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

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The detective appreciated John's care and snuggled into the travel rug. He could see that his friend had his doctor's head on and was not at all happy about him declining to take medication.

“Whatever the poison is, John, it's not likely to be something common because it was meant for me. The culprit would know that with my knowledge of chemistry I would spot a common poison immediately which means I can't take any medication until Molly identifies what the substance is” Sherlock explained. he hadn't wanted to worry John any more than necessary but he wanted his concerned friend to know he wasn't just being a difficult patient.

Molly sounded very busy in the kitchen in the makeshift lab which was complete enough for much of Sherlock's needs. He was very relieved that she seemed to have everything she needed. John then came back with pen and paper and he was about to begin dictating when Molly called John to see what she had found.

“John, go, see what Molly's found.” Sherlock urged “I'll be ok on my own, I won't try to get up”. he promised.

John listened to Sherlock's explanation and nodded his acceptance. It was relieving to know he wasn't just avoiding medication for the sake or it, or to be stubborn, but that there was genuine reasoning behind it.

He was more than a little intrigued to hear what Sherlock was going to get him to write down, and was ready to begin dictation when he heard the call from the kitchen and his friend asked him to go and investigate.

"Sure," John replied, getting to his feet with a final, "and don't go anywhere," before he disappeared through to the kitchen. "What is it Molly?" he asked, heading over to the microscope.

"Well... it's a bit funny, you know?" Molly started to explain.
After a confused look and a raised eyebrow from John she delved into the whole explanation.
"I probably wouldn't have recognized that poison so fast if it hadn't been for an article I read on it a few weeks ago."
She could practically feel John become more and more nervous. Just before he was about to urge her to tell her what the poison was she continued.
"It is very likely that this is Sumatran Rat Poison. Very rare, incredible hard to get. Have you ever heard of it?"

John shook his head and was about to turn to Sherlock to ask the same question.

John was already dreading what Molly had to tell him, but his features paled significantly when he learned it was definitely a poison. His heart beat increased rapidly and he felt slightly sick.

"I haven't heard of it," he admitted, noticing his voice was shaking. He turned and walked back through to the living room, to ask Sherlock's opinion, hoping his condition hadn't deteriorated any further in the short time he'd been away.

Carrying on talking for so long had given Sherlock a dry, irritated throat, he coughed and instantly recognised the taste of blood in his mouth. He washed it away with a gulp of tea from the mug in his shaking hands.

The detective heard Molly's verdict “You clever girl, Molly, choose your dinner and John will ring for it delivering.” he coughed again but this time into his hanky.

Sherlock was dismayed to hear John's voice wavering, sounding so upset, and to see John looking so pale and worried when he came back into the living room but he was cheered because he had good news for John and he was very relieved himself that it was nothing worse than a souped up Warfarin. “There are a number of species of large rats on Sumatra, the worst two being Sundamys infraluteus the Giant Mountain Rat or Giant Rat of Sumatra) up to 25 inches long, excluding the tail, and the Large Bamboo Rat Rhizomys sumatrensis. They use a type of Warfarin, that's all, so that's what to treat me for.” He began to smile confidently to cheer John up but it was cut short as he coughed, more violently, which started another nose bleed.

He cursed inwardly as he threw his head back holding his nose, upset that John would only be more worried now. "'l nee 'ack on ny feet soon." he mumbled muffled by his fingers on his nose and the handkerchief.

John could have hugged Sherlock when he heard the poison was treatable, and indeed he may have even done so, but his friend started coughing so badly it slightly marred any joy brought about by the diagnosis.

He realised Sherlock was bleeding and was by his side in an instant, wrapping an arm round the detective's shoulder, no longer caring that he might be invading his friend's personal space. They hardly ever made physical contact with each other, but he didn't think there was anything odd in him doing so now.

"What...what was it you wanted to dictate to me?" John asked cautiously, still brandishing the notepad and pen in his hand. He sat down on the sofa next to Sherlock and gave him a warm smile.

Sherlock groaned. Trying to say something to allay John's concern with his hanky over his nose and with the other hand on his nose and his head tipped back was impossible. The words came out like gibberish. Being ill was quite impossible and horrible to have to put up with. The nosebleed stopped but while Sherlock was still inwardly fuming about the horridness of being incapacitated and almost panicking about how long this wretched state of affairs would continue for John did something that surprised him. Sherlock felt John's arm slip around his shoulder. He felt somehow better while his friend's heavy, warm arm wrapped around him, while he caught a little trace of John's aftershave and shampoo wafting up his nostrils. It was...nice...good. And it was all too brief as John then sat down notepad and pen at the ready. Sherlock still felt more comfortable though with John sitting on the sofa close to him.
Sherlock returned John's warm, caring smile as best he could. John was an amazingly caring man, it showed in his eyes. Amazing eyes too, Sherlock thought, as he looked into them. Sometimes a sparkling bright aqua blue, sometimes almost grey, sometimes as dark and liquid as a pool of night.

The detective still felt cold apart from a little patch now where John's body heat was gently warming him. He realised then that John was asking him to begin dictation and looked down at John's hand curled around the pen poised to write over the notepad.

Sherlock hesitantly began dictation. “The bigamist. One. Find printing firms in Castleton area of Derbyshire who buy ink from Blait Printing Ink or Shangzhou Toka Ink....Two...Find out if there was blood and glass in a car park in Whitbarrow Scar or Scout Scar in the...south of the Lake District National Park."

The detective had to stop for a few moments "car park, amount of blood consistent with the hand wound from glass.”

Sherlock stopped speaking altogether and groaned again. “John, you...I...” and slowly began to slip into unconsciousness.

Molly only saw the last part of the exchange between the two men as she had taken her time tidying up the lab equipement as she wanted to give them some privacy but the last bit made her heart fall.
Sherlock didn't look too good and it was quite terrifying seeming him so weak and unable to hold on to consciousness. She certainly understood John's look of fear and was quite sure her face held a similar expression. She would have loved to help but she was sure John, being a doctor and all that, would know what to do. Nevertheless, she hesitantly made her way towards the two men.

John tried to forget his concerns over Sherlock's health by concentrating on furiously scribbling down everything the detective said, determined that he would help any way he could.

He noticed his friend wasn't speaking at his usual break neck pace, although that was understandable, given the circumstances, and it certainly made it easier to get everything down.

"I'll get onto it immediately," he began replying with a sense of urgency. "I'll call Lestrade and get him to...Sherlock...?"

John suddenly realised his friend's condition had rapidly deteriorated, possibly weakened by talking too much and he inwardly chastised himself for reminding him about the dictating, he should have just ordered him to rest.

It was as though Sherlock was trying to say something else, but he didn't quite make it, his eyes rolling back as he quickly fell unconscious. "Sherlock..." He grabbed his friend's arm and gave him a small shake, getting no response as he cast a worrying look to Molly as she walked further into the room and towards the sofa.

"It's OK," he said as confidently as he could, noticing his voice was a little shakey. "It's OK. I can treat him. I can...I can fix this. I may need you to get me some supplies, let me just check what I've got." And he darted up off the sofa, racing up the stairs to fetch his medical bag from his room.

With John gone Molly carefully bent down to examine Sherlock as good as she could. He was even paler than before, the dark bruise on his hand had spread and he looked strangely limp. She checked for a temperature, just in case and was quite pleased to find that he wasn't exactly burning up. However, she was sure he didn't have his normal temperature either.
She really hoped John could "fix this" as he had put it. The poor man... she thought. Must be horrible. Well, then again, it is horrible, she knows, she's right in the middle of it, right?

She turned round gladly, once she heard John coming down the stairs and grabbed her jacket from the chair she had thrown it on earlier today.

John grabbed his medical bag and hurried back downstairs as quickly as he could, opening it up on the floor by the sofa and tipping out the contents, searching through what he had. "Ahh," he grinned and held up a small bottle of Vitamin K. "This is good...um..."

He turned the bottle round and read the back label for a moment. "Right, these are oral drops so I can give them to him immediately but...ideally we need..." He looked back over his shoulder at Molly. "Do you think you could nip back to Barts and pick me up some IV equipment? And an IV solution of Vitamin K? If we can give it him ontravenously it'll be so much quicker and more effective. He's bleeding quite badly I think."

John frowned and studied Sherlock's pale sweaty face, wiping a drop of blood away from his nose gently with the edge of his thumb. "And be as quick as you can," he pleaded, his voice strained and pressurised. He got to his knees in front of Sherlock and began preparing the oral suspension, carefully parting the detective's lips and dispensing a couple of drops into his mouth. "You'll be alright mate," he whispered.

Without waiting for more instructions Molly grabbed her purse and rushed out of the door.
Thankfully, she managed to get a cab as soon as she rushed to the street and got in.
Soon, she was making her way towards St Bart's and she was, for once, glad that it was already quite late at night as the rush hour was definitely over and it would have taken much more time to get to the hospital than it took her now.

However, the ride was still annoyingly long and boring and Molly couldn't help herself when she let her thoughts wander back to the detective who was currently very close to dying. She just hoped John could help Sherlock long enough and not suffer a nervous breakdown before she got back. Because somehow, she was quite sure that John, while exceptionally capably of handling situations like these, hadn't had much sleep these past few days, he hadn't eaten and he was extremely worried about his friend's situation.

Molly almost gave an inappropriate laugh when she thought friend. It seemed blatantly obvious that at least one of the two men felt more towards the other than he was letting on...

After a few minutes of being unconscious Sherlock was aware of the sounds of being in the flat and his first thought was that there was a nasty bitter taste in his mouth that shouldn't be there. He didn't know what had caused it and tested it with his tongue then swallowed to try to get rid of it. He uttered a sound of distaste, tried opening his eyes but had to screw them up to block out some of the light and then seeing that he was in the flat and that John was there he relaxed. He felt relieved but very tired. Solid, reliable, competent John who cared about him so everything would be fine soon. John wouldn't let it not be fine.

Once she arrived at Bart's Molly rushed into the storage room on her floor and if she passed anyone on the way she didn't see them, let alone greet them. She grabbed all the things John told her to get, and put the IV equipement and the vitamin K into her bag, grabbing a bit of extra supplies just in case. She really hoped she came back in time, she certainly didn't want to think about the consequences if she didn't.
In under ten minutes she was back out again and making her way towards a cab.

After Molly had gone, John sat down on the floor next to the sofa, watching Sherlock intently for any signs of improvement or deterioration.

At one point he appeared to stir slightly, then slipped back into unconsciousness. John grabbed hold of his hand and held it between both of his own.

"Come on Sherlock," he whispered pleadingly. "You can do it..." He rested his head on the edge of the sofa and waited for Molly to return.

After an annoyingly slow cab-ride through the city Molly rushed back the steps to 221B and knocked at the door frantically.

"John"... she hollered. "John, it's me!".

She heard footsteps and waited for the door to be opened.

John felt like he'd been waiting forever, just clinging onto Sherlock's hand, listening to his laboured breathing and almost literally praying for his recovery.

His thoughts began to turn to how much Sherlock really meant to him, what he would do for him and, a much easier list to make - what he wouldn't do for him, of which he couldn't think of a single thing. And not for the first time in his life he wondered what it was about Sherlock that had such a profound effect on him. After all, the guy was a dick most of the time.

Finally there was a knock on the door and John leapt up, darting down the stairs to let Molly back in, seeing her arms laiden with the equipment he had asked for. "Thank you so much," he said genuinely, waving her in and taking some of the stuff off her.

Without receiving much more response than a relieved thank you Molly stepped into the flat once again, got rid of her coat and proceeded to walk into the living room. She was glad that John seemed able to concentrate on doing his job and it seemed like he was doing it just fine.
While she certainly didn't want to disturb him or the two men she really really needed to eat something or John would have to tend to another fainted patient. Besides, the good doctor hadn't eaten much over the day and he would probably not eat all night long if he was busy not leaving Sherlock side and checking up on him regulary.

Hesitantly, she cleared her throat.

"John? Would you like me to order some food for you?" Her stomach gave an involuntary rumble and she tried to fight the blush.
All she got was an unreadably grunt thus she decided she might as well order something and hope, John would eat it. And maybe they could even force-feed Sherlock a bit of rice or dry noodles.

Once they got back up to the flat, John busied himself setting up the IV equipment and drip, getting ready to give Sherlock a better dose of Vitamin K. Hopefully this would go straight to the source of the problem and start helping his body to beat the poison quicker and more effectively than the oral dosage.

All the same, he couldn't help but feel a little nervous in case something should go wrong. This wasn't a soldier with a shrapnel wound, this was his best friend, his only true friend and dare he say it, his soulmate. He'd got to the point where he couldn't even imagine his life without Sherlock, and nor would he want to.

John was completely occupied in his work, all external noises merging into the background, his concentration entirely taken up. He was vaguely aware of Molly saying something but he wasn't actually listening as he stripped back Sherlock's sleeve and began to look for an appropriate vein.

After ordering some chinese take away Molly slowly made her way back into the living room.
She admired John for the work he was doing but she knew he must be feeling quite terrible. She herself hated seeing Sherlock like this. It was an odd sight, seeing him all pale (well, paler than usual) and lifeless. For a moment Molly wondered if that was how he might look like if he ended up in her morgue one day.
She gave an involuntary shudder. She really shouldn't be thinking things like these.

"Erm... John? How is he doing?" she asked tentatively, hoping for a positive answer.

John found a suitable vein on Sherlock's arm and, with his medical training kicking in, within about five minutes had him all set up, the Vitamin K being fed into his system. He sat back, satisfied that he'd done the best for his friend and got to his feet, turning to look at Molly for the first time and acknowledging her presence.

"Hi," he smiled, as if she'd only just arrived. "Um, yeah, he's doing OK I think. Just have to wait a bit now but...this will work." He said it confidently because he had to believe it was true. To think anything else was just not possible.

He grabbed the chair that was tucked underneath the desk and dragged it over to the sofa so he could sit down comfortably near to Sherlock and keep a close eye on him. "Are you OK?" He asked Molly. "Thanks for um...all your help by the way...sorry I've been ignoring you."

Molly gave a tired sight. Sure, she was glad to be helping the two flatmates but she was still tired, both physically and emotionally. Sherlock Holmes nearly collapsing in your arms doesn't happen every day, after all.

"That's fine. I'm used to it anyway." she answered, not really thinking about what she was saying. John's weird facial expression made her blush. "Erm. I'm fine, anyway" she added quickly, examining the living room table closely. When she got no reply form the doctor she turned around again and looked at him. Really looked. He looked tired, extremely worried...

"How about you, John? Is there any thing I can do for you?" she asked softly.

John breathed a sigh of relief and sat back in the chair, his eyes darting back and forth between checking on Sherlock and trying to be pleasant to Molly, realising he was probably being terrible company.

"I'm fine," he smiled insistently. "Just...well...y'know. Nothing a good cup of tea wouldn't cure. I would really love a cup of tea round about now, Molly, if you um...if you don't mind."

He shuffled his chair in and leaned over Sherlock to check how he was doing. Vital signs and breathing appeared fine, and hopefully he was responding to the treatment.