Recap: Sherlock and John managed to catch the serial killer (who was killing astronomers because their ideas clashed with his beliefs), but John was poisoned with arsenic and the time device is on the other side of London.

Note: The time continuums might be slightly off in this depending on what the most accurate way to write different timelines is, but I just took the opportunity of writing whatever made most sense for my plot :) If I had taken the time to draw out the timelines, then it would have certainly been different, but I thought this would be best to work with the plot.

"I am not going to a Victorian hospital!" John said instantaneously.

"Not for an extended period of time, John! I'm not ignorant! I'll drop you off there, where they can keep an eye on you and hopefully make sure you don't die. I can sprint over to the Mycroft's office - our flat - and grab the time device, then come back and bring us to a modern hospital!"

"But -" John protested. He struggled to think of a good argument and found that he couldn't find any. He was suddenly feeling very warm; whatever dosage Brown had slipped in his tea was certainly very acute.

"Sherlock, I don't think I have more than an hour," John began, speaking rapidly. "Just - drop me off, alright, and don't even bother with stopping the carriage, just get to the flat as soon as possible, yeah?"

"That was the plan," Sherlock said, teeth gritted. "John, you're not going to die."

"How do you know?!" John asked indignantly. "There's a high chance that I won't survive this!"

"You'll survive, John, because I won't let you die," Sherlock said, his voice stiff.

"Oh, come on!" John said, mirth in his voice. "Even you can't guarantee that!"

"John, I promise you, there is no way that I will let you die," Sherlock said, his voice deadly. John shut up; he disagreed - he could potentially die from this - but for his friend's sake he said nothing more.

Their carriage was extremely anti-climatic. Despite the tense situation, the horse seemed to trot at the pace of a snail moving uphill. Sherlock leaned forward to the coach (Cabby? Coach? John wasn't sure what to call him) and said in a very demanding voice, "Faster."

"I'm sorry, sir, but the horses are tired. They can't go much faster 'til they've got their dinner-"

"I don't care. Faster, or I'll take control of the carriage."

The coach threw his hands in the air. "Look, sir, we're going as fast as we can!"

Sherlock grimaced and leaned back. They rode in silence, Sherlock shooting covert looks at John every so often to evaluate his health. It took nearly forty minutes to arrive at the hospital, and when they did, John leapt out quickly.

"I'll see you soon," John said as calmly as possible to Sherlock, attempting to hide the convulsions that seemed to be inside his stomach from the poisoning. Blood arsenic. He left the carriage without a backward glance and marched into the hospital; hopefully, if he could have access to some medicines he could administer them himself without interference from the doctors.

"I've been poisoned with arsenic, and I need immediate medical attention," John said loudly to the Victorian people, unsure of how their hospital worked.

"We can take you, sir," a short man said immediately, and led him to a room with a tiny, hard bed. "Been all sorts of poisonings lately. Didn't think it was too dangerous until people started using it for murder," he laughed. "Still not too lethal, we don't think. I wouldn't worry if I were you."

John felt his jaw drift open slightly.

"Oh - well - I think my dosage is lethal," John attempted to explain, shuddering again as the arsenic brought about nausea. "I need medicine. Antibiotics. Anything!"

"I don't know about An-eye-bio… tricks? But we do have some pain relief," the doctor said cheerfully, gathering a washcloth from the cupboard. He wrung it out slightly.

"Stay still, sir," he commanded, and John obeyed, curious as to what the Victorian method of doctoring was despite the fact that there was poison in his bloodstream at the moment. However, an instant too late he realized it was a mistake to lie there placidly, as the doctor turned and pressed the cloth without further ado against John's mouth.

"Relax, it's just a calming tool," the doctor said, ignoring John's furious attempts to shove the washcloth away. It was too late, though, he had breathed in before realizing what the doctor was doing - his head was spinning - no, no, no, he couldn't fall unconscious, not when he was poisoned! Not now… but the darkness was welcoming… and John fell into it.

He woke up with vomit on the side of his chest. That was brilliant. Fortunately the doctor had known enough to turn him on his side. He gasped as a headache ravaged through his temples and retched again, realizing that he wouldn't be able to sit up without passing out.

Sherlock still wasn't there with the time machine.

The edges of his vision was black. Bile rose in his throat and he called for the doctor, but his voice didn't seem to be working. He blinked rapidly, fighting the spiraling that was forcing his erratic eye movements - he couldn't focus on any one object - and it was then that he realized he'd be dying alone in 1895 of arsenic, because there was no one there… no doctors monitoring him, no Sherlock with the time device.

John retched again, the last of his bile bitter. It was in all honesty the most disgusting sour vomit he'd ever tasted in his life. Well, John supposed in the back of his mind, it looked like he was dying with the last of his thoughts being the bile in his mouth.

The darkness in his eyes began to envelope his body… the pain was easing, it was over.

John thought of Sherlock (see, his last thought wouldn't be of vomit, he vaguely noticed). Sherlock would have to accept that John died, and John hated to think of the man being left alone to live in Baker Street, especially after John had experienced it himself for two years… after Reichenbach…

The blackness swallowed him whole, this time with a beam of light in front of him, and he finally felt relief as he floated away from the horrible pain and stench of the Victorian hospital.

One second, John was drifting peacefully upward, dead. He knew he was dead, it wasn't just a theory. It was a fact. He had died, his heart had stopped, he had left his body.

The next second - no, not even a second, more like a quadrillionth of a nanosecond - he was in the carriage with Sherlock, back with the familiar pain of the arsenic in his bloodstream. He gasped, glancing wildly at Sherlock.

"What just happened?! I just died! I was dead! Gone!" John demanded.

"I think it's quite obvious, John, if you thought about it. By the time I arrived at the hospital with the time device, you were regrettably dead. I must admit that was a difficult sight to absorb. I set back the time to when we first arrived in Victorian London, then continued the case as though nothing had changed, including not prohibiting Brown from poisoning you - I wanted to ensure that we still captured him."

"Then why did I only become aware that I wasn't dead now and not earlier?!" John was bemused. "I… I was dead! Dead!"
"I'm not quite sure, to be honest," Sherlock said. "I assume it has to do with how the time continuums coincided… I am not sure why you became aware of the previous timeline only now, however."

"I was dead," John said faintly.

"Yes, that was quite obvious when I walked into the room and-" Sherlock stopped suddenly, flushing.

"And what?" John probed.

"Nothing."

"You just don't like to admit that you were bothered by a corpse for the first time in your life."

"You would be, too, John, if you had seen me pale and limp with no heartbeat!" Sherlock snapped angrily. "It wasn't a sight I wanted to see!"

"You realize that I have seen you pale, limp, and without a heartbeat?" John inquired.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, that was six months ago!"

"Right, well, thanks for going back to start over the case to save me," John said, a bit more meek.

"Ready to go back to modern day? Lestrade already went back, he's waiting for us," Sherlock said, holding out the time device. "He arrested Brown for poisoning you. Brown won't be killing any astronomers, which means Mycroft will get his treasured astronomy science that he so desired."

"Yeah, let's go back," John said, eager to charge his phone and no longer stand out with his jeans and jumper.

They both clutched the device and with a flash, left Victorian London; John could only hope that was the last time they'd ever be there - he didn't fancy being in a place he had died in.

I didn't mean to end the story here but it just sort of did. Anyway, thanks so much to everyone that read it!