Where We Started

Love is a Sickness

    In the morning the dinner was gone and breakfast was there, but it looked put together hastily, as if something else was on his mind. That was no surprise though, considering everything had to be on Sherlock's mind today. Prior to everyone's home remedy for emotions, the sleep didn't help with all the guilt John was carrying around. He felt, if possible, worse about the whole thing now that Sherlock was officially ignoring him or something. John wondered how Sherlock was doing, if Irene had yet confronted him about their scheduled marriage. Poor Sherlock, marrying her seemed like a curse for anyone, and now they added John to the pool of negatives. It only made him wonder, however, how long Sherlock had felt that way about him, since the pub? Sherlock had mentioned a crush the next day, so it had been him all along, that would be why John could never find said crush on the sidewalks or anywhere. The only place he'd find 'her' was in the mirror. It made him feel like such an idiot, all of those times he had joked out this crush Sherlock had, Sherlock must have found it amusing. When lunch rolled around there was still no sign of Sherlock, maybe he was waiting for John to leave the hay, which he had camped out on. But finally, around twelve o'clock, the door opened, shaking John from his daydreams and back into reality. Sherlock stood in the doorway, no food in his hands, looking ashen and terrified. John stood up immediately, as if it were some sort of polite gesture, but Sherlock was looking at the floor.
"I'm sorry, if that's what you're worried about, I don't hate you." John pointed out.
"I know." Sherlock muttered. His hair was a tangled mess on his head, his clothes were a simple jeans and tee shirt but they were muddy and torn, as if he had spent his days camped out in the woods.
"Are you okay?" John asked. Sherlock didn't answer right away, and John noticed he was kind of shrugged over, as if trying to hide something on his shoulder.
"I guess I don't have to worry about her anymore, or you," he straightened up, as if it took effort, revealing a large mark, almost a boil, growing on the side of his neck. John stared at it, panic stricken, he knew what this meant, this was the plague. "Thought you ought to know." Sherlock muttered. AS he said it his knees seemed to give out, he stumbled forward and almost fell if John hadn't caught him in time before he hit the ground.
"Sherlock, god, when did you find out?" John asked in a panic. He quickly felt Sherlock's head; he was burning with a fever.
"Yesterday, didn't think it was bad." Sherlock broke into a fit of coughs, which he did his best to keep away from John, but John couldn't care less. He wouldn't let Sherlock die, not in his wildest dreams.
"You need a doctor; I'll bring you to the house." John decided. Sherlock clutched John's shoulder, too weak to return to his own feet apparently.
"No, they'll find you!" he grunted.
"You're more important, now it's my turn to take care of you." John defended, and with a great heave he carried Sherlock bride style, holding him to his chest and walking very slowly out the door. He could feel Sherlock shaking next to him, very aware of the mark on his neck. John thought they were called buboes, according to his history, hence the name bubonic plague.
"You're going to be alright." John assured, trotting to the house and kicking the door as a knock. Sherlock only shuddered, apparently farther into this disease as John would've liked. He kicked the door once again, any day would be nice.
"Coming, coming!" Mrs. Hudson's voice rung through the small entry, and soon the door opened up. She gasped in surprise, not only at the stranger but at the sight of her servant in his arms, pale as a sheet.
"Oh dear, what happened?" She squeaked, taking a step back and pulling the door open as an invitation in.
"He needs a doctor, he's got the plague." John pointed out. Mrs. Hudson gasped behind him, but he knew she had already known from one look.
"I'll get the doctor, tell Frank to clear off the counter, set him there." She decided, rushing off to get something. The house looked very different, empty almost, compared to the party two nights ago. An older man, Mr. Hudson John assumed, from the glimpse he had of him previously, rushed in, looking shocked.
"Clear off the counter!" John demanded, not in the mood for introductions. Mr. Hudson did as he was told, rushing to the marble counter and clearing it of papers and spices and what not. Mrs. Hudson rushed in, laying multiple fluffy white towels over the counter, balling one up as a pillow.
"Set him here, there you go." She decided as John carefully laid Sherlock out onto the counter. Sherlock couched once more, a hacking cough that couldn't be good. Another older lady, Mrs. Adler, came poking her head around the corner, her graying black hair pulled up in curlers and what looked like facial cream spread across her face.
"What is going on Martha, I'm trying to concentrate!" she hissed. John definitely saw the family resemblance there.
"Sherlock's sick." She muttered, pushing his curly head onto the balled up towel. John didn't know what to do; obviously Sherlock was infected, could he fight it? There were so many emotions flowing through his brain that he didn't know what to do about them, worry, guilt, sadness, pain, but he knew not one of those emotions were positive.
"Oh dear, I'll tell Irene." She decided, disappearing before anyone could tell her that might not be a good idea.
"Frank, be a dear and go get Dr. Sholto, he can't be very far." Mrs. Hudson recommended, giving her husband an encouraging push towards the door. He nodded, walking out the door and pulling a top hat over his head, as if it were improper to be seen without it.
"Don't fuss, please don't." Sherlock groaned, breaking into another fit of coughs.
"Of course we'll fuss." John snapped, not wanting Sherlock to think people would just ignore his suffering.
"I'm sorry dear, but who are you?" Mrs. Hudson asked, as if thinking it rude to ask who exactly John was.
"A friend of Sherlock's, came by and found him like this." John explained quickly, which was almost true.
"I didn't know he had friends." Mrs. Hudson shrugged, making Sherlock, even though in pain, smile forcefully.
"No matter what you think, I do have some sort of a life." He defended.
"Lie back, and keep your mouth shut, I'll go get you some water." She decided, bustling off to the kitchen. A loud shriek announced Irene's arrival, wearing a silk nightgown and robe pulled over top, her hair thrown in a messy bun on her head and her makeup probably enough to build the foundation for a house.
"Oh Sherly, oh baby what happened?" she cried, making John want to punch her so badly. She rushed to Sherlock's side, pushing John away and grasping his hand desperately.
"It's not obvious?" Sherlock grumbled, pulling his hand away immediately. That made John's spirits lift the slightest bit. Mrs. Hudson returned once more with a tall glass of water, glaring enough at Irene to send an obvious message; she didn't like her as well.
"Stay back dear, he's sick." She pointed out. "It's a shame, your brother left yesterday." She made Sherlock drink a couple of gulps of water before sputtering over his chin and coughing more.
"That's enough." John decided, pushing the glass away before Sherlock choked. Mrs. Hudson nodded, pulling it back rather reluctantly, Irene still glued to Sherlock's side as if she still believed she was the most important figure in his life.
"It's going to be alright honey, you know that, it'll be alright." She assured, taking his hand once more, and, like last time, he pulled away. Obviously he didn't want to tell her that he didn't like her, but he wouldn't be holding hands or anything, which made John's mood improve ever so slightly. At least he would stand up for himself in his last hours.
"Where is it, the buboes?" Mrs. Hudson asked, coming around the corner with a white tube of something or other.
"Will that help?" John asked hopefully, stepping around to be directly in front of the top of Sherlock's head, his previous position blocked by Irene. "It's on his neck, right here." John said, gently tilting Sherlock's head to the side to reveal the large bubble of skin. Mrs. Hudson winced, but dabbed the cream onto a towel and ever so gently rubbed it in.
"I can only hope it will make a difference, I doubt it though." Mrs. Hudson sighed.
"I'm sorry, just who are you?" Irene asked, crossing her arms and glaring moodily at John. She might have been pretty if she didn't make John, and everyone else around her, want to hit her with a frying pan.
"I'm John, I found him like this, I'm his friend." John said, almost forcefully. Sherlock tilted his head back to look at John, smiling slightly, but his arms and legs were shaking unnaturally.
"Lay flat, come on Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson scolded, but she sounded more sad than annoyed. Sherlock did as he was told, and Mrs. Hudson raced to put a cold cloth over his forehead, trapping some of his stray bangs underneath.
"I suppose he told you all about me, Irene Adler, his fiancé." She said, proudly displaying a ring with a diamond the size of a grape prodding from the end. John was shocked her finger could even hold it up.
"Yes, he did." John agreed, trying to hide his smile at what exactly Sherlock had told him about her.
"John..." Sherlock muttered, making Irene frown slightly. "John I can't see you." John smiled slightly, almost tauntingly, and took Irene's place at Sherlock's side.
"I'm here." he assured, pressing the towel on his forehead ever so slightly to ensure it was still making a difference. Sherlock coughed slightly once more, his trembling hand opening and closing as if to make sure it still worked properly.
"Oh where is Frank?" Mrs. Hudson muttered, looking out the window as if expecting her husband to be rolling right by the window. But the driveway was silent, of course, he had only just left.
"Is there anything else I can do for him?" she asked impatiently, removing the towel to check Sherlock's temperature.
"Oh, you're burning up." she muttered, making a tear roll down Irene's cheek. She had taken to the head of the table, but unlike John, Sherlock didn't mind her absence.
"What can the doctor do?" John asked urgently.
"Whatever we can't, I'm sorry to say there is no cure." Mrs. Hudson sighed. The Adler family, other than Irene, didn't seem to care what became of the servant, and were still absent. Sherlock coughed once again, almost hacking into the air, jolting up on the table every time. John wanted to look away but he just couldn't bring himself to, he had to be there for Sherlock, in whatever way he could, just his presence.
"What should I do?" John asked Sherlock, he'd do anything.
"Just stay with me." Sherlock muttered, his voice becoming weaker with every word.
"Of course, course I will." He assured.
"I'm here too baby, I won't leave you either." Irene assured, making both Sherlock and John clench their fists.
"I'm sure he appreciates that dear." Mrs. Hudson decided, but if anything Sherlock looked worse after Irene promised she wouldn't give them the liberty of leaving them alone. They were left waiting for a good hour before finally the doctor and Mr. Hudson showed up, looking sun baked and exhausted, but the doctor wasted no time.
"What do we have?" he asked, approaching Sherlock nervously.
"Plague." John muttered in disgust. He approached Sherlock, spying the mark on his neck almost immediately and sighing with remorse.