Chapter 8

Somewhere along Park Lane, a horrible thought struck John. What if Culverton wasn't coming? What if he had just faked it to get rid of the weird, crying man that had turned up at his doorstep, woken him and his wife up and demanded to take him to see a sick man he disliked? The more he thought about it, the more unlikely it seemed to John that Culverton had in fact gone to his car. But as the cab turned onto Baker Street he forced the thought out of his head. Culverton had to come. There simply was no other way. He wouldn't return to Sherlock to only bring the news that he had failed at the one thing he had been asked to do.

The flat seemed darker than he remembered. The walls felt closer, the ceiling lower, the air stuffy; it felt like he was walking into the flat of a dying, if not already dead man.

"John?" Sherlock asked from his bedroom, and John could finally breathe properly again, for the first time since he had left him.

"I'm here," said John, throwing his jacket off as he went into Sherlock's bedroom, where the dark, stuffy feeling of the flat was even stronger. He wanted to touch him, to reassure him, but managed to keep himself away by making sure that he was always touching one of the walls.

"Is he coming?"

"Yes, he was just going to take his own car."

"Good."

Sherlock relaxed noticeably and took a deep, rattling breath. John wondered if Sherlock had ever looked as relieved by the news that he was coming as he was by the new of Culverton. The words he had said before, of not having enough confidence in John's medical capacity still stung, and in combination with the relief at the news that Culverton was coming, he felt something he tried hard to tell himself wasn't jealousy. It made him sick, the petty feeling of jealousy when faced with his best friends very imminent demise, but it was there, gnawing in tandem with the constant worry in the pit of his stomach.

The door downstairs opened, and hurried steps climbed the stairs.

"Hello?" asked Culverton's voice in the front room.

"In here," called John, pushing the door to Sherlock's bedroom.

Culverton came in and surveyed the scene before him, but his eyes soon fixed on Sherlock. John followed his eyes as he took note of the twitching hands, the chest rising and falling in short, shallow breaths, the gaunt face, the dark-circled eyes, the cracked, pale lips. He looked even worse than how John had left him, almost as though he was already dead.

"Get out," he breathed. John turned to Culverton, who turned to John. "John, get out."

It was a double insult. Not only was he not allowed in there as a doctor, he wasn't even allowed to stay as a friend. He looked from Sherlock to Culverton, and back again, but they both looked at him as though he didn't belong there at all. He heaved a deep sigh before resigning, and stalked out to the front room, where he sat down in his chair. He buried his face in his hands and wondered if time would move faster if he counted the seconds.

Five minutes passed, and John was one the verge of starting to pace, when his mobile buzzed in the pocked of his jacket, which was thrown over the back of the chair. He scrambled up and fumbled through the pockets as the phone kept vibrating insistently. At this hour it could only be Mycroft, and he didn't really know what to say to him, but if he called John, John must be able to tell him that Sherlock was dying, right? He was about to just decline the call when he realised that the name on the screen was Sherlock's. He turned to look at the closed bedroom door. What was going on?

He pressed the green key and held the phone up to his ear, breathlessly. The sounds were muffled, as though he had been pocket-dialled. He could hear talking, but couldn't make out the words.

"Sherlock?" he asked cautiously. He wasn't surprised when there was no reply. He was just about to hang up when there was the scratchy sound of fabric by the microphone of the phone, and suddenly everything he heard was a lot clearer.

"I hear that you've already figured out what's wrong with you?" Culverton asked. John assumed Sherlock had made some sort of non-verbal answer, because Culverton continued soon after. "Then I assume you've already figured out that if there's not much I can do, even if I felt inclined to do them."

John felt his mouth fall open.

"Terrible disease, isn't it?" Culverton went on. "Seems odd to contract it in London, though. You rarely encounter it outside Southeast Asia. Such bad luck, eh, Holmes? And the very disease my dear nephew happened to succumb to… Who knew that London was such a breeding ground for tropical diseases? What a singular coincidence."

"I know you did it," Sherlock said, a lot closer to the phone.

"Oh, you do, do you?"

"Yes, like I knew that you killed your nephew."

"Well, you couldn't prove that, and you won't be able to prove this either. You won't be able to do much more than suffer in just around an hours' time, judging by the way the tremor is increasing."

"Water," Sherlock gasped.

"Did you really think you could drag my name into that god-awful report and then come crawling to me the moment you're in trouble? What sort of a game would that be?"

John sat frozen in his chair, staring at the door, behind which was the madman he had shut in there with Sherlock, who was not in any state to defend himself.

"Give me the water. Please," Sherlock gasped again, sounding as though in terrible pain. John couldn't think straight.

Culverton snorted derisively, loud enough for John to hear through the door.

"Please, do what you can for me. Let bygones be bygones. I'll forget it, I swear I will. Just cure me, and I'll forget it."

"Forget what?"

"Your nephew. You as good as admitted that it was you, but I'll forget all about it."

"Doesn't really matter now, does it? It's not like it's likely that you'll bounce off to Scotland Yard in your state, now is it? You're such a proud man, Sherlock Holmes. What a brain you've got in there… It's a good brain, I'll give you that. But this is what happens when a proud man meets someone who is smarter than him. He dies."

"I can't think. My mind is gone, for the love of god, please help me!"

John wanted to rush into the room, to do anything he could, but he just couldn't move. He sat staring at the door, his phone pressed to his ear.

"But now where could one possibly contract as rare a disease as this in London? Well, judging by the junkies you hang out with it's a wonder you didn't contract something sooner. It's amazing how little contamination is needed to spread something like this, especially if you inject it straight into the blood stream. A very wise life-style choice, Mr Holmes." He tut-tutted loudly.

"Just please give me something for the pain!"

"Yes, it is quite painful, isn't it? Just wait until the cramps really start acting up, then you'll know real pain."

"Water," Sherlock started, but then his voice just drifted off in an inaudible whisper.

"Anything else I can do for you, my friend? Any more little service I can grant a dying man?"

"Do you have a cigarette?"

John almost threw the phone away across the room in shock and surprise. It was not the delirious voice, nor the feeble whispers; it was Sherlock's normal voice. A bit hoarse perhaps, but completely lucid and with a hard edge to it. He'd been faking it. The whole thing. The dying.

Culverton didn't say anything for a long while.

"What is the meaning of this?" he finally said, clearly worried.

"Well, food and water is uncomfortable to be without for three days, but nicotine… Now, that is true suffering. Ah, here are some!"

John could hear him dig through a drawer, and a few seconds later light a cigarette. He was too baffled to think. The only thing that crossed his mind was that Mrs Hudson would be furious. She hated smoking.

"Much better," said Sherlock, exhaling loudly. He seemed to be completely at ease. "Do I hear the steps of a friend?"

John looked up and tried to listen before he realised that he was referring to him. He rushed over to the door and flung it open. What he saw was a very weird sight. Sherlock was half-lying down, propped up on his elbows, with a cigarette between his cracked lips, a very familiar satisfied glint in his eyes, which looked so very at odds with the dark circles and lank hair. Culverton looked as deeply shocked as John felt, but John tried to look as though he had been in on it. He was looking around himself for a way out, like a cornered animal. For a second he seemed to consider barging past John in the door, but thought better of it. John was relieved, because he felt so terribly unbalanced that he wasn't sure he would be able to react fast enough for any sort of physical advantage.

There was suddenly a loud noise, and the sound of several people climbing the stairs loudly, before Lestrade and a number of people burst through the door and swarmed into the flat.

"Damnit," Sherlock muttered and rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Of course, they're late! It would have been too much to ask that they'd make an entrance when it would make dramatic sense…"

Culverton seemed to find his feet again, and ran towards Lestrade. "I don't know what happened, I was asked here as a doctor, he begged me to come here, and then he just started accusing me of all manner of things. I felt sorry for him, and he tricked me here. Now he'll keep pretending that he's found some killer, no doubt! He'll say anything that he can invent to corroborate his insane suspicions!"

"Oh that's right! John!" Sherlock exclaimed as though he had completely forgotten that John was in the room. "John, I owe you a thousand apologies. This, well, it got a bit out of hand, I am the first to admit."

John didn't even know how to begin to respond to this, the understatement of the year. He had been a wreck for four days. Out of hand, indeed… John raised his hand with the phone and waved it slightly in front of Culverton, whose face immediately dropped.

Lestrade stepped forwards and cuffed Culverton, who looked like he was trying to find some new defence, but kept drawing blanks.

"Will you need me back at the station immediately, or could I have a shower and get dressed first?" asked Sherlock comfortably and folded his hands in his lap.

"Take your time," answered Lestrade as he ushered Culverton and most of his division out of the flat. Anderson stayed long enough to comment what a shame it was that he wasn't dying, but was quickly reprimanded by Lestrade.

"Terribly sorry about this, John, I mean it," said Sherlock, as though he had been ten minutes late for an appointment. "You do understand how imperative it was that you was convinced that my condition was real, don't you?"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" was all that John could say. "I thought you were dying. For real. I wasn't sure you'd be alive when I'd get back."

"Please don't be offended, but you are a terrible actor. I needed you to impress on Culverton the urgency of his visit, and this seemed to me the most straightforward way to make your performance as believable as possible. Also, it was very likely that I was being observed. Turned out I wasn't, but no harm in a job well done."

"A job well done?" John repeated, mostly to himself. "But… but you looked like you were dying."

Sherlock smirked a little, like he had been looking forward to the question. "Quite simple, really. No food or water really helps with the weariness, but then with contacts and some make-up, the look of a dying man is quite attainable for anyone. All it takes is some dedication to the role. I was very pleased with the cold sweat though. Vaseline! Who would've thought!"

"But you wouldn't let me near you," John started, not really knowing where he was going with it.

"Isn't it obvious? My god, John, how clouded have you become?"

"Clouded? Fuck you. I haven't slept properly in four days, I thought you were dying."

"Sentiment, John, sentiment. I've told you before; it won't help you. But in this instance I'm probably prepared to forgive you, since it only helped to perfect your performance. It was quite touching, actually."

John wasn't sure if he was being mocked. The words actually sounded sincere, but were delivered with the detachment of someone ordering a pizza.

"But it was obvious, wasn't it? Do you think I have no respect for your medical talents? How could you possibly not notice that a dying man, however weak, had no raised pulse or temperature? With a few yards' distance I might have been able to trick you, but you bought it surprisingly easily. If I'd failed to trick you, who could have brought Culverton here?"

John would never admit it, even to himself, but that compliment of his 'medical talents' actually did more to smooth this whole thing over than he would ever grant it.

The End

A/N: So this was my take on "The Adventure of the Dying Detective" from His Last Bow, congratulations to those who had already figured it out.

I have to admit that I find it implausible and out of character for Sherlock to base a case on someone doing "'ze evil voice", and watching this sketch only made it worse: (look up That Mitchell and Webb Look: Evil voice)

Thanks for reading, and stay tuned for my next fic about John's life after the Fall: Earth Died Screaming, which I will start posting in a day or two.