As John, Sherlock and Mycroft ran for the car, the sky opened up and pelted them with rain, so that by the time they got in the car, they were all shivering with cold. Mycroft stuck the key in the ignition and let engine warm up, glaring over at Sherlock as he did so. “For God’s sake, Sherlock quit that teeth chattering, it’s not that cold, grab a blanket out of the backseat and shut up.” Sherlock reached over the back seat, grabbed the green, striped blanket that Mycroft referred to and covered himself and John with it. John snuggled closer to Sherlock, for as they drove away, he swore he could hear Moriarty laughing.
Mycroft glanced over at Sherlock and John and rolled his eyes, “For God’s sake, quit that snuggling.”
John’s blue eyes widened as he stared innocently back at Mycroft, “Why not he’s my friend and we’re both cold.”
Mycroft braked at a stop sign, not bothering to reply to John’s query, the swish of the windshield wipers the only sound in the cab, a honk from a car behind them jolted Mycroft back to reality, and as he stepped on the gas, the car hydroplaned for a moment or two before it righted itself and Mycroft was grateful for the sturdiness of the automobiles from the 1950’s, for a modern car would have most likely spun out of control. By the time they got home, Sherlock’s forehead was hot, as he tried to massage the stiffness out of his neck, and as they trudged upstairs, John put his hand against Sherlock’s cheek, “My God, you’re burning up,” John said as he took Sherlock’s hand and led him to the bedroom. Mycroft watched John as he fussed over Sherlock like a mother hen and helped him into his pajamas, and pulled him close under the covers.
Mycroft curled up in a ball and turned his back on them both. “I’m cold too and nobody gives a damn,” he thought as he burrowed further under his own blanket.
By the next morning, it was clear that Sherlock had more than just the common cold, for his body shook with chills, as he complained about the pain and stiffness in his neck, and then promptly vomited all over John the bed, finally ending up on the floor. John rushed to Sherlock’s side and yelled at Mycroft fearfully, “Mycroft, get the Mom, Sherlock needs to get to a hospital NOW.”
John held Sherlock close as the Mom drove like a car racer from the days when the circle of the city of Corona, was used as a race track by famous drivers such as Barney Oldfield. The Mom barely had set the car in park, as she rushed into the emergency room and a few moments later Sherlock was gently taken from John’s arms and rushed away on a gurney, leaving the rest of the party to make their way to the waiting room in silence. The muted green color of the chairs and wall seemed to close in on them and John marveled at how almost everyone in the room was smoking a cigarette. He was not given ample time to reflect on the unhealthy ritual everyone seem to be enjoying as they inhaled and exhaled, for across the room came the Doctor, his face pale, his lips white and drawn and John knew even before he spoke that it was bad news. The Doctor took the Mom’s hands in his own and caught her before she hit the floor as she fainted dead away when the Doctor spoke the most dreaded words of the 1950’s. “I’m sorry to tell you Sheryl has contracted the Polio Virus.”
