John placed his hands on Sherlock’s shoulder and gave him a comforting shake. “It’s all right, mate. I know this is tough on you, but, it’s going to be okay. Mrs. Hudson?”
“Yes, John?” Mrs. Hudson stepped forward.
“Fetch Alana on the stairs while I make Sherlock a cuppa tea.”
“No, tea, thank you, John. I ought to finish my work.” Sherlock, in a lighter voice, hopped from his chair and began cleaning up the room. “How did you sleep last night?”
“Talking to me?” John asked, pouring out the old water from the kettle and refilling it with new.
“Yes.”
Smiling at the memory by the fire with the duchess, John replied through a smile, “It was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. I brought Alana, didn’t want to leave her behind.”
“Smart. Good work.” Sherlock stopped and examined the ocean of rubbish he had created. Scratching his neck violently, the detective sighed. “About the colors, what did we figure out?”
John turned the kettle on and leaned against the doorway with his arms crossed. “Basically, this intruder is going to come again. The last thing we realized was that the two hundred and twenty-one years might stand for the Baker Street address. And, I think that was a warning.”
“A warning?” Sherlock echoed, his brows stitched in thought.
“Yeah. A warning, which happened last night. The intruder cleverly planned to attack you exactly two-hundred and twenty-one years after the first sighting of the Bermuda Triangle. Sadly, we were too late to catch it in time.”
Sherlock blinked rapidly. “Well, I’ll probably remember what happened last night. Just hit my head, that’s all.” He resumed his cleaning up and then plopped down in front of his microscope. He looked through the eyepiece and began muttering ideas and thoughts to himself. His hands twittered beside the controls and picked up a pencil to write, though, he never wrote anything.
John looked over his shoulder and noticed how antsy and impatient Sherlock was acting. The detective was always seen quiet and studious at his microscope—never had John seen him throw a fit when sitting before his beloved piece of equipment.
“I brought Alana up!” Mrs. Hudson chirped as she led the duchess into the main room.
John’s face lit up and he hurried over to take her hands. “How are you, love?”
“I’m good,” Alana whispered as she gave him a kiss on the jaw. “How is he?”
“He’s all right,” John replied uncertainly. He glanced back at Sherlock and saw him readjusting the controls and turning the slide repeatedly under the scope. “Sherlock?”
“Not now, John! I’m working,” Sherlock barked.
“Wait here,” John said softly to Alana as he broke from her side. He went up behind Sherlock and grabbed his hands. “Look, you’re under stress and you hit your head. Go to your room and sleep.”
“No! I’m fine, John. Go entertain Her Grace, please.” Sherlock gave John a fierce look that made the doctor release his hands.
“Suit yourself. But, please, don’t take your frustration out on Mrs. Hudson’s apartment.” John left the kitchen and led the two women downstairs to the lounge.
When Sherlock heard the door click shut, he leaned back from his microscope and stared at it. His mind was blank. He couldn’t remember what he was looking for and what to write if he was to discover something. Shaking his head, Sherlock pressed his palm against his bruised spot and returned to the eyepiece. He peered through and stared at the dried red glob. He saw little organisms moving around slowly, but it took every brain cell in his mind to identify them to be a type of venom.
“What are you?” Sherlock breathed. He felt beads of sweat trickling down his neck and the muscles behind his eyes began to ache. Sherlock turned away from his work and fought for a deep breath. “Why does my head hurt?” The detective stumbled from his chair and collapsed onto all fours. His gut churned and his body shivered. Before he knew it, he retched. His body heaved and he threw up again.
Pressing his hands against his forehead, Sherlock rocked back onto his heels and scrambled for a solid memory in his mind. But nothing was making sense, and everything he knew he was supposed to know seemed to be only dark shadows, floating out of reach. “John!”
“Was that Mr. Holmes calling?” Alana asked through a sip of tea. She looked up towards the floor above her.
“Might be,” John said. He placed his cup down and hurried up the stairs. He bolted into their apartment and found Sherlock leaning against the counters, shaking violently. “Good God!” John avoided the mess on the floor and went up beside his friend. “Put your arm around me.”
Sherlock flung a limp arm around John’s shoulder and staggered to his feet. “There’s venom in the dog’s blood. I don’t know what it is, but I’ll figure it out. I will.”
“You can do that tomorrow,” John insisted as he hauled Sherlock into the bedroom. Carefully, he placed him on the bed and pulled the covers out from underneath him. “Just go to sleep and, if you feel sick, I put the rubbish bin out beside you. I’ll be just outside.”
Sherlock didn’t answer, for his mind was unraveling from a torturous pretzel. Every time he thought he nailed the case they were on, he would feel completely ill and forget everything. He hadn’t felt so down since Irene Adler had injected him with her sleeping drug. At that thought, a memory sparked. Sherlock smacked the side of his neck and felt around for a prick point. His fingers soon came across a small, swollen lump and, upon feeling it, Sherlock remembered struggling against someone. As the fragments came together, Sherlock sat up and looked down at his legs. He lifted his trousers from the ankles and revealed raw lines around the base of his calves. He identified them to be rope burns, but he couldn’t recall the hands that had tied him.
Sherlock rubbed his wrists and a vague flash of a man in black flashed in his mind. He squeezed his eyes and squinted against the growing pain in his head. He couldn’t think anymore. He had to sleep. And, perhaps, when he would wake up, everything would make sense.