot do you? That...someone didn't want you seeing the body? Wanted to keep you away from the investigation?" John frowned, not knowing whether he was way off the mark or not.

“Correct John.” Sherlock grinned feebly. His heart though bounced with pride and his admiration for John at his accurate deduction. “Someone at Barts dosed the lung with a poison either to kill me or incapacitate me to keep me away from the dead artist."

The detective enjoyed the look on John's face of being right until it quickly changed as his friend then knew what was happening. He propped himself up a bit “The artist Dane Avens was murdered and they know Molly would have found out it was murder, not suicide, when she had finished doing the autopsy.” Sherlock, his face now as pale as a marble statue, paused to catch his breath.

“Get Molly whatever she needs. Anything, and please, be quick.” the detective felt like he was dying. He sank back on the sofa and closed his eyes entrusting his life to his friends.

John couldn't help a twinge of pride, his eyes widening slightly when he heard he'd made a correct deduction. Maybe some of Sherlock's skills really were rubbing off on him. He hoped so. He quickly felt guilty when he realised he'd been enjoying his own moment whilst his friend was busy being sick and poisoned. He quickly wiped the smile off his face and looked down at the floor. This was a bad state of affairs.

He nodded and returned to the kitchen to check that Molly had everything she needed, helping out a little by taking out all of Sherlock's chemistry equipment from the cupboard and laying it out on the table so she had easy access to anything she needed. "If there's anything else you need just give me a shout," he muttered, then loitered around, not knowing what to do.

There was really only one thing John could do in a situation such as this. Make tea. So he boiled the kettle and made three cups of tea for them all without asking, then carried Sherlock's through to him, pulling up a chair so he could sit near the sofa. "Can I get you anything?" he asked with a frown. "Paracetamol, anti-nausea tablets, anything. Well...within reason." He smiled.

Sherlock heard John pad quietly off into the kitchen and start getting his home lab equipment out for Molly. She was one of the most skilled and competent technicians at Barts. He hoped Barts knew they were fortunate to have her on their mortuary staff at the hospital.

Poor John, Sherlock thought with compassion for his friend's plight, his understanding, tolerant flat-mate, in short the very best man that Sherlock knew, was doing all that he could for him and John was stuck now with only worry to occupy his mind and to make tea for the three of them. Now he could hear that John had the kettle on and had got cups out, always such a practical and kind friend.

The detective wondered if John knew that making him drinks and taking care of him was such an important job? A task that was easily as vital to their work as the clues and evidence which Sherlock was unable to tear himself away from lest he should lose his train of thought.

It cannot have been long that he was on his own but it didn't feel that way for Sherlock. Then he had John's calming, steady presence again as his best friend pulled a chair up closer to him. He sat up to sip the lovely tea.

John asked then if he needed anything and with characteristic humour added a qualifier to that. He smiled back at John and felt bad for not asking even for an analgesic but he didn't like taking medication. Sherlock smiled again. He had just realised that he could give John something to do. Something that John would feel was very important. “Fetch me your rug, my hands and feet are cold, then write down what I say, will you?” he asked and put out his hand to his friend.

John eyed Sherlock carefully as he sat up to drink some of the tea, worried he might lose his balance and fall forward, or that sitting up might make him feel worse. He put a hand out just in case anything happened but was pleased to note the detective coped OK.

He wanted to look after Sherlock, to do anything he could to help, but it was just typical of his friend to refuse medication even when he was sick. It didn't really surprise him that his offer was ignored, although he was pleased when he was given another job to do, despite its rather mysterious qualities.

"No problem," John quickly replied, standing up to fetch the rug. He shook it out and wrapped it over his friend's shoulders and draping it down to the floor so he could tuck his feet into it, all the while wondering what it was Sherlock wanted him to write down. There was a notepad on the desk which he grabbed along with a pen, resuming his position in the chair next to the sofa, poised ready to write.

Molly listened to the exchange while she was waiting for substances to react. It really wouldn't surprise her if the detective had gotten himself a new enemy.
Taking a look at the samples she noticed a difference in colour that wasn't there before. Carefully, she applied some of it to a test strip and placed it under the microscope.

Who the hell has a microscope in their kitchen? she thought, not really surprised to find that Sherlock and a fully equipped lab in his kitchen. She wondered if John thought it appropriate...

After checking the sample and making sure she had actually found something the first time she looked at one of the samples she called for John.

"Hey, John, could you come over? I think if found something..." she trailed off.

(sorry for the delay and crap post! )