Sherlock Fic: One Step Ahead (2/3)
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
John just stared at Sherlock, who looked like he was falling asleep. His stomach clenched as he wondered if it was going to be the last time. From where he stood, he could see that Sherlock did not have long. Mycroft’s estimate of one week had been far too high. Sherlock started muttering again.
“Sherlock?”
When Sherlock didn’t respond at all, John went back to the room where the tea and food were set out. He found three doctors there, deep in conversation about the virus and its effects.
John listened for almost fifteen minutes, trying to distract himself by thinking like a doctor, not a friend. And when he had finished his tea and eaten a sandwich, and blown his nose a bit too loudly for a not-friend (one of the doctors had turned and given him a strange look at the loud noise) he realized that he was doing what he always told Sherlock he shouldn’t do: try not to care. John was almost starting to think, as he hadn’t really since he’d come home from Afghanistan, that letting himself get attached to people really was as stupid as Sherlock said it was.
It wasn’t, though. And Sherlock knew that as well as he did, though John knew he’d never admit it out loud. (John wished he could have heard him admit it once before it was too late.) No. Sherlock could be-was!-emotionally attached-Sherlock was his friend. He just had the ability to put aside his emotions do think rationally.
And that is what John would do.
Rationally, there was no reason not to put on the safety gear, and go in and do his duty as a doctor for his friend.
And Sherlock would approve, because he would recognize that this was no unnecessary risk.
Sherlock would never let this illogical I-almost-killed-you-once argument manipulate him into watching helplessly while his friend died. He’d reject it. Say it was emotional blackmail…
But…Sherlock was the one who had said the clichéd nonsense. And now that John stopped to think about it, even dying wouldn’t turn Sherlock into a completely different person…would it?
Something wasn’t right.
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John was munching on a second sandwich and thinking over his options. He was determined to get into that room and try and figure out what was happening. He could try to fight his way in. He wasn’t half bad at street-fighting. And he’d had plenty of practice since he’d met Sherlock. But that seemed overly dramatic. Not to mention that he had no desire to compromise the negative pressure room that Sherlock was in. Ebola--especially experimental super-Ebola--was serious.
So, back to thinking like Sherlock. Sherlock would find some way to hide in plain sight. That shouldn’t be too difficult, since with the exception of the one doctor who glanced at him when he blew his nose, no one had even looked at him since he’d left Sherlock.
He’d say he was on the cleaning staff. All he had to do was put on the gear, and get some cleaning equipment, and no one would ask questions.
Twenty minutes later he was standing outside the antechamber, to go in. As the door to the chamber slid open, someone walked up.
“Going in too. Collect some bloodwork.” It was that one doctor who’d looked at him! John could only hope the he thought he had been cleaning staff eating lunch...or that the mask was enough of a covering that the doctor wouldn’t recognize him.
“I’m just...I’m cleaning.”
“Yes.”
They both entered the room and John walked purposefully (he hoped) to one corner of the room and started fiddling with objects he found there. He watched out of the corner of his eye as the doctor moved to take a blood sample from Sherlock’s arm. He thought he noticed the doctor pause for a moment. And then, instead of drawing the blood, the doctor reached into his pocket for a vial, filled a syringe from it, and carefully replaced the vial in his pocket.
“Oi!” At John’s shout, the doctor spun around with the syringe still in his hand. “What are you doing?”
“Administering medicine.”
“You said you were going to draw blood.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Based on what?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be cleaning this room?”
“Put that syringe down now.”
“No. I’m a doctor. I know what I’m doing.”
“I’m sure you do. But you will put that syringe down.”
The doctor spun towards the bed, but John grabbed him and pulled him backwards before he could touch Sherlock with the syringe. When the doctor swung his arm back to strike at him with the needle, John knew that he was fighting a man with a very dangerous weapon--he had to avoid it, without spreading its potentially lethal contents around room by smashing it from his opponent’s hands. Just as he had deflected the blow, and was trying to determine his next move he noticed a third person in his periphery. And somehow in that split second of distraction, the whole situation changed. He found himself looking at Sherlock Holmes, who was...standing? with his wary hostage-negotiations expression…and then he realized it was because he, John Watson, was (unsurprisingly) the hostage. The doctor was holding him with one arm and with the other, John could see by looking down, he had pointed the syringe at his neck.
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 2
John just stared at Sherlock, who looked like he was falling asleep. His stomach clenched as he wondered if it was going to be the last time. From where he stood, he could see that Sherlock did not have long. Mycroft’s estimate of one week had been far too high. Sherlock started muttering again.
“Sherlock?”
When Sherlock didn’t respond at all, John went back to the room where the tea and food were set out. He found three doctors there, deep in conversation about the virus and its effects.
John listened for almost fifteen minutes, trying to distract himself by thinking like a doctor, not a friend. And when he had finished his tea and eaten a sandwich, and blown his nose a bit too loudly for a not-friend (one of the doctors had turned and given him a strange look at the loud noise) he realized that he was doing what he always told Sherlock he shouldn’t do: try not to care. John was almost starting to think, as he hadn’t really since he’d come home from Afghanistan, that letting himself get attached to people really was as stupid as Sherlock said it was.
It wasn’t, though. And Sherlock knew that as well as he did, though John knew he’d never admit it out loud. (John wished he could have heard him admit it once before it was too late.) No. Sherlock could be-was!-emotionally attached-Sherlock was his friend. He just had the ability to put aside his emotions do think rationally.
And that is what John would do.
Rationally, there was no reason not to put on the safety gear, and go in and do his duty as a doctor for his friend.
And Sherlock would approve, because he would recognize that this was no unnecessary risk.
Sherlock would never let this illogical I-almost-killed-you-once argument manipulate him into watching helplessly while his friend died. He’d reject it. Say it was emotional blackmail…
But…Sherlock was the one who had said the clichéd nonsense. And now that John stopped to think about it, even dying wouldn’t turn Sherlock into a completely different person…would it?
Something wasn’t right.
<|><|><|><|><|><|>
John was munching on a second sandwich and thinking over his options. He was determined to get into that room and try and figure out what was happening. He could try to fight his way in. He wasn’t half bad at street-fighting. And he’d had plenty of practice since he’d met Sherlock. But that seemed overly dramatic. Not to mention that he had no desire to compromise the negative pressure room that Sherlock was in. Ebola--especially experimental super-Ebola--was serious.
So, back to thinking like Sherlock. Sherlock would find some way to hide in plain sight. That shouldn’t be too difficult, since with the exception of the one doctor who glanced at him when he blew his nose, no one had even looked at him since he’d left Sherlock.
He’d say he was on the cleaning staff. All he had to do was put on the gear, and get some cleaning equipment, and no one would ask questions.
Twenty minutes later he was standing outside the antechamber, to go in. As the door to the chamber slid open, someone walked up.
“Going in too. Collect some bloodwork.” It was that one doctor who’d looked at him! John could only hope the he thought he had been cleaning staff eating lunch...or that the mask was enough of a covering that the doctor wouldn’t recognize him.
“I’m just...I’m cleaning.”
“Yes.”
They both entered the room and John walked purposefully (he hoped) to one corner of the room and started fiddling with objects he found there. He watched out of the corner of his eye as the doctor moved to take a blood sample from Sherlock’s arm. He thought he noticed the doctor pause for a moment. And then, instead of drawing the blood, the doctor reached into his pocket for a vial, filled a syringe from it, and carefully replaced the vial in his pocket.
“Oi!” At John’s shout, the doctor spun around with the syringe still in his hand. “What are you doing?”
“Administering medicine.”
“You said you were going to draw blood.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Based on what?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be cleaning this room?”
“Put that syringe down now.”
“No. I’m a doctor. I know what I’m doing.”
“I’m sure you do. But you will put that syringe down.”
The doctor spun towards the bed, but John grabbed him and pulled him backwards before he could touch Sherlock with the syringe. When the doctor swung his arm back to strike at him with the needle, John knew that he was fighting a man with a very dangerous weapon--he had to avoid it, without spreading its potentially lethal contents around room by smashing it from his opponent’s hands. Just as he had deflected the blow, and was trying to determine his next move he noticed a third person in his periphery. And somehow in that split second of distraction, the whole situation changed. He found himself looking at Sherlock Holmes, who was...standing? with his wary hostage-negotiations expression…and then he realized it was because he, John Watson, was (unsurprisingly) the hostage. The doctor was holding him with one arm and with the other, John could see by looking down, he had pointed the syringe at his neck.
CHAPTER 3