Short Version: Not Dead

Chapter One

Okay, so, here's my latest Sherlock story. I was inspired by Stephen King's "Autopsy Room Four" and another fanfiction story that I read ("Sleep Eternal" for Supernatural).

Where am I?

He couldn't make out where he was or what had happened to him. No, no, wait; he could remember what had happened to him. It was something to do with poison…something or other…Yes! Yes! He had been happened!

The murderer had poisoned him!

Did that mean he was dead? No, it couldn't be. He could feel his chest expanding slightly with each shallow breath he took. He could hear the rush of blood in his ears as his heart beat. So, what had that poison done to him if it hadn't killed him? What case had he been working on? It was the poison. The poison held the key.

Sherlock Holmes sat at his microscope in the lab at St. Bart's Hospital, peering into the eyepieces as a grin began to work its way onto his face. "Fascinating."

"What's that?" asked Dr. John Watson from his seat across from him, looking up from his phone.

"The poison found in the victims," said Sherlock, leaning away from the microscope to look at his friend. "I've never seen anything like it. It holds traces of curare and the venom of a tarantula hawk wasp. The curare alone would have been enough to kill them, but each of them died of starvation and dehydration."

"How is that possible?" asked John. "Curare is a muscle relaxant. It paralyzes the diaphragm and causes asphyxiation."

Sherlock frowned in thought. "Somehow, they managed to combine the symptoms of the wasp venom with the onset and effect of the curare. The result is the ultimate paralytic: a poison that paralyzes the body without paralyzing the respiratory and circulatory systems. It would take a trained professional to determine the person isn't actually dead." He leaned back towards the microscope, looking into it with an amazed smile on his face. "Brilliant."

"Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes lifted from the eyepieces, his head staying put.

"Three people are dead," John told him. "They probably died terrible, horrific deaths."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "How many times do I have to tell you, John? Sympathizing with the victim does nothing to catch their killer before he strikes again."

"Sherlock, think about it," John said in a serious tone. "Lying there, unable to move or call out for help as you slowly starve to death. What they must have gone through…"

Sherlock stared at him for a moment before going back to his microscope. "The only thing that would have negated the paralytics would have been two milligrams of neostigmine and three milligrams of atropine…Combination therapy…"

It was John's turn to roll his eyes as he went back to his phone. "So, any idea who's behind it?"

"I have a theory," Sherlock muttered, changing slides.

And that theory had led him here, paralyzed by what Dr. Molly Hooper had so fondly dubbed "The Living Death." For that was what this new drug did to the human body: left it so paralyzed that for all appearances, that body was dead. With any luck, the murderer had left him for dead. That he could deal with; or, rather, Mycroft could. Mycroft would be able to find him in an instant.

"You can't be serious."

As a matter of fact, it sounded like he had already been found.

"I'm afraid I am, sir."

"Oh, God…"

That sounded like Lestrade's voice. He could also hear radios squealing as people talked to each other through them. Footsteps sounded on pavement around him, and something light was laying over him.

"I'm sorry, sir."

Slowly, the darkness bled away from his eyes, and the world came into focus. The something laying over his face looked to be a tarp of some kind, but it was too dark to make out.

"And you're sure it's him?" asked Lestrade.

"Yes, sir," said a voice he didn't recognize.

"Let me see," said Lestrade.

"Sir—"

"Let me see," said Lestrade more forcefully.

There was a momentary pause before two footsteps sounded near his head to his right. The tarp over his face crinkled loudly before it was slowly pulled away. Light shone down onto his face, and his eyes sent a frantic message to his brain to blink. But, of course, the paralysis didn't allow any relief to the blinding light.

There was an intake of breath from above him before Lestrade spoke. "My God, Sherlock…"

Before long, his eyes had adjusted to the light, and he found himself staring up into Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade's face. The inspector was staring down at him with drawn brows. The only other person that he could see was an officer, who was holding the sheet back. He was still lying in the alley he had chased the murderer down, although he must not have been out long because it was still dark out.

"Has anyone called his brother?" asked Lestrade.

"His brother?" asked the officer.

Lestrade shook his head. "Never mind. He's probably already seen the whole thing."

The officer frowned in confusion before looking down at him. He took in everything that he could see, confused by everyone around him. Why were they not in a panic? Why were they not hurrying him to the hospital?

"All right," said Lestrade. "Someone call John. I'll—"

"We already did," said the officer. "He's on his way."

"Oh," said Lestrade. "Well, then, I'll just…" He pulled his mobile out, giving a sigh. "This is just gonna kill her." He punched a number on his phone and raised it to his ear, waiting for a moment. "Hey, it's Greg. Erm…" He turned and began to walk away. "Listen, there's something you need to know…"

Lestrade's voice trailed off as he got out of earshot. Now, he was stuck with the other officer that he couldn't remember the name of. The officer just stared at him for a moment before pulling out a clipboard and starting to write on it.

What was wrong with this idiot? Who knew how long he had been lying there? Unable to move, there was no way for his body to keep itself warm. They should be those infernal shock blankets over him, getting him to the hospital. Why had Lestrade hired these imbeciles?

The sharp click-clack of high-heeled shoes echoed through the alley, getting louder, before Sergeant Sally Donovan came into view. She gazed down at him, shaking her head in disdain. "I knew one day he'd end up back here."

What? Did she think he had done this to himself? Now, granted, he had been known to dose up in the past, but that was to get a high, to get his mind to just stop thinking. What purpose would this serve? His mind would only rally against his body's inability to move. Why did Donovan have to be so stupid?

"All right," came Lestrade's voice as he approached and shooed Donovan away. "We'll meet you at the hospital."

Finally! Finally, there was talk of a hospital.

"And Molly?" said Lestrade. "I'm sorry."

Sorry? Why would he be sorry? Lestrade didn't poison him.

Lestrade hung up, staring at his phone for a moment before looking down at him. Lestrade stared right down into his eyes for an uncomfortably long moment before his brows drew together and his eyes began to fill with tears. What was wrong with everyone today? He was going to be perfectly fine! And why in the bloody hell was he not in an ambulance?

"Sherlock!"

Ah, finally! Someone who would take this seriously.

Lestrade glanced up at John's voice and looked over to the left.

"Sherlock!" John yelled again, his voice louder as hurried footsteps drew closer.

Lestrade quickly headed to the left, supposedly to head him off. "John—"

"Sherlock—" began John.

"John, don't—" said Lestrade as the sounds of a slight scuffle started.

"Let me through—"

"John, you can't—"

"Let me go, Greg."

"It's too late, John."

"Let me through," said John firmly as the scuffling ceased abruptly.

Suddenly, John was there, kneeling at his left and leaning over him with a terrified look on his face.

"Sherlock!" exclaimed John, reaching forward and shaking him by the front of his coat. "Sherlock, no…"

A hand latched onto John's right shoulder as Lestrade approached. "John, come on."

"No!" shouted John, tears forming in his eyes. "No, not again…"

If he could frown at that moment, he would be. Why was John so upset? He was going to be fine. It wasn't like he was dead.

"It's too late, John," said Lestrade.

John shook his head as he clenched his eyes closed, a couple of tears falling from them. "No…"

"He's gone," Lestrade told him softly, a tear falling down his own face.

As John fell back onto his feet, shoulders slumping in despair, it finally clicked. No wonder he hadn't gotten it before; it was so blindingly obvious to him that he hadn't thought of what it would look like to everyone else. After all, hadn't he himself said that it would take a trained professional to see the signs?

"I'm sorry, John," said Lestrade, squatting down next to the grieving John.

My God… Sherlock thought. They think I'm dead.