A/N: Sososososososososo sorry for the god damn delay. And I who told you I was going to be quicker this time... tut-tut. Thank you so much for all favs, follows and reviews, each one of them means a lot, as well as everyone who has checked in on this story! No, off you go and read.

John flopped down in his chair with a cup of tea in his hands, sighing exhaustedly. "Just three seconds, and then I'm off to Sherlock" he thought to himself. It had been a long day at work, probably because he hadn't thought of anything else but his flatmate. He wondered how many poor girls he had managed to scare away, or if he was even in bed like he should be. And as if by a prayer answered by the devil, came Sherlock, stomping up the stairs, his step slightly uneven. How on earth he even managed, John did not want to know... He had to know. So much for a relaxing afternoon with a cup of tea and a well planned schedule for the rest of the day.

"I was going to leave in ten minutes, Sherlock. What on earth are you doing here?"

"They released me?" Sherlock tried, but John did not buy it. "I got hold of a uniform, walked out of my room unseen, went to the lady behind the desk in the hall telling her had been released, that it was probably just one of those weird once-in-a-lifetime happenings..." John stopped listening to Sherlock's explanation right there, because hadn't he told the doctors it had been going on for a while? He was lying.

"You're lying. I told them. I told them it had happened several times. You snuck out?" He asked in disbelief. "God, you truly are intolerable! Did they even give you the results from the tests?"

"Oh calm down John, I am certain none of them will grieve over my disappearance. And please, if you would let me finish?" Sherlock was pierced by the ugliest scowl in history. "Then I can have tell you that I got my file, but I will leave the reading to you." Sherlock turned on his heels and went for the kitchen, and his microscope.

"And why is that, you don't understand it or you just think it's boring?" If it was said a bit too harshly, John did not notice or did not care.

"Correct me if I am wrong-" Sherlock looked down at the equipment on the table and hid his smirk. "But I am convinced that I have already told you; I have more pressing matters at hand. I need to find out what happened with the three victims. There might be a connection between me and them."

"Did you steal the file, or did one of the doctors give it to you as they signed you out?" John asked sarcastically.

"I borrowed it." Sherlock corrected. "Now, if you would be so kind..." He gestured towards the map he had thrown into John's lap.

John huffed an exasperated breath, but began looking at the papers nonetheless. In all honesty, he could not wait to see what the doctors had found out. It was a bit intriguing, the curious case of Sherlock's sickness. Hm... good headline for a blog post. John could not remember the last time he had been this interested in what diagnose a patient would get, despite all the hurting and that it was his friend and... I am starting to sound like Sherlock. Perhaps it was just the fact that Sherlock was the one being diagnosed that made it interesting, but intriguing was a wrong word to use. It sounded like it was funny, or exciting, like he couldn't wait to work out the result just for the fun of it, but it wasn't. The whole situation was downright scary and as far away from funny as one could get.

After reading page after page with nothing (except a few relieved sighs from the doctor), John started to get the feeling that the doctors hadn't found anything after all. Maybe they needed more tests, or maybe they had skipped something, John also thought he saw a young doctor performing some of the tests, he could have done it wrong. It was all just could have or maybe, and the distressed and tired man understood that he was acting foolish. When he at last, after scanning every page with clinical and sharp eyes, read the last few of them and still did not find anything, he had to suppress the urge to throw the damned map across the room. Instead, he put it silently down on the table beside his chair and drew his hands over his face, trying to clear his mind. It was useless. What on earth was going on? He had never seen or heard of anything like Sherlock's case. What if it was a bizarre, new disease, or poison? It could be contagious too. John heaved an exasperated and heavy sigh as he realized that that train of thought should be parked safely in its garage again. Slowly, he lifted his tired body out from the chair and went for the bathroom. He passed Sherlock on his way there, and even though he looked concentrated as ever, he seemed tired for once too. John noticed that his right leg was twitching slightly, but decided to let it slip, just this one time. Two minutes later, and John was more than ready for bed. He just had to tell Sherlock that tiny little detail about not finding anything wrong. What if it was mental? No, stop John, stop. Don't go there.

"So... Um, I'm going to bed. Work tomorrow." John gestured towards the stairs, just to make his point clear. Sherlock didn't bother him with as much as a glance. "Want a little report on your diagnosis first?" He tried carefully.

"Yes please, I have been hearing your thoughts churning for the last two hours, so please, go ahead." He answered with his eyes still trained on the blood samples.

"Your diagnosis is nonexistent." Yeah, great phrasing there , don't even think about sugar coating it or anything.

Sherlock did not say anything, he just stood silently and then sent all the Petri dishes to the floor, before he strode of to his room and locked the door. How was it possible that there was no diagnosis?

The tall detective sat down on his bed and scratched forehead. Then he stood up again and started pacing back and forth. How was it possible that he had got no diagnosis? With all those tests, they should've found something? Hurting like that must've made one of those god damn incompetent doctors think of something, anything. There had been nothing in the blood samples, not one thing Sherlock found odd or even different from any other, normal person. And on top of it all, his thigh had been burning all since the last night at the hospital, and it had only gotten more confident in its decision to give him hell over the last forty minutes or so. He sat down again and started rubbing it fiercely, willing the pain to go away. In the end, he arrived to the conclusion that he should try and sleep it off. Just turn the whole system off and on again to see if that would help. He shuddered out a long breath before he closed his eyes, but sleep never came. As the clock passed twelve thirty, his door creaked open, and Sherlock's body became nothing but a ball of rigid muscles.

"Sherlock?" A hushed voice said carefully. John. "You awake?"

"No 'm not, just sleep talking." Sherlock noticed with horror how slurred his voice sounded.

"A-are you still hurting?" The man in the bed drew a sharp breath, and then nodded silently. "Will you let me see?" John closed his eyes and exhaled heavily, wondering what on earth he was doing, but when Sherlock turned over, he decided it was the right thing.

"Right thigh." John nodded sharply and threw the duvet away from Sherlock's legs.

There was nothing there. As normal, there was only the pain, and nothing else. John groaned and scratched his head while he laid the duvet back. He comprehended less and less of this huge chaos that was wrecking havoc in Sherlock's body.

"Lestrade called. Scotland Yard got a telephone from hospital, calling in on a missing Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You know who he is? You know, since you've spent a whole day atthe same hospital he was in. Thought you might have observed him at some point or something..." John smiled at Sherlock's 'not-funny' glare. "I had to explain the whole thing to him you know. And just after I hung up on him, the staff at the hospital called me and said they really wanted you to come in again. They need to do some more tests, try and figure out what all of this is. Do you want to talk about it? That's why I'm really here."

"I didn't find anything... in the blood samples. Nothing that could even give a little indication as to what can possibly be wrong with me. I am so tired and sick of this, I can't think or work with that pain interrupting me without as much as a little forewarning. The only thing on my mind is when the next blow will come." He spat back. Sherlock sunk hopelessly into his pillow and gripped his leg tightly through the duvet, frowning in pain.

That was when the doorbell rang, and everything was going to change in a couple of minutes. John's eyes turned from the door to Sherlock's icy stare. He had perked up and seemingly forgotten about the pain for the moment. "Client." They both thought, and John went for the door, muttering something about ungodly hours under his breath. While his friend was downstairs, Sherlock took the opportunity to stumble his way into the living room. It didn't hurt much more to stand or walk than it did to lie down, it was just exhausting and irritating with the constant pain. He practically fell into his chair, but tried to compose himself and look professional to whoever was going to come in that door. And that was the one and only John Watson, no one else. He was so obsessed with a box he had in his hands, so that Sherlock had to whistle at him to make him stop in the living room.

"What are you-"

"What is that box?" Sherlock interrupted at once, he could not be bothered by John's
concern at the moment.

A box containing something unknown, arriving at the door in the middle of the night, that was definitely something. Because John was itching about opening the cube of cardboard himself, he let the questions about Sherlock's health lie for the moment. Maybe this was just what the detective needed. A little something to take his mind of all that was happening

"Do you think it's something dangerous?" Sherlock shook his head and groped for the box.

He sat with the thing in his lap for a few minutes, probably deducing all he could about where it came from and who had sent it. When he started muttering some of it out loud, John was certain that was just what he did. At some point he was probably happy about what he had found out, or he just couldn't get a grip of it at all, because his face looked mildly puzzled. Anyway, he started to rip away the tape that held the box together and viscously tore it apart. All the excitement was gone in a moment, when he saw the little, blue, stuffed doll fall out of it. It had buttons for eyes and its mouth was stitched, so was the edges of it, making it look cheap and put together by a person who was not so good at making dolls. John noted the needle stuck in its leg, and that was when he understood what it was.

"It's a bloody voodoo doll!" he exclaimed, taking it away from Sherlock's hands. "You're supposed to wish for something, and then put a needle in it, and then each needle has one specific colour which comes with a theme. Green could be money for example." John remembered learning that from a crazy girlfriend he had at uni, and pulled forth a white pin from the desk. "What they do in movies is apparently wrong, transferring pain to those the doll was made for and all that, you know." And just as he said that, he stuck the needle into the stomach of the blue, stuffed, little creep in his hand.

Sherlock doubled over and fell down onto the floor on his knees, right at the same time. Too slowly, John turned around and let the doll fall out of his hands as he spun toward Sherlock. The man on the floor was clutching at his stomach tightly, moaning silently as he tried to maintain a calm breathing pattern. He leaned forward and let his head come to rest at John's chest, who had also sat down on his knees by then. Two places at once was new, and not at all a welcome feeling. One of Sherlock's hands reached for the floor to support himself as he curled even more in on himself. What felt like years spent in hell, turned out to be nothing more than almost an hour in the end. With pain trespassing miles over his comfort zone as a constant stab, an hour was not just nothing, it was the whole world and just cold, empty blackness all at once. Sherlock wished he had a switch, and so did John, but Sherlock realized that was just what he had, long before John could even comprehend what was happening. John had eventually made him lay on the carpet in front of the warm fire, hoping for it to help, if only marginally, but now, Sherlock shot upright. He gestured to John for something on the floor behind himself, not being bothered enough to open his mouth which was not corresponding with his brain at that moment. John had sat down in his own chair, opposite of where Sherlock had collapsed, and now he looked past his friend for the first time in quite a few minutes. The only thing that caught John's eye was the doll, and what on earth was that supposed to mean?

"It's-" Sherlock seemed to roll the words in the back of his throat, not managing to really get them out there. "Voodoo." He finally pressed out between his lips.

When John only stared at him, dumbstruck, he at least still had guts enough in him to roll his eyes. He started to crawl towards it, but John was faster and picked it up before he managed to hurt himself further. The action earned him a petulant whine from Sherlock.

"Pull out... the..." Sherlock gave up and fell back down on the carpet, it was a silly idea anyway.

What on earth had he been thinking? Of course it would not work, the pain must have got to his head, making him desperate for any kind of solution. John didn't hesitate with his friend's request after all, pulling out both of the needles stuck in the blue, ragged doll. The relieved sigh that followed made the two men lock eyes, both were wide and unbelieving. Sherlock snatched the thing out of John's strong hands, leaving him with no other option but to let him have it. He then took one of the needles, which John had now dropped onto the carpet, and stuck it into the head of the doll. At the same time, one of his own hands flew to Sherlock's own head.

"I have got no idea what to do with this... this... bloody toy from the devil." John paced restlessly back and forth in front of Sherlock who had the doll in his lap. "Burn it, throw it, bury it? If someone finds it, it could be really dangerous, and destroying it could be painful for you..." He sighed hopelessly and stole a quick glance at his flatmate who seemed to ponder about the same thing, fixing the doll with a piercing glare. "I know!" he said and stopped the pacing. Sherlock perked up and watched him with raised eyebrows. "I could keep it for times when you don't listen."

"That would be very much like you, yes." Sherlock mumbled in retort and went back to staring at the doll.

"I-I... I said I was sorry, Sherlock! What more do you want me to do? It was a bad moment... all rational thought left me and I-"

"John, it was meant as a joke." Sherlock offered, and smiled at the frenzied man. "Actually... I couldn't care less about it. I need to know how it works. If we get to know how it works, we could also destroy it." He answered in an icy voice.

"What do you mean?"

"There must be something in it. Some sort of device which passes on pain, some new technology supposed to be used on criminals perhaps. We should ask Lestrade. " He finished as he rose up from his chair dramatically, a stunned John looking after him. "What? You didn't really think it was... 'magic' doing all this?" The soldier blushed and looked down at his toes.

"'Course not..." he mumbled in a low voice.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but couldn't suppress the little smile that crept upon his lips. He went for his bedroom, going to pick up his phone and call the D.I. It didn't take more than one ring before someone answered and a litany of questions rolled out of the phone. Sherlock did not even bother to listen, interrupting poor Greg Lestrade in the middle of his scolding. The line went silent when Sherlock had asked his question, and then the man on the other end blew out in a full, patronizing laugh. Apparently, there was no such device existing, and even if there was, it sounded illegal if not inhuman. 'Tell me about it' Sherlock thought. He hung up before Lestrade had finished his speaking, or laughing, and threw the phone back down on his bedside table. He was just going to lie down for one minute and think about everything that had happened over the last week, but it didn't take long before blissful sleep surrounded him.

Waking up the next day was more than just okay. No more agony, no more irritating throbbing and best of all, Sherlock felt ready to anything, like he normally did. He yawned as he shuffled out into the living room, still in the clothes he had worn the night before. A quick glance at his watch showed him that it was no more than six thirty AM, and sure enough, John bustling out of the bathroom confirmed that.

"Morning." They said in unison and smiled at each other.

Sherlock seemed... almost happy, or content, John thought to himself. It was good, he was glad to have him back to his normal self. He didn't want for anything to happen to the detective in a good time now, he had got his fair share. It would be good to finish the case now, and try to forget about the absurd week they had just had. Yes, that would be the best now, John decided. As he stood in the kitchen, making himself breakfast and getting ready to go to work, he caught a glimpse of a certain lanky man pushing himself off the floor and scanning the room with his eyes for what seemed like the umpteenth time.

"Have you seen the thing? I am certain I laid it right here, in my chair, last night." A questioning, almost worried glance was fixed at John.

"I haven't touched it." He said and threw his arms up in defence.

"Well then... someone has taken it."