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Title: Birthdays
VII. Serpent from the Death-Stream
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Donovan, Mrs Hudson, not!Anthea, OCs
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the BBC's characters or plots.
Word Count: 5,930
Warnings: Violence
A/N:
1.) Not beta'd or Britpicked
2.) PLEASE CHECK the ratings, warnings and pairings on each individual chapter, as they will be subject to change.
3.) More extensive author's notes will follow at the end of the last chapter.
December 31st
Midnight came and went as John went round the ward, familiarizing himself with all his patients. He didn't know what strings Sherlock and Lestrade had pulled to get him assigned here for the night, but he didn't really care; he was up to the job, he knew it, and that was that.
When he got to Lisa Regan's room, she was asleep, and so was her new roommate, a slender, curly-haired woman who was recovering from an emergency appendectomy. John nodded, and examined the room. There were only three places an intruder could hide even momentarily: under the beds, in the folds of the curtain between the two halves of the room, and in the W. C. Under the bed was poor cover, and clearly empty; the pushed-back curtain gave him no resistance when he poked it. He moved a table so that the feet of anyone hiding in the curtain would be visible, and pushed open the door to the W. C.
“Morning.”
John spun, hand automatically going to the small of his back, and then relaxed. “Christ, Lestrade.” The W. C. was long and narrow, with the door at one end, and the DI was sitting on a chair around the corner from the door.
He saw the other man grin in the dark. Hoping his instinctive reach for his concealed gun had gone unnoticed, John shut the door and turned on the light and the tap. “What's the set-up?” he asked, leaning back against the basin.
“We've a woman at the nurse's station, and one in the room next door. Plus you, and me. Security's been given Wilkins's picture with instructions to alert us, but not detain him, when he turns up.” Lestrade stretched. He'd managed a shave since John had last seen him, and either some rest or a lot of caffeine. “Sherlock seems to think he'll turn up around four again.”
“But he didn't when he was going after them the first time, did he.”
“No. So keep your eyes open.”
John nodded.
“Sherlock's quite put out that he got away yesterday,” Lestrade said. “Can't get over the idea that there's something he's overlooked.”
“Yeah, I'd... noticed.”
“He's not getting away again.” Lestrade's expression was suddenly deadly serious. “He killed one of my most promising officers.”
John winced. “He died, then. The boy.”
Lestrade nodded. “Last night.” He studied John. “You kept him alive long enough for his family to say good-bye.”
John looked away.
“Probably... cold comfort.”
“Well, yeah.”
“But it wasn't to them.”
John looked up quickly, and met Lestrade's gaze. “Right.” He hesitated. “I better get back.”
“Leave the door open. I can see Lisa in the mirror.”
“Yeah.” John reached for the tap, then hesitated. “Where's Sherlock, by the way? He said he'd meet me here.”
“Oh, he'll turn up.” There was something odd about Lestrade's expression. “He's probably terrorizing the nurses. I'll text him.”
“Right.” John nodded, turned off the tap and the lights, and went to check on his patients. He glanced at the nurses' station as he went by, and quickly picked out the policewoman pretending to be cataloging records. Maybe running around with Sherlock had made him sharp-eyed, or something, and she wouldn't be as obvious to Wilkins.
At three, one of his patients had an emergency, and John spent thirty tense minutes keeping her from dying while trying to keep an eye on Lisa's room, too. The nurses' station was right across the corridor, surely nobody could sneak inside without being noticed? Lestrade was right there-- and where was Sherlock, anyway? Hiding in the cleaner's closet?
As soon as the crisis had passed, John hurried back there: Lisa was sleeping, breathing evenly, and her pulse was normal. There were no needle marks on any of her visible blood vessels. He checked her IV bag: it looked undisturbed. Just in case, he memorized the position in which it was hanging.
The roommate was stirring. John picked up her chart, and frowned: none of the nurses had checked on her since he'd come on duty. Had they pulled someone off-duty to make room for the ersatz nurse? He could find out later. “Hello,” he said. “I'm Dr Watson, I'm just going to check your vitals.”
She rolled over. “My vitals are fine.”
“Bloody hell, Sherlock!” John hissed a moment later when he'd recovered from the shock. “How--”
Sherlock smirked. John looked him up and down, trying to figure out how he'd altered his body language-- appearance-- something-- to make such a convincing woman. How had he made himself look so short? He shook his head.
“Any sign of him?” Sherlock asked.
“No.”
“He'll be here soon. Stay close.”
“I do have other patients.”
“They can spare you for thirty minutes, Doctor.”
John could see, now, how he'd hunched himself up in the bed and twisted the sheets around to make himself look shorter. He was also fairly certain that Sherlock had some sort of concealed weapon under the covers by his waist, but he couldn't make out the shape.
Sherlock looked at him, then glanced past him. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible. “Do you have--”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“I'll be back in a few minutes,” John said softly. “Right, pulse and blood pressure are good,” he added in a normal voice, and pretended to write on the chart.
He checked the patients in the adjacent rooms. The policeman was pretending to sleep in a chair at the bedside of his supposed mother-- at least, John was pretty certain he saw the glint of opened eyes under the lowered lids. When he came out again, he saw the woman at the desk glance down the corridor. Their gazes met briefly, and then he went into the next room. It was 3:53.
His heart rate was elevated. Waiting was like hearing the sounds of combat and wondering when the casualties would start coming in. He made himself use the same coping methods he had then: breathe deeply, remind himself that it was routine. Routine, and his job. There were four other people who could stop the serial killer, and right now, with no one in sight, his job was to provide competent medical care to his patients. At least the adrenaline meant he didn't have to worry about his hand shaking.
At 4:27, the corridor was empty and no one was stirring except for Mrs Walters, whose pain medication was giving her nightmares. He went back to Lisa Regan's room: she was still sleeping, and Sherlock was still feigning sleep in the other bed. He half-opened his eyes as John entered. John shook his head once, and made sure the door to the W. C. was open. If he stood right in the doorway, he could see Lestrade's outline in the mirror.
At 4:41, something rattled in the corridor. He stepped outside and looked the cleaner up and down: definitely not Jared Wilkins, this was a plump woman with a shock of grey hair and several scars standing out pink against her dark brown skin. A scream echoed off the walls of the ward, and he turned on his heel, racing for the source as patients woke up and began to swear. He felt faint stirrings of unease as he passed Lisa Regan's room, slowing briefly to make sure it was occupied by only who it should be, and saw that she was still sleeping. The scream had been a loud one.
Two nurses were standing by Mrs Walters when he got to her room. “A beast, there was a beast by my bed,” she said, sobbing. “It was going to rip my throat out and suck my blood!”
One of the nurses made a show of checking the corners of the room. The other took her vitals and looked at John. “The cleaner was just in here. She might have woken up and seen her, and hallucinated...”
He picked up her chart. “Better sedate her if she'll take it.”
“Right.”
He hurried down the corridor, the image of Lisa's still body troubling him. The cleaner's cart was three rooms away now; John could ask her if Mrs Walters had spoken to her when the woman...
But it wasn't a woman, or at least, not the same woman. And glancing at the slender build of the person in the uniform, and the slope of the shoulders, John's heart quietly began to beat faster. When the figure's back was turned, John snuck into Lisa's room and bent over her. Pulse, blood pressure, and breathing were all normal. The drip bag hadn't been moved. Just very deeply asleep, then.
He slipped into the W. C. and pushed the door most of the way closed. Lestrade was up and by his shoulder in an instant. “The cleaner,” John whispered, and moved so he could see the room but not be seen. No adrenaline now, just an intense clarity of purpose: mental tunnel vision.
The cart squeaked outside, at the adjacent door. John breathed slowly, and felt the pressure of his gun at his back to such an extent that it had to be partially in his head. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Lestrade wasn't in the way of the door.
After a moment, a shadow fell on the threshold. Jared Wilkins was as he had been described: slender, pale, in his sixties, with greying hair. Perfectly inconspicuous in every way; John wouldn't have looked twice at him in a crowd. His face was hidden by a cap pulled low over his ears. He took a step inside the room, and hesitated, looking around. Sherlock snored loudly; some part of John's brain could spare thought to admire his friend's acting ability. Wilkins started, and then smiled. John didn't need Lestrade's restraining hand on his forearm to wait as Wilkins approached the bed-- they had to catch him in the act to have reason to arrest him, the police had moved too soon the previous morning and he'd gotten away--
The man reached into the coat of his grey jacket-- the grey jacket that was too big for him and said MACDONALD on the name tape, John realized, his brain processing extraneous details almost instantly, and he hoped briefly but fervently that the real cleaner was still alive. His hand reappeared holding loops of something silky and blue, and he took the end of it in his other hand and dropped it on the pillow, reaching down to cradle Lisa's head and lift it so he could slip the scarf around her neck--
Lestrade's hand vanished. John shoved the door open and crossed the room in two quick steps, grabbing Wilkins from behind in a bear hug and pinning his elbows to his side. Sherlock vaulted over the bed as John tried to haul the killer back, but Wilkins let his weight fall forward, still trying to tighten the scarf. Lestrade had a baton in his hand and went for the man's gut; Wilkins shoved himself and John backwards, and John stumbled before using the momentum to take them away from the bed. Sherlock produced a long knife and stepped forward, point aiming for Wilkins's throat-- the man let his weight drop and drove his elbow low into John's stomach. John gasped, stomach roiling, and though he hung on, his grip was weakened enough for the man to slip his hand into his coat pocket and produce a knife of his own. He feinted forward, slashing open Sherlock's sleeve, and then the shift of his weight backward was all the warning John had to let go before the blade passed through where his ribs had been the second before. People were standing in the doorway behind them, the two officers, and he knew Wilkins wouldn't get away, but they shouldn't be having this much trouble with him--
Lestrade brought his baton down on Wilkins's outstretched wrist. The man cried out, but hung on to his knife. His other hand went into his coat pocket and came out closed around something as he backed towards the bed. John started to reach for his gun, but Sherlock closed with Wilkins and knives flashed in the light. Wilkins was groping at the bed with his other hand, and John couldn't see what he had in it--
Movement from the bed; Wilkins screamed and staggered, and as he half-collapsed Sherlock grabbed his knife hand and broke the wrist. Lisa was still dangling half off the bed, bloody syringe in her hands, eyes wide; Lestrade kicked the knife away, and John dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around Wilkins again. Sherlock grabbed the scarf, bent over the man, and bound his wrists, efficiently and very tightly. Wilkins whimpered.
The other two officers crowded into the room, hauling the killer to his feet and handcuffing. John sat back on his heels, panting, and did a quick assessment: no blood on anyone except Sherlock's forearm and Lisa's fingers. Running footsteps-- hospital security. He picked up Wilkins's dropped knife, examined the edge, and frowned. “Right.” As Wilkins was led away, John took Sherlock's uninjured arm and towed him towards the W. C. “Turn on the tap and run your arm under the water.”
“What? Why?”
“I don't like the look of that blade, and I wouldn't put it past him to have poisoned it.”
“It's not poisoned, John,” Sherlock said, but he stuck his arm into the basin and turned on the water, and that was all John cared about.
He went back to the other room. Lestrade had followed his people into the hallway. “Are you all right?” John asked Lisa.
She was starting to shake. “Yes.”
“Here--” He rummaged in the top of the bedside table until he found some pre-packaged, disposable flannels for her to wipe her fingers. Her drip stand hadn't gotten pulled over in the fight, but the needle was coming out. John stripped the blankets from the other bed, draped them over her legs, retrieved some supplies from the nurses' station, and fixed her IV.
“Thank you,” Lisa said, her voice uneven. “That bastard would have killed me.”
John took her pulse. “You had hidden a syringe. You were expecting him.”
She shrugged. “I knew something was up.”
“How?”
“You went into the loo and ran the tap for five minutes. You were either talking to someone in there or having an epic wank, and you didn't seem the type to do that while on duty.”
“Er. No.”
“Also, my sister had her appendix out last year, and she moaned like there was no tomorrow when she woke up. That lady-- bloke-- in the other bed was far too quiet.” She gave him a weak smile.
“You did well,” John said. “Really well.” He stepped on something, and looked down to see several matches scattered on the floor. He frowned.
The water turned off, and he heard Sherlock's footsteps behind him. He looked over his shoulder. “You need to keep flushing the wound.”
“The blade wasn't poisoned.” Sherlock bent, and picked it up. The edge flashed in the light.
Lisa gasped, and shrank back. John looked at Sherlock and the bloody knife he was holding, gave him an exasperated look, and tugged his arm down out of her line of sight. “Go get an evidence bag for that, or something.”
He got Lisa calmed down as best as he could, and brought her a basin of water to finish washing her hands. Then one of the nurses came in, and took over silently, with a sidelong glance at him. “I think you're wanted outside,” she said after a moment.
John obeyed the dismissal. More officers had come up, including Donovan, and they were leading Wilkins away under heavy guard. Lestrade and Sherlock were talking. “Where did you get that knife, Sherlock?”
Sherlock looked down at the blade in his left hand, the one without bloodstains. “It's my landlady's carving knife,” he said dismissively. “Nothing illegal.”
“You stole--” John just shook his head.
“She'll never miss it. I'll put it back.”
Lestrade opened his mouth, closed it, and then said. “Thank you, Sherlock.” He looked at John. “You're a good man to have in a fight. Thanks for... all this.”
John didn't know how to respond to that; he just nodded once. “I'm just glad we caught him.”
“You'll need to come in to sort through the evidence trail,” Lestrade told Sherlock.
“My pleasure,” Sherlock said drily. “John, food?”
“Work,” John reminded him, and then froze for just a second, because he felt the weight of his gun against his back. He couldn't do a twelve hour shift in the A&E with a pistol strapped to him; too great of a risk of discovery in the heat of some sort of crisis. But Sherlock was going back to the flat. “Come with me to the A&E, I want a look at your arm.”
Sherlock glanced down. “My arm's fine. It's already stopped bleeding.”
Under normal circumstances, John would be pleased about this, but Sherlock was about to walk off with Lestrade. Desperate times: John took a step forward and then let himself sag backwards, making a noise of surprise. One arm flailed in the air-- Sherlock grabbed his elbow, and John pulled the holster out of the back of his trousers and thrust it backwards. Hands met, Sherlock grasped the gun, maneuvered John to be directly between him and Lestrade under the guise of supporting him, and then the gun was safely hidden under Sherlock's coat and both of Sherlock's hands were holding him up. John straightened up. “Sorry,” he murmured.
“You can't go to work like that, you'll be dead on your feet within two hours,” Lestrade said, frowning.
John shook his head. “It's just... my leg. Gets like that sometimes.”
“I'll walk you down to A&E,” Sherlock said.
They rode the lift down in silence. “See you tonight, then,” John said. “Might be quite late.”
John's boss was in the administrative area, and looked up when John walked in.
“You know that bloke in the long coat?” Paul asked, frowning.
“My flatmate, yeah. Er, why?” People knowing Sherlock was sometimes good, and sometimes... not.
“You had anything to do with the four police cars outside, then?”
“Yes.”
Paul gave him a funny look. “Why don't you take the rest of the day off. Records say you clocked in at half eleven... upstairs...?”
Whoever Lestrade had talked to to get John assigned to Lisa's floor, it clearly hadn't been him: no one had told him anything. “My flatmate... works with the police,” John said. “They needed someone who could watch the ward and not give the game away. Catching a serial killer,” he added. “I can work. It's only a single shift.”
Paul still had that funny look on his face. “Go home,” he said firmly. “I still owe you that time off from earlier in the week.”
“All right...” John sensed he wasn't going to get anywhere with him. “Call me if you need me to work, then.”
“Yes.”
John caught up with Sherlock just before the other man climbed into the taxi. “Your boss heard about the fight upstairs and thinks you need some time off to recover,” Sherlock said.
“Something like that.” John shook his head. “Sherlock, if I get sacked because my boss thinks I'm secretly with the SAS...”
“You won't get sacked.” He looked out the window. “Though the Diogenes Club is looking for a resident physician.” He looked ahead again, and the corners of his mouth turned up.
“What's the Diogenes Club?”
“Mycroft is a member.”
“Like that's an inducement to work there.”
“It wouldn't be boring.”
“Neither is the A&E. I unstapled someone from a goat the other day.”
The taxi stopped at a twenty-four hour curry place not far from Baker Street. John sat down, and then started half out of his seat again. “The cleaner-- the real one--”
“She's in the other bed in Mr Delgado's room. Unconscious. Possibly dead.”
John grabbed for his mobile.
“They'll have found her by now,” Sherlock said. “Security was starting an entirely belated and entirely unnecessary sweep of the wing as we left.”
“Did you see her?”
“It's the only room with an empty bed and a roommate heavily sedated enough not to notice an altercation.”
“I... was in there, I didn't notice anything--”
“He was in the loo.”
“Of course.”
The waiter brought them a basket of naan and took their order. “I got a look at the matches he dropped,” Sherlock said, crumbling his naan into even pieces with quick movements of his long fingers.
John swallowed. “And?”
“Swan Vestas. Six of them. He was going to strangle her into unconsciousness and choke her with them.”
“Charming.” John took another piece of naan. “How many serial killers have you caught?” Since he'd known Sherlock, there'd been the cabbie, one in mid-July, and now Jared Wilkins.
Sherlock thought for a moment. “Six.”
“What was the first one?”
“I was seventeen. He was murdering undergraduates at uni.” Sherlock took the last piece of naan. “At first they suspected me.”
By the time their food came, John had heard the complete history of Sherlock and serial killers, including the first three he had caught, and the four times he had been mistaken for one. There was silence for a few minutes as they both attacked their food. John had never worried about Sherlock's fasting during a case since he'd seen how much his friend would eat after a case.
“Where did you go last night?” John asked finally.
“Sorry?”
“I mentioned something about Molly's camera, and you dashed out like the place was on fire.”
“Oh, just a thought,” Sherlock said. “I wasn't sure we'd catch him tonight... but it was nothing, after all.”
“Mmm.”
They cleared their plates, and John ordered another round as takeaway, since he wasn't sure they had enough food in the flat to satiate Sherlock's post-case appetite. The sky was lightening as they walked back to Baker Street. “Oh, give this back to Mrs Hudson, would you?” Sherlock passed him the knife, and took the stairs two at a time without waiting for an answer. “She's awake,” he called from the landing.
John looked at the knife, looked after his flatmate, and shook his head. He knocked on the door of 221a.
“Oh hello, dear,” Mrs Hudson said when she opened the door. “Have you two been out all night?”
“Yes. We caught a serial killer.” John took a breath. “Sherlock borrowed this.”
Mrs Hudson frowned. “Oh, dear.”
“It is clean,” he assured her. “He didn't... use it on anyone.”
“I'll have to talk with him,” she said, even though they both knew Sherlock wouldn't take any notice of her scolding, and she wouldn't really mean it anyway. “Would you like to come in for tea?”
“Thanks, but I'm... quite tired, actually.” He stifled a yawn. “Going to go back to bed, I think. Have a nice day, Mrs Hudson.”
When he got up to the flat, Sherlock was running the shower. John put away the takeaway and turned on the kettle. Sherlock came out of the W. C. in his blue dressing gown, and John poured them both tea.
“Let me look at your arm,” John called as Sherlock started to walk towards his bedroom. Sherlock made a grumbly noise, but stopped and turned around. John examined it; it was a bit warmer than he'd like, and the cut was swollen. “Here.” He got the antibiotic cream out of the cupboard in the W. C., applied it, and reached for a bandage.
“It doesn't need a bandage, John. It's not deep.”
“If you dream about Mycroft as a dragon again and hit your arm on the bedside table and break it open, I'm not washing your duvet when you get blood all over it,” he said firmly, wrapping the dressing.
“I did that once.” He sounded sulky.
“There's a second time for everything.”
“You're badly mangling common platitudes. I'm going to sleep.”
John knew he should do the same, but he was still buzzing from the last six days. As highs went, catching a serial killer was a pretty nice one. He settled back in his armchair with the mug of tea, not thinking about anything, just... sitting.
Something buzzed in the kitchen. He found Sherlock's phone, left on the table. There was a text: Good work. Mycroft Holmes. John replaced the phone, and then picked up the ointment and spare bandages to put them away, and then hesitated, frowning. He looked at the tube, turning it over in his hands. Suddenly he picked up Sherlock's mobile and took it to the sitting room, where he made a call.
The person on the other end picked up on the fifth ring, just when John was afraid it was going to go to voicemail “Lestrade.”
“Hi, it's John Watson.”
“John? I thought you were at work. What's wrong?”
“Nothing's wrong...” he hesitated. “Listen, could you do me a favor?”
“What?”
“Have someone take a look at that knife you took off of Wilkins-- test it for poisons. I didn't like the way it looked back at the hospital, and there's something... just a little off about that wound Sherlock's got.”
“Yes, okay. I'll text Sherlock's phone as soon as we know. Keep an eye on him.”
“Yes. Thanks.”
For a moment John considered waking Sherlock up and making him move to the sofa, but Sherlock was convinced the knife hadn't been poisoned, and would probably refuse just to be obstinate. He settled for stretching out on the sofa with the mobile in his left hand. He'd just...
The mobile buzzed. Sunlight was coming through the windows; it was around midday. He blinked, and looked at the screen. “Oh, shit.” He got up so fast his leg threatened to collapse under him. “Sherlock. Sherlock!”
John knocked, then barged in to the bedroom. Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up. “John?” He sounded groggy.
“Get dressed.” John pulled clothes out of the closet and flung them on the bed. “Donovan found poison on that knife blade. We're going to the A&E.”
Sherlock frowned. “What poison?”
“Triflin.” John looked at Sherlock. It was hard to tell with Sherlock, but he seemed paler than usual, and he was beginning to sweat. “Can you dress yourself?”
“Of course I can dress myself.” Sherlock swung his legs out of bed.
“Hurry up.” John closed the door behind him.
Sherlock came out a moment later. John grabbed his jacket and his mobile, and handed Sherlock his coat. “Come on.”
Sherlock got down the stairs without a problem, but at the bottom he shook his head, as if he was dizzy. John locked the door behind him and raised his hand for a taxi, but Sherlock grabbed his arm. “Look.” Across the street was a sleek black car, and a familiar-looking man got out and opened the back door. Mycroft's PA was in the back seat, so John went around to the front.
They rode in silence until Anthea-or-not said, “I'm to tell you the red was excellent.” She had that faint tone of surprise she always used when relaying messages.
“You should have turned here for the hospital,” John said a moment later.
The driver was silent. “We're not going to the hospital,” the PA said.
John twisted around to look at her. “Then where are we going?”
“It's been arranged.” She was looking at her mobile.
“He's been poisoned!”
She looked up now, and gave him a brief smile. “We know.”
John turned around again and spent the rest of the ride convincing himself that Sherlock's breathing was not, in fact, speeding up. He knew, from a brief training in poisons several years ago, that edged weapons were actually a poor way of administering them, since the bleeding tended to wash most of the poison away. Snake venoms were relatively slow-acting, and if anyone could find obscure antivenins on short notice, it would be Mycroft Holmes.
They stopped in front of a familiar-looking building. Mycroft's PA put in the code to open the door, and then slid all three bolts closed behind them. “Upstairs,” she said.
John didn't think Mycroft was anywhere in the flat; the sitting room was empty, but there was a large plastic box on the table. John opened it, and found syringes and bandages. He heard the fridge open and close, and Anthea-or-not appeared beside him offering a small vial. John took it: “TRIFLIN ANTIVENIN,” it said in small print, with the concentration and dosage beneath. He turned it around and scrutinized the side effects carefully.
“John could have done this at the flat if you'd just brought it by.” Sherlock sounded petulant.
She glanced at her mobile. “I'm to tell you he takes an interest in your welfare.”
Sherlock's only reply was a huff.
“Right, sit down,” John said, reaching for the bottle of hand sanitizer and cleaning his hands.
“I can do that--”
“Sit down.”
“I injected myself for years before I met you--”
John looked away from the vial and met Sherlock's gaze. “Do you distrust me?”
Another huff. “Don't be ridiculous.”
“Then sit. Down.”
Sherlock sat down.
“Take of your jacket, undo your-- Oh.” He glanced up; Sherlock was already rolling up his sleeve.
“I do know what I'm doing. And also what you're doing.”
John just shook his head. In the kit was a box of alcohol wipes; he wiped the injection site and let it dry.
“Are you going to give me a colourful plaster, too?”
“Only if you stop whining.” John adjusted the syringe, opened the vial, and took up the proper amount. “Deep breath.” Before Sherlock could complain, he gave the injection. There was a biohazard bag in the box; he discarded the used syringe tip. “I need to give you another in three hours.”
“You can give it to me back at the flat. Pack up the box.”
“Sorry, no,” Anthea-or-not said sweetly. “You're to stay here.”
“I really don't think you could stop me.”
She looked up from her mobile and smiled in a way that was extremely disconcerting, more so because it wasn't menacing at all. She glanced down at her mobile. “Your brother says you can stay here for the next six hours, or he can send a physician round to your flat to monitor you. For the next twenty-four.”
Sherlock stretched out on the sofa and turned his back to both of them.
John went through the box on the table to familiarize himself with the contents, just in case, though he'd injected the antivenin in plenty of time and the worst side effects were dizziness and nausea. Then he looked around. Sherlock was pretending no one else existed; Anthea-or-not was nowhere to be seen... no, she was appearing at his side with a mug of tea.
“Er, thanks. Don't you... have somewhere to be?”
The brief smile. “Here.”
He sipped at the tea. “Where is Mycroft?”
“Still dealing with the spy,” Sherlock said from the sofa. “Only a matter of extreme national security could keep him from coming round to gloat.”
Mycroft's PA didn't confirm or deny the statement; she just went back to the kitchen and sat at one of the stools near the center table, texting... or whatever it was she did with her mobile.
John wandered around the sitting room before taking a seat and letting his eyes close. Sherlock was texting someone. The flat had to be extremely well-insulated: he couldn't hear any noise from the street. He was willing to bet that the windows were bulletproof, too.
John opened his eyes and glanced over at Sherlock. “You all right?”
“Fine.” Sherlock sounded bored. If Mycroft hadn't Sherlock-proofed his flat, though, it was definitely not John's problem.
When his friend got up, appropriated his brother's laptop-- John was willing to bet Mycroft's password was a good deal harder to crack, but it didn't seem to present Sherlock with any difficulty-- John took over the sofa.
“John,” Sherlock said.
“Mmm?”
“Three hours.”
“... right.” He'd drifted off; he wasn't as caught up on his sleep as he thought.
John gave Sherlock the second injection and returned the vial to the fridge. Mycroft's PA was still sitting in the kitchen. “There's food in the cabinets. The last four issues of “Lancet” are in the printer cabinet.”
John blinked, then returned to the sitting room. “Why does your brother subscribe to...” But Sherlock was gone.
“He's upstairs, going through his brother's bedroom.”
“Okay.” John found the journal and settled down with it; it was available at the hospital, but he never had time to read it there.
“We're going,” Sherlock announced, breezing into the room as John was reading about hematomas. “It's been six hours.” He picked up his coat.
John didn't look up. “Any dizziness, nausea, headache, or cramps?”
“Only when I opened Mycroft's drawers.”
“Right, not asking.” John put down the journal and picked up his coat. He went to the kitchen and hesitated in the doorway. “Er...”
The PA looked up. “Bye,” she said.
Mycroft's driver dropped them off at Baker Street. Sherlock, who'd ransacked his brother's kitchen, began going through their own cupboards. “Takeaway's in the fridge,” John called. When he heard the fridge open, but not close, he went into the kitchen and found Sherlock kneeling on the floor, examining the stoat closely through the plastic bag.
“Look at this, John,” Sherlock murmured.
“I'll... pass. How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
“You let me know if that changes.”
“Yes, doctor.” Sherlock was still staring at the stoat.
John reheated some supper from the safe shelf in the fridge, and then started writing up their previous case, a kidnapping. After he'd outlined the salient points, he turned on the telly and watched for a while. Sherlock ate supper twice and disappeared into his bedroom, having slept five hours out of the last forty-eight. John cleaned up the kitchen, took a hot shower, and went to bed, looking forward to an uninterrupted night's sleep.
A/N: The title of this chapter is taken from the Kalevala, an epic poem from Finland. In Rune 14, the hero is sent to kill a certain swan in the sacred death-river. However, before he can do that, the guardian of the river sends a serpent that kills him. (My apologies if I have misrepresented this poem in any way!)
Also, as far as I know, there is no known antivenin or antidote to triflin. I used authorial license on that point.
