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

(( Nice post Molly dear ))



The detective noticed John's little smile, almost a smirk, he knew John had spotted him behaving correctly. He awarded himself a point for pleasing John in this way, not that he kept count, but they had this pleasant little competition going. John got points and a smile from Sherlock for getting one over on Mycroft and John scored every time anyone complimented him on his blog.

Sherlock smiled his Just-for-John smile at his best friend with his fork halfway to his mouth “You're on sparkling form tonight.” and put his fork down, feeling queasy. “I'll get us another beer on my way back” he coughed coyly “from seeing a man about a dog,” and left the table for the men's room at the back of the restaurant.

Feeling less than fine Sherlock made it into the single male toilet in time to lose his dinner. This shocked him. He was never sick. He swilled his face with cold water and patted it with a paper towel as he stood looking at the pale reflection in the mirror.

He got back to the table, realised he had forgotten to ask Billy for another beer, covered his confusion and went back, feeling very disconcerted, to the counter. He didn't want John to worry so when he got back to him he plonked the bottles on the table, sat down and tried to eat a bit of cheese at least.

John smiled again at Sherlock and tried to resist the overwhelming urge to pat him on the back as he got up to go to the toilet.

What was wrong with him tonight? No wonder people thought they were gay. John couldn't help the overwhelming feelings of joy he got from being around Sherlock. The way he always felt so protective over him, wanted to take care of him, cook for him, make him tea and coffee, tidy up the house. He'd never been like that for anyone. There was just something about the guy! It was maddening sometimes, as though John found him irresistable despite himself.

He was still running all these thoughts through his mind when Sherlock returned from the toilet then forgot the beers. This was a bit unusual. Sherlock rarely forgot anything if it was deemed important, but he shrugged it off, maybe getting the beers wasn't that important after all.

When the detective came back for the final time and sat down, John noticed he was looking a little paler than usual, and his face glistened slightly with sweat, or was it water? John allowed himself to be pleased with his deductive skills and asked, "are you alright?"

Sherlock started unhappily at his plate and wondered what had caused him to be ill. He looked at John for a moment. John was a doctor, an excellent doctor, he didn't doubt that he could diagnose at fifty paces. And his best friend knew him, Sherlock was perfectly aware that pretending wouldn't put John off for long. John might nag sometimes, he might let something pass, but he could be a stubborn sod too. No, he was determined, which made him a first class investigator.

The detective managed a feeble grin of delight, John had not diagnosed, he had deduced. “You are on fire tonight. No, I'm not feeling too chipper, but I'll be fine.”

He expected it was just the cold, leftover sausage he had snacked on that morning. He had begun his experiment with the lung and noticed the sausage in the salad drawer and had eaten it when he placed the lung back in the drawer.

"You sure?" John frowned, placing his hand on the small of his friend's back and giving him a gentle tap and a quick rub before removing it, suddenly aware he'd never really done anything like that before. But then, Sherlock had never really been ill before.

As he leant closer, the faint smell of sick became apparent. "Did you just throw up?" John asked, concerned. "What have you been eating?"

He knew it was unlikely to be the cheese or any part of the salad, because he'd only just ate it. It would need longer than that to pass through his system and make him sick, and as far as John was aware Sherlock hadn't eaten anything else that day. Maybe it was just a virus going round, but it was certainly strange. Sherlock normally had a top class immune system, never even got a cold at Christmas.

The caring hand on his back prompted Sherlock to feel more like replying to John's question.

“Mm” the detective replied morosely nodding and pushed his plate away. He hated admitting not having full control of his body and didn't want to look at John.

John pushed Sherlock for more information and he could not withhold it because he knew it would be ungracious to reject John's concern for his health. Embarrassing as the question was for him he was not feeling well enough to put up resistance to it anyway. “Mm.” he nodded again looking dismayed.

“A cold sausage. This morning.” Sherlock darted a sideways glance to John's face half expecting to be told that he should have heated it up or something. Cooking really wasn't his area.

Thank God, Sherlock thought, that John was good at all that and looked after him. His lips flickered into a smile thinking that John had the best nature of anyone he could think of.

"A cold sausage?" John repeated in horror. "Was it even cooked? Where did you find it?" He couldn't remember the last time they'd had sausages.

He quickly chomped down the last few mouthfuls of his spaghetti then indicated to Billy with a wave of his hand that they were ready for the bill, taking a swig of his beer.

"We need to get you back home, get some rest," John muttered sternly. "You didn't have anything else planned tonight did you?"

Sherlock knew he was in trouble and flapped his hands in agitation “Of course it wasn't raw!” he hissed quietly. He tried to be co-operative and answered John after a pause with puppy eyes “It was in the bottom...the salad drawer...not good?”

Billy caught the sign to attend to their favourite customers quickly. He approached John with a cordial face and open manner “Angelo said you don't need a bill. Is...anything the matter?”

Sherlock cut in quickly “No, everything's fine, Billy. Thank you. Both of you. Very nice.” he said firmly with his politest winning smile and casually picked up his beer. His hand shook almost imperceptibly so he put it down again, his eyes going to John's face to see if he had noticed.

Knowing when it was advisable not to hang about, Billy took the hint and replied “Good.” smiled his best 'favoured customer smile' and went back to his unobtrusive observation post.

“I need to check my experiment.” Sherlock meant he had to or he would have repeat it again. The new samples could wait until he had a strong coffee at home, he thought. Polishing off his beer he stood up, concentrated on putting his coat and scarf on and flicked the collar up.

"Sherlock!" John whispered loudly, giving him a disapproving look. "I've no idea how long that's been there."

He gave an embarrassed smile when Billy came over, remembering Angelo was insisting they ate for free again. "Thanks Billy," he mumbled, standing up and putting on his jacket.

John saw Sherlock's hesitation with his beer and frowned. Did his hand just shake? He dismissed it and placed his own hand casually on the detective's back, guiding him towards the door slightly, before stepping back to watch as he put his coat and scarf on.

"Experiments, tonight?" John despaired. He really wasn't so sure about this. "At Baker Street or St Barts?" He held the door open for Sherlock, giving a friendly wave of his arm to Billy and Angelo.

Sherlock noted that as much as John was displeased with him he was still taking care of him. In fact more actively than usual. John rarely touched him, only when invited, or accidentally. John feeling a need to put his hand on him made him wonder if he looked that ill. That would be a serious sign.

And he read from John's frown that he probably had, dammit, noticed his hand shaking earlier.

The detective waited until he had got through the door and onto the pavement to speak again. His head was pounding and he didn't want to argue anywhere, least of all in Angelo's. “At the flat. I've got a lung to check...and those samples I took.” He patted the bulge where they nestled in his inside coat pocket.

Sherlock thought that hailing a cab for the five minute walk back to Baker Street would only put John on the alert so he waited for John to shut the restaurant door behind him then set off walking. He noticed John was watching him like a hawk.

The lanky detective frequently didn't know what day of the week it was never mind when he had last had sausages. Those things were trivial to him taking up brain cell function for important things like work. Important like John.

John gently pulled the door to behind them and set off walking beside Sherlock, continually looking up at him to check he was OK.

His friend seemed a little unsteady on his feet, and John had an overwhelming urge to link his arm, help him along. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket instead, just in case they went wandering against his will.

John knew there was little point arguing when Sherlock wanted to do his experiments. "Right then. We'll crack on with that as soon as we get home. I'll help you if you like. I mean...as best I can. We just need to get it done and then...you really need to rest," he insisted.

They turned the corner onto Baker Street and John got his set of keys out in anticipation of arriving at the front door.

The detective nodded when John suggested helping him with the samples. All he needed, he told himself, was a mug of coffee and he could show John his routine. He smiled fondly at John, because even if it only took half an hour to analyse each sample he would still be up all night. He didn't think John intended to work all night or give him the leeway to either.

Sherlock found it easier to detach himself from the objections his body was putting up by not talking as well as walking and fell silent. The five minute walk still seemed to go on interminably long and he was relieved when they rounded the corner of York whatever-it-was, which escaped him, to see the awning on the cafe.

As John got his keys out Sherlock caught hold of his friend's sleeve for comfort, because he wanted to, because he could, for the rest of the way.

When they got into the flat Sherlock was glad to dump his coat on the bannister and plod upstairs with the plastic bag of samples.

“Coffee, please.” Sherlock anticipated John asking if he would like a drink making. He dropped the samples onto the coffee table and went to check on the lung in the fridge.

John felt Sherlock's hand tugging on his sleeve and this somehow made him even more worried. If the detective felt the need to hold onto him for support then it must be really bad.

He closed the front door gently behind them and watched as Sherlock draped his coat, eyeing up every single move for signs that the condition was worsening. Then he undid the zip and buttons on his own jacket as he plodded up the steps behind him.

"Coffee coming right up," John replied, following him through to the kitchen. He swatted Sherlock's hands away from the fridge. "You just sit down," he ordered. "And I'll fetch you over whatever you need. You can't be trusted near the fridge."

He filled up the kettle and clicked it on to boil the water, then found two mugs, preparing one with coffee and one with tea.

Sherlock glared for a moment at John shushing him away, treating him like a child. Then he relented, his eyes softened with the depth of gratitude he felt that John was taking care of him. He smiled at John coming over all soldierly and doctorly and like a partner in a relationship, undid his jacket buttons, and sat down at the kitchen table which was relatively clear no thanks to himself.

“I need to see what colour my lung experiment has produced” Sherlock hinted that he wanted the lung out of the fridge. “Copper is from Latin cuprum: of Cyprus, an island famous for copper mines. Melting point 1083.4 +/- 0.2°C, boiling point 2567°C.”

Sherlock, reassured that he could recite a few properties of copper, glanced back over his shoulder at the fridge door.

"After coffee then, if you haven't got something more interesting to do?" the detective asked "I'll read out the labels on the samples and if you could enter them in the log, then start on the sample testing. Sorry I spoiled our dinner out, John.”

John frowned at the random information Sherlock was giving him about copper, then chuckled slightly. At least he wasn't completely sick. It filled him with a little more confidence as he took the lung out of the fridge and placed it on the table, noticing with some disdain that it was being stored on one of their dinner plates.

"Lovely," he remarked, sarcastically, before finishing off the coffee and tea. He put the mug down on the table and pulled up a chair to sit next to Sherlock.

"I'll help out anyway I can," John smiled and reached for the pen and log book. "And don't worry. You didn't spoil anything. It was a lovely dinner. Thank you."

“Sarcasm” Sherlock muttered flatly, automatically naming the sentiment without looking at John, and grunted his displeasure at the sight of his experiment on the plate in front of him. It was a nasty mottled green and brown shade with an unexpectedly grainy appearance.

Sherlock glared at the offending article, his nose wrinkled in disgust. “For God's sake” he snapped “this was supposed to be fresh. Molly would never have given me...this!” He waved a hand over the failure on the plate and sniffed petulantly.

“No. Wait, it is fresh. Was. Relatively. Have you got a plastic food bag, John, I want to test this tomorrow. It's not what I was expecting at all.” It was very tedious. Sherlock put his hand over his mouth and yawned before taking a gulp of coffee “Aah, thank you, John.” he said referring to the drink having been made for him.

John had a very attractive boyish smile Sherlock thought and it was nice of him to insist that dinner had not been ruined even if that wasn't entirely true. “Thank you, I enjoyed your company.”

The detective took off his jacket and hung it on the chair, went to get his blue dressing gown and took John into the living room to log the samples. He sat on the sofa with the samples in a square on the coffee table and began to read off the labels for John to enter in the logbook.

“You might like this one” Sherlock smiled enigmatically and leaped up with excitement to show John what he thought would excite his friend too. He wobbled a little on his feet instead.

Usually, bursting with the energy, the detective would have dramatically set the stage ready for his revelation. Feeling drowsy, however, he took his microscope off the wooden dresser shelf and picked a sample up with tweezers and set it onto the glass slide. He turned the magnification up a little and adjusted the focus.

“Have a look at this!” Sherlock invited John to peer down the eyepiece.




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John nodded at the request for a food bag and dug one out of the bottom drawer, turning it inside out and using his hand to pick up the lung like picking up a piece of dog poo in the park. He tied up the top and popped it back in the fridge before grabbing the plate it had previously been stored on and washing it up.

It was a good job John was a doctor, he reflected. At least he'd seen body parts and innards on a semi-regular basis anyway, and performed dissections as part of his training. Most other people would be completely freaked out, no wonder Sherlock couldn't find a flatmate before they met. He'd pretty much got used to the detective's strange habits by now though. He knew he couldn't change him, and he didn't particularly want to.

John wandered through to the living room with the log book ready to write in whatever Sherlock instructed him. He smiled at his friend's excitement over the specimen, but noticed he was slightly unsteady on his feet still, not his usual sprightly self.

"Just...take it easy," he muttered as he came over to peer down the microscope. "Hm," he remarked. "Looks very nice. Not exactly sure what it is though. You might have to enlighten me on that front."

Sherlock looked fondly down into John's eyes “it supports my hypothesis that the best things are called John.” He knew he'd be heartbroken if John wasn't around and just as bad John would be taken away from him and not allowed to go on cases and run around London with him changing the world a little for the better every time they succeeded on a case.

Knowing when he felt so tired he really would be an idiot not to follow John's advice though Sherlock sat down at the table and watched John looking down the microscope.

“It's called 'Blue John', a semi-precious mineral, also known as Derbyshire Spar, a banded fluorite, this blue-purple variety is only found in a very small area at Castleton in Derbyshire.” Sherlock explained “It is very nice, and it's also very important. It tells us where one of the two wives lives.” he grinned.

“I'm going to bed, unless you want the bathroom first?” Sherlock asked with his chin on his hands slurring his words slightly. “A long day at Barts tomorrow with so many samples. I'll maybe ask Molly to help.”

John grinned, his eyes still glued to the microscope listening to Sherlock's explanation. "Blue John, eh? Well no wonder it's so beautiful." And he laughed heartily, standing up straight.

His expression became serious again when he realised it's significance. "That's amazing Sherlock. Well done," he smiled encouragingly.

John picked up their empty cups and carried them through to the kitchen, rinsing them out in the sink. "I think that's the first time you've ever gone to bed before me," he called back through to the living room. "But in the circumstances a good idea."

He leant against the partition, looking at Sherlock. He was even paler than usual and
John was quite concerned. "You go ahead and use the bathroom, I'll be fine," he said kindly. "And if it gets worse in the night just come and wake me. Or text. I'll keep my phone on the pillow."

Despite feeling dreadful which worried him the detective chuckled deeply while John was laughing and he reflected that John was indeed beautiful, in spirit, where it counted. He enjoyed a moment of pleasure from being deemed clever in John's eyes and his brain worked hard to find something to express his gratitude. “It's encouraging when you see it like that.” He meant when you see me like that but he couldn't say it.

“Yes, don't worry, an aspirin and a good night's sleep and I'll be fine” Sherlock called from the living room, yawning again, putting the samples back into the bag. He stared at the bag and ran his fingers through his hair feeling sweaty and cold, the coffee hadn't helped much so the samples would have to wait.

Sherlock looked over to John suddenly aware that he was leaning on the room divider. He saw his friend was looking rather concerned and wondered how long he had been standing there. “I'll be alright,” he reassured John. He hoped the upset stomach, or whatever it was, would have run it's course by the morning and he would be fine. “I won't need to disturb you.”

The detective went to the bathroom and downed two aspirins from the cabinet. His phone was in his suit jacket pocket in the kitchen but he felt too tired to be bothered to go for it. It'd be fine, he would manage without bothering John he told himself and pulling his dressing gown tighter curled up on his bed.

John watched Sherlock as he walked away and headed to the bathroom, then sighed heavily, still very much worried for his friend.

He grabbed the laptop off the desk and sat down in his armchair, spending the next couple of hours updating his blog, checking his e-mails and surfing the internet. Then he yawned and headed off upstairs to bed.

John got changed into his pyjamas and slipped under the covers, making sure to put his mobile phone on the pillow next to him and setting it on Loud, just in case Sherlock texted him in the middle of the night.

It was not the best night the detective had ever had waking up in the small hours feeling chilled and shaky. He decided not to go into the kitchen though for his phone and just took his trousers and dressing gown off got into bed.

The detective was not happy to wake up when the alarm went to discover a few drops of blood on his pillowcase. He meandered into the kitchen unshaven and dishevelled in his dressing gown but felt fit enough to throw the pillowcase into a bucket of cold water in the bathroom before switching the kettle on. He was sitting brooding on his misfortune with a strong cup of coffee in his hands when John wandered into the living room.

“Morning” Sherlock greeted his friend quietly, and not stirring from his chair, waved a hand in the vague direction of the kitchen “Kettle's just boiled.”

John had something of a fitful night's sleep, waking up several times listening out for sounds and worried about Sherlock. He thought he heard movement at one point and was considering going down to check if he was OK, but figured he'd call if he needed anything. He knew how much the detective hated to be disturbed or questioned when he just wanted time alone.

He wasn't sure what time it was when he came down to the living room, but he wasn't surprised to see Sherlock already up and looking perhaps even more morose than usual. "Morning," he replied, trying to sound cheerful as he headed into the kitchen.

John noticed Sherlock was already nursing a cup of coffee so just grabbed one mug and made a tea for himself, his eyes continually glancing through to the living room to check on the slumped form of the consulting detective.

He returned to the living room with his cup of tea and sat down in the opposite chair. "How are you feeling?" He asked finally. "Any better?"

Sherlock grunted and hauling himself out of his chair stalked off gingerly to the bathroom to avoid having a conversation about his health. Having a shower and shave improved his mood if not his health and he emerged into the living room tidy again in his favourite purple shirt and for a change a pair of black jeans. His reasoning was that since he had to do the samples analysis he would do anything that might help just to get through the day.

The detective fished in the desk, stuck three nicotine patches on his left arm and lay down on the sofa with his eyes closed, listening to the blood pounding in his ears, waiting for them to take effect.

Hearing John pottering about he opened his eyes carefully. “When you're ready John we'll get off to Barts.” his words came out rather flat and disinterested.

It wasn't particularly surprising to John that Sherlock was acting all monosyllabic, and choosing not to speak about how he felt. It was what he'd expected and he simply shook his head with a ruefull smile as the detective slunked off to the bathroom.

John stood up and headed through to the kitchen, taking out some bread and popping it in the toaster. God knows when he'd get the chance to eat again if he was spending the whole day hanging out with Sherlock.

A couple of minutes later and he was sat at the messy kitchen table eating some jam on toast. He heard Sherlock's voice calling him and, realising he must be back in the living room, stood up and wandered through, to find him sprawled on the sofa covered in patches.

"Sherlock," he sighed, a little angrily. "I'm not sure it's a good idea for you to be doing that..I mean...when you're ill and everything."

Sherlock looked up at John who was standing by the coffee table frowning a little. He knew he didn't look or sound well and appreciated John being concerned enough to be a little sharp with him “I'll be fine, John, don't make a fuss.” he tried to allay his friend's worrying.

The detective swung his legs off the upholstery to sit up and pulling his shirt sleeve down, buttoned the cuff. The patches were beginning to clear the fog from his brain and liven him up. “Let's just go get the analysis done and over with.” he pleaded with an impatient little groan trying to conserve his energy.

“Home as soon as it's done then I'll take it easy.” he promised. He didn't think he would have any choice about that so it was an easy promise to make.