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Chapter Text

After the banker case they had hoped they were done with the Chinese syndicate smugglers. Though they knew there might be some more into it. The female head of the group had escaped; they didn't know what happened to her.

One day, a few weeks later, when John came back from grocery shopping, he passed a small yellow graffito. He almost oversaw it. It wasn't bigger than a man's hand and placed low, near the bottom of a wall, of an almost entirely sprayed area.

He passed it, but when he realized what he had seen he returned.

The doctor stared at it, then turned around and tried to find out if anybody was watching him. He put the groceries down and fetched his phone to take a picture.

Then he hurried back home, slightly spooked.

John climbed the stairs with the large shopping bags.

"Sherlock?"

The other man appeared out of nowhere, blocking the way into the kitchen.

"What happened?"

"How do you know something happened?"

"The tone of your voice. Quite obvious."

"Let me put the groceries down. Here, take those." He handed a bag to Sherlock who had to take it, because John let it go immediately. "I saw a new one of those yellow graffiti, down the street, a Chinese number… and before you start hurling me around, I took a pic… here." He handed Sherlock his phone and started putting some of the groceries into the fridge.

Sherlock stared at the small display.

"It's no use without the accompanying book to decipher them."

"Them?… Wait, are there more?"

"John, you should definitely watch your environment more frequently. This is the third in a one kilometre radius around the flat that appears. Location?"

"Told you, down the street."

"Where?"

"Eww!" John rolled his eyes to the ceiling, unnerved. "Approximately six minutes down the road towards the market when you carry three heavy bags with groceries."

"Okay…" Sherlock concentrated while fumbling for his own phone. He was already dressed, though it was half past nine and they had no case. He dialled.

"Molly? How many Asian female bodies have you had in the morgue, approximately in their forties or late forties, in the past two month?… Are they still there? Can you fetch their files, I will be there in thirty minutes." He hung up without saying goodbye.

"What's this all about?" John asked while Sherlock was already heading for his coat.

"I don't know, but I am sure I will find out soon." Sherlock wrapped the scarf around his neck and John hurried to follow him down the stairs.

A few minutes later they were inside a cab and Sherlock held out John's phone.

"This is the number 28, the others were 56 and 11." He had looked up the numbers in the London A-Z- book, just to be sure, but they made no sense… Yet, or because it was the wrong book.

"You memorized the symbols?"

"I wanted to know after I found the second… This is not over, yet." Sherlock turned over the list of books in his mind, the memorized other possible books all the former victims shared… Compare the list of the again… though the syndicate would be quite stupid if they still used one that was already disclosed as having been in their use… How had Lin known which book it was?… A lot quieter he added. "You might want to think about carrying again."

"Is that a suggestion or a wish?"

Now Sherlock rolled his eyes.

A few minutes later they entered the morgue.

Molly was already waiting, hunched over several files open on a desk. One of the tables was occupied by a covered form.

"What have you got?" Sherlock started.

"Good morning to you, too, Sherlock." Molly answered.

Uh, social interaction, conduct before thinking of the important stuff, he had forgotten… and it was getting on his nerves today.

"Hey." John greeted her. They hadn't met before and Sherlock obviously didn't see the need to introduce him.

"Three Asian females in the right age… There are pictures of two, the third was still in the freezer, so I got her out, you can look at her." Molly informed.

Sherlock headed for the table and unceremoniously folded back the sheet. He only needed three seconds to determinate he had never seen her before. He covered her again before John had the chance to introduce himself to Molly or take a look at the corpse.

"Sherlock…"

"It's not one we have seen before in this matter. I want to see the files." He returned to the table and studied the pictures. John obviously believed him and didn't ask to see her face.

"That one!" Sherlock pointed at a picture on the file that was lying on the right side of the table.

"She was brought in the 25^th of…" Molly started.

"I can read, Molly, thank you." Sherlock interrupted her.

"Sorry…"

"That's her…." Sherlock pointed at the picture, waiting for John's affirmation.

John stepped closer, looking at the picture, it showed the face of the woman who had threatened them in the tunnel. She had a bullet wound between her eyes, perfectly in the middle of her forehead.

"Must have disappointed her superior syndicate fellow."

"How do you know?" Molly asked.

"It was obviously a sniper, a good marksman, so a hit man. As were the other killings. We don't know how many of the London group were arrested, but I doubt it was all of them. Guess their former head fall into the disgrace of the syndicate due to her failing to bring the hair pin back."

"Oh, none identified her."

"Thanks, Molly. I will do that, though there is no name yet. Copy that file." Sherlock closed the manila folder and handed it over to Molly, who looked a bit odd at it and then left the morgue.

"You could at least pretend not to bully her around, since she is so nice to get all the stuff you needed." John complained.

"That's her job, isn't it?"

"No, it's her job to find out how people died and why. She could get in trouble helping you, doesn't she?" John seemed a bit grumpy, maybe about his lacking social skills. He threw the doctor a look that obviously said 'not-important' but said nothing out loud.

"So where does this leave us?" John asked.

"In danger, probably."

"What?"

"The signs around the flat might be about getting us out of the way of the syndicate. We need to be careful."

John rubbed his hand over his mouth. "Great."

Molly came back and held out the copies to Sherlock. He saw a slightly frustrated and tired expression in her eyes.

"Thank you Molly. This might be very important in helping John and me protect our lives from the remaining members of the syndicate. You were of great assistance. Good afternoon." He said in his usual neutral tone but bent his head slightly in a greeting before he headed for the door. He hoped this would show his gratitude enough.

John smiled warmly at Molly and also added a 'Thank you' before he followed Sherlock.

Molly stood there, eyes wide. She hadn't heard Sherlock saying 'thank you' all too often in the past. It was nice, though she'd prefer not to be ordered around before.

Sherlock headed for Scotland Yard immediately and studied the file while they were in the cab.

"Sherlock?"

"What?"

"I've been talking to you since we left the hospital, you haven't answered to a single thing I said."

"I was thinking."

"Yeah, I realized that. You know, you might want to practice thinking and listening at once. It's been heard of that people can do that."

Sherlock sighed. He knew his levels of concentration were irritating people. Since living with John he had heard several teasing remarks about how deep he was in his thoughts, on several occasions.

"You are annoyed."

"A bit, yeah… You know ignoring people is kind of rude."

"I am not ignoring you."

"No? Well, what is it when I talk to you and you just sit there, don't answer, don't react at all…?"

"My concentration is so deep I loose contact with the input from my surroundings."

"What?"

"I can't hear you when my thought-processes are in full working speed. It's a delightful rushing sensation but the surroundings slow down so much it gets very hard to listen. Like when you watch a film in slow-mo. It's hard to make out the words."

John stared at him… and raised his eyebrows. Probably expressing that this wasn't what he had expected.

"Besides… I don't want to be disturbed by trying to hear. I don't want to be rude, I want to solve the problem. So I partly block out the input."

"Yeah, and that's what ignoring people is…" John retorted.

"But it's not because I want to be rude, it just isn't the main thing to do at the moment.

"Yeah, this is what is actually kind of rude…."

"I don't understand."

"I know…."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Now Sherlock was getting unnerved.

"It is rude to always display that what other people think and say is less important than what you have to think and say."

"But it is more important."

"Uhhh, Sherlock!… This is not the point, the point is to show others that you feel superior."

"But I am."

"This is arrogant… and that is what people don't like."

"I don't care what people like. They don't like me when I am kind and they don't like me when I am not kind, so why put effort into it?"

"You mean you tried?"

"Of course I tried, I was raised by a wealthy family, we were brought up learning how to behave correctly."

"So are you rebelling by doing the opposite or are you just too lazy?"

"I learned I could be as polite as I want, it is always wrong what I do and say, so I decided to stop."

"As a kid?… I mean how old were you?"

"What does that matter?"

"Well, as a child one might not understand what's happening around fully, so while growing up one has to relearn several paths to adjust to grown-up life. Have you tried again as an adult?"

Sherlock didn't respond.

"Sherlock, I am not asking this to taunt you. I ask because I want to understand your mind."

"What makes you think you could?"

"I don't know before I try, so humour me."

"At the university, I tried to be as polite as I could, but I was again not understood, made fun of, sneered at, exploited. It was not a pleasant time."

"You know, what Sebastian said… you probably didn't mean to, but people don't like to realise what you learn by just looking at them. They don't like being unmasked… and you produce embarrassing situations by telling. You are proud of your abilities to deduct and it's your job, but explaining what you see is not nice and - as you already know - interpreted as showing off… and you are doing it to show how good you are, don't you?"

"Why is it embarrassing?… It's the truth."

"Maybe I should bring you a few books about psychology."

"I studied a lot of psychology books."

"Obviously not the right ones." John's tone was soft now. "You don't like when somebody points out your weaknesses at all, every other person isn't, too. Is that so hard to understand? So when you embarrass them, they strike back. This can't be new to you."

"It isn't. This is pointless. I know all that, it's primary school-level-psychology."

"Yes, it is."

"So… I didn't mean to be rude when I was concentrating so deeply that my environment was blocked out. You could try to recognise this state by now and wait until I come out of it." Sherlock suggested. "What did you say?" He added.

"Do you really think our lives are in immediate danger, or did you just tell Molly to make her feel needed?"

"Yes. I definitely think we need to be careful. We shouldn't leave the house alone or unprotected for now."

"What?… You want to come to the surgery with me?" John teased.

"No, I want you to stay home."

"What?… I can't! You know how many days I already stayed away because of your work? They'll fire me."

"I don't care. I need you alive."

"Oh, you don't really care about my needs, the only important thing is what you need! God…"

"Your and my needs seem to have the same end result, you, alive. Problem?"

Before John could retort the cab stopped in front of New Scotland Yard.

Lestrade met them in front of his office.

"What have you got?"

"The London head of the Chinese syndicate is dead. This is her autopsy file. None identified her. We might be on the hit list of the syndicate, graffiti appeared around the flat."

"Slow down. Tell me what happened."

"Nothing other than I just told you."

"You're on the edge somehow?" Lestrade raised his eyebrows.

Sherlock realized conversations were difficult today. Was he? He sighed and started to explain.

Half an hour later they had exchanged every detail of the few things they knew and Lestrade had updated the case file around the syndicate so it was investigated anew officially.

"So what's the plan?" Lestrade asked finally.

"Be prepared and wait for their first move." Sherlock answered.

"That's not really a plan, isn't it?" Lestrade smirked. "Or do you plan on setting up a trap?"

"We will see."

"Do you want protection?" Lestrade offered.

"You mean some police patrol following us every step? No! Of course not. Counterproductive. Besides, I trust John's marksmanship more than your officers." Sherlock felt John raise his eyebrows beside him.

They got home about two hours later and Mrs Hudson greeted them with a package that had been delivered at noon.

While John started unpacking what seemed to be evidence for a case he couldn't remember, and wondered why on earth they would send it via mail, Sherlock went to fill the kettle.

"Sherlock?!" John yelled from the living room. The alarmed tone of his voice caught Sherlock's attention immediately. He turned to see what had happened.

John met him in the door to the kitchen, looking pale and distressed.

"I… might have a problem here…" He stuttered. "There's at least one scorpion in that package… pretty dangerous one… You need to catch it, now!"

"John?…. Did it sting you?" Sherlock didn't need to hear the answer, he saw it in John's pale and alarmed face.

Chapter Text

"I… might have a problem here…." He stuttered. "There's at least one scorpion in that package… pretty dangerous one… you need to catch it, now….."

"John?…. Did it sting you?" Sherlock didn't need to hear the answer, he saw it in John's pale and alarmed face.

"Now, Sherlock!… I saw one, but got stung twice… when I reached into the package. They are in the padding."

"What kind of scorpion? Which species?"

"Fat tailed… black ones… fetch them, please…"

Sherlock headed for the package and shut it. Searching it's surroundings for an escaped arachnid. Found none. He took the package and placed it in the freezer… They'd get pretty slow in there, maybe even die. But that wasn't important now, now he needed to care of John.

"Sherlock… I need your help here… Fat tailed…" John staggered towards the kitchen table.

Sherlock returned to him, perplexed.

"Toxic venom, antidote exist…. Symptoms include -" The doctor started.

"I know about that scorpion venom, symptoms include intense pain, numbness, tingling at the site where stung, little or no swelling, muscle twitching and thrashing, restlessness and sometimes inconsolable crying, drooling… Those are most likely for children, adults may…" Sherlock lectured.

"Shut up. This is not helping, in the contrary… Will you - just once - please listen." John took one more step towards the counter. When the first wave of intense pain hit him he swayed, he was actually surprised to feel strong hands on his arms holding him steady. Before he knew what was happening Sherlock had guided his hand under the water of the kitchen sink's faucet and was washing the site thoroughly. Then he inspected the puncture wounds in detail.

There were three sites. One on his wrist and the other ones on the outside of the hand, at the root of the thumb and one hidden between his fingers. If he had been stung within seconds, there must be at least three scorpions in the package.

"Sherlock, you… Oh god…" He panted, the pain growing more intense by the minute, faster than he had expected.

Sherlock didn't speak but dragged him onto the sofa.

"You're sure about the species?" The detective asked again.

"Yes, you need to… you need to do some things for me, Sherlock."

"Lower your hand." Sherlock grabbed his arm roughly and pushed it down besides John's body. He stood up, fetched his phone, dialled, and disappeared into the kitchen.

"Sherlock… I need you to…"

"Mycroft, I need an antitoxin for black fat tailed scorpion venom… and I need it fast… and an ambulance. No… not me, John… three stings. Hurry!" Sherlock came back into the living room, holding a cold package.

"Three?… I need… your…" a wave of breathlessness hit him, the pain was intense. This was bad, and he knew it would get a lot worse soon. He hadn't thought before that it was possible to feel more pain than when being shot. Something cold was wrapped around his hand.

Sherlock pressed a cold compress at his hand, and wrapped a napkin around it to keep it in place.

John looked bad. He was slightly shivering now and Sherlock knew the pain this venom caused was considered bad.

He saw John's panic rise. Why was he panicking? There was an antidote. The ambulance would be here soon.

"Sherlock… I need help." John gasped. He tried curl up as far as he could.

Did John think he wouldn't help him? Was he panicking because he was afraid of that?

"I know, John. You are in severe pain. I will help you." Sherlock was lost about how to calm him down.

"You need to relax, the venom will move faster if your heart rate is up and your pressure high."

"Can't… relax. Go… get my bag, not the one at the wardrobe,… there is a larger emergency bag in the base of my closet, bring that. Use epinephrine.* I might… need help to breathe soon… call Sarah, she'll tell you…" John panted.

"John… You won't need intubation that fast… try to slow your heart rate…" Sherlock tried.

"You don't understand… This is bad…" John tried to curl into a ball on the sofa. "God, hurts…."

"I know what's gonna happen, John… and I know what to do…" He understood John had no means of knowing how much he knew about scorpion stings. But lecturing him now seemed… was it a distraction or doing the opposite? "No, you need to sit up and lower your hand." He bent down towards John and tried to unfold him. John was resisting, he was tense.

"John?" He gently shoved his arm under John's shoulders and lifted him upwards.

"Bloody hell… this bloody hurts…" Tears started running down John's face.

Sherlock positioned him against the backrest of the sofa, upright. John's body tried to curl into a ball again. So Sherlock sat down next to him and held him upright at an arm's length. Was it a good idea to touch him? Though he knew perfectly well he was a failure in being comforting?… Well, assurance couldn't hurt.

"I know about the symptoms of this venom. Don't be alarmed. Help is on the way… Mycroft is bringing the antivenin, and I called an ambulance. No reason to panic!… No, sit straight."

John tried to escape his touch and looked up at him with blurry eyes, the trembling worsened by the minute.

"Get m'… bag." The doctor said, slightly slurring.

"This is a normal symptom of the toxin, don't be alarmed." Sherlock took his wrist to monitor his pulse.

"God… stop it…" John whimpered.

Sherlock was unsure if John wanted him to let go or was referring to something else, but decided it'd be a bad idea to let him go.

"Sorry, you need to keep your hand lower than your heart… breathe slowly, John… Don't be alarmed if you feel your muscle control lessening."

"Meant… to stop… the pain… 'nd nausea…"

"You want me to knock you out?… I am not sure this is the recommended course of action." Sherlock informed. His worry turning up a notch. How could he help John, not in a medical way, but as a friend? Was it that what was needed at all? No, medical aid was far more important. Better not try any experiments about social interaction in this kind of situation, but…?

"Get… m' bag… now!" John panted.

"I will take care of this… Calm down." Sherlock stated without emotions in his voice.

"Bag… pl'se." John grew more agitated by the minute, his voice was slurring more profoundly now.

"Okay, okay." He hurried to the wardrobe to get the bag and was back within seconds.

"What do you want me to do?" He asked, putting the bag down in front of the sofa, then dragged the couch table away. Several things toppled over and fell to the ground. They'd need the space.

"Epi… Epin…" John stammered, shivering harder now.

Sherlock looked down at him, biting his lip. He tried to remember how much to administer. He straightened John again who had sagged forward, not able to held himself up. His clothes were soaked with sweat by now.

"John, stay awake! We are gonna call Sarah and I will not leave you alone…" He gently straightened John's upper body once more and leaned him back against sofa, guiding his head backwards.

John looked lost and helpless, more tears streaming down his face. In disbelieve Sherlock realised he experienced an unsettling new sensation to see him this desperate and in pain.

He fetched John's phone out of his pocket and searched for Sarah's number.

John's trembling was turning into slight twitching now.

Chapter Text

The phone on the other end rang. It took some long seconds until someone picked up, Sherlock switched to speakers and set the phone on the sofa.

"John?" Sarah's voice came through the line.

"This is Sherlock Holmes, I have a medical emergency. John told me to call you."

"What happened? Is he okay?"

"No, not really. He was stung by scorpions. I don't have time to explain, just listen and hurry to answer. Toxic venom, antitoxin and ambulance on the way. Breathing problems, trembling, losing of muscle control. He wants epinephrine. How much do I use?"

Sarah needed only two seconds to grab the situation.

"Trust his judgement if he says he needs it, he was in the desert, he probably saw lots of scorpion stings. What kind of medical bag have you there?"

"Maybe half the size of a duffel bag?" Sherlock tried to describe.

"Good. There is a pen. Yellow foil package, unwrap, remove the cap, place at thigh." Sherlock found the object and followed her instructions almost as fast as she spoke. "Press the trigger and hold it for at least ten seconds." She continued.

Unceremoniously he pressed it to John's thigh, and pushed the trigger without warning. John moaned when the hidden needle pierced his skin.

Sherlock had hoped he had blacked out, but this made him realise the other man was fully aware.

"Sherlock… Was that him?… How responsive is he?" Sarah asked.

"He is in pain… I don't know what to do… He's hurting…." Sherlock threw the used auto-injector to the ground.

"Is he reacting to you? Sit down with him… maintain physical contact… Oh God, this is awkward…" Sherlock could hear how tense she was. "Comfort him… He needs to know he is not alone and not dying… Where is he?"

"On the sofa… I want to give him something for the pain."

"And you?"

"Standing in front of him."

"Sit down with him… and hold him upright, can you do that? Take care the stung limb is lower than the heart… Oh God, I wish I was there… Put the phone on speaker so he can hear me."

"It is already, he hears everything you say." Sherlock was a bit annoyed that she obviously though he wasn't capable of taking care for him, but then realized he was in fact only thinking about physical care, doing nothing to comfort him.

"He needs something for the pain!"

"He can't swallow pills now. Look for something he could take orally in liquid form."

"I am fully capable of injecting it intravenously, have done that many times in fact, tell me what and how much!" Sherlock was getting frustrated about how slow this went.

"No, I can't… You are not a doctor, you can not give him something intravenously!"

John's movements were uncoordinated but he tried to reach for the bag. Sherlock put it in his reach. John reached into it and with the third try he managed to bring out a packed vial. Sherlock caught it when it fell out of his weak fingers.

"'ree… in… intra…" John whispered.

"Three cc, intravenously?" Sherlock repeated. John managed to nod.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"John is fully aware of every word, he just handed me pain medication and told me how much to give him."

"Is it for oral use?"

"Nope."

"He wants you to inject it?… How did he tell you that?"

"Sa'ra 's ok,." John moaned loud enough for her to understand.

"I heard you. Okay… We will manage this. You'll be fine soon. Just be calm and try to do deep breaths."

John wondered if he had blacked out temporarily because only moments later he felt Sherlock wipe his arm, then held it tight and a light sting when Sherlock pushed the needle into the vein.

John realised Sherlock really must have practise in this, many of his colleagues were not able to do that this fast, painlessly and gentle. It took a minute but then he realized how Sherlock must have gotten the practise, simultaneously his pain eased a notch. "…God…" He groaned about both, the insight and the relief.

"Sherlock, what did you do?" Sarah had heard him and sounded alarmed.

"'s ok, Sarah… did… good." John interfered before Sherlock got the chance to make a rude comment.

Sherlock sat down next to John and shifted his arm behind his back to guide his upper body against his shoulder. John's head lolled sideways. His eyes were now moving restlessly, his breathing ragged. When Sherlock took his wrist again his hands jerked out of his grip. Was Sherlock really doing what might be described as a distanced hug? John wondered if he was hallucinating.

"He's starting to flail, muscle control is decreasing."

"Prevent his head from hitting something. Maybe gently hold it… gently! And go with his movements. In case he starts jerking, don't hurt him by trying to keep him still… and talk to him."

He gently dragged John's upper body towards himself.

"Do I need to intubate him?"

John twitched in horror, Sherlock didn't notice.

"God, Sherlock!…. NO!"

"I am also capable of doing that if need arises."

"Don't tell me you have done that before, too."

"Yes, one-hundred-and-sixty-seven times, to be exact… Though the recipients were already dead."

"Sherlock, could you please shut up and not scare him any more that he already is."

"He is a doctor, he knows what's gonna happen and what might be necessary."

"Of course, but that's not what he needs to hear right now. You are making this more awful for him than it already is. Besides doctors don't usually intubate conscious patients, would be a bad choice. It's tricky even with a numbed throat, do not try it! And what about some empathy? Can't you imagine how horrific this must feel?!"

"Only partially, I have only been intubated twice and never stung by a scorpion."

"SHUT UP!" She yelled. "John, if you need help breathing I will explain to him how to bag you. Sherlock, there is a bag valve mask for rescue breathing, quite easy to use, fetch it and unpack the mask. Make sure he understands you won't try to intubate him!… God!… How can you be so insensible, I thought he was your friend."

Sherlock found the mask and the balloon and looked at John's face. Sarah was right, he looked in pain and horrified, his face wet and white.

"… and don't treat him like a thing, Sherlock, that's the opposite of what he needs right now… Talk to him, comfort him, maintain a soothing physical contact."

"I… I don't know how to…" Sherlock stammered.

"Oh, something you can't do?! I thought you were fully capable of everything!" Her voice was sarcastic now. "Hold his hand, his head, whatever… Talk to him!"

"Help's on the way, John… Stay with me… I will not leave you alone…" Sherlock tried.

"…Hnnn… nn…" John's muscles were twitching.

"You'll be fine, John, just stay with us." Sarah also soothed.

"John, this is a normal symptom, don't fight it… Just stay with me and let this happen…Try to breathe slower… The antidote is on the way… Sarah is telling me what to do… no need to get stressed out… Just relax." Sherlock soothed, now guiding John's head to lean against his chest and feeling his throat for the pulse. He had never done this in his life - touched or held someone like this. It felt strange. Touching people felt like stepping over a line… Though Sarah wasn't physically present he felt his privacy invaded by her presence.

"How is his pulse?" Sarah asked.

"Fast." Sherlock answered, still holding John's neck.

"Did they tell you the ETA of the ambulance…."

"Four more minutes at least for the anti-venom, six more for the ambulance… rush hour…"

"Are you cooling the site?"

"Yes."

"Washed it?"

"Yes."

"Are the scorpions contained?"

"Freezer."

Sherlock felt John twitch and prepared for more unintentional movement.

"You've dealt with scorpion stings before, haven't you?"

"Read about it."

John started making kind of sobbing noises now.

"He is distressed." Sarah stated. "What are you doing for his comfort?"

Sherlock hesitated, not sure if he wanted to tell her. "I… he is sitting next to me and resting against me… I… maybe…."

"This is a really bad experience, make sure to show him you care constantly…!" Sarah sounded a bit annoyed. "You need to prevent the creation of another PTSD trigger, you understand?"

"John… I know you can hear me… We will take good care of you… don't panic… Abnormal head, eye and so on movement is quite common, don't be alarmed if your muscles don't work the way you order them to." John stiffened slightly. "John… Shhh… It's ok, easy…"

"Maybe you need to shift to the floor before he starts flailing too much. And for better access… and to prevent him from falling." Sarah's voice came from the small device. "…and wrap him in a blanket."

John moaned, unnerved. Them talking about him as if he wasn't there was terrible, and adding to his distress. He heard them talking like from a distance. His body refused more and more to listen to him. Despite the pain he felt kind of numb and disconnected. He was struggling to breathe more than a minute before. The thought that he'd need help breathing made him panic… Even if Sherlock wouldn't intubate him, the medics probably will.… his thoughts added to his panic and another wave of cold nausea rushed over him… He stopped trying to suppress the movement of his limbs, needed too much strength.

"John… I'll move you to the floor to make us more comfortable. Stay with me, John."

He felt how he was carefully shifted and lifted off the sofa. Sherlock's touch was firm but not rough as he had expected. He realised that in its own way Sherlock's care was calming, in an odd way, though somewhat verbally clumsy, his touch was precise, steadying and reassuring, not inept at all.

John's eyes had closed and he tried to force them open again. Although he managed, he only saw the dark inside of one of their blankets as Sherlock was carefully wrapping the warm fabric around him and then sat him down on the floor, leaning against the sofa.

Though John was aware Sherlock searched through the bag the pain created a veil, he had no energy left to fight. He could hear Sarah's voice again and Sherlock answered her. He felt consciousness falling away and welcomed the knowledge that he wouldn't have to endure the pain if he blacked out.

When John sagged sideways Sherlock was glad he was maintaining physical contact as Sarah had suggested and had still one hand on John's arm, which kept him from hitting the floor.

"No, John… Stay with me…" Sherlock patted his cheek, not to gently. "Come on, wake up."

"Mrs Hudson!…" He yelled. "Mrs Hudson, open the front door, please!"

The screaming made John jerk back to awareness again, in panic he gasped for air.

"Sorry, John… Everything is ok. The antivenom will be here any moment. Don't panic!"

But the return of his miserable state, the pain and the horror of the situation, all returned with full force, helpless he felt tears run down his face and his breath was stuck in his throat. Panic exploded and he wondered if Sherlock had recognised his desperate state.

The next thing he knew was he was lifted and laid down on his back. He felt his head bent backwards and cold, calm hands moved his jaw up, something was on his face.

Someone called his name from a great distance and he knew he should try to react somehow but… he couldn't, it was too much, he couldn't. He just wanted the pain and the panic to end.

Then he felt air was pressed into his lungs, he figured out Sherlock must be bagging him now. He had expected this to feel miserable but in fact it was really a relief to get enough air now. Sherlock's calm and steady touch was easing his panic. Trusting Sherlock would take over and take care for everything he stopped fighting the hovering blackness and lost consciousness.

Chapter Text

Sherlock tried to wake John but he seemed to be out cold.

He yelled for Mrs Hudson to open the front door, which brought John back to consciousness. Sherlock saw how the panic and the pain crept back into John. Then the doctor started struggling for breath and a few moments later his eyes rolled back in his head.

Sherlock felt something rise in himself, he felt helplessness, maybe even something similar to anxiety. It was not a nice feeling seeing John suffering.

"Sarah, he's struggling to breathe, I also think he just lost consciousness again."

"It's okay, Sherlock… Just do what I tell you!… Place him on his back on the floor…"

While she explained how to bend his head back and how to position the mask and hold the jaw and squeeze the bag he heard Mrs Hudson open the door and talk to someone.

The next moment Mycroft and another man stormed into the room.

"Where is the scorpion? The toxicologist needs to make sure which species it is before administering an antivenom." Mycroft informed without greeting.

"Uh, god!" Mrs Hudson had come up the stairs after them, alarmed. Sherlock wondered if she'd need bagging next. She became white as a sheet when she realised what he was doing to John.

"Freezer, maybe three or more specimen in the large brown package, hidden in the padding." Sherlock informed while slowly counting to four internally before squeezing the bag again.

The man went to the freezer and came back only seconds later, opening his case on the floor next to John and filling a syringe with the antivenom. "Any known allergies?"

"Er…." Sherlock answered.

"Maybe. He asked for epinephrine. I need to talk to the doctor, please." Sarah's voice came from the phone. The man in the white lab coat picked it up and switched off the speaker.

"I am Dr Henderson." They started exchanging medical jargon.

"Mycroft, could you please make sure Mrs Hudson sits down before she faints." Sherlock matter of factly stated while squeezing another time. Mycroft hurried to help her to John's armchair.

"ETA of the ambulance?" The toxicologist asked. Three minutes. Then continued his discussion with Sarah while inspecting the stings on John's hand and checking his vitals.

Sherlock continued squeezing the bag and felt himself pushed back into a bubble. Time slowed down and then switched to slow motion, he felt disconnected somehow. The feeling gained intensity with every squeeze of the bag.

Dr Henderson ordered Mycroft to keep John's arm still and unceremoniously administered the anti-venom. Sherlock kept squeezing and watched them like from a distance. Sarah was still on the phone, on speakers again, on the sofa, but saying nothing, obviously aware what was happening.

"Now we wait… He might need another dose later." The man looked as if Mycroft had dragged him out of his work and into his black limousine. He introduced himself to Sherlock and asked if he needed to switch with Mycroft. Sherlock was irritated, not able to understand the motive of the question.

"I will not hand over something as intimate as providing breath over to my brother." …Maybe he'd allow Mrs Hudson to do this… but… they all stared at him.

"Sherlock, you're sure you are okay?" Mycroft stepped nearer.

"Of course I am, why?"

"You're making no sense."

"I make perfect sense, you're just to dense to understand." Sherlock squeezed. They continued staring at him when loud steps and yelling could be heard at the front door. Mycroft went to greet the medics.

Two seconds later the room exploded into action. Before Sherlock knew what was happening the bag was taken from his hands and he was resisting to be pushed aside.

"Sherlock!… Let them work!" Mycroft dragged him away.

"Don't touch me!"

"Dear Lord, Sherlock, sit down and wait!" Mycroft pushed him into the other armchair. Medical terms flew through the room in fast succession and Sherlock couldn't see what they were doing. It was unnerving. Sarah was on the phone with the medics and the toxicologist prepared the package with the scorpions for transport.

It was maybe three minutes later that John was lifted onto a stretcher and they started carrying him towards the ambulance.

Sherlock jumped up and followed them.

John was now connected to an IV, intubated, and strapped to the gurney. He looked lost between all the equipment, not safe at all. Sherlock forgot his coat.

Downstairs they hindered him to climb into the ambulance and when Sherlock turned around to yell at Mycroft to make them take him, Mycroft instead took his arm, handed him the coat and dragged him into the black car.

"We'll go after them, get into the car." His brother ordered.

Sherlock felt stunned. Barely twenty minutes ago he and John had entered 221b and everything had been fine. He sat down in the car and Dr Henderson sat in the front passenger seat. Mycroft took the time to order Mrs Hudson to calm down and to reassure her that he'd call as soon as possible, then entered the car and they followed the ambulance. It delayed their departure for about fifteen seconds but Sherlock was ready to shout at his brother to hurry up.

"Here." Mycroft held out John's phone after he had fastened his seatbelt.

"What am I supposed to do with that?"

"Give it to him when he wakes, of course?" Mycroft rolled his eyes. "You might also want to thank Sarah for her help and update her on John's condition. I understood she provided essential help and instructions."

"Maybe a few, but…"

"Tell me exactly what happened before he was stung and about the graffiti." Mycroft stopped Sherlock before he could start a unfriendly tirade about Sarah.

And Sherlock explained.

When they arrived at the A&E Sherlock went straight past the reception, causing the nurse to yell after him. He ignored her, leaving Mycroft to solve the situation. He passed two cubicles with other patients before hearing someone talk about scorpion venoms.

He found John surrounded by a group of medical personnel in the next room. He entered but stayed in the back of the room.

It took about a minute before a passing nurse tried to make him leave.

"Sir, you can't be in here, please wait outside."

"I will wait here."

"No, Sir, please leave the room and let the doctors work."

"I don't see how I am keeping them from working by just standing here."

"You need to wait outside." She tried to take his arm and lead him outside, but he elegantly avoided her touch.

"Do not try to touch me again! I WILL WAIT RIGHT HERE!"

"Sherlock, please! Give John some privacy for this." It was Mycroft. "Come on, if you behave right now you'll be allowed in in a few minutes and then I was assured you can stay as long as you want, but be aware, this is not the normal hospital procedure. They are willing to make an exception, but now you have to wait outside with me. I suggest you do as they ask if you want them to make exceptions." He took his brother's arm and carefully dragged him outside.

"He is unconscious, what does he need privacy for?"

"Make a deduction." Mycroft pushed his brother into a waiting room chair. "How are you?"

"Why are you asking me this? John is the one in need of an intensive care unit."

"Because you are even paler than usual and you appear to be slightly… unsettled."

"Don't be ridiculous! I am fine."

Mycroft's phone rang and he spoke to someone, Anthea probably, at least his few spoken words hinted to that.

After about three minutes he hung up.

"She reported how many specimen of that scorpion subspecies were sold in the UK in the past two weeks, the list is quite long. I will now call Lestrade to send people out to the stores to find out who the buyers were and get descriptions. Since you need a license to buy those there should be paperwork documenting the proceedings."

"You might also want to send the box to Scotland Yard's forensics…"

"Already there."

"…and check for online purchases and theft… and attempts to buy them without a license. I doubt they were so dumb to buy them officially."

"Also already on the way."

They waited in silence and about fifteen minutes later a nurse came to allow them back in. Mycroft followed Sherlock into the room.

John was unconscious, hooked up to multiple machines and monitors. A respirator provided his air supply now. Dr Henderson entered the room a minute after them. Sherlock still stood in the middle of the room, not sure what to do, just watching.

"I will administer another dose of the antivenom, there is quite a lot of that venom in him, due to multiple stings. If you hadn't done what you did, or the administration of the first dose of the antivenom would have been delayed until his arrival at the A&E, he would not have survived this. We are not sure yet, but chances are high he'll make a full recovery… at least if there are no further complications… I'll return to the university now. Mycroft kind of stormed into one of my lectures in the med-labs and kidnapped me… At least that's what it must have looked like to my students." He smiled at them while slowly injecting the medication into the IV line. "Dr Harold is his doctor now and will answer any more questions you might have… In case another dose of the serum is needed… I left some."

"Thank you, Marius. You have saved a man's life here and… I am really grateful, he's my brother's best friend."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. Realising he should probably thank the man, too.

"Yeah, thank you very much, Dr Henderson."

"Glad I could help. Update me in a few days on his condition, would you, Mycroft?"

"I will, thank you."

The doctor left.

"I will talk to the new doctor. I think they'll transfer him to the ICU within the hour. Be back in a few minutes… sit down, Sherlock." He heard Mycroft's steps disappear.

Sherlock said nothing. He was much too busy staring at John's pale face. He was covered up to his chest with a worn blanket. The hand was at his side and was swollen now, and slightly red, at least the parts that were not covered by a new icepack.

Something felt unsettling. He wondered why this sight made him uneasy. John would be okay, so no need to worry. Was that it? Was he worried? John looked small and vulnerable in that hospital bed, hooked up to a dozen machines and… a respirator. The beeping and swooshing noises were getting on Sherlock's nerves fast. He stepped closer.

Had John looked like that when he had been shot? Sherlock wondered what it had been like to been med-evaced back to London. Did John remember it? Why had he never asked John about it? There were a lot of things he never asked. Maybe the only topic he avoided carefully. John's PTSD. Would this cause a relapse? He knew he hadn't done enough to make John feel safe… Sarah was right… he was a clot when it came to sentiment. He tried to store the information how the concept worked, but it was complex, and a new different set of working orders, processing paths and reactions for every single person. Had he even taken enough care to store John's sentiment and emotional information neatly enough to act accordingly….. if he had Sarah would not have reacted the way she did… not neatly enough then. Considering someone as a friend included neat storage of those precious information…. Right? He needed to take more care of this. He wondered if he was right now…. Well, he was here for starters. Ironically he realised… he had been standing there in the middle of the room for a couple of minutes, not even able to step closer…. he should…. but that would do John no good, he was unconscious…. He took another step towards him and the urge to touch John made him raise his hand.

"Sherlock?" Sarah's voice came from behind. His hand jerked back in surprise. He heard her step closer.

"Sherlock?…. Are you alright?" She was next to him now, a hand on his upper arm. Why did people keep asking him this? John was the one who was hurt.

Her gaze then shifted to John's face, the hand and then the monitors. "I came as fast as I could. Is he unconscious or sedated?"

Sherlock shook his head, he didn't know.

Chapter Text

Sarah rounded the bed and took John's other hand, then rested her hand on his forehead. Sherlock didn't move. She looked up into his eyes once more.

"You did good… You reacted fast and didn't panic. You saved his life." She smiled at him, her features showing exhaustion.

"I… I was… Thank you for your help Sarah… I couldn't have done it without your instructions."

"You know how much he trusts, you, do you?"

"I…"

"He trusts you with his life… maybe even more… You really mean a lot to him. I'm sorry if I was a bit rough earlier… It's just… I wonder if you appreciate how much he trusts you and how important your friendship is to him. No offence, but you don't seem to care about him… at least that is what your behaviour says…"

Sherlock said nothing, which was indication enough how uneasy he was with this knowledge, and it had hit the same spot he already was looking at.

"Did you find out how the scorpions came to the flat?"

"I guess it was an attack on us by the Chinese syndicate." Sherlock stated.

Sarah's eyes widened in horror.

"You mean…. that Chinese syndicate?!"

"Yes."

"You mean this was a planned attack?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"Graffiti around the flat and several other hints that we were a target."

"Ah, Sarah, isn't it?" Mycroft's voice came from the door.

"That's right. So you must be Mycroft?"

"I am… The doctor told me the antivenom is working nicely and he will be transferred to the ICU in about an hour. As soon as he regains consciousness he will be extubated. If no further complications occur he might even leave the hospital within a week.

"Oh, god… Thank you… That's great!…" Sarah looked relieved and when Sherlock didn't react her gaze shifted to his face. "Sherlock?… are you alright?"

"Why does everyone keeps asking me that?!" Sherlock almost yelled.

"Sherlock, could you keep your voice in an appropriate level, remember where you are… Agitation is not good for anyone in here." Mycroft criticised.

"Because you are as white as a sheet and you are trembling slightly. You might be in slight shock." Sarah stepped a bit closer to him now.

"Don't be ridicules, why would I be in shock?"

"You really want me to tell you?… I bet you are bright enough to know for yourself, sit down."

"I will not sit down!" Sherlock hissed through clenched teeth. "Do not try to touch me!"

"Sorry!" She stepped back, hands raised.

"I need that list, Mycroft."

"What list?"

"The list with the names of buyers of scorpions."

"I sent it to Scotland Yard, Lestrade is already working on it."

"Then send me a copy!"

"I think it would be better for you to stay here." Mycroft answered and Sarah lifted her eyebrows. She got the feeling she was either missing larger parts of the conversation or plainly her communication model had a different set of rules.

"What for?"

"They will try again."

"So put a guard at the door, would have asked for that next anyway."

"On his way, but you know that anyone with a certain skill set can get in anywhere when wanting to. Sarah should go to a safe house."

"What, but… I need to go to work tomorrow."

"No. You don't, at least not if your life is dear to you. John would never forgive me if I let you go unprotected. Please." Mycroft informed her with a polite smile.

"Please do find her a safe house." Sherlock wanted her safe for John's sake, and didn't want her company for the next few days while John was hospitalised.

"You know as good as I do that a single line of defence is naïve, especially with things you really care about… So, stay here and provide the second line. Since you care…, don't you? What has changed that makes you seem to care for the first time in so many years?"

"I don't know what you are talking about."

"Come on, Sherlock. Are you scared to admit or just to too deluded to realise that he's the first person in ages you care about?"

Sarah raised another eyebrow… Definitely there was another set of rules working here, different standards. Her impression had been just the opposite… And she had just told the man exactly that… she wondered if he was confused or if he knew what was right. But then, why didn't he say so?

"I…" Sherlock started.

"Sit down and wait for the transfer, I'll be back in three hours. Lestrade will contact you as soon as he finds something. Agent's name is Remmy, password: greenly frog."

"Funny, referring to the fable about the scorpion and the frog, I guess."

"Of course. See you, Sarah." He greeted and vanished.

Sherlock still just stood there, staring down at John's unconscious form and ignoring Sarah, calculating the chances of how to leave the hospital unrecognised and how to convince Lestrade to hand over the list. Slipping out before Mycroft's agent arrived to stand guard was probably the best idea. Sarah would stay with John until he was settled in the ICU.

John would prefer her company to his anyway. Probably John would even be unnerved or embarrassed about how he had been vulnerable in front of Sherlock or about that he had needed help. Sherlock knew because he himself would be. He had better not be here then, spare them both the embarrassment.

"Sherlock?" Sarah touched his shoulder.

"What is it." Now he was unnerved. Why did she touch him? Why did she interrupt his thoughts in such a clumsy way?

"I was talking to you for about three minutes, but you weren't responding."

"Clearly I was thinking, I need to concentrate to solve this problem. Why don't you leave me alone?"

"Sorry!" She retorted, now also unnerved. She returned to John's side and took his hand, holding it and talked to John. What a meaningless behaviour, he was unconscious, he couldn't hear her.

He turned around and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" She wanted to know.

"Uhm… Bathroom." He lied.

"Okay. How about you bring some coffee for the two of us on your way back?" She suggested.

He left the room and headed for the entrance area.

He took a cab to Scotland Yard two minutes later.

Thirty minutes later the first text from his brother arrived.

Where are you? MH

He ignored it and followed Donovan into Lestrade's office.

It turned out Lestrade had already several officers working the case. The first list, the one with personal sales, was already worked through. Out of hundred forty-seven sales of the specimen only three buyers were remembered by the sellers to have Asian origin, five more names itself gave the clue that they were originated in Asia.

The list of online sales was harder to comb through. Donovan had spoken to Mrs Hudson and she had described the messenger who had brought the parcel, but it was probably not worth going after that since they would not have been so dumb to show themselves to the landlady.

Sherlock went to forensics, Lestrade following him, to find out about the cardboard box itself and to fetch it for his own analysis. They had to wait and while discussing the next steps, Lestrade's phone rang.

"Lestrade… No need, I know exactly where he is… Yes… Yes… He does… Okay."

Sherlock looked up to the ceiling, so Mycroft had found him. Lestrade hung up and looked at him, raising his eyebrows. Sherlock rolled his eyes in return.

"Why aren't you at the hospital?"

"What for?"

"John is really bad… to look after him, to provide company?"

"He is unconscious, why should he need company? Besides, Sarah is with him… and I am much more use to him by finding the men who did this and prevent another attack."

"Who's Sarah?"

"His ex-girlfriend… And there is one of Mycroft's agents guarding them."

"You really think that is as comforting as you are?" Lestrade taunted.

"Oh, shut up I cared for his breathing and bagged him."

"Uh, must have been really comforting for him. Bet you told him at least once during your 'care' to shut up, did you?" Lestrade's voice carried only a slight hint of sarcasm now, in contrast to his words. "He is really tough to call you a friend." Lestrade frowned. "Sherlock… are you okay?"

"Oh, for God's sake, I'm fine!" Sherlock grouched, it was borderline yelling.

"Okay, now I know you are not. Come one, you definitely need a coffee. This will need some more time, might as well get a break." He took Sherlock's arm and dragged him towards the canteen. Sherlock was so perplexed about the illogicality of the path of the conversation that he followed him.

Half an hour of waiting and coffee-drinking later the technician finished the examination and left the paper box for Sherlock to explore further. Sherlock saw immediately that a three inch wide part of the tape that had sealed the box was missing. He tried to convince Lestrade to order the technician to hand it over but he had send it away to another lab for further testing. Lestrade promised to come to the hospital after his shift ended and if there were any news on the piece of tape he'd inform him immediately.

Sherlock called a cab and decided to start a request with the homeless network. He met two boys and left his requests, and a generous note, with them. The small sheet of paper requested more information about the events and graffiti around 221b and people who might have watched the flat.

Then the detective headed to St Bart's lab for his research and to collect some equipment. The flat was far too dangerous right now.

'John settled in ICU, want to leave with Sarah soon, please come. MH'

Sherlock wondered for what his presence was needed and how angry Mycroft would get if he used the lab for the basic tests before he headed back there. Would take approximately an hour.

'She won't leave him alone, unless you replace her, don't make me come and get you!'

Maybe they were right. He should at least take a look at John, would be friendly to do so, maybe he'd find a lab in the hospital where John was. But what if not… ?

'Send car to pick me up at Barts."

He hurried to the labs and started packing equipment from Molly's lab. Half an hour later he was in a large black limousine with several boxes full of 'borrowed' equipment. He headed towards the ICU and made the driver help him carry the stuff.

"Sherlock… Finally!… You know we've been waiting for more than an hour!… What is it with you today? First you need to be kicked out to give the man some privacy and then you need to be dragged back in here?" Mycroft was obviously unnerved and his eyes widened even more when he saw what Sherlock was bringing.

"You could have left without me, it was your choice to stay…" Sherlock retorted.

"Sherlock, please… If he means anything to you… don't treat him like a nobody as long as he is this hurt and in need of comfort." Sarah looked up at him, not sure he even had an idea of how to comfort John.

"We need to go." Mycroft urged and left the room.

Sarah hurried to the bed and kissed John's forehead. "See you soon, don't let his neglect hurt you further." She gave Sherlock one last warning and also begging look before following Mycroft. The driver hurried after them.

Sherlock stared at ceiling, unnerved for a moment and then was glad they were gone.

The room was quite large for an ICU unit and was equipped with two chairs and a small table in the back, and loads of machines and equipment. He wondered why there was a cot in the corner. This was not a regular ICU room, it was at the far end of the corridor, maybe it was only for special needs. Probably Mycroft had arranged it.

Sherlock stepped towards the bed, almost careful.

John looked still grey and bad. The respirator and the pulse-oximeter beeped in their own rhythms. John was now dressed in a hospital gown and there were an endless number of wires and tubes… He looked vulnerable, indeed… and it was quite cold in here, he must be freezing… at least Sherlock was doing so, and he was fully clothed and in his coat.

Sherlock sat down next to the bed and watched John's still form. It was an unsettling sight. It kind of… felt not good… since when does a sight was unsettling?

He looked at John's hand that was not injured, it was uncovered, probably because Sarah had held it. He stared down at it, it needed to be covered, not left this… bare. He reached for it and touched John. He expected it to feel bad, like all physical contact did… but it didn't.

He realised he was tired… and it was the last thing he knew for some time.

Chapter Text

When the nurse entered the room and saw Sherlock in his coat, two fingers touching John's knuckles, and his head on the bed beside the hand, while he was fast asleep, clearly sagged forward in exhaustion, she decided she had never seen such a subtle but clear demonstration of brotherly affection and care… and such a counterbalanced aura before in her life… and she performed her duties with the uttermost care not to disturb this moment of rest.

Sherlock was woken by a gurgling noise and movement, he jerked back to full awareness.

John was moving, his hands were twitching and there was a painful frown on John's face. What was happening? Relapse? Seizure? He reached for the call button and pressed it down hard.

"John? Can you hear me?" He urged, helplessly watching.

John seemed agitated. Something was not right. The obvious needed several seconds to reach Sherlock's fogged mind. He was waking up and fighting the ventilator!

After several attempts John finally managed to lift his hand up to his mouth and only then Sherlock realised he'd hurt himself if he'd try to pull it out. Sherlock grabbed John's hand and put it back to his side, and watched the hand in the cooling as a precaution.

"John?…."

John's hand moved back up again, now with a lot more panic and more aim.

"John?… You are on a ventilator, don't fight it!" He gently held the hands now.

John's panic rose. Where was this nurse?

"John!" He yelled when John tried to get rid of Sherlock's hands in desperation now. "John, stop it! You will hurt yourself!… For god's sake, open your eyes and look at me!" To his astonishment John did.

His gaze was fogged with medication, pain, and disorientation.

"That's it. Look at me!… You are in the hospital and you are on a ventilator. Do not fight it!….." John's eyes seemed to show at least some degree of understanding, finally they fixed on Sherlock's face.

"Can you hear me?" Sherlock asked and was glad John slowly blinked to show his understanding but was panting hard. The machine was set to SIMV, which meant if John wanted to breathe on his own it would let him.

"Do you understand that you'd hurt yourself trying to get the tube out?" Sherlock wanted to be sure. John nodded minutely, obviously trying to calm his breathing.

"I am gonna let go."

John continued panting in panic. Sherlock wondered where that nurse was. Why was he awake while intubated? And what was the staff expecting him to do? He released his hold on John's wrists but left his one hand near John's uninjured one, just in case.

John didn't try to move. He felt exhausted and tired. He let his gaze wander through the room, trying to understand the situation. ICU, so much was clear immediately. Intubated, obviously. Muscle relaxants, very likely, since his vision was blurred and his body felt very heavy and leaden. Pain medication, obviously, since he felt dazed… but it was ebbing fast and the pain was increasing.

No nurse? Shouldn't there be one? And why had they allowed him to wake up on a ventilator? This was not fun!

His gaze returned to Sherlock who was leaning over him and who had just released him. He suddenly remembered how Sherlock had  provided respiration and the horror of the whole situation added to the panic of feeling the tube in his throat.

"Don't panic!… You are all right now… Don't worry." Sherlock tried to calm him with phrases he had never believed in, but tried them nevertheless.

Then John's doctor ran into the room. "What happened?"

"He regained consciousness and started fighting the tube." Sherlock informed.

"Mr Watson, can you hear me?" She looked into his eyes and when John nodded slightly she adjusted the ventilator to only breathe for John if he didn't himself.

"Doctor!" Sherlock stated.

"Pardon?" The hospital doctor was confused.

"Doctor Watson, he is a doctor."

"I'm sorry, doctor… I set the ventilator to CPAP. Breath on your own as good as you can, we will remove the tube as soon as we are sure you can manage. You are alright with this?"

John blinked a slow confirmation. She started to examine him.

"I am your physician, my name is Herald. You must be Mr Holmes, can you leave us alone for a minute?" She addressed Sherlock.

John's hand moved unaimed it seemed, but as soon as it made contact with the cuff of Sherlock's coat, his hand was still hovering in case John needed to be gently restrained again, John grabbed Sherlock's wrist. Though it seemed uncoordinated, the message was quite clear, even to the other doctor, who had followed the hand's movement.

"If you want your friend to stay, it's fine. Just relax. We will remove the tube soon… Let me give you a quick examination, then you can go back to sleep."

Sherlock's first reflex was to remove his hand from John's touch but he stopped himself. If contact was what John needed Sherlock would give it to him and endure the touch, it was the least he could do.

"You know where you are?" She asked.

John nodded slightly.

"You remember what happened?"

A nod again.

"Are you in pain?"

Another nod.

"Use your fingers to show me in how much pain."

John let go of Sherlock's wrist and lifted shaking fingers. Seven.

"Has it increased in the past minutes?"

Another nod.

"Okay. You are fine, everything is normal. You were given two doses of the antivenom and in case you need another one we are prepared. I will go get some more painkillers so you can rest." She left the room.

John's gaze shifted to Sherlock and he saw the questions in his eyes.

"You want to know what we learned about the incident yet?"

John blinked confirmation and Sherlock told him that they were convinced the syndicate sent a warning and how slow the investigation was going. When he mentioned Sarah was moved to one of Mycroft's safe house John's pulse skyrocketed.

"She is fine! It's just a precaution!" Sherlock hurried to explain but it was of no use. "Nothing has happened, John, she just came here to visit you and we decided it would be safer to hide her. There is also an agent at the door to make sure we both are safe."

He meant to soothe John but it did just the opposite. John was panting, his eyes wide in panic once more. Sherlock didn't know what to do, he just leaned over John and told him to calm down, then he remembered that physical contact might help and rested his hand on John's shoulder.

Dr Herald came back, in quite a hurry because she must have heard the fast beeping.

"What happened?"

"He's just remembering the events, I think."

"Doctor Watson? Can you hear me?"

John ignored her and grabbed Sherlock's arm, obviously, at least for Sherlock, he wanted more information. But Dr Herald wanted to end his agitation before he got hurt and she injected a sedative and a painkiller into the IV line.

"He's gonna sleep now." She softly informed, but it was clearly the wrong thing to say.

John was suddenly trying to sit up. Shouldn't he know he was supposed to stay still and wait for the medication to work? He was a doctor, he should know. But then Sherlock understood that John maybe wanted more information and when John had realised he was about to be knocked out it only made him more upset. Sherlock swore silently and fastened his grip on John's shoulder, keeping him in a supine position gently.

John's eyes fixed on his when he became aware that the gently restraining pressure was Sherlock's hand.

"It's okay, Dr Watson. You're fine. You need to rest."

"Calm down, John."

He stopped struggling and Sherlock spotted what might have been a pleading look on his face. John's breathing slowed down a notch and his body involuntarily relaxed a bit. Sherlock spotted a tear ran down his temple.

"She is okay, John… Everything is okay… Mycroft is keeping her safe, nothing happened… Rest, I'll need you soon for the investigation on this one. We need to find out about the new head of the syndicate… You need to rest, now." He moved his thumb up and down over the shoulder joint, instinctively. He raised an eyebrow about his own instincts. Now, where were those coming from? He had never touched someone by choice if it wasn't utterly necessary… well, maybe this was.

John's head sank back into the pillow and slightly turned into his direction. He was still holding Sherlock's gaze and fighting the medication, but another few moments later his eyes fluttered shut.

"He will sleep for the night. You can go home and rest. We will remove the tube in the morning."

"I can't go home, so I might as well stay here." Sherlock answered and sat down again, she went to check on other patients.

2:34 in the morning. Not long until 'morning' then. When he was sure John was fast asleep he slipped out of his coat and started unpacking the lab equipment. He started converting the spacious ICU room into a forensics lab.

When he finally had it all unpacked he removed parts of the endings of the parcel tape from the scorpion parcel to see if there was any residue caught under it the Scotland Yard technician had overlooked.

He found some… and later he found a small spot of what seemed to be dried liquid, that had been overseen because it had been spilled over the prominent red sign on the side of the parcel. It was two hands which encapsulated a stylised box, the wide-known sign for 'handle with care'. The liquid had travelled over the printing ink and then moved into the paper where the ink ended in a only 0.5cm wide and 1cm long line. He started to run some experiments to figure out what it was, but whatever he tried it was a dead end.

At 6:20 he felt the hospital boot up into full working mode. He wished he had his violin to block out the annoying noises and the increasing mental or physical vibrations or whatever it was. But then he decided to use the time to think and sat down next to John again, his hands flat against each other under his chin. He unleashed the process that made his thoughts chase each other in multiple directions at once, listening to them, abandoning some, holding others, sorting through the most likely scenarios first. Jumping to those processes that lit up with small insights which might - later - add to the whole puzzle, tagging those for further examination and / or storage. Defining the storage device while he went.

He resurfaced when the wisp of a touch moved over his shirt cuff. He opened his eyes… and found John looking at him, eyes half closed and a bit misted, but aware. John had reached out over the edge of the bed with his right uninjured hand, touching his cuff with his fingertips.

Was there the smallest hint of a smile in the other man's eyes? Sherlock had feared John would be angry with him… for the need to having taken over the care of John's body's functions, for bagging him… at least he himself would be very unnerved about that… And he feared that John might be angry for the same reasons Sarah was, him fuelling John's anxiety by his insensitive behaviour… or for not telling him more details before when he had woken first… So he was confused about that look… was it fond? Maybe he was mistaken and John was only spaced out by the painkillers. They would extubate him soon, will be so much more easier to communicate by speaking.

The morning shift nurse must have been in already because there was a new infusion bag and John seemed to be relaxed and not in too much pain, he was probably given another dose of muscle relaxant and painkillers.

This meant for now he'd use his deduction techniques to find out what John wanted to know. Might be interesting to explore this new field of communication. He had already observed in the past months that communicating with John without words was easier than with his brother or anyone else he knew. It was almost ridiculously easy. He could read other people easily, but communicating more than basic information was another thing, though it seemed to work with John. And the funny thing was half of the people surrounding them never even noticed their communication. Was quite useful when investigating.

John widened his eyes and minutely pushed his jaw forward, which Sherlock interpreted as an eagerly waiting for information or 'what are you waiting for?'.

He told him. Every tiny bit of what had happened.

Chapter Text

It took him almost two hours until they were through every detail. John stopped the stream of words several times with questioning looks or gestures or something else, that made Sherlock tag a fact for further discussion later because John might want to add something.

When he was still listing what he had tested without result two nurses and Dr Herald came in. He saw in John's eyes he knew they came to take the tube out… and that he was not looking forward to the procedure. It was good to get better and better reading John's facial expressions.

After a short conversation in which John nodded or shook his head several times they asked Sherlock to step out, he refused and John nodded, so this was permission to stay.

John gagged when they removed mucus with a suctioning device.

Sherlock winced inwardly, now remembering when he had been extubated. This felt quite ugly, why hadn't he deleted that sensation?

A few moments later they pulled the thing out and John heaved, his face was red and he tried to suppress the urge to vomit and cough.

"You need to cough it up, don't force it, but don't suppress it either, Dr Watson."

John raised his hands, shaking his head.

"'m fine" John whispered and visibly regretted to have tried to speak immediately. They elevated the head of the bed slightly and put an oxygen mask on his face.

"Okay, take your time and settle down. You'll get lunch in two hours, relax until then." Doctor and nurses vanished and they were left alone again. As soon as they were out John removed the mask from his face and let his head fall back, sighing.

"Thank you…" he whispered.

"What for?" Sherlock didn't understand.

"For stayin' with me, for be'ere… for… baggin'e… for bein'there, then. For… " He coughed and retched slightly.

"Shut up… your throat is irritated, don't talk more than necessary."

"It's ne'sary." He coughed once more, then let his eyes close.

Sherlock sensed the other man's exhaustion. Did he need to rest, again?

"Sleep, John." He ordered in a low voice, though John looked as if already asleep.

John was already drifting and then gratefully let himself fall back to sleep.

Sherlock placed the oxygen mask back on his face.

Now that John was asleep he could… try to sneak into a lab and do some tests he hadn't the bulky equipment that was needed for those special tests. He needed to find out about that dried liquid… and the fibre.

…Maybe he should do some other tests he hadn't thought off. Those he had in mind wouldn't require him to go down to the labs, he could do them with the stuff he had in the room, but they were not as significant as the other ones. But the benefit was he could do them without leaving the room…

He did the tests, but they brought no new insights. Frustrated he spent quite some time walking up and down their current habitat.

At lunchtime he was still pacing the room when the nursing assistant brought some soup. The canteen kitchen dishwasher smell of the tray, plates and cutlery made him loose all concentration and left him unnerved, but the stinky soup itself made him nauseous. Gladly John slept through it, not affected by the smell at all. He once more wished he could dial down his senses sometimes. When he was ready to throw the thing at the hallway floor the girl came back.

When she saw John hadn't eaten she got ready to wake him, probably with the intention to make him eat the disgusting liquid, Sherlock stepped between her and the bed.

"You will not wake him just to make him eat that poor washings you dare to call a meal!" His voice was low and transported enough anger and authority to make the young thing hurry out with the smelly tray. John didn't even stir. Sherlock felt as if he had prevented another attack at John's life… or was that concoction something that would have helped him heal faster? This was a hospital, it was supposed to do things that heals people, but on the other hand…

Sherlock's thoughts continued to run in circles, around the case, the meal, the investigation and his course of action. Every minute detail had been thought about hundreds of times during the night, and what unnerved him the most was that there had been no news since last night.

He texted Mycroft, demanded to get news.

Mycroft ignored him.

Next he texted Lestrade and told him to come and discuss the new evidence he had found on the package… Although he still hadn't been down to the labs to know what they were.

Since when was he so unorganised?

This was ridiculous! He grabbed the evidence bags and headed to fetch a cab that would bring him to Bart's.

The guard at the door tried to make him stay but he ignored him.

He had only spend about thirty minutes in the lab when Molly joined him.

"Hi." She shyly stated.

"Leave."

"Uh, good day to you, too. Nice to see you, actually. What are you doing?"

"Molly, I need to concentrate, this is important."

"What happened?" She had decided to ignore his rudeness long ago.

"The Chinese syndicate we talked about earlier… John was attacked. I need to find them before they strike again."

"Oh god, how is he?" Molly frowned alarmed.

"He is in the hospital, ICU. Several scorpion bites, they send them in a package, disguised as a delivery."

Molly raised her hands to her mouth, kind of overwhelmed with the bad news.

Sherlock ignored her.

"How is he?…" Molly tried again.

"Resting. He was given the antidote fast and will make a full recovery if everything goes as planned."

"God, I'm sorry. What can I do to help?"

Sherlock had already taken a breath to refuse any of her offers for help and send her away when he realised she might be of help with the substance. Ca²⁺ 2^-O--Cl or Ca(ClO)₂

"I found a minute concentration of Calcium Hypochlorite and… silver ions in a dried liquid and I am trying to find out what this combination is used for."

"Anything else in it?" Molly asked coming closer.

"Water… I need some internet, can I use your account?"

"What for?"

"I can't go home to…."

"You don't need the internet. This is used in caravanning. Micro-pour or something like that."

"What?" He lifted his head from the microscope and looked at her, kind of flabbergasted.

"You are sure?"

"Of course… My family used to go camping and my father loved to lecture me about every chemical at hand. This is used to keep the water in the tank drinkable. Needs to work for about thirty minutes after pouring it in. The advantage is minor bad taste in comparison to other stuff…. "

"Oh, Molly, this is great!" Sherlock praised her insight. She raised her eyebrows.

"You're okay?"

"Yes, why?"

"You look kind of… tired… Is John okay?"

"He'll be fine. He's sleeping it off."

"There was something else on the package, some hair that was covered… that was in contact with some other liquid. I assume it was urine, but I am not sure what kind, the equipment I took was not good enough to figure that out."

"Oh, so you were the thief! We had police here all morning because half the lab was missing. Why didn't you just ask?… Or at least informed me afterwards."

"Who else would've taken it, I thought it was obvious."

"Right, of course. I should have known." Was there a sarcastic undertone in Molly's voice?

They started an analysis of the urine, letting the computer run a comparison with the database.

As soon as it was running Sherlock scanned the fibre itself for another analogy search.

It had only ran for about two minutes when the alarm sounded. Molly turned towards the screen and giggled.

"What is it?"

"Hylobatidae excrements."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, this is great! They can't be this dumb, can they?"

"What?" Now Molly was lost.

"Could you be so kind to prepare those two for evidence?... This is important, Molly... Thank you so much." He was out of the door before Molly had understood what had happened at all.

"Sure..." She answered the empty room.

Sherlock was in the elevator to the ICU when Lestrade texted him.

Already on my way to you anyway. Lestrade

Sherlock entered the ICU room and found John sleeping exactly in the same position as before... the room was also unchanged. He sat down in the chair again to think about this. It was so obvious he asked himself if they had planted a false trail to mislead him.

Chapter Text

Twelve minutes later a soft knock on the door forced Sherlock back out of the debts of his thoughts.

Lestrade entered. He nodded a greeting and stared at John's unmoving form, worry clearly evident on his face, even for Sherlock.

"Oh, Christ. He looks bad." He whispered.

"He's already a lot better. They took the tube out this morning when he was awake." Sherlock didn't bother to whisper and spoke in his normal tone.

"Shhh, you'll wake him... Glad to hear that." Lestrade spoke in a low voice again. "Let's get outside to speak."

Sherlock hesitated.

"What are you waiting for?" the DI asked.

"Maybe... John wants to hear about this, too."

"Honestly?... Since when do you care about what he wants?" Lestrade taunted. "You can tell him later when he's up to it... You don't think about waking him for this, do you?... Sherlock! He needs to rest!"

"'s okay...." Johns muffled voice came from the bed.

They turned towards him. John removed the mask from his face with clumsy fingers.

Lestrade stepped closer and Sherlock followed him.

"You look like shit... You're sure it's a good idea to remove that?"

"'m a bloody doctor, remember?... 't's alright. He's right... I'd want him t'wake me for this." The doctor struggled to find the bed control but Sherlock was faster and raised the bed, which made John raise his eyebrows for a turn.

"Right... so checking the whole damn list with the scorpion sells brought nothing new. Normal sells and online purchases also led to nothing. All buyers were eager to help and had permissions, all bought specimens were accounted for. Our detectives were shown every single one of them. Two were dead, but the owners kept them for some odd reasons... Nothing new about possible thefts, yet. We informed all listed sellers to report stolen specimens... Forensic analysis of the package showed nothing so far."

"That's because your staff doesn't even now what scrupulous means." Sherlock informed. "I worked this out with no adequate equipment and a three minute chat with a coroner."

"You sp'ke to M'lly?" John mumbled.

"Yes. The substance on the fibre I found sticking to the inside of the tape were Hylobatidae excrements and....."

"What?" Lestrade interrupted.

"Gibbon piss... and the dried liquid on the outside of the package..."

John giggled when he saw Lestrade's irritated look.

"I'm glad you are good enough to find humour in this but what...?" Lestrade started.

"'t's a small kind of ape with ext'ordinary facial expressions... 'nd long arms. It's small and... quite cute." John explained, his voice becoming more hoarse by the minute.

"Maybe you shouldn't talk that much. Your vocal chords will thank you." Sherlock lectured him, and that earned him an unnerved look from John.

"Sorry, but I fail to understand why and how the ape urinated on the package is important."

"It didn't, but someone transferred a fibre on which the ape urinated to the tape... this might point out the person packing the package had something to do with caring for more animals than just scorpions... maybe working in a zoo...?"

"Okay, I check which zoos might be home to our kind of scorpions."

"No need. The second liquid we found was water, mixed with an additive used to keep water clean an drinkable while stored in tanks... especially in caravans and mobile homes."

"You mean they are travelling with a circus again?" Lestrade drew the same conclusion Sherlock had done earlier. "Isn't that a bit... naïve?"

"Maybe they think nobody would be so dumb twice and try it again therefore... or maybe they still don't just have another chance to find a proper excuse to leave that country... or maybe it was just the easiest solution at hand. But I also expect this could be a trap and recommend caution. Can you find out if there are any circuses in the area, and when they'll be in London?" Sherlock asked Lestrade, who just nodded.

"Anything else?" Greg looked at John who seemed to be fighting to stay awake, blinking repeatedly.

"You're okay, John?...." Lestrade stepped to the bed and leaned down towards the prone doctor. John nodded and not only Sherlock could see the pain in his features.

Sherlock pressed the call button again when he saw John's forehead was damp with sweat.

"We'll get them, don't worry, John." Lestrade tried to be kind and helpful, touching his shoulder briefly.

John's pain had flared up within the past ten minutes, changed from bearable to really hard to endure, he wondered if any painkiller could loose it's effects this fast or if he was imagining it.

"I know.... th'nk you for comin'." John tried to smile.

"You're welcome." Lestrade's face showed real worry. "You need rest. Don't let any heartless behaviour get to you... Now, rest... I'll keep you informed." Lestrade smiled back at him.

"Thank you fo' coming." John repeated and blinked slowly, fighting the pain.

Lestrade nodded towards Sherlock and opened the door to leave, before the door had a chance to close a nurse stepped in with a syringe on a small tray.

"Ready for another dose of pain medication, doctor?" She seemed to be kindly mocking him and John rolled his eyes to the ceiling in response. "I see you are desperate." She added and John nodded tiredly.

Sherlock stood by just watching when she emptied the content of the syringe into the IV line.

"You'll miss dinner with this, but I guess you aren't really upset about that..." She smiled "I'll save some for you... maybe for that gentleman with the grumpy expression, too?" John carefully laughed about her delighting sense of humour.

"Probably a good idea... thank you." He felt the drug's effect start to lure him to sleep.

"It's okay, sleep now, you will feel better in the morning."

"What? 's about five in the afternoon."

"Yeah, but you'll sleep good with this, and I'll be back in a few hours with more."

"Uh, dammit, I don' want sleep."

"Sorry, dear." She smiled and checked his vitals, then vanished through the door.

"'nything else?" John asked Sherlock, hoping Sherlock would explain anythin' interesting before the meds'd take effect. Great, now his thoughts were slurring, too.

"No." Sherlock just stood there at the foot end of the bed looking at him, not providing any additional information.

"Could you sto' that?" John felt his body surrender to the medication... Damn it! Why did they keep giving this to him, simple pain medication would have been enough! He wanted to know what was going on.

"Stop what?..." Sherlock moved to his side, looking down at him.

"You're 'onestly worried, aren't you?" John deduced. "Tell me wha' else you foun'out..."

"Nothing."

"Tell me, Sherlock."

"You need to rest, John. I'll figure this out soon, now rest."

Totally unexpectedly he stepped to John's side and moved his hand over his and squeezed it briefly. John looked into Sherlock's eyes searching for his motives... and when he felt his eyelids grew heavy he discovered care and worry in the other man's behaviour.

He knew he was given care by someone who didn't seem to care about anybody at all, or wasn't able to put those into words or actions.

Sherlock's care was different, but never the less felt quite intense right now and once one understood the dynamics and motives. John seemed to understand that for the first time now, though not the dynamics and mechanisms, yet.

When sleep overtook some of his senses he gratefully recognised and held those unusual precious ways of being cared for. For others they might seem wispy but if you understood them they were... huge... It added to the feeling that Sherlock just in that moment decided to minutely touch his shoulder again. John exhaled in relaxation and surrendered to some more sleep.

Sherlock continued pacing the room, he was distracted and it was quite unnerving, he couldn't concentrate in his usual way. He texted Mycroft again, and was - again - ignored. He went up and down and up and down and up… until a long time later the nurse returned.

"Has he shown any signs of waking up?"

"No."

"I kept two dinner trays in case you want to eat or he wakes up and is hungry. Call if he does, would you?…."

Sherlock nodded and hoped she'd leave. She did.

…and Sherlock paced the room.

Some more time later another knock at the door made him look up.

Mycroft entered.

"Good evening." He greeted.

"Why do you ignore my texts?"

"There were no news to tell you. I was about to stop at the flat, I presume you need some things so I'm about to fetch them. What do you need? Some sweat pants, T-shirts and jumpers I guess… some underwear and his Laptop?"

"I don't own sweat pants."

"I am not talking about you, Sherlock…. I'm talking about comfortable clothes for him of course!… He'll be allowed to get up soon and I bet he'd be really grateful for a change of clothes." He stepped closer to his brother. "But I see you need a change of clothes, too."

"How do you deduce that?"

He raised his eyebrows." Same reason you should shower… smell."

"You're telling me I stink?"

"Not really, yet, but can't be long." He smirked. "I'm not here to have a teasing contest. I wanted to know how the two of you are and what you need… You want your laptop, too?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Anything else?"

"The evidence from the dining table."

"Already took those a few hours ago to work through them." He opened his briefcase and handed Sherlock the folder of copies and pictures and several small plastic bags. "I see you created an offshoot of your kitchen. Did you find something?"

Sherlock talked him through the same things he had discussed with Lestrade, John slept through it all.

"Did Lestrade check only on circuses or did he include camping grounds?" Mycroft asked when he was finished.

"I don't know, we only talked about circuses, I didn't ask. I assumed it was the logical next step so I didn't need to say it."

"You know this always got you into trouble when you were younger? Never assume others see the logical conclusions. Well, to be honest, it got me, too. How comes you forgot?… Well, maybe you were otherwise occupied."

"I was occupied to figure out what they plan to do next."

"A bit farfetched, even for you… I meant you might have been worrying about John?"

"Don't be ridiculous, he's fine."

"He is not, but he will be… Okay, in case you remember something else you might need, text me within the next forty minutes." He turned and without another word left the room.

It took Sherlock about seven minutes to figure out what else he needed from his kitchen for further tests… He started texting but it was too much to text, so when the appropriate time it would take Mycroft to reach the flat had passed Sherlock called him. To his surprise it was really Mycroft who was in the flat answering, not a Mycroft who told him he had send someone else. When he listed what to get from his lab equipment Mycroft first listened and then stated he'd not bring the whole kitchen.

So they compromised.

Chapter Text

About an hour later a small knock at the door announced another visitor.

Sherlock looked up. It was almost 21:15. Lestrade hadn't come back as promised, yet.

Mycroft entered the room, followed by a pale Mrs Hudson.

Why was she looking so tired and worn out? His brother carried a large suitcase and Mrs Hudson a laundry bin with some equipment and several covered plates. She put it down as soon as she had entered and hurried towards John. Inspecting his hand and face and stroking his good hand.

"Here is the required stuff. I need to get back. Sarah is fine and safe and I'll call you when there are news." Mycroft turned and headed out, before Sherlock even had time to react he had vanished.

A tuck at his sleeve disrupted his thoughts "Sherlock?"

"What is it?"

"Are you alright, dear?… You've been staring at the wall for minutes. I know you do this, but… well it was different this time… Have you eaten since you arrived here?… and has he?" Mrs Hudson wanted to know.

"No."

"Why not? He looks as if he needed a decent meal."

"He was asleep almost all the time we spent here… and I sent away the nurse aide with something that was no food at all. It smelled like a cross-breed of dishwater and cooked chicken innards."

"Well…" Mrs Hudson smiled. "…then maybe you'll be glad to hear that I brought some cake and some delicious cold dinner plates." She started unpacking the bin.

"Dinner?" A small voice came from the bed. "God, sounds good."

"There you are, John. I brought some fresh homemade bread and roast beef with horseradish and boiled eggs and some salad." She offered.

"Why isn't the hospital providing dinner?"

"They provided something but I wouldn't call it dinner and I don't need you ingesting some other indigestible substances. Your system has enough work to get rid of the poison already." Sherlock informed.

The landlady started piling the food on the small overbed table.

"Why don't you hand him the bed controls, Sherlock? Bet he doesn't like it down there."

Sherlock looked down at John who lifted his hand reaching for the bed control himself with a slightly unstable hand. Sherlock frowned, having the urge to get away from this… Why, he didn't know… and the unnerving thing was he - at the same time - wanted to know everything that happened in this ugly bright hospital room.

After handing over the remote control to John he started unpacking the things Mycroft had brought. He then sat at the other side of the room, far away from them, trying to focus on his tests and suppress the input from their presence. It was hard to focus.

John managed to slowly eat a small portion of the roast beef while Mrs Hudson entertained him with updates on several topics they had obviously spoken about earlier.

His concentration was lost again when somebody touched his shoulder.

"Sherlock, … I wondered if you want some cake. You must be hungry, too. When have you last eaten?… You look peaky…"

"I'm fine… John is the one sick, mother hen him, please." He moved his hand through the air in a gesture she understood as 'stay away'.

She sighed and he knew she and John were exchanging looks.

"Well, I was about to go. Call if you need anything. You too, Sherlock." She put on her jacket.

A few minutes later she went out the door with the promise to bring more eatable food.

John was now nibbling on a cupcake, slowly… very slowly. His throat must be still raw.

It didn't take long and the doctor put the half eaten cake back to the plate and tried to get some water. His hand was trembling and Sherlock finally stood up and stepped nearer again to find out what was wrong.

When John tried to lift the water bottle it slipped through his fingers.

Sherlock was prepared and caught it before it toppled over the edge of the table.

The detective ignored John's ashamed expression and poured water into the glass, then stepped next to the bed. Would it be inappropriate to sit down on the bed?… Not more inappropriate than to hold John's hand or to breathe for him, he decided… When he looked up at John, the doctor frowned. He had stared at the bed, hadn't he?

"Sherlock?… Are you sleepin' standing up?" John's hoarse voice made him frown.

"Of course not, I was thinking… and not even for more than three seconds."

"Fifteen…" John smiled, though Sherlock now saw he was sweating again and his face was paler than before.

Hesitating, he sat down on the edge of the bed, not sure if the other man would welcome it, but what caused John finally to raise both eyebrows in surprise was when Sherlock held the glass close to his face and assisted him with drinking. The hand with the stings was useless and obviously hurting, the other one shaking.

"Are you in pain?" Sherlock asked, but didn't wait for the answer and pressed the button for the nurse.

Sherlock stood up packed the food away before she entered.

The small woman came in a few seconds later.

"When can I have a normal room?" John asked while she checked his vitals.

"You'll be in here for the rest of your stay."

"What?" John sounded badly surprised.

"Mr. Holmes' brother made sure you had the best secured room in the whole hospital… and besides the pharmacy and the Operating rooms, this is the best watched area in the whole building. So you'll be our guest here some more… But maybe you'd like to know that in the morning we'll free you

off all that tubes and wires, except the IV…"

"Why not now?"

"I don't need to tell you, do I?" She smiled in an understanding way. "You are in quite some pain, I'll give you something in a minute." She changed the bags and checked his hand, then left.

John sighed. "So Mycroft is responsible for this extra large and cozy accommodation… I wish it had a window… Where's my phone?"

Sherlock reached into his pocket and gave it to him.

John started to text Sarah but grunted in frustration when his hand was not able to type and his head to heavy to hold up.

"You want me to type for you?" Sherlock offered and held out his hand.

John was once more surprised. Since when has Sherlock decided to recognize such things… things he needed or wanted? Usually he seemed oblivious to minor things like John's needs. He used John for menial jobs quite frequently, but this was the first time he offered to do one of them for him… He offered!

Maybe John should just ask him to do such things more often… Worked at least partially with the housework, wait… was it really just because he didn't ask?

"Er… Could you text Sarah? Ask her if she's okay and tell her I'm fine… and thank her…" He handed over his phone and Sherlock was busy typing when the nurse reentered the room.

"Could you omit the sleep aid, please?" The former soldier asked but she injected both syringes into the line.

"Nope. Sorry, but the dose is only half of yesterday's. …You want me to lower the bed?" When John shook his head she left. "…Good night."

He blew out his breath, slightly frustrated, he leaned back his head and closed his eyes. The things bugging him the most were how tired and uncoordinated he was… and frustrated… A part of him still waited for a psychological reaction to all this.

He felt numb in his mind, too, and feared to have a minor mental breakdown as soon as feeling returned. Or had this just not really shaken him at all?… Yesterday, his memories had been only snapshots of what had happened after he was stung, but today he remembered more and more details… like when Sherlock had lifted him from the sofa to the ground after Sarah had told that there he couldn't hurt himself.

"John?" Sherlock touched his shoulder… and since when was Sherlock so… caring?… Well, he was not really, but in comparison to his usual self he was.

"Hmmm."

"You seem to want to sleep, I will lower the bed." Sherlock offered.

"No…" He realized he was slightly panting.

"Why not?"

"…Okay, but only a bit, I don't want to lie down all the way."

Sherlock lowered the head of the bed halfway, looking down at him in… He looked… worried?

"Are you having trouble breathing?" Sherlock asked.

"No!" John stated and tried to slow down. He was slightly agitated, he had to admit to himself. His phone beeped with a received message. Sherlock fetched it from the table and opened the message without asking or minding his privacy.

'I am fine and safe with Mycroft, beautiful place, nice, but I'd prefer home. Good to hear you are better, hope you'll be fine soon, feel hugged. Love, S.' The text message said.

"Where did he take her?"

"I don't know, but assume to the Diogenes. Security is pretty high there, though he has access to real government safe houses, too… He didn't tell me… for her and our safety."

"'kay." John sighed.

Another knock at the door.

Lestrade entered.

"Hello John. Nice to see you with some more colour…." He greeted.

"Any news?" Sherlock asked without introduction and sat down next to the bed while Lestrade leaned against it's side.

"In fact, yes… Though only tiny bits."

"There is a circus camping in the area. I plan to visit them first thing in the morning… and several zoos with scorpions, but only one with a Chinese zookeeper… That's also on tomorrow's list… and the lab found something new on the parcel tape."

"What is it?"

"An area that was only partially sticky because it was greasy… with a special mountain bike chain lubricant… an expensive one."

"Wha didn't they foundit earlier?" John wanted to know.

"Incompetence." Sherlock provided.

"No, Sherlock… Our lab just hadn't the special equipment to find that out… but they send it to someone who did."

"I could have done it." Sherlock claimed and Lestrade rolled his eyes but ignored it.

"This fact does not help us directly."

John yawned behind his hand.

"No… I'll pick you up in the morning. I think your roommate needs some rest. John, tell me if you need anything, okay?"

"'kay… Ta." John nodded and Lestrade wished them a good night and was gone.

Sherlock started running up and down the room, fretting about dumb technicians and wondering about the lubricant.

John relaxed… It was a bit like home if he closed his eyes and ignored the smell… and the beeping, and the other noises… He tried to imagine he was on the sofa and Sherlock was walking up and down the room from the windows to the kitchen and back.

He was asleep before he knew he was even heading there.

"John?…" Sherlock stopped, turned around and bit his lip.

John was asleep. Should he lower his voice….. or maybe stop talking at all?… And… he felt… worn, no, his clothes did, to be exact.

He wanted a shower.

He searched the stuff Mycroft had brought, there was fresh underwear and fresh things to wear on the streets, but no pyjamas… he went on, and found a new, still packed set of black sweat pants in his size… What were those for? He was not about to be forced to do morning exercise?… Were those supposed to be worn instead of pyjamas?… He sniffed at the idea and that he'd need to wear them unwashed, but unpacked the clothing and headed to the bathroom.

Chapter Text

When Sherlock heard a sound from the room he hurried to step out of the bathroom.

He had just finished shaving and his hair was still damp. He stood in the open door, his eyes searching the room for what might have caused the noise when John moaned in a low voice.

Sherlock looked at the wall clock, too early for the painkillers to have worn off. He stepped closer to the bed.

John's eyes were squeezed shut and he was panting slightly, the blanket rumpled and John's left leg bare.

"John, are you in pain?" Sherlock asked in a low voice, dragging the duvet back over his leg. No answer. "Joohn?" No reaction at all.

He stopped himself before touching him. If John was having a nightmare about the war it wouldn't be wise to do so.

The doctor seemed to struggle for breath. Was he having trouble breathing?

Sherlock's gaze wandered to the monitors and watched the numbers on the displays closer. Oxygen level was fine, even a bit elevated. Was it possible to have a panic attack while sleeping? The heartbeat gained speed constantly, would soon cause a nurse or a doctor to rush in.

"John, wake up!" The detective ordered in a loud voice. John's eyes were moving fast under his closed lids now.

The door burst open and a young male doctor came in.

"What's happening?"

"I think he has a nightmare or a flashback."

"Flashback?"

"Soldier with PTSD, recently back from the war." Sherlock informed briefly.

When the man reached for his penlight to shine it in John's eyes Sherlock interfered by holding his hand between them. "Don't touch him until it is really necessary. We don't want to provoke a forceful reaction."

The doctor's eyebrows raised but he stopped.

Sherlock read the nametag, Dr Elil, must be the nightshift.

"He seems not to be getting enough oxygen, I need to make sure his heart and lungs are okay! I want him sedated before he hurts himself or us."

"Don't be this dramatic! No sedative!… Not yet, at least… I think he might be reliving a moment where he couldn't breath from a few days ago. We should provide a relaxed atmosphere and oxygen."

The young doctor stared at the numbers on the screens, then put his stethoscope on John's chest. John recoiled with a startled noise, eyes closed and still panting, he curled onto his side away from the touch.

"I'm gonna get a sedative."

"I'll not let you administer it, though you might want to bring an oral one I can give to him later."

A swift wave of rage about being commanded in his own area of expertise by an amateur crossed the doctor's eyes. Sherlock never saw it, he was to busy staring at John and wondering what to do.

"John?… John, you are having a nightmare, wake up!" Sherlock carefully touched his shoulder from a distance. "John, wake up!"

Dr Elil stared at Sherlock. He saw a man who's voice was soothing and commanding in an odd mixture and he seemed to be convinced he was doing the right thing for his sick friend. His brother had made clear he had the patient's medical power of attorney and had to be listened to. He sighed, well, let him have his try, the patient didn't have heart problems, and was recovering fast in general. Maybe he'd let his friend calm him down. He left to get an oral medication.

Sherlock sighed inwardly when he heard the door close. John was now starting to flail and moments later struggled with the blanket. He carefully placed a hand on John's shoulder.

"John, you can breathe fine, just open your eyes and look at me and you'll see I am right!" Sherlock ordered when he saw the oxygen level was slowly sinking.

John moved uncoordinated on the bed.

"John! Wake up, you are having a nightmare!"

John blinked, not seeing. The heart monitor started a humming alarm.

Sherlock switched the sound of immediately. No need to add more stress to the room.

"Tell me what you are experiencing…. JOHN!" He almost yelled. "Tell me."

"C'nt breez…" John was half asleep but obviously awake enough to hear him.

Sherlock reached for the former, already used oxygen mask that was now dangling from the wall above the bed and switched on the vent.

"I'm gonna give you some oxygen, roll onto your back."

When John didn't he took his shoulder and helped him to roll back far enough for easy access to his face. John didn't resist but didn't help either.

"It would be tremendously kind of you if you'd not fight me… or attack me…" Sherlock tried to loosen the situation.

He gently held the mask to John's face, partially he hoped this would have a psychological effect as well as a physical one.

He assumed John was remembering… and had just relived the panic he had felt when it wasn't possible to suck in air after he had been stung.

Sherlock tried to do the same thing he had done then: provide oxygen and… yes, there was something else… Sarah had made him provide comfort… She had said: state the obvious and repeat the facts that proved to John that he was not in danger, not dying and would recover.

What would have happened if John's hadn't recovered… ? …If he had lied to him and nothing were fine…? …Now, that was kind of an odd sensation, when his stomach seemed to gain weight and made him want to sit down… He shoved the unwanted sensation away… not the best situation to get sidetracked with dark thoughts now. John was fine. He hadn't died and he was not dying now… Sherlock's gaze shifted to the heart monitor and checked the numbers once more, just to make sure. Not good, but not bad either, oxygen levels had slightly climbed. He looked down to John's face and found him wearily watching him closely with glazed eyes.

"You are okay, just breathe normally… no need to panic…" He tried to use what Sarah had said.

He felt uneasy, because of John's look… because he couldn't interpret it.

Was John fully awake?

Was he even seeing? The gaze was kind of vacant, but fortunately the other man's breathing had slowed down and was deeper now.

"You're with me?" Sherlock asked carefully, sitting down on the bed. With one hand he was still holding the mask to his face, with the other he dragged the blanket up to the doctor's shoulders when he saw goose bumps on his arms.

"John, can you hear me?"

It took several seconds but then John hummed a response, but a few seconds later his eyes closed. Sherlock had expected he'd open them again, but after a minute John's posture relaxed visibly. He stared down at his friend, puzzled.

Dr Elil came back into the room.

"What are you doing?" He asked, staring at the patient, who had within seconds turned from having a full blown panic attack into… he looked at the monitors… sleep?

"His oxygen level was sinking and I believe he was reliving the episode when he couldn't breathe because the venom interfered with his muscle control… so I decided to give him oxygen. It seemed to have calmed him down…" Sherlock spoke in a low voice. "Is he asleep?"

"You can assert that his oxygen level is too low, but not if your friend is asleep?" The nightshift doctor raised his eyebrows, his voice almost whispering and he then smiled slightly. After warming the stethoscope he took his time to listen to John's heart and lungs soundly.

"He is sleeping and fine. Good reaction… But I'll leave the meds on the table in case he needs them, inform the nurse you gave them to him in the morning." The man checked the tubes and lines, afraid that John might have dislocated something by his movements, but obviously found nothing faulty, so checked the IV-bags, switched the alarm on the heart monitor to the 'on' position again and wished them a good night before leaving the room.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows about the fact how much trust he was given here… This was not normal… probably Mycroft's doing.

His thoughts returned to the events that had happened it the flat right after John had been stung… It was not a nice memory… He'd even dare to say it was slightly distressing. Sherlock felt heavy and put the mask back since John wouldn't need it any longer.

He stood a bit lost staring down on his flatmate's sleeping form, then decided to study the new evidence Lestrade had brought.

He'd go get some coffee from the cafeteria as soon as John was asleep for half an hour without any signs of distress.

And he did. He spend the night thinking, his own cluelessness was disappointing and he hoped to find out more in the morning with Lestrade.

When Sherlock left the hospital room to meet Lestrade John was still sound asleep. Sherlock did not like to leave but fought the uneasiness down.

"Finally, where have you been?" Sherlock greeted the DI when hurrying towards the car that had stopped in front of him in the garage of the hospital. Lestrade had agreed to pick him up where he could leave unseen.

"Nice to see you, too, Sherlock. How is John?"

"Better, tired. Rough night. Where exactly are we heading?"

"Maybe… There is a circus, camping near Watford for the off-season… Better to go there take a look myself. Might get us further without being recognized before we even leave the car."

An hour later they neared the site where the circus stayed. I was a huge area with a large number of caravans, an enclosure, and some cages.

Lestrade noticed Sherlock was taking everything in, even more intensely than usual, his eyes darting around in hyperactivity.

"We have to ask about the location of the ringmaster's office, I guess." Lestrade said when they walked towards the entrance area.

"Ringmaster?"

"Of course."

"You mean they actually exist?"

"Of course!…. They are the mangers of these things…. have you never been to a circus in your youth?"

Sherlock said nothing.

They passed the gate, none was there to be seen, but as soon as they reached it a dog started barking loudly nearby and a huge man hurried towards them.

"What do you want?" He asked gruffly and he didn't seem to be friendly with strangers.

"We'd like to speak to the ringmaster."

"Why?"

"I will tell him when I see him."

"Sorry, but he's busy, tell me what you want and come back later.

"No. You'll go and get him." Lestrade held up his badge, the guy looked from Lestrade to Sherlock and back, obviously calculating his next actions.

"Actually…. We have a manager who doesn't play the role of the ringmaster in the arena…. And an artist who is the better ringmaster…" He informed hesitantly. "Follow me." He headed to a container that was labelled 'Office' and knocked, then entered but closed the door in their faces, preventing them to get in.

"His manners are almost as good as yours." Lestrade taunted.

Sherlock had no time to react to the insult because the door was opened again and the tall man gestured them to enter.

The office was chaotic, stuffed with three desks and several antique looking computers. Several tables were laden with papers, posters, and it looked like a lot of work in there.

"Okay, thank you, Frank. You can go… and tell Sandra to be in time for her training for once….. Good day to you, officer…. How may I be of help."

"We are looking for an Asian man with a small ape." Lestrade went straight to the point.

Sherlock watched the man carefully.

"Asian?"

"Chinese to be exact." Sherlock added. "And maybe with a gibbon as a pet."

"We have an Indian artist and a helper from Taiwan, but none from china…. And no gibbon in the whole camp."

The man was puzzled, Sherlock observed.

"Though it might be a good idea to have some, children would love them." The haggard and weather-beaten man smiled. "Why are you looking for someone like that?"

"Do you know anybody with knowledge about scorpions?"

"No. Not exactly what you'd need in a circus."

"I am not talking about need, more like someone keeping them as pets … or even breeding them." Lestrade continued.

"No." The man frowned. "Why do you ask?"

"We found some scorpions somewhere they don't belong and are looking for the owner." Lestrade diffused the meaning of it skilfully.

"No, sorry."

"Do you have any small apes here at all?"

"Yes, in fact there are three capuchin apes with a youngster… they are in the stables if you'd like to see them….. But what's that got to do with the scorpions?"

"Nothing." Sherlock blocked the conversation. "Let's go." He headed for the door.

"You want to see them?" The manager wanted to know.

"Who?"

"The apes." The man was confused.

"No." Sherlock opened the door. "Thank you for your help." His faked smile was exaggerated, Lestrade observed, when he followed him.

"Where are we going?"

"Zoo."

"Could you have the amicability to tell me what you are thinking?… Thank you." He nodded a goodbye to the manager and closed the door after them.

"He knows nothing, this is a dead end. We need to check the zoos."

"Okay…" Lestrade sighed.

And they did. Two brought nothing new but at the third they had a short conversation with the head and security and were told they had indeed an Asian keeper who was caring for the spiders, scorpions and lizards. The man in question had his day off, they decided to visit him.

On the drive Lestrade observed Sherlock tapping his fingers on the inner lining of the car constantly. He threw him several short glanced.

Sherlock didn't look fresh at all. When his phone signalled he had a text he hurried to fetch it so fast the phone almost slipped through his fingers. Lestrade frowned, clumsiness wasn't like Sherlock.

"What is it?"

"Nothing. Just John asking what we are doing."

"He is probably bored." Lestrade guessed while Sherlock texted back.

Chapter Text

John was partially glad when Sherlock had announced he'd be gone for the morning, investigating with Lestrade. He was glad Sherlock had been with him when he had felt so bad, but now he dreaded for some minutes of privacy. He was grateful he had had company during his ordeal, he really was, despite Sherlock's odd way of showing… yeah, what was it? Care?

Things were different with Sherlock, he had understood that already. Sherlock was operating on a different set of rules, a different mindset. The conversation in the taxi a few days ago had it again made quite clear that Sherlock didn't do things different because he wanted to, or because he wanted to be different… but that it was how he worked.

His youth must have been a rough time… learning the rules of the world and trying to cope as every child had to, but then realising the rules didn't work out as promised by the grown ups, teachers, and the rest of the world. The frustration when the expected results didn't come and he had to figure out why, probably alone… and then working on finding the sets of rules that would apply to him… also alone, by trial and error… but when managing to find out what works for him, learning that the world didn't approve, maybe even punished him for them… John understood Sherlock's frustration.

He promised himself to try to learn about the pathways Sherlock's mind took and why and in more detail in the future….

He assumed his care… if it was care he had been given…. had had the same evolution… or was this just the beginning of Sherlock learning about this topic?…. Several of his friend's statements had hinted he was totally new with this, even kind of lost. Well, at least he was willing to follow instructions. John remembered Sarah had ordered him to do things… and Sherlock had done them, maybe hesitating, maybe only to find out if they would work for him, but he had tried. And John was grateful and even amazed to what extend, Sherlock had tried to sooth him if he remembered right…. and established physical contact.

Sarah had taught him some bedside manners. John couldn't help but smiled. It had felt so awful, but that aspect was… warming. Sherlock must have been really worried.

Partly the time after coming back from Afghanistan had been so bad because he was so alone.

The emergency surgery had taken place somewhere he couldn't remember, but there were only strangers and distant faces, when he was med-evaced everybody was kind, but… he felt so left alone with his pain and fear and memories….

He knew nobody and none had the time to care for more than his body's needs… and all his buddies had stayed in war… Then he had been in surgery again… and he was alone, no friends, no visitors, no distraction… Finally rehabilitation and PT and psychotherapy… Harry had seen him when he was in rehab… but… she was not what he had needed. He had felt abandoned… by the world, by happiness, by everything that was good in life.

Now, there was Sherlock, whose mere presence was making him feeling not alone, though until last week he had been sure Sherlock had the talent to abandon and ignore every single need he might have and would be gone the moment he would need his presence.

He remembered last night. He remembered how easy it was to trust Sherlock's abilities once he had understood the depth of his knowledge and skills and that they were even deeper than one could guess even when he was showing off. The knowledge that was behind this was incredible and if one understood the enormity of it the word showing off became less and less appropriate.

Sherlock was just using what was in his grasp and range, like everybody else would… though he was enjoying putting together the pieces and seeing them slip into place… and also explaining what he saw. It was not his fault the rest of the world didn't have the same understanding of things and of course it was frustrating for him to be misunderstood, tired of explaining.

John was sure when he explained things he left out two thirds of what was actually in his mind because he knew it would be just too much and too boring for the average person. Sometimes he seemed a bit lost about what to leave out and he compressed stuff the average mind needed to understand and then mistakenly assumed he was lying or dumb because he reduced at the wrong point.

The fact that Sherlock had prevented him from being sedated again last night, when he had had a nightmare about suffocating and how he had dealt with it, showed John again how much Sherlock cared and how much he actually listened and understood… As soon as one managed to get through to make him realise he needed to listen. When his mind, still halfway caught in his nightmare, had registered Sherlock was there and pressing the mask onto his face he knew he wouldn't be left to asphyxiate. This fact had been more than crucial in fighting off the panic attack.

This morning he had found the sedative on the table. Sherlock had told him that he had prevented it from being administered, he was grateful because he knew he often got more bad dreams from the stuff. It was still there.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. His doctor and two nurses rushed in. They gave him an thoroughly exam and removed the remaining tubes and wires.

Finally one of the nurses helped him wash in bed, he was not allowed to shower, yet. But he was helped into one of his sweat pants and his favourite jumper. It was more difficult than he had expected because he was still uncoordinated and the headrush he got when slowly standing up made it even worse. But when they had finally managed… it was good! It smelled like home and felt like some kind of shelter.

He sighed with the luxury of the good sensation when she parked him in a chair next to the bed while she put clean sheets on it.

Back in the clean bed… this felt even better.

"Thanks! This is great." He smiled at her when she left the room. He had just started to write Sherlock a text message when they brought lunch. He finished the text and send it before turning towards the meal. At least it consisted of real potatoes and carrots and some meat but he looked forward to Mrs Hudson's pastries in the bedside table he'd fetch as soon as the tray was gone. He hadn't eaten any of the breakfast so he was in fact a bit hungry, he ate the two potatoes, not enjoying a single bite.

But the little exercise of changing clothes had left him exhausted and he was asleep again before they came to get the tray.

The keeper named Yong opened the door when Sherlock and Lestrade rang and let them in willingly after Lestrade had shown his badge and briefly explained why they were there.

"We found some scorpions where they didn't belong and would now like to know if you have some at home or breed them."

The young man stated he only worked with them at the zoo and had no private interest, he was eager to show them his rooms to prove his statement. His answers seemed honest but too fast to Sherlock.

"Have you heard anything about three missing fat tailed scorpions or someone who might be breeding them and who owns a gibbon." Lestrade probed further, Sherlock cursed inwardly about the blunt approach, something was… difficult.

The young Chinese-looking man hesitated.

"A gibbon?"

"You have heard of someone with a gibbon." Sherlock stated, it was an observation, not a question.

"… Ehh, yes….."

"Who?" Lestrade wanted to know.

"I…. I don't know his name."

"Do you know how to meet him?"

"No."

"Have you been threatened?" Sherlock tried to find the reason for the man's sudden nervousness.

"Ehm….. no."

"But someone has told you about a persons who owns a gibbon…Who?" Sherlock demanded to know.

"Yes, my sister."

"And what exactly did she tell you?"

"There was a Chinese man, middle aged, he had contact to her friends somehow… and… and he told her he had heard I work with scorpions and that I could earn some good money by getting some for him. She told him I was an honourable person and to go buy some in a store. He slapped her in the face for her stroppy reply."

"Did he threaten her?" Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

"Not that I know of…. but she was kind of shaken…. And she said some friends of her had seen him with a monkey before, somewhere at a… there's water… and maybe a camping ground."

"Which one?"

"She didn't tell."

"Can you ask her?"

"Is this dangerous?" The obviously suspicious young man asked.

"We still need to find that out. This is really important. If you need protection we will give it, be assured." Lestrade tried to appease him, but it did the opposite, Yong became more and more nervous.

"I… I will ask my sister, how can I reach you?" the young man stuttered.

Lestrade left his card and the offer to call him anytime but tried to press ahead a bit more. Can you call her now?"

"No, she is working in the medical profession and I can't disturb her now, shift just started."

Lestrade thanked him and they left the building several seconds later.

"That was most intriguing. We are getting somewhere, finally!" Sherlock stated, obviously in an exhilarated mood.

"If he really calls us back with the information, he was… maybe… frightened."

"Yes, but you'll get him and his sister to Scotland Yard if he doesn't talk… and search for camping grounds in the vicinity."

"I already have the list, we want to start with the ones en route back to London?"

"Where… No."

"What?… Why not?" Lestrade handed him the list.

"I need to go back to the hospital."

"What for?… You are worried?" Lestrade raised his eyebrows.

They climbed into the car and headed back.

"I need to think."

"Why don't you think on the way."

"Can't…."

"I don't believe it, you are worried." Lestrade gave a friendly chuckle.

"…and it would be a lot faster to call the owner of the camping grounds and simply ask, there are just too many to go to every single one in a proper amount of time… According to the addresses at least four of those are near some body of water… no, wait, even more… like six maybe…." Sherlock was studying the list.

Lestrade eyed Sherlock, he looked kind of dishevelled, well, he had spend the past three nights in a hospital and was probably worrying about John more than he himself knew.

"I need some lunch. You want to accompany me? There is a nice diner on our way."

"No." Sherlock left out the usual lecture about how eating was a dense idea when working, which caused Lestrade to worry some more. He hadn't expected a 'yes' anyway. He decided to eat at the Scotland Yard cafeteria later.

Chapter Text

Sherlock hurried down the stairs back to John's room, half the way down he wondered why he was in such a hurry and slowed down. He needed a coffee, and soon.

John looked up when he entered the ICU hospital room, he was sitting on the bed, dressed in his clothes and looked a lot better than in the morning. He was still connected to an IV, but all the other wires were gone. Sherlock stepped inside and John gave the impression to be really glad he was back… irritated he sensed he himself might also be glad to know John was safe and well. This knowledge felt funny, unsettling and slightly tingling. Wasn't it supposed to be a positive feeling to be glad for ones welfare? He was glad his face was an emotionless mask when he slipped out of his coat.

John had been typing on his laptop but now looked at him expectantly.

"What did you learn?" He asked without introduction.

"How do you know we did learn something?"

"I can see it on your face… I, too, learn how to read your face, you know."

"My face shows nothing."

"Dream on… you should eat… there are some pastries left."

"Why?… what do you read on my face?"

"You look like shit… Mrs Hudson was here a minute ago and brought some more cake and a thermos with hot coffee." John pointed at a large shopping basket in the corner.

"Oh, that's… great!" Sherlock threw his coat to the chair and almost rushed to the basket. Her coffee was the best and preferable to all else. He poured a large cup and added several spoons of sugar, all stored neatly in the basket.

John giggled slightly when Sherlock sank into the chair with a slightly blessed expression on his face… which was then followed by irritation.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing is funny. I just enjoy seeing how much you enjoy her coffee."

"You are laughing at me? "

"Of course not! Stop implying I act on base motives as that." John protested. "There is a kind of humour, or in this case better of delight, that is based on seeing someone enjoying something and be glad that he or she is enjoying her- or himself… and to like it or feel delighted oneself by witnessing and

liking it that the person enjoys something. It is a very pure and kind way of humour / delight."

"Oh." Sherlock drank some more.

"Maybe you understand it better if I tell you that when I drank my first cup about an hour ago I probably had a similar look on my face."

A slight grin flit across Sherlock's face, a real one. John wondered how long his flatmate hadn't slept since his emotions were pretty close to the surface these past twenty-four hours. "Now, I see you understand."

"Maybe. I am just not used to this kind of humour."

"And what kind of humour are you used to?"

"One that I myself would not call humour at all."

"Try the blueberry cake, it's gorgeous." John tried to encourage him. "Come on, what kind of humour are you confronted with?"

"People usually laugh at me or my misery…"

"That's what people do, the dumber they are, the more they do so…. At least in my opinion.

"And they are offended by my sense of humour."

"Maybe that's because they don't understand it. Sometimes you laugh when nobody knows why, then people think you laugh at them and are offended…"

"I don't laugh at them. I laugh and they get distracted and miss the punch line themselves because they are so slow understanding it, or because my mind saw it but theirs are not subtle enough to understand, or because of me distracting them and then they blame me and think I am making fun of them and… and all because I laugh about the oddity of situations or decode the point before they do."

"…and as long as you don't enjoy another's misery this is another kind and pure form of humour… It's fine."

"And I laugh about clues and often in sarcasm."

"But that is not real laughter and not humour… and you laugh to hide hurt."

"What?… What makes you think that?" Sherlock's tone had a hint of sharpness in it now.

"No offence… I doubt anyone ever notice, so don't be alarmed. It's an aspect of the sarcasm laughter, it's also not real laughter, and it's not unusual, it's a protection mechanism, but people misunderstand those a lot."

"With me? What makes you say that?"

"Don't get defensive, I am just trying to explain something here."

"I know. I don't like the whole smiling and laughing theme. Took me years to work on that database."

"Database?… You lost me. I don't understand it."

"There is a database, it lists when normal people laugh or it is expected to laugh and which kind of laughter is required."

"God…." John leaned backwards in the cushions and looked at the ceiling, just now a lot of things about Sherlock slipped into place.

"You are… disgusted?" Sherlock sounded slightly insecure now.

"No… I am just a bit overwhelmed with the gained insight."

"Why?"

"What does it say?"

"What?"

"The database, tell me how it is constructed… how it works."

"I… that's difficult."

"Why?"

"Because the entries are… not words… they are sensory perceptions… and sensations… and to describe them with words would be… insufficient."

"I don't want to know the entries, just describe the thing itself… Is the delight about a situation or how a situation must be to be feel funny also in there?"

"No."

"No?… Why not?"

"Because there are only things in there I don't think are funny or I wouldn't laugh about… No need because I know when I am touched by humour and the reaction is… spontaneous… Though there is a… section I created a few years ago that collects data about in which situations not to let my delight surface."

"Okay, so what is in there?"

"Information about situations I fail to feel humour… a large amount of occasions where it is required to smile out of politeness… or manners."

"E.g.?"

"When somebody congratulates me, or when somebody thanks me, or…"

"Wait, you don't feel you need to smile in those situations?"

"Well,… no, why?" Sherlock sipped his coffee slowly.

"Normal people feel good in those situations, that's why they smile."

"Yes, and I don't that's why there is the database."

"So what do you feel in those situations?" John raised his hands in question.

"Nothing, it feels like all the other situations all day."

"You mean there is no difference to making tea or entering a taxi or do the laundry?" John poked deeper.

"No."

"Okay… What else?" John had not expected that one.

"Situations in which I want somebody to do something and how to be kind to make them do it. All those interactions with society that need a smile on your face… And the variations of smiles that are required."

John hesitated.

Sherlock was just opening up to him and he was amazed by the trust he was just given, he was not sure it was a good idea to put criticism in the conversation… but the thoughts he had were not, it was honesty, wasn't it?

So he asked "You are… aware the database is sometimes a bit… faulty, especially at that last one?"

"Yess, as I said, it is difficult… especially since the database not only deals with smiles but with all outer appearances of emotions that people expect from an individual in this country and even foreign societies."

"And you are telling me that there are none of your own feelings in it that trigger one of those responses…."

"To be honest, there are entries that are linked with another database that stores how things feel for me and how I'd describe emotions and sensations, and how they feel different from normal peoples', and how to translate them, and what people want to hear if I feel them. Most of the entries say: hide it… as it is with laughter about a situation… with the hint why people might get offended and how they act then."

"Hell, this is huge…."

"I don't understand…"

"Thank you for that insight, this means a lot to me, you understand that?"

"No. I thought it was obvious that I do it that way."

"It's not. But could you do me a favour?….. Don't hide real laughter when we are in private, would you?"

"Why?"

"Since I seem to understand it at least sometimes, I would appreciate you share a laugh if you found one…" John elaborated but Sherlock still looked a bit bewildered. "Would be kind to share good things with a friend, you know."

"Oh. Sure. The database already contains several tags that indicate your translation to things and… views… and…" Sherlock answered though John saw the wheels turning in his mind wildly, he decided to let them process.

"Okay, I got the idea. Have some cake."

"No."

John had hoped he could trick him, but… as expected, failed. Was worth the try.

"Then tell me what you learned."

They spend the following two hours updating each other on what had happened during the day. Until a knock at the door announced another visitor.

Mycroft entered and unceremoniously started explaining them that since John was about to be released the day after tomorrow and that it wouldn't be wise to return to their flat they should come with him and stay at the Diogenes or stay at a safe house.

This resulted in a heated discussion between Sherlock and Mycroft. Sherlock intended to go back to the flat and wait for their next move while Mycroft considered that absurd and abnormally naïve from Sherlock.

When John informed Sherlock that he considered the offer in earnest, he hated to say it, but he was on Mycroft's side with this, it made Sherlock even more unnerved.

Finally a nurse stepped in with John's dinner and begged them to keep their voices down, since their discussion could be heard in the whole ward.

The situation calmed down without a solution and Mycroft left informing them they had about twenty-eight hours to decide.

When nurse aid picked up the tray some time later John hadn't touched it, blessedly she had given up on commenting.

John returned to ask questions about the trip with Lestrade and meeting Yong in order to distract Sherlock and that way calm the situation down again, but Sherlock only answered with tirades about how idiotic Mycroft's suggestion was.

Finally John decided to ignore it and returned to writing about an older case for his blog. When he started proofreading Sherlock was sitting on the cot, he had never touched the thing before. John listened to his monologue again and heard Sherlock inserting several more details in between his ranting. John pricked his ears, but then his eyes became heavier and heavier and remembered him he was still convalescing. He shut down the computer and tried to listen.

Another few minutes later his eyes closed and he fell asleep again.

Sherlock never even realized that John had dozed off until much later.

He stopped mid-sentence when his gaze finally fell onto the sleeping doctor. In silence he moved the table away from the bed and took the laptop to the other table, recharging the battery. He unfolded the list of camping grounds again and switched on the laptop to do some more research. He marked those that were open all year and those who provided keys or other electronic methods so that the camping dwellers could come and go at their liking.

Two hours later the night nurse came in to check on them and left again within sixty seconds.

Sherlock was now reading into mountain bike lubricants in detail. He had finished the basics within twelve minutes and now turned to more specialized topics and background information.

John's sleep changed into uneasy rest a bit later.

Sherlock stood up and dimmed the lights, John turned over for the seventh time in fifteen minutes. He stood in the middle of the room, dithering what was best to do to stop the nightmares. He stepped closer to the bed. Last night he had done some research on nightmares and night terrors, the differences of the two and what one could do as first aid. He was up to a little experiment and stepped closer to the bed. He continued thinking out loud in a low voice and it seemed to help. John seemed to relax in his sleep a bit.

He was amazed. He himself would be annoyed if someone would talk when he was sleeping, but he'd also be unable to sleep with another person present in the room, so it would not happen at all. He slowed down his speech and tried talking an octave down. John calmed, not entirely, but noticeable. Overall his sleep was difficult through the whole night but John never woke.

Chapter Text

The next day passed with nothing interesting happening. Sherlock and Lestrade visited several campsites, those where the managers had hinted that there might be some Asian campers. It turned out there were all kind and helpful people, enjoying their retirement and some families with small children escaping the city for the weekend.

The lack of news frustrated Sherlock and when he came back to John's hospital room he didn't talk at all. John had looked forward to Sherlock coming back and telling him about the research. The idleness made him restless, he was bored and eager to know what was going on, but Sherlock ignored him and his questions. So John continued to do what he had done all day, reading one of his books, slowly walking to the bathroom every few hours (he was actually really glad he could do that alone now), writing his blog and ignoring the trays with meals. He was glad his body was recovering so fast but his appetite had not come back yet, and when it did he wanted some cake or coffee. He knew he should eat, he knew he needed healthy nutrition but he didn't care. Everything tasted bad, it was a side effect of the meds or the venom itself, and the hospital food smelled so disgusting he wasn't eager to even try it. Some time after the night's movie John dosed off.

Several hours into the next day, Sherlock continued to catalogue John's sleeping modes during the night. His sub-consciousness had started this the first night they had spend at the hospital, he continued through the second and now he was doing it fully aware and with the intention to learn... He had never before had the chance to study someone sleeping, not in detail. Of course he had seen people take a nap or a resting baby… but that was different, he now realized, a lot different. Every night brought new modes and the progression was also different each night.

Tonight John's mind seemed to try to resist sleep, the state was unsettling, even for Sherlock watching it, but this at least was a state he knew well. He was quite sure John was experiencing nightmares, too. He knew the former soldier had those due to his PTSD, but had never before watched him have one.

He decided to establish a new sub-database which catalogued John's forms of sleep, when he remembered he had only one for his own modes, but didn't know if they were similar to other person's. Usually things tended not to be similar.

He had also never spent a night at a hospital with someone. People usually didn't do this, do they? Doctors would ask them to leave for the night or when visiting hours where over. Maybe not if it was really bad… Bad like in dying-bad?… He'd have hated to be thrown out even if he could've gone home. Why? Maybe because of the same reason he had had not liked the thought of leaving the room at all. Was this sentiment? The need to know what happened around John? But he also needed to know what happened with the facts and clues of cases. That was not sentiment… was it caring? Maybe. Was needing to know about people sentiment? Was it a symptom or an equation? He wasn't sure. Whatever it was, it was more intense than being bored or usual frustration. John did another turn and a low noise which brought Sherlock out of his thoughts.

At about 7.30 John finally woke with a start, looking up at Sherlock, who was sitting next to the bed and was looking right at him.

"What are you doing?"

"Observing."

"What?"

"States of rest."

"You're watching me sleep?"

"Since it seemed to be your new favourite occupations theses days it was a proper chance to spend time on the topic.

"Great!" John sounded a bit unnerved. "Could you stop that?"

"Why?"

"I am not a lab rat, Sherlock!… So stop it."

"But it's…"

"I said STOP IT! I am watched and poked and prodded enough here, I don't need you to add to that, okay?!" John sat up stiffly.

"Fine." Sherlock retorted, clearly displeased.

The next moment the nurse aid came in and ended the quarrel with her mere presence. The small blond girl placed the try at the bedside table and smiled at John.

"You need to eat, the doctor is watching your eating habits closely since you seem to refuse the food. I suggest you try it… if you want to avoid a dress-down from her." The girl shyly informed, looking at the floor.

Sherlock rolled his eyes when she was heading for the door again.

"I need a coffee!" He informed when John let his legs dangle over the edge of the bed and pulled the table with the tray near to eat.

"You can have mine if you get me a tea from the cafeteria later." John offered.

"Thank you." Sherlock took the mug and spooned a small mountain of sugar from Mrs Hudson's basket into it while John started buttering a slice of toast.

A few seconds later, Sherlock was still standing, he sipped the coffee and frowned. Could they not even make something that distantly resembled of coffee?… Well, it was a lot worse than he had expected, but he needed caffeine.

He sat down on the edge of the bed next to John and sipped once more….. Now, wait, he knew this taste… and it had nothing to do with bad coffee or a canteen kitchen… this was not good! He stared into the mug. It reminded him of one of his experiments, one that he had done several years ago.

He sniffed the mug. Couldn't be… Was his sense of smell distorted because of the stink of the hospital?

At large the thing was playing havoc on his senses, he knew that. He was trying to suppress it since they had arrived. Another possibility was his lack of sleep. He knew that after several days his body started to feel odd with the lack of sleep, his senses shifted minutely and his smell sometimes becomes far more intense… taste too, but one could simply avoid the last one.

He sniffed the mug again. No. No error, he knew this smell.

He jumped up when John was about to take the first bite of his toast now covered with jam. He slapped it from John's hand on the way to the sink next to the door.

"Don't touch the food!" He yelled and opened the tab, washing his mouth thoroughly and gurgled.

"Sherlock?" John sounded badly surprised.

"The coffee is… there's something in there that doesn't belong…" He stated before taking in another mouthful of water.

"Oh, god…" John reached for the call button.

"I need a doctor in here ASAP!" He spoke into the intercom. He struggled out from under the overbed table and stepped over to join Sherlock at the washbasin.

"What is it?… How bad is this?" His voice was steady but he was white as a sheet.

"Not that bad if I can get some charcoal fast… I only swallowed about two teaspoons. We need …."

In that moment the door flew open and John's doctor rushed in.

"What happened?" She wanted to know.

"It seems someone poisoned my breakfast." John informed.

"What?"

"Sherlock drank coffee that seemed to be laced with something poisonous… Do you know what it is?" He turned towards Sherlock.

"I suspect Amanita phalloide." Sherlock answered.

"What?… That's impossible! How should a fungus get into the coffee?" Dr Herald was shocked. "…and why do you think it is in there?"

"I tasted it."

"How do you know what it tastes like?" John raised his eyebrows. "Did you try it before?"

"I smelled the smashed mushrooms before and I read how it tastes." Sherlock answered. "I need the coffee tested and some activated charcoal if you don't mind… and we should better find out if it was only this tray that was poised or if there were more."

"Oh god, we can't stop a whole hospital eating breakfast!"

"I doubt very much that there are much more trays with this deadly meal… Especially since we're here because of another poisonous attack."

The doctor turned towards the nurse that had just followed her into the room.

Dr Herald yelled at her to call security and the head of department, then headed towards the intercom and ordered all personal to stop the patients eating.

"We need a lab test… and charcoal now!" John ordered the next nurse who stepped in, now in full doctor mode himself. When he reached for the mug Sherlock stopped him.

"Don't compromise the evidence! We need to get it to forensics. Call Lestrade!"

"No, first we need to make sure you're okay. Do you know how much is dangerous and how much is in there?"

"I believe for a person my weight approximately 35 to 40 gram would be a lethal dose. Since it was in the coffee it was probably only a part of the dose, I assume there is much more in the jam and the hazelnut spread, that would hide the taste better. They probably dispersed it to make sure you'd ingest enough for a lethal dose even when you left half the meal… And that means there is at least twice the amount needed on that tray… According to the taste I think the amount I ingested it small, therefore easily treatable. Pass me a sample container, please."

Dr Herald was not pleased to be ordered around but knew about the stress patients and loved ones where under here and had learned to live with it, this was probably one of those stress-reactions with these two. Additionally she was shocked about the extent of the problem and the turns of events, and therefore too slow for Sherlock's liking. She handed him some urine beaker into which he transported some of the dark liquid with a pipette.

Nurses came in to report that the stopping of the breakfast was only partially effective and to ask for further instructions. One was send to inform the administration, one to get an activated carbon suspension and one to run directly and personally to the labs with the coffee sample. All hell broke lose within seconds.

"Can you please sit on the bed, I need to examine you." The doctor pointed to the bed.

"That's completely useless, symptoms will need several hours to manifest." Sherlock informed unhurriedly and started to spread some of the liquid on several Petri dishes, to some he added liquids and one sample he put under the microscope. When he looked through it he laughed.

"There might be fungus spores in there… not many, deformed, not sure." He reported, then added Iodine to one of the samples and watched it. "Well, I am quiet sure now my first assumption was right. Death Cap. Tastes mild and the taste is often associated with nuts."

John dragged Sherlock towards the bed, then ordered him to sit down while dialling. "Sit down and let her take your BP!" he ordered, foreboding Sherlock would fight her in earnest shortly. To his surprise Sherlock did what he was told.

The detective had looked at John and seen the stress in his posture and his grey complexion. This stress was not good for John's recovery and though his friend's commando tone was unmistakeable it was the pleading look in his eyes that made Sherlock comply. Lestrade had obviously picked up the phone since John started talking to someone.

Dr Harold handed him the solution and instructed him how to take it.

With a look of disgust that made John wonder if he had to drink it before Sherlock started gulping it down as fast as he could.

Meanwhile John informed a slightly shocked Lestrade of what had happened and urged him to come. When he had hung up he fetched the pulse oxymeter from the wall and clipped it on Sherlock's finger, who looked up at him in disgust, this time about being fussed about. John held up his hand to stop the nagging before Sherlock even started.

"We need some blood, bare your arm."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I don't think this is necessary. I need to analyse the samples."

"Well, I do, too. Therefore I need some blood and since you are in here this is my responsibility and I insist. I won't risk my job because this is uncomfortable to you, so let me do this." Dr Harold informed him, kindly smiling. Sherlock sighed excessively.

"Okay, but I want two additional samples for myself."

Now John rolled his eyes. This seemed to be not as bad as he had first thought when Sherlock had said which poison it was.

"Could you text my brother, inform him, too?" Sherlock held out his phone while the doctor was busy taking the samples. John did.

"I need your samples, too, Dr Watson."

"Sure."

John sat down next to Sherlock and waited for her to do her job.

"Stay seated and rest… And please write down what of the hospital food you ate in the past days and how much." Dr. Herald said while she walked out the door with the blood samples, two ones she had left on the table. John stood up.

"She informed you of the side effects of the coal?"

"She didn't have to, but she did, of course."

"Okay, Lestrade is on his way. How could they get in here?" John wondered aloud, now he was the one walking up and down the room.

"I don't know, but Lestrade will have to interview everybody who had access to the food on its way from the kitchen to this room."

"Oh god, I hope they did just put the stuff on our tray. They are ruthless enough to kill more people trying to get to us. How do you feel?"

"Fine."

"So what do we do now?"

"Be on alert for another attack."

"What?"

"They failed again, they'll try again, and they'll use more force and…"

"I think we should take your brother's offer and leave the hospital…" John interrupted him. "…that way at least other people won't be endangered by this, too."

"I start to think you might be right." Sherlock agreed, though hesitating a bit.

John couldn't believe his ears. When he was about to express his surprise Sherlock's phone rang and Mycroft asked for details.

Chapter Text

Lestrade arrived with a forensic technician Sherlock had never seen before, and who didn't say a single word while in their room. But he packed all the evidence neatly after taking several samples and even more pictures.

Mycroft arrived several seconds after Lestrade with the head of the hospital and the chief of security. The spacious hospital room turned into a headquarter within two minutes, people rushing in and out, asking for orders, speaking into intercoms and mobile phones; and every time someone new arrived they asked Sherlock how he was.

After ten minutes Sherlock was so ticked off about the disarray and slow going tries to coordinate he smashed a metal lid against it's bin and yelled.

"Quiet!"

Mycroft who was standing next to John's bed rolled his eyes. John had sat down on it, it was kind of the only space not occupied with chaos and planning in the room.

"I'm fine, the dose was small, stop asking!" Sherlock continued to yell, ruffling his hair. "Can you please use your brains and get a grip on your coordination lacks. Lestrade, go to the kitchen, find out who packed the tray and Dr Herald, find that small blonde nurse aid that served John the meal."

"Susan is the best nurse aid we have and she is a shy thing, she'd never do such a thing."

"Don't underestimate these people's methods to make someone comply. Everybody has a pressure point," Sherlock grouched through the room, to drown out the new raising chaos.

"Mycroft, is the hospital closed off?"

"Yes," the head of security confirmed. "My staff is bringing everybody who touched that tray to the conference room."

"We also need to check on everybody that has started to work here within the past two days… or who wasn't supposed to be where he or she was… Make the staff report any anomalies about those things. Chances to find something are not high, but try it," Sherlock demanded and the head of security dialled again.

"Gentleman, can you please establish your base somewhere else? My patients need rest," Dr Herald tried.

Mycroft smirked, "Doctor, if we go somewhere else your patients would follow us there. So we can do this right here… Would be less stress than if they were running through the hospital. Spare yourself the stress to try to make them rest. You'll loose… unless you sedate them."

She sighed, "You're probably right. I'll talk to the nurses about abnormalities now, though they were already told to report strangers since Dr Watson's arrival."

She left. The chief of security and Mycroft followed her.

"Now, nice that we have the quiet to get your statement. Tell me what exactly happened," Lestrade started.

"Not much to tell, Sherlock wanted coffee. I gave mine to him. He realised it tasted odd, we alarmed the doc and Sherlock tested it for signs of Death Cap. The flash test confirmed his theory. That's it."

"So… your generosity saved your life," Lestrade smiled.

"Probably," Sherlock answered.

"I'd never have tasted it and would have thought it was the meds that were playing havoc with my sense of taste and smell. They actually do," John added.

"Can you list what and when you ate the hospital food?… Every meal since you are in here?"

"Hmmm…." John looked into the air demonstratively innocent.

"The first time he was brought something to eat I made the nurse take it away, the smell was offending my senses, it was intolerable. Then John missed a meal due to sleep aids, then…."

"All in all I ate two dry potatoes from a tray."

Lestrade giggled.

"You're telling me you didn't eat? You two must be driving the nurses crazy."

"Maybe… Mrs Hudson provided roast beef and cake and pastries… even coffee," John explained.

Lestrade laughed when he finally understood why John hasn't starved.

"You're really a hard nut for the syndicate. Maybe they are trying to poison you for days and you evade all their efforts by accident and luck."

"Today though I was told I'd get a dress-down if I don't start eating properly."

"By whom?"

"The nurse aid the doctor spoke about earlier, Susan."

They discussed the event in detail until Mycroft came back with Dr Herald.

"Randomly chosen half eaten meals have been checked by a specialist, neither those samples nor John's blood work show any signs of poisoning. For Sherlock's it is too early to tell."

They had interviewed the nurse aid and almost all people that had their hands on the tray. Nothing important was found except the fact that a young woman had been seen in the kitchen last night, who had explained that she was the new aid and was never seen again after the preparation of breakfast.

"Well, maybe it was her and she was smuggled in to poison your meal, and is gone now. Since John's blood work fortifies the thesis we probably won't see her again," Lestrade wildcatted.

"Now the kitchen personal is watching the CCTV recordings so that we might get a picture."

John had sat there in relative silence, he was tired and guessed that Sherlock must be, too. He hadn't seen him sleep since they arrived here, and eaten….? Only some cake and a bit of the pastries occasionally. John was waiting for Sherlock to interrupt and demonstrate his abilities or at least make a biting remark about incompetence, but it never came. The doctor watched him listen to the conversations and frowned, this was not like Sherlock. Was he suffering side effects from the activated charcoal? Probably. He'd need some privacy to deal with that. The door opened and a nurse pushed another hospital bed into the room.

"What's that for?" Sherlock asked though it seemed obvious for everybody that it was for his comfort.

"You'll be monitored here tonight and when there are no complications tomorrow you'll move to a safe location," Mycroft explained in a strict tone that didn't impress Sherlock at all.

"I don't need observation."

"Yes you do!" Mycroft and John said almost simultaneously and Lestrade laughed once more. The nurse removed the cot from the room and vanished with Dr Herald.

"I will not sleep in… that!" Sherlock's mood worsened by the minute.

"Fine, don't sleep. But you'll be monitored," John added.

Mycroft left to investigate and hindered Sherlock to follow him. Lestrade also left to speak to security once more.

Just when John was thinking it was nice to have some minutes in peace the young male dark-haired doctor came in, who had been at night shift when John had the panic attack. John barely remembered him being there and read the nametag, Dr. Elil. He signed Sherlock to sit on the bed.

Sherlock shook his head.

"What do you think you are doing?"

"I need to connect you to some monitors and an EKG."

"That won't be necessary, you can go."

Now John was getting shirty, too.

"Bloody hell, don't be such a baby, Sherlock!" he jumped out of his bed and stood in front of him. They were still both wearing their sweat pants and showing a pretty dishevelled appearance. John observed Sherlock's posture and expression, and stared him in the eyes for a second. Sherlock was tired and in pain. The doctor hustled him towards the bed.

"Sit Down!" he pushed him down to sit on it, "And shut the hell up!"

Sherlock clenched his teeth and seemed to be in a snit.

"Open you shirt!" John ordered while taking the sensor pads from Dr Elil's hands who stood by with a mixture of awe and amusement.

John wasn't amused at all. The past days had been really stressful and bad. He had had nightmares about the incident itself, sometimes they mixed with memories of Afghanistan. He felt his PTSD wasn't getting better with this. Sometimes anxiety rose in his chest and he had to fight it down. Being bored and have nothing to divert himself added to the problem. This latest development also didn't help. Sherlock's behaviour added to his frustration and he knew he'd need some space soon. Somewhere not in this hospital room crowded with machines and people.

Sherlock had unbuttoned the shirt and John stuck the pads to his chest not too gently but with the ease of having done that a thousand times, then he snatched the cables from the monitor and hooked them with the patches. Sherlock had rebuttoned his shirt before the doctors had the first readouts on the monitors.

"Why don't you lie back and relax?"

Sherlock sat there in silence, a bit pale. John observed him again, lips puckered in thinking and a frown on his face.

"Sherlock, are you feeling nauseous?"

"No," the answer came far to fast for John's liking. He went and fetched a bowl from a shelf and placed it next to Sherlock on the bed.

"I'll not use that, it's disgusting."

"If you use the floor instead you'll clean it up yourself and you'll have to listen to me complaining all night about the smell… And be assured I'm already nearing a pretty pissed state here, Sherlock!"

Sherlock turned towards the young doctor who was still fumbling with the monitors.

"Go away!"

"And don't be rude to the people who's job it is to help," John hissed.

With an irritated gesture, Sherlock laid down on the bed and turned away from them, towards the door, like a recalcitrant child. The young doctor left.

John closed his eyes, counting to ten to cool down, then returned to his own bed and pulled the duvet over his legs. They were both tired and frustrated. This was gonna be a very long day.

About half a silent hour later Mycroft returned and told them that the suspect was on tape and showed them a slightly distorted black and white picture, taken from a CCTV camera.

John had never seen her. Sherlock uttered the same but also that she seemed vaguely familiar nevertheless.

They discussed the matter of moving to a safe destination in the morning in detail. Afterwards Mycroft told them in specifics about the interviews with the stuff and the research.

John wondered at first why he did that but then understood that Mycroft saw that his brother was on the edge and that case details were the exact thing he needed. Being left out would probably push him over the edge soon, so Mycroft was trying to compensate. John smiled when he realised in awe this was a form of comfort… John had never thought it possible but Mycroft was actually helping. The older Holmes was comforting his little brother on purpose! Odd way to care. God, different set of rules… Mycroft knew what Sherlock needed and didn't fuss about it, but provided it.

John wondered why Sherlock hadn't stormed out of the room already, maybe he was too distracted to understand it. In the beginning of the conversation Sherlock was rude, but soon it turned into a solution-driven discussion.

The woman seemed to have been in the kitchen only for a short time, according to the camera footage. Even her arrival at the hospital could be spotted on the tapes, she wore a hospital staff uniform but wasn't filmed leaving. Mycroft had ordered two more of his men to come over to the hospital and guard the room constantly.

Sherlock demanded to get a weapon and to John's amazement the 'British government' opened his suitcase and handed him a small semi-automatic pistol and ammunition. Sherlock leaned over his bed and to even more amazement he held the weapon out for John to take it.

"Do you want me to put it under my pillow?" John asked with a grin.

"Yes," was Sherlock's plain answer. John giggled and put it into the bedside cabinet for starters.

"Actually I have another one."

Sherlock was handed another automatic, which he put under his pillow immediately.

"You two think she's still in here?"

"Yes," both Holmes answered.

"Great, that's great!" John sighed.

"You'll get out of here in the morning. A private nurse and doctor will be available at the accommodation any time and you'll be safe there," was Mycroft now trying to soothe him? That was so much out of character! He was in fact obviously worried.

"The guards have orders to let none in, except the staff they are familiar with, and you'll not leave this room without the company of one of them… is that understood, Sherlock? Mrs Hudson is gonna bring you something to eat."

"Yes, yes."

"How's Sarah?" John changed topics suddenly.

"I haven't seen her since I delivered her to the safe house, but she is guarded by my men and they reported she is fine. Not happy but not bad, either," Mycroft elaborated, "See you soon. I have some other things to do. I'll call if there are news. Good day." With that he turned away and left. As soon as he was gone Sherlock leaned towards the monitors he was connected to and turned all sounds they made off.

"Sherlock! Don't do that! That's there for a reason. I need to hear if it changes."

"Then look at the monitors, the noise is making me sick!"

"It's more likely you are nauseous because of the side-effects of the coal."

"No. Loud and unnerving noises do that, too. Especially if I try to rest. Altogether with the coal it is too much. Besides, if my heart stops there'll be an alarm at the nurse's station."

"Great." John cursed.

Chapter Text

Mrs Hudson visited them a little later, after she left Sherlock decided he needed to walk up and down the room to think. So he disconnected the cables from the monitors, bundled them into a loose knot and tucked them away into his shirt pocket.

John jumped out of his bed and was rewarded with a headrush, he swore.

"Blimey, Sherlock! Don't mess with the equipment."

"I didn't mess with it, I just unhooked myself, I need to think."

"Then think in your bloody bed!" John felt the agitation taking his toll once more, he was on the edge and slightly lightheaded.

"I can't, I need to move."

John rolled his eyes and determined he was already stressed out enough, he'd stop trying to make Sherlock behave like a patient right now, it was no use.

"Okay, do what you want! I need a break, so please think in silence!" he climbed back into his bed and lowered the head, then pulled the blanket up. Hell, he was tired. He heard Sherlock walk up and down the room. Two seconds later the door burst open and Dr Elil rushed into the room. Before he could start to rebuke Sherlock John held up his hand.

"Just leave it, it's not worth the effort. He is gonna plug it back in some time later… aren't you Sherlock?"

"Yes." Sherlock pressed out, kind of disgusted and with a dismissing move of his hand.

"So, just leave it," John's voice was weary and the doctor stepped closer to his bed.

"How are you doing?" he asked.

"Great, just great. Got a lovely roommate with a nice caring attitude and nothing to worry about at all. I'm peachy. Never been better."

The man gave him an understanding look and checked his pulse, BP and temperature. He plunged the oximeter back onto his finger which John had removed in the morning when all the action had started.

"You need to calm down and rest, Dr Watson."

"Now, how am I supposed to do that?" John retorted before biting back the sarcastic remark.

"I understand," Dr Elil said. "Is your hand hurting?" He turned towards the workspace and collected some things.

"Slightly."

When the doctor turned around again he held a syringe and before John could evade him he inserted the medication directly into his IV-port.

"Time for a new bag." He connected a new bag to his IV and inserted another medication into the bag.

"Oh, hell… you didn't just give me some of that… sleeping aid again?"

"I did… Rest."

"Shit…" John cursed, already feeling his body getting heavier.

"Why?" the man asked and looked into his face, his hand briefly touching John's shoulder.

"Bad dreams."

"Not uncommon with your trauma-background, but you need rest and you know that, doctor."

"Hmm….." John mumbled with a sigh.

"Your friend was really caring and helping when you had that bad episode a few nights ago. He'll be there."

"'m not sure he's in the right mood to notisme at all right now."

"He will. Sleep."

Sherlock was walking up and down the room and had not reacted to the doctors presence more than his brief 'Yes' before.

"See you later," Dr Elil left.

John cursed once more when he felt his body surrendering slowly. He tried to fight but only a few moments later Sherlock's footsteps lulled him into sleep.

It took Sherlock over two hours to realise John was asleep.

"John?" no reaction. He was sleeping pretty deep Sherlock assessed and then started observing him more intensely, looking at the oximeter to find out in which mode of sleep John might be.

Dr Elil's comment a few nights before about him not being able to tell if John was asleep had made him eager to learn it.

John slept like in the first nights with the meds. Had he been given something? Was this dangerous? He watched John. He looked relaxed but Sherlock pressed the call button. Ten seconds later Dr Elil entered the room again.

"Did you give him something?" Sherlock asked without introduction.

"Yes, he needed rest. You can't remember?"

"I was thinking intensely. I can't hear when I do that."

"Really? That's odd."

"No, it isn't. Why did you give it to him?"

"He seemed quite stressed with the situation and his BP was high… and you added to the situation, so I thought sleep would do him good."

"How was I adding?"

"You really don't know?… By your behaviour… uncooperative, refusing his and everybody's help, ignorant… he's worried."

"I don't understand the problem."

"Sit down and let me reconnect those cables. Any nausea?"

"No. I need to go to the bathroom. I'll reconnect them afterwards. Thank you. You can go."

The doctor perfectly understood Dr Watson's exhaustion, with a friend like that everybody would be exhausted and frustrated. He left.

Sherlock sat down next to John, watching him sleep some more.

While one part of his brain observed John another decided his own discomfort was caused because his own bed was located in the middle of the room. He needed a wall in his back… it would also be better in a strategic way.

It took him almost twenty minutes to rearrange the positions of both beds. Although the room was large there were several tables, equipment and apparatuses he needed to move in order to be able to push John's bed more towards the door and his around it and towards the rear wall.

Finally his bed was where the cot had been before, at the wall opposite the door with the foot end in the corner. This way he was able to see the door and John without moving and had no obstacles in the way… and a free field of fire in case it was needed. John slept through it all.

He dragged the monitors very close so he'd be able to unhook himself fast in case he needed it… He dimmed the lights and went to the bathroom.

A few minutes later he sat on the bed with his back against the wall, monitors reconnected.

It felt much better that the bed was no longer accessible from both sides.

It was close to midnight and he felt heavy. The nausea he had experienced before was fortunately gone. Maybe laying down sounded like a good idea. He dozed a bit but didn't allow himself to fall into a deeper sleep. He needed to be on guard.

Two hours later a soft click made him open his eyes.

A nurse had entered the room and was giving the effort to close the door silently extra care. Not a single one of the nurses had done that before. They usually weren't banging the doors or were loud, but they weren't silent either.

Sherlock's alertness climbed up a notch. He reached for the weapon.

When she turned around he saw the woman from the CCTV footage. She tiptoed towards John's bed.

"Stop where you are," Sherlock moved his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up in an swift movement, all with the raised weapon in his hand.

She stopped dead in her tracks, fear in her face.

"Who send you?"

"I… please… why do you have a weapon?… I need to check… his dressings."

"Don't lie to me!" Sherlock did a step towards her. How had she passed the guards?

"I… please… I…" she stepped closer to John's bed.

"I will shoot if you do one more step towards that bed!" Sherlock warned, his tone hard now. He needed to get between John and her. "Step back!"

She didn't move, her face was a mask now.

"Step back!" he repeated, a threat in his tone.

He hoped John wouldn't wake up now, this might aggravate the situation. For god's sake why had he listened and connected himself with the monitors. with another fast and swift movement his left disconnected the cables to the equipment without taking his gaze off her.

Sherlock stepped towards the young woman and saw that she had a syringe in her hand. She automatically stepped back, but in the direction of John's bed.

He slowly moved between the Asian woman and John.

"Step away from the bed," he urged in a deadly voice.

She did.

Sherlock took out his phone and pressed the speed dial without looking away from her.

There was an aura of fear around her now and he saw she realised she was defeated. Dangerous part of the event, now she might start desperate actions… Sherlock switched his alertness up even more, watching her intensely, especially the muscles of her neck and her breathing pattern.

Mycroft picked up and without waiting Sherlock spoke, "Mycroft, come here, she's here, bring Lestrade." He hung up without waiting for an answer.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked. Her face crumpled as if in pain, her shoulders sagged.

"I… I can't tell you…" Sherlock saw a tear running down her face. She was not a cold-blooded or trained killer, she was blackmailed into doing this.

"What are they threatening you with to make you do this?"

She made another step back when Sherlock approached some more. Her surprise to be rumbled clearly visible on her face. Sherlock saw when she surrendered.

"They have my brother."

"You are Mr Yong's sister, aren't you?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes. I am Emilia Yong."

"I knew I know your face!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Let the syringe fall to the ground!"

She obeyed.

"Now raise your hands."

She did.

The next moment the door flew open and the chief of security stormed into the room, followed by another man. They both had their guns raised and yelled at her to put her hands up.

She surrendered without resistance and laid down onto the ground, but the whole riot had finally woken John. He opened his eyes and stared at the men with the weapons pointing roughly in his direction and went into panic mode. Out of reflex he rolled over the opposite edge of the bed to take cover. Dragging the IV pole with him. Sherlock winced. This was not good.

"John! It's okay!… She is overpowered. Everything is fine. No-one was aiming at you!" Sherlock tried to make himself heard and neared John, who was kneeling behind the bed, panting.

"John??… Look at me?" John did and Sherlock saw understanding growing in his eyes.

John slowly stood up. To be awaken like this was a nightmare. He panted.

"What?….." his voice was hoarse, he stared at the young female on the ground.

"She tried to attack us," Sherlock gently took his arm. "I heard her come in and stopped her."

The security staff was putting handcuffs on her and looked for weapons, when they found a small automatic with a silencer they held it up for Sherlock to see and then dragged her out of the room.

John was white as a sheet and fighting for breath, his mouth open and he was panting in shock.

"Sit down, John."

Dr Herald stormed into the room, followed by Mycroft. She hurried over to John.

John gulped and turned towards Sherlock wanting to ask for more information but he felt like suffocating.

He found he couldn't speak and then a rushing noise invaded his hearing.

The room suddenly went a lot darker and he felt Sherlock's grip tighten.

Nonono…

He tried to fight it but it was no use, four seconds later he blacked out.

Chapter Text

Sherlock saw Dr Herald storm in and simultaneously all colour drained from John's face. He guessed the events of the last three minutes were more than stress for John. Waking up with guns pointed in your direction (though the guns had been pointed in the direction of the suspect, who happened to be in front of the bed) was never a good option.

Sherlock tightened his grip around John's arm fearing he might pass out from the shock.

When John's gaze went out of focus he was prepared, the other man blinked several times and then slowly sagged forwards.

Sherlock caught his limp form and Dr Herald helped him lifting John onto the bed.

Immediately she started checking his vitals, stuck the oximeter back onto his finger and made sure the IV wasn't dislodged and hadn't hurt him.

"It's just the shock… or maybe he was triggered, too?"

"You mean this might have triggered a PTSD event or a panic attack?… dammit!" she cursed when he nodded. "You two are trouble, aren't you?"

"Depends on your definition of trouble."

"Okay, what do you usually do when he is triggered?"

"I… He has never been when I was present."

"Okay, what would you do if you were?"

"I don't know… I'm not good with this… Maybe talk to him?"

She realised this was getting nowhere while she elevated John's legs and covered him with his blanket. "How do you feel?"

"I'm fine."

"Okay, just let me do this," she dragged the machines towards the detective, instead of him towards the bed and hooked him into them again, watching the readouts, "Okay…"

Was she always repeating the word 'okay' obsessively when stressed, Sherlock wondered.

"What happened?" Mycroft urged from the other side of John's bed.

Sherlock stood there, cables dangling from under his shirt, looking down at John, who was pale and taking shallow breaths.

Sherlock started reporting every detail of what had happened, but about three sentences into it John's breathing sped up and he stirred.

Lestrade entered.

"How is he, what happened?" he asked in a low voice.

Dr Herald took a washcloth and put it under hot water, then wrung it and placed it on John's forehead.

"John? Are your with us?" she asked.

John opened his eyes slowly and Sherlock saw him catching up with the situation, he nodded slowly.

"You passed out. Do you remember what happened?"

"Room was stormed… Not a dream?"

"No. Our suspect came in and security rushed in to arrest her," Sherlock informed.

John tried to get into a sitting position but Dr Herald placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Stay there for a few more minutes. I'll raise your bed in a minute."

John rolled his eyes. Many people looking down at him lying down reminded him of… it was a trigger. Dammit! He sucked in air through his teeth. The beeping of the heart monitor sped up.

"Okay guys, step back, give him some space," the doctor had realised something was happening with her collegue. "John, is there anything that triggers you?"

"I need to sit," John pressed through clenched teeth and she removed the cushion from under his legs and raised the bed half way up. Though John felt a headrush for a few moments this was much better.

"Ta…" he panted. "So, what… the hell… happened?"

"You better take notes, because this is also my statement, Lestrade," Sherlock demanded before he started to describe the event in every detail again.

"We need to find her brother," he finished his report.

"Already on it," Lestrade informed. "We'll interview her as soon as I get there."

They discussed the thing a bit longer until ten minutes later Dr Herald kicked them out.

Within sixty seconds Sherlock was put from full working speed into being alone with a still pale John, it was unsettling.

He still stood next to the bed hooked up to the OBS machine.

Two in the morning, great!

Noting to do.

Cut off from news… and his brain in full working speed running idle… the silence was unnerving.

John too was taken by surprise a bit about the sudden change. He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. The adrenaline rush from before not yet wearing off and at the same time he was exhausted, the sleeping medication also still in his system. He felt like… totally worn out and wound up at the same time.

He looked up at Sherlock, who's had been standing there totally motionless since the others had left, but his eyes were darting around the air in his usual hyperactive way and John wondered if he was away thinking… but then their eyes met and this meant Sherlock was with him.

The detective frowned and took the washcloth from the bed that had fallen off John's face earlier.

Sherlock switched off the machines again and disconnected the cables.

The doctor rolled his eyes.

Sherlock put the fabric under the hot water tab again to warm it up and then brought it back, offering it to John, who took it gratefully to wash his face. Sherlock just stood there, looking lost, rubbing his face with both hands.

"You okay?" John broke the silence.

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine. Are you nauseous? What do you need?" John tried to figure out the problem.

"You don't want to know."

"It'll be a bit before we got news… and I doubt this was their last try. They'll take matters into their own hands now," John guessed.

"Exactly what I think. You should try to get some sleep."

"You know, I was just thinking the same to say to you. You look like death warmed over, Sherlock."

"Impossible."

"Why?"

"I can't relax."

"Okay, I know how you feel, I'm wired, too… So what do we do now? No Cluedo in here… Maybe you should just lay down and try. That's at least what I usually do."

"I can't. I can't concentrate enough to fall asleep."

"What? You are telling me you… need to think yourself into sleep?"

"No. I need to force my mind onto a certain path of… operational sequences… to fall asleep… and concentrating on that path is really hard for me. Takes a long time and needs safety, silence and… privacy… though sometimes sleep just happens…."*

"Are you telling me you can't sleep because I'm here?"

"No. You are included in privacy."

"I don't understand."

"Doesn't matter, I wouldn't share a flat with you if you'd disturb my privacy." As if he had done this all his life he casually lowered the head of John's bed.

"What?…" John was confused. Was that a compliment or an insight? What was Sherlock doing here?

Sherlock washed the cloth again in steaming hot water, he then wrung it and folded it in half this time, he dimmed the light and without a warning he placed the warm thing over John's eyes and forehead.

"Sleep," he ordered and kept his hand on it a little longer than necessary. John was about to drag it away when he realised it felt really good… and he was tired.

"You know… you really need to… work on your bedside manners."

"I know… Sleep!"

John sighed and distantly noticed Sherlock was starting to pace the room again when sleep took him.

"John!… John… Wake up!… The nurse will burst in in about thirty-seven seconds, no need to get woken up by that with a start after last night," Sherlock woke him at seven thirty.

"Has Mycroft been in, yet?… or Lestrade?" John blinked into the ugly bright neon light of the cold room.

"None was in while you slept, except Dr Harold checked on us at about four o'clock… Took some blood."

"I slept through that?"

"Not yours, mine."

"Oh, okay… results back already?"

"Not yet."

The nurse indeed stormed in, she looked stressed and did the morning routine fast and efficiently.

Five minutes later another nurse aid came in with the breakfast tray, Sherlock send her away before she even had the chance to think about putting it down.

John sat upright in his bed now and wondered if he wanted to shower here or wait until they were at the safehouse.

"Do you know when Mycroft will be here?"

"Probably in about sixteen minutes… he texted me," Sherlock foresaw John's next question, while he was busy texting Molly to get back the lab stuff he had pilfered.

John laboriously got out of bed and started collecting their stuff into one of Mrs Hudson's bins with his good hand.

It took Molly four minutes to answer. She wanted to know everything that had happened but Sherlock assured her that he'd tell her later and asked her to get the equipment soon. She was not amused to be fobbed off and to have to come and get it from across town.

A few minutes later Mycroft and Dr Herald entered. They informed the waiting duo that everything was prepared.

After the doctor had taken another blood sample from John and wished them good luck she vanished.

Mycroft handed them large coats that looked like Columbo and some headwear.

"Is that really necessary?" Sherlock started in abhorrence.

"Yes, and I organised several cars to go into the garage and make people get in and drive off so that nobody knows in which car you are in fact in… One of your guards is still in ICU from Mrs Yong's attack, it is not clear if he'll fully recover." Mycroft informed.

"Oh, god!" John was horrified, he had never seen any of the guards since he had never tried to leave the room. "Weren't there two guards?"

"Yes, the second man was lucky, he was put out with a strong sedative and will be released in the evening."

John rubbed his hand over his eyes, "Shit…"

"Come on, we need to go," Mycroft unceremoniously took the bin and Sherlock carried the basket when they left the room. John felt strange in the procession. A security guard was waiting outside the door and another at the stairs.

They were lead towards the garage and entered the car without any incidents.

John let out a sight when the car left the garage and integrated into traffic.

"Any news?" Sherlock asked his brother, who was sitting in the front passenger seat while he and John sat in the back.

"Well, Mrs Yong informed us she was kidnapped and had to witness how they beat her brother into a pulp to point out how serious they are… They weren't amused about you meeting her brother, Sherlock. They beat her, too," Mycroft explained.

"Yeah, and probably they moved after sending her to kill us… to make sure that even if she talked we couldn't find them. Did she tell you where they were?"

"At a camping site near the river. We already checked. The trailer was there, with a lot of mountain bike equipment. They seemed to be visiting a trade fair with mountain bike stuff… New way to get out of the country at least."

"Yeah, well. Give the driver the address, I want to see the trailer."

"No… not today. You can go there tomorrow with Lestrade. He'll pick you up at 8:30."

"Since you haven't told us for obvious security reasons maybe you can tell us now. Where are we going?" John tried.

"Diogenes," was Mycroft's plain answer.

"Are there accommodations there?" John wanted to know.

"Of course. I reserved two adjacent rooms for the two of you and the level is vacant otherwise, security will be at every entrance to the building, as it is usually. And additionally at the entrance to the level and someone is constantly with you as soon as you leave your rooms. A doctor and a nurse are on standby to assist you should need arise," Mycroft informed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Chapter Text

An hour later John had put his stuff down on the bed inside the room he was shown as his.

It was luxurious. Dark brown wood with antique decoration everywhere. There was a another door to the right and he knocked. Sherlock opened the door from the other side and John saw a four-poster similar to the one in his room, in front of which Sherlock had put down the bin and his laptop.

"I suggest we…. leave the door open," Sherlock said.

Now, where was that coming from? Was Sherlock wanting to monitor him constantly? John frowned. Sherlock continued, "Didn't mean to… interrupt your privacy… It's just kind of a… cultural shock from the… tightness of the hospital room to the loneliness of a single room… So, I thought you might…" he stammered.

"Sherlock… Are you telling me you have problems adjusting to… being alone in the room?" John wanted to know.

"NO!… Not exactly."

"What is it, then?"

"Do please ignore my question, I chose the wrong expression," his voice was distant, distracted. He slipped out of his coat and it fell to the ground, seconds later followed by the man's scarf. Sherlock was usually not this messy, not with his clothes at least.

John frowned. What was happening here?

Sherlock sat down on the bed and John stepped closer, "Sherlock?… Are you okay with this?"

In one swift motion Sherlock lay down on the bed and turned around, away from John and the door.

"Sherlock?" John repeated.

"Hmmm…?"

"Are you okay with this?"

There was no answer.

John stepped closer to the bed, hesitating.

He looked down at Sherlock, who's eyes were closed now and his face slightly contorted.

"Sherlock?" John was getting worried now.

What was happening here? He carefully placed a hand on Sherlock brow. Slightly raised temperature…

A soft knock at the door interrupted his observations, without waiting for an answer Mycroft stepped in.

"Oh… has he finally fallen asleep?" Mycroft wanted to know.

"I… he… not sure," John checked Sherlock's pulse.

"Obviously." Mycroft looked down at Sherlock parenthetically.

When he recognised John's gaze as 'puzzled' he added, "He sometimes does that if he hasn't slept in days… As soon as he feels safe and secure he just kind of switches off… or his body switches him off, I am not sure. It'll take his body another half an hour to relax, though… don't be alarmed. He is dead to the world already. This is normal with him. He wouldn't wake if you put him in a rock concert." Mycroft turned away from the bed, "Can I offer you lunch?"

John hesitated. He wanted to rest… still tired, although he had slept so much during the past days.

"I see. In case you or Sherlock want to eat just ring the bell…" he gestured towards an old-fashioned looking cord next to the bed, "…and we can see if we can have meals together. Or you'll just be served a meal at your room. Rest now. Tomorrow you can go with Lestrade," he headed towards the door.

"Thank you…" John was grateful for all the older Holmes had done.

"You're welcome," Mycroft answered without looking back and leaving through the still open door.

John was alone once more. Should he go into his room? He headed for his bed.

Sherlock was right, it felt odd to go to the other room… to far away… slightly forlorn… He left the conjunction-door wide open and laid down on his bed sideways so he could have a look at Sherlock's sleeping form from the distance. But sleep didn't come, it was only about lunchtime.

He stood up fifteen minutes later once more and returned to Sherlock. His face had relaxed and he looked like in sleep now. His breathing was deep and relaxed, though he was fully clothed.

John removed the detective's shoes and opened the first two buttons of his shirt, then covered his sleeping friend with the luxurious duvet that was waiting at the foot of the bed.

He looked down at him. Had Sherlock really not slept since he was admitted to the A&E? How had he managed to stay awake that long? No wonder he had been defeated by exhaustion. He checked his pulse and temperature again and shuffled back to his own bed.

They were safe, he could sleep… and he did.

John woke up and realised that he was no longer in the hospital… yeah, right… the Diogenes… The alarm clock said 6:37. Was it evening or morning?

It was dim light outside, could be both. The door to Sherlock's room was still open, no sounds of movement.

He stood up and headed for the bathroom, which the two rooms shared.

Five minutes later he entered Sherlock's room. Sherlock was still sleeping deeply, looking relaxed. He wondered what to do…. Eat… yeah, eating would be good.

He opened the door that led from Sherlock's room to the corridor. A man stood there, must have been the guard, and gave John an asking and friendly look when he peeked out of the door.

"How can I be of assistance?"

"Sorry, I don't mean to be rude, I am actually just not informed, are you a guard or a servant?"

"Both."

"What time is it?"

"6:48 in the morning, Sir."

"Morning?"

"Yes, would you like some breakfast?"

"When will Mycroft have breakfast?"

"In seventeen minutes at the saloon one level above."

"So at… 7:05?… Is there a dress code?" Stupid question really, he had no decent clothes at all.

"No. You can go up there like this." John watched down at his pyjama trousers.

"Sure?"

"Yes."

"Okay, I'll get there in ten minutes, will you go there with me?"

"Yes."

John went back into the room and shaved, then checked on Sherlock again. He was still sound asleep. Even if he was awake John doubted he'd get up to eat. He then took another jumper… it was cold… and a short time later followed the tall guard up the stairs. Another man stayed at their room's door.

"John!" Mycroft welcomed him. "Good to see you rested!"

"Thank you, Mycroft… Thank you for… this?"

"You're welcome… Let's have breakfast," he went over to a breakfast buffet that was laden with exquisite things. The room was large but they were the only ones in there.

"Is none else eating here?"

"Several residents and guests eat here, but breakfast is ready for them at 7:30, so I have time to eat in privacy before anyone comes in here," Mycroft informed.

"Nice."

"The blood work from the hospital came in last night, both of you are fine. Are you're planning on going with Lestrade and Sherlock today?"

"Yes."

"Make sure to wake Sherlock at least half an hour before, he'll be hard to wake."

"Sure."

"Lestrade will be here at 8:30 with a car, he plans to search the trailer and the surroundings. In case Sherlock wants to take some equipment, it is in the usual storage… There is also a medical bag in your closet in case you need one. Feel free to use it."

After the meal John prepared a large cup of tea for Sherlock and headed for their rooms to wake him in time.

Mycroft was right, Sherlock was hard to wake. He really was kind of dead to the world. It took some shaking and yelling to make him wake up. When he scuffled into the bathroom John wondered if he was on autopilot or really experiencing his surroundings.

When he came out he fetched the almost cold tea and downed it in one.

"Are you actually awake?" John asked.

"Of course I am!… What do I look like?" Sherlock was in his usual good morning mood.

The doctor decided not to answer.

"Lestrade will be here in ten minutes, better pack up. Mycroft has lab equipment ready at the usual place. I guess you know what that means."

"I do indeed, but I have all I need." Sherlock took his coat and headed for the door.

"Wait, I need to dress!"

Sherlock waited for John to dress, though patted with his foot the whole time.

Lestrade was on time and they drove to the camping ground.

They inspected the trailer and found a small workspace behind it, where mountain-bikes had been tuned and repaired. The forensics team had already been there and found nothing of relevance. Now Sherlock was going through the place with a fine-tooth comb. He found the evidences that Mr Yong had in fact been here… and that he had been badly beaten. Though they had tried to hide his presence they weren't really successful. The question was where they were now.

Sherlock took his phone and searched for something.

"We should go into the woods!" Sherlock suggested.

"Why?" Lestrade looked up.

"There are two popular mountain-biking-routes passing in a close distance to this place, I want to walk the path from here to at least one of them."

"You think they headed for a new accommodation via bike?" John asked.

"Yes."

"What?" Lestrade raised his eyebrows.

"Well, they repaired and build bikes in here, so where are they?… It also is a method of travelling no-one ever notices. Unlike if you go by train or car… you'll be on several CCTVs doing that, but you won't when cycling through the woods."

"Okay, but why stop so soon, wouldn't it be better to get as far away as they could?"

"Sure, but they left in a hurry and have a hostage… and I bet… luggage… so they would use the first location that seems save enough for their purposes. There are several spots were one could put up tents unseen from the routes and even four cabins near the route that could be squatted unnoticed for several weeks, it is not the season where people like to have a vacation," Sherlock explained.

He headed for a shelf. "I regret to say that I fear they know we are here… so they'll be prepared that we are looking for them. Your technician is really incompetent not to have found this!… Must have been Anderson…"

"What?… How?" Lestrade asked sharply.

"Don't look at it… there…" Sherlock turned his back to the messy shelf and gestured through his shoulder at something.

John looked at the shelf, understanding Sherlock didn't want to show he had spotted it. It took him several seconds to see a small web-cam between some flasks of oil and under a dirty cloth. "They are watching… Though I doubt they can hear us."

"They can't… well, Anderson found a microphone, he removed it, it's in evidence storage now."

"So, we should leave here without haste and behave as if nothing interesting has happened," Lestrade had also understood Sherlock's movements. "Okay, leave everything as it is, lock up and let's go for a walk. I am really curious how they managed to move that hostage."

"Which way?"

"For now I want to walk the feeder path to the biking-routes. It's a W-shaped trail and I estimate we should be able to make it in two to three hours… I doubt we'd find them if we went by car… maybe a motorcycle… Today will be just enough daylight to check the W-trail."

"If they spot us they'll probably move… maybe we should come back with bikes," Lestrade suggested and smiled.

"What's so funny?" John wanted to know.

"Sherlock on a mountain bike?" Lestrade whispered.

John giggled, too.

"I'd prefer by foot… and prepare to look like hikers tomorrow."

"Okay." Lestrade looked at the map and they started up the track.

Several bikes passed them but they found no hint of a used hidden camping site or that the group had passed here.

The physical activity and the fact that he had his hands hanging loose by his sides caused John's hand to start throbbing again. He had thought the pain was a thing of the past but the longer they walked the more the sensation turned into pain. He realised maybe it had been a bit early to go on a hunt, but on the other hand he'd have gone nuts with another day of inactivity and boredom.

Sherlock had obviously several theses circling in his head but didn't care to elaborate, even on their way back to London he was grumpy and silent.

Lestrade brought them back to the Diogenes and told them he'd be back in the morning at 7:45.

Thirty minutes after their return to the Diogenes John had had a hot shower and dressed in something loose fitting.

Sherlock was still looking at maps of the area and studying aerial photographs. Someone had been in and had left cookies and muffins at the table in Sherlock's room. John took a muffin and fetched another one for Sherlock, leaning over his shoulder.

"What did you find?" he chewed, holding out the other muffin to Sherlock, who - deep in thoughts - took it and started eating it. John had to bite his lip not to laugh out loud about the automatism. Sherlock didn't reply until about ten minutes later.

"I spotted and marked the places we should go and see tomorrow more closely." He pointed at the map.

Chapter Text

They had dinner without Mycroft, which seemed to at lighten Sherlock's mood a bit, he started organising hiking clothes right after the meal.

John was not sure where he had nicked them from but doubted he'd get an answer if he ask… With that stuff they'd look like traditional wanderers, John grinned. The stuff looked really classic, there were even wooden walking sticks.

"Sherlock, are you aware no-one wears this for hiking nowadays?"

"What?… No… Why not?" Sherlock frowned irritated.

"That stuff looks like from a hunting scene playing about a hundred year ago… Would go well together with the deerstalker, though."

"What are you saying?"

"If we want to attract attention, this would be the way," John smiled, fetching his phone.

"Who are you texting?"

"Lestrade and Molly. Telling him to bring some hiking stuff for us, bet Molly will borrow us some, too."

"Okay, I am beaten, I need to get some sleep," John headed for his room and again left the door open.

He laid down on his bed an was asleep within seconds.

At 7:35, John was packing some food for the day from the rich buffet.

When Greg entered the dining hall John smiled. He looked like the average backpacker, cab against the rain included. His backpack was equipped with a water bottle and he wore water-proof boots. The inspector carried two additional half-full backpacks.

"Mornin'," he greeted.

"Oh, hi," John answered. "Feel free to pack supplies."

"I'm good, thank you."

"Okay, want a coffee while I change?"

"Sure."

When John entered the room Sherlock was wearing… a pair of outdoor-pants and hiking boots.

"Oh, did Mycroft found something adequate?"

"Obviously… People really wear this for hiking?"

"Yes. Lestrade brought backpacks for both of us and a jacket that might fit me."

They continued working on their outfit and about fifteen minutes later left in Lestrade's private car.

They parked near the trail, preparing to start.

When John put an 80^th-like hat over his head Lestrade chuckled.

"You look like MacGyver."

"Oh, I wish I was as inventive as he is."

"Who?"

"Nevermind, Sherlock."

"Just so you know, there are three disguised police units waiting in the area in case we need backup," Lestrade informed. "You two are armed?"

They nodded.

"There is a walkie-talkie in each of your backpacks, front pouches, just in case. It's faster than the mobile," Lestrade continued.

John checked where the thing was and then put on his backpack.

They started walking.

About two hours later they made a short stop.

Sherlock had found absolutely nothing of interest up to now and was not delighted at all. They had checked two possible places that would be good camping grounds, but found nothing of interest so far. Bikers passed but it seemed not to be the preferred weather or time of year for mountain-bikers.

Another one and a half hours later they had inspected two more cabins and although Sherlock protested against the frequent stops, they were now having a lunch break. He had tried to walk ahead until Lestrade informed him that John was not up to his usual health and needed a pause and that it would be unwise to get separated. Sherlock grizzled but sat down. John was not amused about having his weakness pointed out and used like this, but Lestrade was right. His hand throbbed again and he was glad to sit for a while.

Back on the trail they were occasionally overtaken by bikers heading both directions. They watched closely for their faces and if anyone with Chinese origin was between them, but could of course only see those ones that passed them from the front, though they turned around as soon as they heard someone approach from the back.

Sherlock stopped frequently to inspect little things and waste lying at the ground between the wet leaves, but always let them fall again soon, until he finally found a tear-off-seal from what looked like an instant soup foil package… or crisp's bag. He held the small yellow thing up and John spotted tiny little Chinese characters… or Japanese… or something similar.

"We're on the right way."

"Come on, anyone could have left that here."

"No," Sherlock simply stated without elaborating and put the piece of waste in his front pocket.

At about 14:30 John stopped the small group by raising his hand in the air.

"How far was the next cabin?" John spoke in a low and calm voice.

"About three hundred meters… that direction," Sherlock pointed slightly left into the woods. "The trail makes a loop right before it passes nearby, though."

"What is it?"

"I hear a toddler cry."

"What?" Lestrade asked.

"Let's go cross country," Sherlock suggested and reached for the field glasses dangling around John's neck.

"Ey, careful, use your own ones," John battered his hands away and left the path. Better not to stand in the middle of nowhere behaving suspicious, the others followed.

"They're in my backpack," the consulting detective grouched.

"Oh, for god's sake, then get them out!" John whispered loudly, then turned away to listen again.

"Probably just a family using one of the cabins, but I'd prefer to check," Lestrade offered.

They advanced slowly and the nearer they came the more careful John became, he stopped them again.

"It seems this child is not being comforted… that's odd."

"I want to call for backup," Lestrade informed and they kneeled behind some trees watching the house, nothing moved.

Sherlock had managed to find his binoculars and watched the surrounding forest closely.

"Call for backup," Sherlock whispered suddenly and moved to their right.

"Dammit! Why can't he wait for us!" John cursed and checked the surroundings before following Sherlock in a slightly crouched posture.

Before he could catch up with him, Sherlock knelt down and reached for something into a dell that looked similar to an old bomb crater and that would've been a great hiding place for a surprise attack. John cursed once more. If someone had waited for them in there, they would've walked right into the trap.

He reached Sherlock who had jumped into the dell, kneeling down… over a body… feeling for a pulse. When he looked up to John he shook his head.

In silence John mimicked his movements and confirmed, "Dead, at least an hour," in a whisper.

Sherlock had his phone already in his hand.

Found dead body, shot, stay covered. SH

Lestrade answered fast. Backup on the way, ETA six minutes. Let's monitor if someone comes out.

John turned the small man around and he was in fact looking Chinese. He had been shot… in the back of his head, from behind, execution style.

The child continued to cry and John was almost sure now it was inside the small house.

His flatmate was busy watching their surroundings and the windows of the house with the field glasses.

"Nothing moving in there so far."

John removed the thin canvas shoe and a sock from the left foot.

"Sherlock…"

The dead man's sole was decorated with a lotus tattoo.

They ducked when they heard movement in their backs and then spotted policemen in black approaching from behind.

The next things happened pretty fast. About eight police men and Lestrade stormed the small building. They were in only seconds when Lestrade came back out and yelled for John to come in.

John hurried inside.

"What is it?"

"The toddler… is alive but… four dead bodies! The baby is in a bed in the back, take a look at her."

"No, if she's not hurt I need to check the others first, in case someone is still alive. Is there a father with your men? Who can take care of her for a moment?" John instructed when Lestrade nodded and gestured one of the man to go to the small child.

Sherlock stood in the open door, his eyes running through the room fast.

John checked the first two men in the kitchen, they were definitely dead, shot.

Another man was sitting at the table, bound to a chair and when John carefully lifted his head Lestrade sucked air in.

"That's Yong, the brother… Was he shot, too?" John looked for wounds. There were no gunshot wounds, but the man was dead. Longer than the other ones, though. John frowned.

The fourth dead body was a woman, probably the mother of the baby girl, also shot.

Lestrade was running up and down in front of the house, making one phone call after another.

John made sure the toddler was okay and headed for the fridge to look for something to feed the crying child.

Sherlock meanwhile was looking through all the bowls and pots on the messy counters. The men had obviously been preparing something.

"What do you think they were doing?"

"Preparing another attack on us," Sherlock raised his voice. "Lestrade make your men close off all roads that pass near the paths and get air surveillance to monitor for any bikers that might leave the area in a fifty kilometer radius…. Fast!"

"I can't organize that as fast as we need it, you might want to call your brother." Lestrade suggested.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but fetched his phone.

"None touches the bowls without gloves, the content is highly poisonous!" he yelled through the room, then spoke into the phone. "Mycroft, we need air surveillance…"

He informed his brother briefly about what they needed and handed his phone to Lestrade for more information, since he didn't know which highways were nearby and what they were called, Lestrade was more competent on that sort of stuff.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked John.

"Looking for a bottle…" John continued searching through the mess on the kitchen table "… or a comforter."

"Maybe it would be wiser not to give anything to the child that is from this kitchen," Sherlock suggested.

John lifted a towel that was draped neatly over an rectangular shape… and reeled back, bumping into a surprised Lestrade, who had just come in.

"Shit!" he cursed. Everybody turned around in alarm.

"What is it John?" Lestrade wanted to know, but John was momentarily speechless and panted.

Sherlock carefully lifted the towel and revealed a small travelling terrarium… with about six or seven scorpions inside.

"It's okay, they're properly contained," he informed after taking a closer look.

"You're okay, John?" Lestrade observed the younger man closely.

"Fine… just took me by surprise."

"Go outside, get some air!" Lestrade gently pushed him towards the door. "The toddler seems to be okay for the moment, look after her."

The detective with the child on his arms had wrapped the girl into a blanket and rocked her in front of the house.

"You need help?" Lestrade whispered discretely so only the doctor could hear him.

"No… no, thanks, Greg. I'll be fine in a moment, just caught me of guard," John stepped outside, missing the look Lestrade gave Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't miss it but was not understanding what Lestrade tried to say.

Chapter Text

"ETA of forensics?" Sherlock asked.

"Another fifteen minutes. You should keep an eye on him, you know that, don't you?" Lestrade elaborated, seeing no understanding in Sherlock's gaze.

"No. Why? He's fine."

"He's not! You know your skills in caring aren't the best. So, just listen to my advice and keep an eye on him!" the DI muttered.

Sherlock continued to rummage through the chaotic cabin carefully.

How had they managed to produce such a chaos within two days?… No, some of them must have been here longer.

He had already produced a small pile of neatly labeled and filled evidence bags when the forensics team finally arrived and took over. He lectured them about the dangerous substances foreboding they were to dumb to see what they saw, and then left the house to take a look at John.

Lestrade was on his phone again, John walked up and down the small barbecue-space with the girl on his arms. They had found a comforter somewhere else than in the kitchen. The baby leaned against John and blinked sleepily.

"She'll be okay… Well, as okay as you can be when you mother has been shot. Child services will be here in half an hour," John informed in a gentle voice. "God, how could they do that?"

"Well, they seemed to have had a reason to… let her live."

"Yeah, probably they spared the child."

"You mean… this was an act of… mercy?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, probably."

"I don't think so! He let her live either because he's the father or because he was told to… or because he wasn't able to do it," Sherlock explained.

"He?… Well, that last one would come really close to mercy, now does it?" Lestrade had finished his phone call.

"No, as I understood in the minefield of sentiment 'spare her' is a superficial description of a passive act, motivated by moral guidelines an individual follows… Not being able to do it is related with moral guidelines, but merely shows weakness in the face of them…"

"Yeah… I wonder how can one be so bloody emotionless when knowing the exact meaning of the subtleties of the description of those emotions," Lestrade uttered in despair.

"Good organized, well kept and precise database," Sherlock answered and John grinned tiredly, understanding the last comment.

"Speaking of which…" Sherlock looked over John with the child. He seemed to be familiar with child care, since he had managed to sooth the wailing thing within a few minutes. This was worth another database entry about John's personality.

He was working on his mental database concerning John before anyone had noticed he had retreated into his mind. It took him three seconds to file the observations of John's actions and his movements with the girl and he was about to leave the database alone and return to talk to Lestrade, when a modification caught his eye.

John's database, which had in fact a physical appearance (in contrast to most of his mental databases, that had just a name and consisted of data), it looked like a metal file cabinet*… but right now something was different… He inspected the translucent object closer… something had changed… On it's side was a small sign… Now, who painted his mental images? This hadn't happened before… his mind changed appearances of his mental images, they did not change themselves!

He frowned and leaned closer. The sign was small, about two inches and on the side of the cabinet, lower quadrant… it was a warning sign… two hands… It was the same pictogram that was printed on packages… 'Handle with care'. But the rectangle that normally symbolized the package was replaced with a large dot.

The hint 'fragile' that often accompanied the printed sign on packages was not present… Sherlock frowned… was his subconsciousness doing things here?

Was that a result of being constantly bugged with his lacking ability to care for someone?

He concentrated on the virtual paint… it had structure… like made by hand, neatly though. And the colour was applied opaque… he tried to concentrate to remember how it had gotten here.

A vague impression of worshipping something feathered across his mind… No, it was not about being bugged or taunted not to be able to care.

There was a sensation connected to the sign… it tucked at his mind when his fingers ghosted over the pain… and it was an unsettling sensation. He reeled back, surprised by the intensity.

"Sherlock?" John.

"What is it?" Lestrade.

"I… nothing," Sherlock stammered.

"What did you deduce?" John asked.

"Deduce?" Sherlock had problems returning back to reality.

"Cabin, woods, syndicate, bodies, Yong?" John tried to bring him back.

Lestrade looked as if he doubted John's mental health for informing Sherlock about their current doings. But Sherlock was grateful, it made him come back to the situation much faster than he alone would have needed. The child was no longer with John. How long had he been away?

"Twelve minutes," John answered the question and Sherlock wondered how clearly it had been written on his face and how John had learned how to read it so fast.

"Okay, Sherlock walk us through it…" Lestrade pushed gently.

"Eh…" Back to the case, concentrate! "Yes, ehm. They… the first half of the group, with the child, had been residing here for about two weeks. They prepared the scorpion package here and they also repaired bikes. Mr Yong was kidnapped minutes after talking to us and…"

"How do you know?" Lestrade fetched his thermos jug and poured coffee into a cup, offering it to John, who took it gratefully. He handed another one to Sherlock and then drank from a third one.

"Thank you… same clothes, even the same spots of dirt on his hands he had when we visited him… He hadn't even washed his hands since we saw him… probably because they were bound to a chair. He was poisoned with the mushroom, probably to test the dose or the intensity of the taste."

"You mean they watched him die slowly?" Lestrade asked in horror.

"Yes."

"Oh god…" John clasped a hand over his mouth.

"Another fact why I doubt moral thoughts have been present here at all… Mr Yong has no tattoo. The head of the group shot his companions when it became clear we were on their trail."

"But… how did they know?"

"One of the cyclers that passed us in the morning was one of the dead man, he recognized us and they prepared to leave, but the leader…"

"How do you know?" John asked.

"I recognised the bike, they are parked in the back of the cabin. The yellow white one passed us from behind, shortly after our first stop… The leader had no intention to flee with the whole group, and a baby, so he got rid of them… shooting them in their backs. He went away by bike. Mycroft and his surveillance units are looking for him… The man in the funk hole or bomb crater was waiting for us, but luckily we got here too late. The material on the table is hinting they were panning another attack on us, really vicious one."

"More vicious than the last ones?" Lestrade wanted to know. "I mean, deadly is deadly."

"Yeah, but this one would have caused a really ugly death for more than just the two of us!"

"Uglier that the mushroom stuff?"

"Yes. I won't elaborate that any further now, not enough data." Sherlock looked at John who was staring into the woods, Lestrade followed his gaze and understood, raising an eyebrow about the tact Sherlock obviously had found recently. John was indeed a bit pale. Usually the ex-soldier could stomach all those things easily, but something was different now. Dead bodies or threats were usually not making the doctor falter… but the chain of recent events had shaken him… and he was still recovering from the first attack.

Sherlock suspected there was even more difficult topics in this than John had admitted…. He had had two panic attacks in the past days…. That was not normal. Sherlock was not used to see go his flatmate through them at all. He knew John sometimes had them, but usually he was able to hide them, well, he hadn't had privacy in the past week, so maybe the reason was that the spatial arrangements were hindering him to hide them?… or was there more?

"Go on," John requested.

"The whereabouts of the ape however are unknown, maybe it fled when the shooting started… or was scared off on purpose. It had been here for several days, but is gone now."

They continued discussing what might had happened here, the head forensic's technician provided new details and when the coroner transported the body bags into his car Sherlock decided he needed to think and therefore get back to the Diogenes.

John didn't comment but was desperate to have a shower and some lunch (though it was 17:00 already) and therefore welcomed the idea.

When they returned to the Diogenes in the early evening Sherlock was withdrawn and John was dead on his feet. His hand pounded and he feared it had been pretty early to get back to work full force after the stings… maybe even dumb to do physical exercise in the rain. He should have gone easier… but how? There wasn't really a way… except to stay in the cars, which was ridiculous.

He sat down on his bed and blew his breath out slowly while trying to get out of his jacket. Dammit, his hand hurt… Had all the time while walking and working in the cabin in fact.

Sherlock was booting up his laptop, still in his coat.

John let himself fall back onto the bed, feet still at the ground, wishing he had shoes he could just slip out off. But it was no use, he had to get out of the wet clothes. He grunted when working himself up into a sitting position… Right, never sit down during a march, it is just too hard to get up again. He shuffled into the bathroom.

When he came back out Sherlock was still busy.

He sat onto the bed, hurting all over. He knew he had overdone it today. He decided he didn't need dinner and rolled into a relaxing position. He was asleep a few moments later.  

A/N:

* The concept is explained closer in my story 'Lessons in friendship 1 - A Glimpse at PTSD'

Chapter Text

He was asleep a few moments later.  

"Dr. Watson… Dr. Watson!"

An alarmed voice entered his mind as he jerked awake.

He realised his body was breathing heavily, panting in fact… and he was staring right into the eyes of the private nurse he had been introduced to when they had arrived at the Diogenes…

He was struggling for air.

"Are you having trouble breathing?"

"No," he hoarsely denied, trying to get his breathing under control.

He indeed felt like suffocating, but the last thing he needed was somebody hovering.

"Can you tell me how you feel and what hurts?" she asked.

"'m fine… Just a bad dream… 'm fine…" he hurried to explain.

"Are you sure?… You seem to be quite distressed," she looked worried, directly into his eyes, reaching for his wrist now.

"Why are you in here?" John felt his privacy invaded a bit, where the hell was Sherlock?

He managed to evade her touch and sat up on the edge of the bed.

She had the decency to back off a bit.

"It's okay. I had a nightmare… nothing to worry about," he tried to appease her.

John wanted to get rid of her as long as he could keep his mask up… He felt awful… and knew exactly where his mind had been… the shadows of former events and their memories still lingering around him, the panic held at bay only by adrenaline.

"Okay. Press the call button if you need help or company," she offered and pointed towards the cord next to the bed.

"Thank you. I'll try to rest some more. Why are you in here? Where's Sherlock?"

"The guard was concerned when he heard you and came in. When he saw you were sleeping he send me in to check on you… and you seemed… agitated."

"Oh, okay… Where's Sherlock?" his heart was pounding almost painfully.

"He's upstairs with his brother… Call if you need anything," she smiled and left the room.

John closed his eyes and sucked in some deep breaths he then let go in a controlled blows.

He had been in an ugly mixture of memory and dream… and he knew he was heading into a panic attack… though he tried his best to prevent it.

Think of something else!

Breathe normally!

Get positive and welcome input!

He knew the theory, but as so often before it was totally useless… The ugliness of a remembered situation crawled back into his mind… A girl, not older than five, agony written all over her face… and clearly visible in those large dark eyes… the smell of the desert sand and fires in the distance…

No, think of something else!

Something not triggering… The safety of home… Damn, it had been breached… they had managed to get the scorpions inside the flat…

Her mother had brought her in, the little girl had been already weak and sick with something that was easily treated in the UK, but not in the Afghanistan back-country. She had been stung or bitten while resting, by a scorpion or a spider, the mother didn't know, unaware it was there she had disturbed the animal.

He remembered the devastated woman and how the poorly dressed girl had done her last breaths… and how he had been tormented by not being able to help… to be so useless in this already cruel world, suffering everywhere he looked and…

NO! He needed to think of something else!… When this was happening he was supposed to think about something good in his life…

Maybe the conversation with Sarah a few weeks ago was something good… The smell of the sun on the hot desert sand… Mingling with the scents of sickness and dying… God, he had known this might happen… he had known that as soon as his mind would be relieved from the hardest stress and the hospital environment the nightmares would return.

He started to feel nauseous and wondered if he should go to the bathroom. He had been sick after having flashbacks to war memories before. He had totally forgotten about this paticular event… or had managed to shove it away.

The sick feeling got worse and he better moved while he still could, enough embarrassment for one day, no need to make a mess on top of it.

On shaking legs he rose from the bed and tried to continue breathing normally.

He barely made it to the bathroom before he started to retch, and sagged to the ground in front of the toilet.

The dry touch of her small undernourished hands and the eyes that seemed to have witnessed ages of misery.

He emptied his stomach into the bowl and realised his face was wet… he was crying about the girl that hadn't even really started to live and about his own personal horrors the war has left him with… and then those mixed with his memories of how it felt to be in the situation of being shot and the events that had finally left him with PTSD.

The girl in the cabin today, for hours a few meters away from her dead mother, her small hands wrapped around his wrist and fingers, they had been cold, too.

The agony of not being able to help…

Breathe…

His body refused to listen to what he wanted… and the crucial factor… the overwhelming agony in his mind…

He wretched again… and wondered how it had been for Sherlock to see him suffering through the aftermath of the stings…

The pain in his hand returned suddenly with full force… not the one from the healing process he was experiencing for days now, the one from the minutes directly after he had been stung.

He was struggling to drew breath once more, dammit!

He knew this excruciating pain was, with 95% probability, psychological in nature… it was kind of a flashback… A double one, of Afghanistan and the last day's events… but the knowledge didn't help at all to soften it. This pain was certainly one of the worst he had endured in his life.

The bad thing about panic attacks was that one often felt like dying or suffocating… and wasn't able to just tell himself: it feels awful, but it's just another attack and it'll pass… also totally useless knowledge in such a moment, though his therapist had advised him to remind himself of that.

He panted… and struggled against the anxiety rising in his mind and chest.

It'll pass, it'll pass, just breathe… it'll pass!

He managed to lay down onto his side next to the tub, though when he was honest, it was more a controlled fall… He was glad no-one was here to see it… and on the other hand wondered if he was in real trouble.

He laid there, panting… the room spinning around him. Bad idea to get horizontal, he felt even more vulnerable than before. But he was aware he'd never manage to sit up again, or it would make things far worse if he did.

He hoped he wouldn't be sick all over the floor again… the face of the girl's mother leaning over him.

He suddenly felt, he was, among other things, having trouble breathing because he was… sobbing?!… Dammit!

An oddly distracted part of his mind cursed when he realised he was in fact crying.

He bit his lips… The last thing he needed was that the guard heard him and alerted the nurse again. Company of that kind was would only worsen his situation right now… and people standing over him looking down would probably kick him over the edge.

He knew he had shoved away triggering things during the past days. He had wondered when his body would react to the PTSD-triggered side of the whole thing. When he was honest with himself he knew, he had expected it earlier… it was quite logical to happen as soon as the immediate stress and threat were gone, which was a few days ago.

Was this what was happening here right now?

A meltdown about the whole thing?

Dammit, why wasn't he able to concentrate on things that would make him better?… Just breathe… it'll pass…

But breathing felt bad, too… God, it was just so humiliating when the own body and mind unreeled and relived bad memories, exaggerated by the worst emotions he knew. Not being able to distance himself from them made him frustrated, because sanity and reason had just been trodden down by anxiety on a level many people never had a clue even existed in the modern safe world.

He dry heaved again, at least that sensation brought his mind back into his body and partially out of the vortex of dark thoughts…

Concentrate on the sensation, stay in reality…

He felt pretty bad… he was trembling and his head felt like about to burst...

Was he hyperventilating?

He still felt like suffocating…

Maybe he should just let go, stop fighting the urge to cry. Maybe it would pass if he stopped resisting it, he remembered vaguely that sometimes letting steam off had helped…

He worked his hands over his mouth when he felt his body was ahead of his mind and already starting to let go.

Breathe… do this controlled and as silent as possible!

But his body had other plans… The dam broke and sobbing shook him… He pressed his face into his sleeves to muffle the noises… the pictures of today and Afghanistan melted into each other and all he knew was agony and pain and grief…

Memories and mourning consumed his consciousness and tortured him for what felt like an eternity… and finally swallowed him.

Chapter Text

John didn't know how much time had passed when he felt something change, it felt like hours later…

"John?" the voice was calm and low, though there was agitation somewhere else in the room.

"John? Can you open your eyes for me?"

Sherlock's voice.

He tried.

His lids where unbelievably heavy and felt swollen.

Mouth awfully dry and his head… Hell, it felt as if it was about to explode.

He opened his eyes and realised he was held in a crumpled sitting position, resting sideways against something…

"John?"

…which vibrated with the voice… he was leaning against… Sherlock?

No way.

"John, can you hear me?" Sherlock asked again.

John nodded when he found his voice wasn't working, it was a minute movement but Sherlock must have sensed it, because he continued in a low voice.

"Did you have a panic attack?"

John nodded again… Hell of an attack to be honest.

He was hurting all over and the exhaustion blurred his mind and his vision.

"Are you sure it is nothing more serious, poisoning or similar?" Sherlock continued.

A hand moved to his forehead and rested there for a while.

Perception faded in and out.

John managed to nod after Sherlock had repeated the question.

"Why are you sure?"

"'fghanis'an mem'ries," John managed to get out.

"Okay."

He saw Sherlock's distorted hand move and rub his shoulder, the one that was not leaning against the detective.

Someone took his wrist and felt his pulse.

"Le'me 'lone pl'ze," he struggled.

"Let's get him into bed," another voice urged nearby, a foreign one, shit.

John flinched embarrassed, all he wanted was to be left alone until this was over.

"You want them to leave?" Sherlock whispered into his ear.

The doctor managed to nod, even though he couldn't manage to really open his eyes to see who else was there.

"Okay, but I need their help to get you into bed before I send them away."

He felt strong hands on his body, more than two persons.

Before he knew what was really happening there was movement, but it was not him who initiated it, he was leaned backwards and lifted by the foreign but skilled hands. His head lolled to the side and was caught in a gentle grip, which stopped the awkward motion.

The movements brought new nausea and pain, he gulped.

It seemed to last ages until he felt he was lowered to something soft, the bed was under him.

They had carried him… More embarrassment made him want to hide.

He was gently positioned on the bed, upper body slightly elevated on a large pillow.

A moment later the touch on his forehead returned.

He was so very tired.

Every move was pain, the day hurt, the memories hurt… the embarrassment hurt… the hand on his face warmed…

"Get out," Sherlock ordered whoever must be there.

There was opposition but Sherlock yelled, "Get out, now!" and John realised he must still be in direct physical contact to Sherlock because he felt the vibrations of Sherlock's voice somehow once more.

Something moved over his hairline.

"They are gone. Sleep," Sherlock's tone was emotionless.

John raised his hand trying to… "'m sorry," …touch something? He pried his eyes open.

"Don't be. You want something to help you sleep? The nurse left some meds."

He moved his head from one side to the other trying to find out where Sherlock was and what was happening.

The room was dark and his vision distorted.

Sherlock was sitting on the bed next to him and his hand was on his forehead. His touch was the opposite of emotionless, it was quite caring in fact. The difference between his touch and his tone was odd.

John thought about the meds… if he asked what it was he'd refuse it as soon as he knew… so he ignored the question.

"Is this a PTSD-thing?" Sherlock wanted to know.

"Guesso," John answered, partly ashamed, allowing his eyes to close again.

Sherlock wouldn't understand this. What would he think? This was the third attack John had in front of the detective. He felt vulnerable and disgusted by his own inability to stop it.

"John?…" the hand ghosted over his face, "Are you aware your eyes are leaking?"

John blew his breath out in a hint of sarcastic laughter… Was this in fact a tactful way of asking if he was crying?

But there was no assessment in Sherlock's voice. He sounded more like he was just collecting information… emotionless as usual, which was a stark contrast to Sherlock's physical care.

"Are you in pain?" Sherlock was neutrally asking. Careful and actually listening to his needs?

"Hurts to think," John managed, referring on both his headaches and his mental agony.

"I know that sensation. Nasty one," Sherlock admitted to John's surprise.

"You need to rest," he continued.

John snorted slightly with real sarcasm now. He was far to exhausted and wound up to relax.

Sherlock moved beside him and a few seconds later his head was tipped back gently.

"Open your mouth," Sherlock instructed while John was still surprised in his foggy mind about being touched by Sherlock.

John managed to half open his eyes and saw Sherlock's hand with a pipette nearing his face.

He let his eyes close again…

He didn't want to feel any longer… he needed a break and Sherlock was suggesting he took the offer… He was in enough pain and hurt enough to see the need of that, too.…

Slowly, he managed to open his mouth slightly and seconds later a thick bitter liquid ran over his tongue.

John gulped… he realised he was still trembling… and it was bloody cold in here.

Like as if someone was reading his mind a heavy blanket settled over him.

Then something touched his lips, cold and… a glass.

"Wash it down, the taste must be awful."

Sherlock was holding a glass to his mouth? John would have rolled his eyes if he weren't so tired. It took a lot of effort to actually gulp down a few tiny sips. Sherlock waited patiently and asked if he had enough before pulling away.

"Come on. Roll over onto your side, you'll be more comfortable." Sherlock took his shoulder and started the movement, John followed.

… God, what was that stuff… he felt it take effect already... it made him dizzy. Or was it from the movement?

"You need something else?"

"No."

He wondered if Sherlock had taken the remarks about his bad bedside-manners seriously and was now practising?

This was a side of Sherlock John hadn't really spotted before. His flatmate had recently shown that he valued his critic on his social behaviour or sometimes even asked for feedback.

Was Sherlock in fact able to care for others, but intentionally not doing it? Or was he just so very inexperience with these things he just didn't know what to do? Or did he just need someone to actually tell him how to care in a certain situation?

John's messed up mind briefly wondered what must had happened to make him decide that he wanted to learn, if this theory was right. It must have been something utterly important to Sherlock.

Well, at least Sherlock learning how to care about other people would be a tiny little good outcome of this whole mess, or was he just fighting with the decision if he should abandon his not-caring only for just John?

Moments later the pain receded.

He panted softly in surprise about how fast the drug worked.

"It's okay… Sleep."

A hand, heavy, on the side of his head… or was it a part of the blanket?

…he was dragged into darkness.

Chapter Text

Sounds of movement woke him. He turned around and tried to blink away the sleep to see the clock on the bedside table, it was gone.

John looked around and saw Sherlock pacing up and down the other room through the open door.

He still felt kind of beaten and a bit slow but also rested and definitely more relaxed… and in his right mind again. He sat up, his mouth was dry and to his relieve he spotted a bottle of water on the bedside table. He gulped two glasses down before standing up.

"Sherlock? Any news?" he asked loudly.

His flatmate entered the room and his analysing gaze rested on John for several seconds.

"Any News?" John asked, seeing in Sherlock's posture there were probably news.

"Not really, forensics sent a report which confirmed every single detail of what I said at the crime-scene already."

"I need some coffee. What time is it?"

"6:30, but I can order some."

"No. No, I'll wait till seven, show me the report from forensics."

They looked through the details and when breakfast was ready went up to the dining hall.

Sherlock actually ate, some smoked fish and several pieces of exotic fruits. John wondered if Sherlock would eat if they had this at home. With a slightly mischievous grin he decided to try that theory later.

When they were almost finished Mycroft came in.

"Good morning," he greeted.

"You have news?" Sherlock interpreted.

"I fact, yes. Only two cyclists left the area riding their bikes, and it took a lot of hours to see through all the possible routes they might have taken. Nevertheless, when my team did, they lost one, but the other moved towards London and the port area. You might want to consider to go to the harbour and watch the footage there. He might have boarded a ship."

"Okay, let's go," Sherlock stood up.

"No, Sherlock! This time I'll finish eating first! It'll only take two more minutes!" John interfered, speeding up eating.

"No use in hurrying, Lestrade will be here in half an hour to pick you up," Mycroft informed. He was busy loading his plate, then sat down at the table with them.

"You'll need another diet soon if you keep eating so often." Sherlock teased his brother but sat down again.

"At least I don't mistreat my body the way you do, brother dear," Mycroft shot back. "I bet my way is healthier in the long run."

"Oh, shut up."

"You started it, Sherlock."

John was definitely grateful the brothers were disputing instead of asking him about how he was. The memories of last night… he was not sure what he had dreamt and what had happened, but he was definitely not eager to discuss it any time soon. He tried to get rid of his embarrassment and to concentrate on the case.

"What is this?" John asked when they left Lestrade's car an hour later.

"The harbour management and security bureau. We need to see their camera footage to know where he went," Lestrade answered.

It took Sherlock and his observing skills exactly eleven minutes to find the trail of the cyclist even though a normal observer might not have found it at all.

There were hundreds of containers and a large amount of freighters in the area. The cyclist chose a hard to track route through the maze of containers, obviously knowing he might be on the surveillance footage, and finally stashed his bike and went on by foot.

They already lost his trace twice until then, and it would've taken them hours to watch all the camera footage, but Sherlock foresaw his next moves and chose the right cameras to look for him. The detective even recognised him when he had changed somewhere, hidden off camera, into a workman's outfit with a helmet.

They watched agog as the tape showed that he boarded a large freighter in the back of the port of embarkation. Sherlock stated it was the combination of the pattern of movement and the man's shoes that had given him away since he still wore the biker footwear.

A few minutes later the chief of security had alarmed MCA (Maritime and Coastguard Agency)andboarding teams were on standby. For now they agreed to talk to the Captain before causing a commotion and alarming thereby the man they were looking for.

Lestrade and the coastguard chief, his name was Becker, decided Sherlock and John would stay in the cars because they'd probably been recognised immediately.

Sherlock started to throw a fit but John had to admit they had a point, especially if they had cleared the cabin because they had been spotted on the trail. Though it was arguable if they had already been spotted when entering the harbour area. If there were people on the watch they probably were.

After some yelling, Sherlock finally agreed that they stayed in the car next to the larger vehicle with the standby team, parked out of sight from the small container ship.

Lestrade and Becker went to see the ship's captain, equipped with hidden microphones so everyone knew what was happening.

John doubted he had ever heard Sherlock use to many swearwords in so few sentences. Sherlock usually didn't curse but to John's relief he stopped as soon as the DI left the gangway and entered the vessel, the whole unit was listening.

After Lestrade and Becker had introduced themselves to Captain Shuang on the bridge, they started to explain the situation.

Sherlock had closed his eyes to listen to every nuance of the Captain's voice. He deduced he was feigning his cooperativeness within three sentences. Then the consulting detective started to comment on every utterance of the captain immediately.

John blew out his breath and muted his and Sherlock's mics with two swift moves.

"Sherlock, stop talking, Lestrade needs to listen to Captain Shuang, too. And I also would like to."

"He should have allowed me inside then."

"Don't get on his nerves! He's fully capable to do this."

The captain stated he didn't know about any other people onboard except his family (which was his wife, and two daughters, age three and six), and the ships compliment with twelve men.

Sherlock turned up the volume and switched his microphone back on.

"Lestrade, ask him where his family is and if there are windows."

Lestrade ignored the latter but when asked about the first topic, the captain explained they were in the crew quarters, sleeping in, the crew though was scattered all over the ship preparing to leave around noon.

Lestrade continued to ask if there had been any odd incidents and if there were any new members in the crew, which the Captain negated.

"Something is wrong… with his family…" Sherlock informed everybody. "They are probably threatened…. I can hear his voice change in fear when he speaks about them. Return to the subject, see if he shows any physical signs of uptightness."

"Did you and your family like London?" Lestrade improvised.

"No time to have much fun, Sir."

"Not even your family had?"

"No…. they enjoyed it, beautiful country you have, beautiful," the man hesitated, his Chinese accent was more prominent now. Sherlock could hear a hint of panic in his voice, the man was afraid.

"Our suspect is holding at least one member of the family hostage… Probably your conversation is monitored already. No need to hide any longer. He knows we're here. Speak up and tell the Captain you believe him and will leave the ship. I'm coming in."

"Sherlock, wait!" John tried to stop him but he was already out of the car. "Dammit!" he fumbled with his earpiece and followed his flatmate.

Lestrade might have been angry but said nothing about Sherlock out loud in front of the Captain.

The DI went to meet the consulting detective on their way to the crew's quarters. Captain Shuang followed him, obviously spooked by the sudden movement of the investigators.

When Sherlock entered the ship with John in his tow, Sherlock and the DI watched the captain closely for his reaction, but there was only bewilderment and anxiety in his eyes. They had met directly at the entrance and were now standing in the hall.

"He has never seen John or me, nor our picture. He is blackmailed to help our cyclist," Sherlock deduced. "Is your family being threatened?" Sherlock now spoke to the Captain directly in a low voice.

"I… Please, go away… just go," the captain begged suddenly, whispering.

"How many are there?"

"Please, he has my little girl… He said he'll kill her if I tell you he is here."

"We know, but you need to let us help. The man is a ruthless killer and…" Lestrade explained.

"Oh goddess…!" Captain Shuang whimpered.

Sherlock frowned and wondered which religion the man belonged to, he seemed to be Chinese and the ship was from HongKong.

"Can we talk undisturbed somewhere?… Anywhere without intercoms nearby?"

"No!… No, he'll know, he'll kill her," the man was obviously panicking now.

"Shut up and tell us where he is and who he's got," Sherlock urged in a low but almost threatening voice.

"He's got my daughter. She is only three years old, he took her into the container hold and is hiding with her somewhere down there. I don't know where they are."

"Which means he is blackmailing at least one other member of the crew, too. Otherwise he'd not hide in a place without windows… and he must trust that news are brought down to him somehow."

"He'll know that I talked to you…" the Captain continued.

"Let's fetch the crew and hope they are loyal to their Captain," Becker suggested and commanded for the coastguard to come aboard quietly when Lestrade nodded.

"Captain, how good do you know your crew?" John intervened for the first time.

"Good, most of them are with me for years now."

"Has nothing to do with knowing I fear, more with potential blackmail material. Has any of your crew had problems with the law, in the UK or somewhere else?" Sherlock asked.

"Only one, and he is my nephew," the captain surprised them with his honesty now.

"We need to find them all, and convince them to bring the man a false message… Let's hope he hasn't heard we're all still here, yet…." Lestrade stated with a slightly frustrated look at Sherlock.

"He's listening over the intercom?" Sherlock wanted confirmation, the captain nodded, "Is there a room that hasn't intercom?"

"No, only here, in the corridors."

"Okay, which corridor is most spacious and not visible?"

"One deck up, Gangway next to the lifeboats."

Some coastguard-men sneaked abroad and also waited in the hall.

"Fetch everybody you can find, as silent as possible, armed person in lower hull container hold, with a three year old hostage, do not go in there or near there! Switch of the rooms intercom before you talk. Assumed crew of twelve to be abroad. Woman and girl in crew's quarters. Bring everybody to the lifeboats. Gag with care if necessary. Go!" The men spread to all directions with professional silence and efficiency. The chief followed them.

"We should get there, too. Show us how," Lestrade signed the captain to take the lead.

They reached the area next to the lifeboats, together with the first captured crewmen. The captain started to speak to them in Chinese but Becker, who had arrived with them, interrupted immediately. "Speak English!"

"Their English is not too good."

"Then try and wait for Nguyen, he's one of my men, he speaks Chinese, no Chinese without a translator here!"

"Okay, okay!" the Captain agreed, then started to ask the crewmen if they had seen the suspect and if they were blackmailed by him, but the men indeed seemed to understand very little.

"Nguyen, come to the lifeboats," Becker ordered into his mic.

While Sherlock watched the faces and gestures of the crewmen closely John stared over the railing, checking the outer hull.

Chapter Text

Within ten minutes all crewman were in the area, though one was unconscious because he had fallen when resisting the escort. John took care of him and within seconds the man came too, probably with a hell of a headache.

The Captain spoke to his crew and Nguyen translated, told them about the dilemma, but no one volunteered he had information, not even when the Captain begged them to help him safe his daughter that changed.

"Lestrade?" John looked up at the DI, seeing the wounded man had become more agitated in the last few minutes.

Sherlock stepped closer to the man, who was sitting on the ground, the little headwound bandaged now.

"Either he's gonna be sick or he's the one," John took the young man's wrist. The pulse had sped up.

The Captain stepped closer, "Tell me where they are!"

The young man shook his head, "He'll kill us all. He's ruthless. I have seen his kind before… They will kill the whole crew if they want…"

"Yes, they will!" Sherlock stated, his unemotional voice in sharp contrast to the daunted man. "You don't honestly consider to set sail with him abroad? He'll probably kill you all and sell your load for his profit," Sherlock exaggerated. "So, would you prefer to work with us or go on a journey with him?"

"Please, Peter, you always have been a honest member of my crew, help me save my little girl!" the Captain begged.

"No… I can't… no," the man whispered, he was more a boy by his looks.

"You'll go to jail then, you know that?" Lestrade was now the one slightly overdramatising things.

"What for?"

"Protecting a multiple murderer."

"No!"

"Then you need to get in there and tell him we are gone. That is really not much of a task, isn't it?" Lestrade tried to convince the man.

"And of course be convincing… and don't betray your Captain," Sherlock added, which made the man even more frightened. "Forget it, he'll reveal his lie as soon as he steps into the room. He's already shivering with fear and not remotely able to accomplish the task." Sherlock wiped away the hope to do it that way. "Besides, his headwound will probably not help to make him appear cogent."

"Sir…" a man in his forties or early fifties stepped forward, a bit hesitating… some of the coastguard-men stepped towards him in alarm.

"What is it, Lian?" the Captain asked.

"I… he blackmailed me, too. I know where he is, I will go to him… and tell him," the man's accent was strong.

"How can we trust you?" Sherlock asked coldly.

"My son was… garbled by a member of the… syndicate long years ago, because he didn't want to… work for them."

"And now you want to displease them again?" another man from the crew spoke, his tone snidely.

"Yes. We can not allow them to… dishonour us by their… behaviour. They are sn… smugglers and steal our cultural… heritage," the man spoke in a slow and carefully intoned voice.

Sherlock watched the older man speak, eyes slightly squeezed and taking everything about him in. "Who are you?" Sherlock had not expected a crewman to make such an utterance.

"He is our cook and doctor. Oh, thank you. Lian!" the Captain bowed slightly in front of the other man.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but absolutely believed the man and nodded towards Lestrade.

After a short briefing aside form the rest of the crew they equipped Lian with a hidden microphone and tiny earpiece, and instructed him what to do, say and how to react.

Becker, Sherlock, John and Lestrade went with him towards the container hold, followed by six more of Becker's men. Two left them after a few meters to secure the other entry to the hold. They planned to try to make the man come towards the coastguard-men and overwhelm him, when possible, wait until he is separated from the child.

Sherlock, John and Lestrade would have to wait somewhere in the back, this was the coastguard's jurisdiction after all, about which Sherlock complaint several times until they had finally reached a bulkhead. They had agreed no speaking after passing that point and fell silent before entering the next compartment.

Sherlock and John hid behind some crossbeams and Lestrade in a gap between some containers. They waited for the coastguard to get in place, too.

Several seconds later Lian knocked on the closed bulkhead hidden in the depth of the container hold and Sherlock could feel people tense up around him, holding their breaths.

They waited for Lian to speak, it took several seconds until the first sound came through the headsets… it was not what they were waiting for… it was soft sobbing... of a child.

"What did you do to her?" Lian asked, suppressed rage in his voice.

"I made her shut up," an arrogant voice answered. "She wouldn't listen. I had too much child's sniveling to endure in the past months to have any patience left."

The sniveling grew louder and Sherlock assumed Lian was nearing the child.

"It's okay, you are safe… "

"Don't touch her!" the other man yelled, the safety catch of a weapon was released.

"They are gone!… You can release her. The Captain will not risk his child to be endangered by displeasing you, so why not let me calm her down?" Lian's voice was calm John wondered in how many life-threatening situations the man had been in his life.

"How do I know you are not lying and they are waiting outside?"

"You don't. But I assume you don't want to spend the whole journey back to HongKong with a crying child in here, do you?"

"No, just until we set sail. Then maybe I'll move to the crew quarters and get hold of the wife."

"Preparations are almost finished. We will leave in three and a half hours. You think you can separate her for three weeks from her child?… and threaten the whole crew for three weeks? You'd come further making friends with everybody… Assuming you have very good business contacts that shouldn't be too hard. You already convinced me and the boy." There was no irony in his voice though everybody knew they were blackmailed, including of course the blackmailer. Sherlock raised his brows. What was happening here?

Lian was not at all saying the things they had suggested. Was he warning the suspect somehow? Or even communicating with him crypticaly?

"I need something to eat. Get me something packed, so I know it's not been tampered with."

"A bit paranoid you are!" Lian offered with a smile in his voice. "What do you want?"

"Anything that can be eaten cold…"

"I will bring a bottle for the child, too…"

"Why can't I hear the bridge any more?"

"At this stage of proceedings no one's there… they are all working," Lain lied without hesitating, "I think I might have some delicious cans of crab meat and caviar hidden in the kitchen somewhere, would that please you?"

"As long as you bring it in here fast and unopened it's fine." The safety was clicked back. Sherlock heard John started to breathe again.

"Bring some bottled water, too."

"There's water in the other room, in the storage unit." This was one of the signs they had waited for. They knew the rooms the man had barricaded himself in were two ones in a row, the rear one could be used as a cold storage room but was out of work for months now. The emergency supplies were in the front room, on which's door Lian had knocked. And the also knew now that all three persons were in the rear room.

"That is the emergency supplies storage," Lian explained to the hostage-taker, "there are also a few boxes of emergency foot rations, but I doubt you want to eat those until you are starving." Lian laughed and steps could be heard. Who was moving? The girls whimpering got louder the sound of the steps stayed the same. Lian. But there were also quiet steps in the room.

"Come on, I am gonna get you some water, little one. Bring a bottle for her, too." Lian asked the other man. Sherlock saw John suck in air in surprise, this was more than provocative.

The next moment noise of movement exploded in the earpieces of the listeners.

A loud BANG! that made everyone flinch with pain echoed through the ship. The toddler stared to wail in panic and someone was panting hard.

"I bolted the door shut…" Lian panted "he's in the front room, we are in the cold room…we are safe… get him!" Lian's voice was strangled and barely hearable above the crying of the girl.

Two seconds later Sherlock heard the door Lian had knocked on being pushed open and someone bolted out. The suspect would run right into the arms of the waiting coastguard, who were waiting at the next cross cut, it was about fifty meters away from the door and the first available cover.

If he'd head for the stairs, the second possible escape route on the other side, he'd have no luck either. It was also secured by coastguard, they were waiting hidden and in silence for him to come nearer… but the expected yelling from the unit to stop and kneel down didn't come, though running could be heard. The wailing of the girl stopped abruptly. Lian must have switched of the mic.

"Dammit, Lestrade he is criss-crossing between the containers, maybe heading in your direction," they heard over their headsets, simultaneously steps got louder, he was coming nearer. Why would he go abeam? The stairs were in the fore and aft!… Were there bulkheads?… Were the hatch covers still open? Were there ladders?

Sherlock cursed to have not insisted on studying the blueprints in detail himself, time had been short. He looked over to John, who had taken the weapon Mycroft had given him in the hospital out of his waistband.

Lestrade was also ready, but holding his hand up to signal them to wait. Sherlock listened, but mixing with the nearing footsteps were now the ones of the coastguard-men who where trying to follow the suspect, and all those echoed through the area. Hearing was no longer their advantage.

Leaning forward to see might reveal their position, waiting might let him escape through whatever escape route he was heading for… Sherlock bend forward carefully and found himself right in front of the criminal, who was obviously trying to be as silent as possible, also listening to the footsteps of the unit.. dumb move, really. They would have spread by now, listening was no use.

The man hoicked up his weapon and aimed it right for Sherlock's head.

John was automatically next to the man, though the he had not been seen by him, yet. Sherlock was sure he'd shoot, but the next moment John and Lestrade simultaneously stepped forward.

Lestrade had had the nerve to wait pressed to the wall directly behind him, not two feet away… and stepped forward when he saw him raise his weapon, knowing that was the position Sherlock was in he was aiming for. And John had the nerve to step forward, too. The man fired his weapon the same moment John knocked his arms upwards. The shot ricocheted from the ceiling and clattered harmlessly to the floor somewhere far along the aisle. The next moment John had struck again and planted a punch on his chin.

"You really hit the baby girl because she was frightened?" he yelled at the dazed man.

Lestrade gripped the man from behind before he really understood what was happening. Sherlock expected John to punch him a second time, but obviously it was below John to hit a restrained man. Instead he disarmed him with the ease of someone who had learned to do that in his sleep.

"We have him restrained," Lestrade yelled and held the man's arms behind his back, panting, then shoved him to the ground.

Sherlock eyed him closely. The head of the syndicate in London… he surely didn't look like it. He must have been promoted when his predecessor had been shot between the eyes. He struggled, his face contorted in disgust and pain. He was young, maybe twenty-five, his lip had started bleeding.

John stood there, unmoving, staring down at him, a frown on his face. The coastguard-men came running and John continued staring down at the man. Sherlock stepped closer and held out his hand. John looked up at him, tired, putting the criminals weapon not in Sherlock's but in Becker's hand… and the one from Mycroft back into his waistband. Nobody asked if they were allowed to carry, probably assuming they were. Becker's men lifted the now handcuffed man to his feet.

"What is you name?" Sherlock asked loudly. The man didn't reply but spit blood towards Sherlock's lower legs. Sherlock easily avoided being spit on by casually shifting his feet in time without stepping back or even looking down.

"You're quite a failure, aren't you?" Sherlock's version of a punch to the face.

He didn't wait for the man to respond and turned away, heading for the stairs. The criminal jerked against the two large man restraining him but got nowhere.

"Let's go home, John. I don't think I can stand one more night at my brother's!… or without the violin." At least six pairs of eyes looked after him, puzzled.

"Ehm…. Okay," John turned to follow him.

"John?" Lestrade asked.

John turned back around, facing him.

"Get in tomorrow for your report."

"Okay," he followed his flatmate… Home… God, he had missed it!

Chapter Text

John and Sherlock stopped on the upper deck to briefly talk to Lian and the Captain. The latter was expressing his gratitude without a pause, clutching his wife and daughters to his chest. Lian received multiple handshakes and commendation for his brave and resolute actions and his calm persuasion. He seemed a bit overstrained with the bombardment of gratitude, though.

Mycroft called while they were on their way back to Backer Street via cab, suggesting they could drop in at the Diogenes, get their stuff, and update him on what had happened. Sherlock bluntly refused and suggested he packed their stuff and visit them at Baker Street.

A loud discussion erupted because Mycroft felt not like being ordered about. When Sherlock used John "John is still not fully recovered and needs rest," as an argument John nudged him slightly. Sherlock ignored him and continued quarrelling. Finally Mycroft agreed to come by in two hours and Sherlock hung up.

"How are you?" Sherlock asked and John was thrown off his guard. He had been sure Sherlock had only said that because he thought is was an argument, but now he seemed to really be concerned.

"I'm fine, Sherlock. Could you please not use my weaknesses to make other people do what you want!" he uttered, displeased.

"Which weakness? You consider needing rest after three scorpion stings weakness?"

John said nothing but pressed his lips into a thin line. Sherlock would when it would be about himself.

"Define weakness as you meant it in this context please," Sherlock requested again.

"You bloody know what I mean!"

"Why would I ask if I did?"

John looked into Sherlock's eyes. There was only confusion, no taunting, no pity, no mocking.

"I'm sorry… I'm bloody sorry you had to see that, okay! So could you please just leave it," John pressed out.

"Ehm…. I …. Did I drop a clanger here?"

"God, Sherlock!" John realised Sherlock really hadn't intended to refer to last night. He had just assumed he would, because he was disgusted with it himself. About not having been able to keep the panic at bay, about having been seen and having been helpless… confronting others, especially Sherlock, with that state. He could never ever imagine Sherlock to really be out of his mind in panic.

"Please elaborate: what did I see that you are sorry I saw?" Sherlock was only making it more dreadful by not understanding.

"No. Talking about it makes it even more disgusting. Leave it."

Sherlock understood the clanger was larger than he had thought, stored it in the 'observe further later' area of John's database and once again wondered if he'd ever be able to add enough data and administer them in a way that would prevent him from unintentionally hurting someone's feelings. No… not someone's…. Someone's didn't matter… John mattered… he started a sub-process comparing all things John had done that might been interpreted as weakness in the past week.

"You think I might think letting your feelings go and hit the man might be interpreted as a sign of weakness?" he had a guess.

"Leave it!"

In the early afternoon, when they had updated Mycroft, Sherlock started searching all rooms minutely for any further manipulation or signs of attacks, though Lestrade had had them searched in the morning by a special forensics team already.

He found nothing, no signs of break-ins, things moved, or things that don't belong. He even cleaned out the whole fridge and open edibles to make sure everything was okay… and sent John to get new supplies.

So John went to Tesco and, after buying more comfort food than usually without even realising it, headed home with several filled bags.

When he went up Baker Street his gaze shifted towards the location where he had seen the graffito over a week ago.

He couldn't find it… it was gone… but he found the location where it had been.

Someone had painted it over with a colour that should have matched the original wall colour but was not really a good choice… and it didn't really matter because there were so many other graffiti you almost missed the original colour of the wall at all.

But what was that?… the area had not just been painted over, someone hat sprayed something new onto the area already.

John looked closer. It was a sign, blue, small, about 10 centimetres in width… sprayed with a stencil…

He knew that sign, it was usually on packages that contained valuable or fragile goods… though the word fragile was missing. He frowned. He had seen loads of tags and signs sprayed throughout London, but why the hell would somebody mark a wall to handle with care?

Although, now that he looked closer… the box that was usually protected by the hands was replace with a circle here. Dots or circles in signs sometimes symbolised your own position 'you are here'… funny.

He took a picture with his mobile's camera, just for fun, since he was sure this was not related to the syndicate. Glad the original was gone he headed for the flat.

Sherlock was hovering….. John was not sure he was really seeing this….

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to disturb any insect that might be in this flat and suck it into the bag."

"So… you're not cleaning?"

"Nope."

"Glad to hear, would have really made me worry seeing you clean up the floor, actually," John's laughter was a tiny bit sarcastic. "Why are you trying to catch insects?"

"I…" Sherlock switched off the vacuum-cleaner, heading for the curtains and looking through them closely, "I… wanted to make sure… we… are… there is nothing in here that has you… me… tense because it is not safe?" Sherlock searched for words while avoiding to look at him.

John stood there, lost for words for a moment "Eh… I am not sure I get this."

"You don't have to. Do you want to go to Scotland Yard tonight?"

"… No?" John frowned.

Sherlock was changing topics to avoid to have explain it, though John began to understand. He just wasn't used to have Sherlock act on such motives as caring. His flatmate wanted John to be able to feel safe at home, wasn't he?… Had they disturbed Sherlock's feeling of security, too?

John wondered what the feeling of security meant for Sherlock. He must be familiar with the concept in his own way, otherwise he'd not go through the flat with a fine tooth comb for hours!

"I found a graffito…." John started and suddenly alarmed Sherlock stopped inspecting the folds in the fabric.

"No need to worry, I think, I am just telling you for… humour. Someone painted over the yellow sign on the way to Tesco and… someone else painted a new graffito over it, small one, but… well… You want to see?"

"I don't need to, I already know what it looks like."

"How…?"

"John, I'm not blind!"

"When did you see it? We came from the other direction with the cab… I thought you haven't been home when I was in the hospital?"

"I wasn't…"

"Uh, fine… you're being all mysterious and clever…. Then why don't you tell me what the sprayer might have intended to say… it doesn't look like the average name-tag and I'm at a loss there."

"Well, maybe he realised he has found something good in his life and wanted to remind himself of what he has where he is right now and how… valuable it is for him."

"Then why put it on a wall somewhere in London?… not on the valuable object itself?… Why on a bloody wall? It can't be the wall that is valuable."

"Maybe he can't… or the wall symbolizes something… or the street… or the day he made it…"

"Well, you are the one with close contact to the graffiti scene, guess you are more into their motivations than I am. To prove your theory we might need to look out for some more of those… Why ever he or she did it, I am glad the numbers are gone… Really. Let's hope someone also paints over the other ones you saw around the flat."

"Glad to hear that… He did."

"Wait, did you tell this graffiti artist I of yours to do it?"

"Nope."

John rolled his eyes and started unpacking the shopping, was Sherlock being closed up as a revenge for him avoiding a topic on their way, when John hadn't wanted to talk about?

No…. Sherlock was not like this to him, striking back was not his thing. The only one he ever taunted was Mycroft… and it was more like competing… not really on a hurting level for one who knew them… The brothers practiced a struggle of minds, honest to the bone, maybe too direct, definitely had it's own dynamics.

Of course, Sherlock was tactless, socially awkward, direct, too honest, and many other things… and he had with the utmost probability endured being taunted badly a lot in his life… and had surely been imputed to be hurting someone intently, though it was not intentionally.

John wondered if the detective had ever felt the need for revenge, he had seen Sherlock act 'as if' sometimes but it was amateurish. Sure, he had faked the words and the tone but the nastiness and foulness had not been there, ever…

The database entry for that must be incomplete then? John grinned… he had learned so much new about Sherlock during the last week. Sherlock cared in his own way… and he had seen this care and honest worry in the man's eyes several times these last days.

He himself would need some time to come to terms with the events since the stings… in good and bad things alike… he just hoped it would not involve more flashbacks and panic attacks. Sherlock had handled those, in a better way anyone ever had. He felt embarrassed, yes… but Sherlock had not pitied him, not told him to get himself together, not taunted him, just handled the situations, and even in a way that had the best possible outcome for him (his therapist had never been able to even rudimentary manage that).

The detective had done what was good for John at that moment, send people away to make the situation less shaming, stopped that he was given meds he didn't want, talked him out of a panic attack, although he didn't liked physical contact and had maintained it when Sarah had said it was necessary…

This was caring… pure and honest… John wondered if Sherlock had realised that himself or if he would admit it if he was told.

Having stored all the groceries in the cupboards he returned to the living room, Sherlock was still busy with the other set of curtains.

The doctor watched him, sure now that Sherlock had really not understood he had hit a sore spot in the cab.

John was ashamed about having had a meltdown on the floor of the bathroom and being found in that state. It was so humiliating it almost hurt… but Sherlock wouldn't know how that felt and therefore not be able to understand why he was trying to evade the topic.

"Sherlock?… I'm sorry I was abrasive before…"

"What?" Sherlock turned around, slightly lost in thought.

"I'm sorry to have been dismissive… I was humiliated that you saw me at my weakest last night… I still am… Sorry you had to witness that… and the panic attacks before… this shouldn't have happened," John looked at the floor, kind of lost about the fact that he had just said that out loud.

"You don't have to feel embarrassed, it was a flashback, wasn't it?"

"Yeah."

"It is what happens sometimes when a patient suffers PTSD?"

"Yes."

"Then there is no reason to be ashamed."

"I'm only partially ashamed it happened, I'm really humiliated you saw it."

"Why?"

"You can't imagine how bad it feels to lie on the ground, out of your mind and sick from agony and being seen by strangers… And maybe even worse by people that are dear to you."

"Now, that you mention it… I don't need to."

"What?" John wondered if starting to talk about it had been a mistake. Was Sherlock not understanding what he was trying to say?

"I don't need to because I've been there, John. I know exactly what it feels like… and I know how it feels like to be yelled at then for being a wimp in such a moment, and being taunted with it for months by classmates."

"Sorry… sorry… I…" John stammered. Maybe stop talking now, it would only get worse it seems, thinking he was misunderstood, and producing more misunderstandings by uttering it.

"John, you don't need to feel ashamed or humiliated or whatever. I'm not confronted by bodily functions as breathing, I'm not embarrassed to witness a panic attack and not… maybe I don't even recognise a precarious position if I stumble into one… Though they are described somewhere and stored in one of the rooms of my mind-palace… I never paid much attention to them, what usually makes me stumble into dropping bricks, as we have already ascertained before. I hope my actions were not worsening your condition on any occasion in the past days… And I have to admit I was… worried about your health… and it was… unsettling to feel worried."

"Eh, Sherlock…" John rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. This whole thing had his emotions pretty messed up and close to the surface. But he managed to contain them after a few deep breaths this time. "You were… your actions were helpful and I owe you my life… Not once with this case, but several times… I… I'm really grateful you handled the things the way you did… Thank you…." he pressed out.

"I have to say I'd be pleased if you manage not to be stung by a scorpion again in the near future," Sherlock stated, though John was sure this was a pretty emotional message he had just released.

John had to bite his lip, still fighting his emotions, "Okay."

"Lestrade called and informed me the arrested man is not talking at all… has said not a single word so far… He will be charged within the evening and we need to make our official statements tomorrow morning. Mycroft brought Sarah home, she told me to tell you she is safe and happy that this is over."

"Okay…" John repeated, glad Sherlock had the insight to change topics for now. "I'll call her later. I need a shower… and I want to order some Indian or Thai takeaway for dinner."

"Sounds good."

When John got into the bathroom and washed his hands before shaving, he noticed a blue residue on the water tap, that had transferred onto his fingers when he turned the water off. He sighed and took some toilet paper, wiped it from his hands and the metal knob, it was sticky.

"What's this blue stuff at the tab?" he yelled through the flat.

"Experiment, nothing dangerous." Sherlock answered from the kitchen.

The doctor was satisfied and threw the tissues into the waste bin, then turned on the shower.

The end.

Chapter Text

Hey,

I just wanted to announce I posted the next story in the series 'Lessons in Friendship' to everybody who is interested.

Thank you for reading. :)