Chapter Text
Something was definitely wrong.
Or maybe not. John didn't seem concerned, and he'd know, wouldn't he? People got nasty-sounding coughs all the time. Annoying, yeah, but there was nothing to be done for it, probably. He'd get over it. And at least it was no worse than the day before. Maybe. Christ, it did hurt, though, a deep ache behind his breastbone that never seemed to let up now even between bouts.
Lestrade rubbed at the ache and sighed, which made him cough again. Supposed to be napping, but the flat was always a zoo the day after Mycroft arrived home for his holidays - boys squabbling, dogs barking, security staff in and out. John was getting tea for everyone; he'd barely spoken to him all day. Maybe still not quite over their not-really-a-quarrel from last week. Lestrade didn't want to think about it any more. He'd fucked up, that was all. Best he could do was to keep his mouth shut now and avoid doing any more stupid damage.
He wished he hadn't gone out that morning. The cold had got right down into his bones, and the shivering made his chest ache worse. He'd felt too guilty saying no again to Sherlock, though. "Sure you're up to it?" John had asked, and Lestrade could feel how much he wanted the answer to be yes.
He was fine. He'd sleep it off. He wouldn't fuck everything up again this time.
*
When the bedroom door creaked, he kept his back turned to it resolutely, feigning sleep. It wasn't Sherlock; Sherlock would have pounced on him by now. "Hey," John said softly. "You awake?"
He really wasn't, Lestrade decided. Not fully. Better if he was asleep. He didn't move.
A mug was set down with a muffled clink on the bedside table, and the duvet was drawn up over his shoulders. He needed to cough again, but he could hold it in, he thought, if only John didn't stay long.
"Everyone's gone out dog-walking," John said. "Should be quieter for a bit. Do you want anything? Soup? You're a terrible faker, you know; you're never this still when you're asleep."
"I’ll come down and make dinner when they get back," Lestrade murmured, but the words disturbed the cough he'd been holding back. It broke through in a series of deep, bone-rattling barks, lifting him to a half-sitting position for the minute it lasted.
"That's not getting any better," John said, sounding grim.
Lestrade lay back down, wincing at the soreness of his sprung abdominals, gasping a little for air. He wanted to say Sorry, he wanted to say I'm Fine, but his chest was too tight and only a wheeze came out.
"Right," John sighed. "Sit up, I want to have another listen."
"What, again? You just did that," Lestrade said, raspily.
"Two days ago, yeah. And I was a bit distracted by the Boy Wonder at the time. Come on, up. Won't take long." He was already fetching his stethoscope from the bureau where he'd left it out the other night, warming the chestpiece against the palm of his hand.
Lestrade struggled upright, wincing again, reluctant to leave the warm burrow of the duvet.
"Cold?" John asked. "You can leave your shirt on this time. I'll be quick." He came over and placed the stethoscope against Lestrade's back, listening through his t-shirt, and Lestrade inhaled deeply without being asked. Exhaled.
It always made his heart race a little when John did this, from a complicated mix of feelings. Part embarrassed, part fearful, part turned-on, he supposed. If John noticed--which he'd have to, wouldn't he?--he never mentioned it. He moved the chestpiece, and Lestrade tried to take another deep breath in, but this one caught and snagged on another round of harsh, barking coughs.
John kept a hand between his shoulderblades, steadying him till he'd finished. "Done?" he said, and waited for his nod.
Lestrade watched John's face when he moved to listen to the front of his chest. Impassive, absorbed. Bloody gorgeous, too. Weird having him this intimately close when he was obviously a million miles away at the same time. John's glance flicked up and he saw Lestrade watching him, gave a small humourless smile, and looked away again, still intent on listening to him breathe.
Half his patients must have been in love with him, Lestrade thought, and felt suddenly weak with the knowledge that this lovely serious man was his. Only not. Not really. There were parts of John he'd never be able to touch, not even if they lived together the rest of their lives.
"Okay," John said at last, stepping back and taking the stethoscope out of his ears. "That's...not great. I'd have you at your doctor's tomorrow if it weren't the weekend. Lie back down, you're shaking. I didn't know you were running a fever. When did that start?"
"Don't know," Lestrade mumbled, feeling relieved, almost glad--a fever was at least proof he wasn't playing all this up for attention, which he'd almost begun to suspect John of thinking. "Am I? I'm just cold. Haven't warmed up from going out this morning."
"That was four hours ago," John said, feeling his face, his forehead. "Not much of a temp, maybe, but if you've got chills it's probably on its way up. You're definitely off dinner detail. Maybe you can still sleep it off."
Lestrade nodded, eyes closed. If he was actually ill, he wondered, why did John sound so angry at him?
Not that he didn’t deserve it, he reminded himself.
*
Inhaling was becoming an issue, but it hadn’t been actually impossible before. Lestrade opened his eyes, disoriented, and found Sherlock sitting on his stomach, leaning over and staring solemnly at him from a distance of about six inches.
“Hey, kiddo,” Lestrade said. “D’you mind getting off me? Bit difficult to breathe.”
Sherlock shifted his weight forward and leaned over further instead, planting his hands on Lestrade’s shoulders and bringing his face closer until their noses and foreheads touched. “You are really really really really really really” --he had to stop and take a breath-- “hot.”
Lestrade lifted him up and moved him aside, and Sherlock flopped down next to him on John’s side of the bed, kicking restlessly and staring at him with his chin on his hands. “Does John know you’re up here?” Lestrade asked him.
“No. He thinks I’m reading in my room. He’s being boring. Not as boring as you though. Although if you’re actually ill that might be interesting. Can I take your temperature? You’re boiling. I bet it’s over forty.”
“No,” Lestrade said. “I’m fine, Sherlock, I’m only tired.”
“Tired and hot,” Sherlock pronounced, bumping foreheads with him again. “I’m telling John.”
“No, don’t--” Lestrade started to say, but he started coughing again, and then coughing more, one of the bouts that made him have to sit up and struggle for breath with his head between his knees.
“Definitely telling,” Sherlock said, his eyes huge, and rolled off the bed and ran out of the room. “Johhhhhhhn,” Lestrade heard him hollering as he thudded down the stairs. “Lestrade is awake and he’s coughing again and he’s boiling hot and I think he has the plague after all! Can you come and see?”
Lestrade pressed his fingertips into his eye sockets. They did feel hot. His mobile buzzed.
Be up in a minute. You ok?
Yeah fine, he texted back. Havent got plauge.
He dozed off while waiting for the sound of footsteps on the stairs again. His mobile buzzed again instead. Sorry got busy helping M w dinner. U really ok? S says u have bad fever?
Fine Lestrade texted again. Same. Tired.
Ill keep him dnstrs. Bring u tea in a bit.
Lestrade thought he should probably get up and search for some paracetamol tablets, but the weight on his chest was too heavy. He dozed off again.
*
The next waking was particularly confusing because it was very loud. And hot. And loud. He was trying to get up--he couldn’t breathe lying down--but someone kept pushing him back. And Sherlock was shouting. Had he got hurt again? Oh god. Fuck fuck fuck Lestrade thought, panicking. Was it his fault again? Was he meant to be watching him? Mycroft was there too, talking over Sherlock, trying to get him to quiet down with his voice cracking everywhere. What was Sherlock saying? I told you. I told you I told you I TOLD YOU. No one ever listens to me and I am always right!
"You did tell me, Sherlock," John said--so John was there too, thank Christ, although his voice was sharp and deep in the way it only ever got when something very bad was happening. Danger voice. "I apologise for not listening, but I need you to go downstairs right now."
A Sherlock howl. "No! What are you going to do? I want to watch, I want to help, I NEED to watch. You both said I was an excellent assistant and I know all about breath sounds now because you taught me the other day!"
"I'll get Anthea," Mycroft announced, and left.
"No, that's not necessary," John called after him. "Sherlock," he said, in his Danger voice. "Go with Mycroft, please. I know you want to help, but you can't right now."
"But--"
"Sherlock!"
Sherlock went.
"All right. You're all right," John told Lestrade. He'd been helping him sit up and stacking pillows behind his back while he was talking to the boys. "Shallow breaths, don't gasp."
Lestrade was awake now, and slightly more coherent. "Sorry," he said. "Got scared. Not enough air. Felt like I was being...smothered."
"That's a bad feeling," John agreed. "Quiet a minute, okay?" He had his stethoscope out again, and he didn't stop to warm it up this time; he stuck it straight up inside Lestrade's t-shirt without warning. "Christ, that escalated fast," he said, listening. "The fever's probably not helping anything. You haven't taken anything for it?" Lestrade shook his head and started coughing again, and John tightened his grip on his shoulder, helping him lean forward till he was done and then pushing him gently back against the pillows. He went and fetched a thermometer, which Lestrade accepted without comment and then closed his eyes once it was under his tongue. He didn't like seeing the look on John’s face.
"Forty point two, almost," John said a minute later. "Sherlock was right. I hate to say it, but we should probably go to A&E.”
“Oh, fuck that,” Lestrade said.
“I know. I know. It’s no fun. But you’re--”
“No, I mean actually fuck that.” Lestrade could hear his own voice sounding strange and shaky. “I’m not going. You don’t want to deal with me yourself, that’s fine. Go back to ignoring me then. I’ll get over it on my own.”
Had he really said that? He had, judging by the way the silence in the room had changed suddenly. John had gone very...still. He cleared his throat, started to say something, stopped and shook his head, then strode quickly out of the room.
He was back almost right away, though, with a glass of water and two pills. Lestrade looked at them for a moment, then reached out to take them.
"Budge up," John said, and climbed into the bed behind Lestrade, replacing the pillows with his own body. Arms around his chest, face buried in his neck. Lestrade kept focusing on breathing. Everything ached, inside and out.
"I'm so sorry,” John said, with his chin on Lestrade’s collarbone, his voice a low vibrating hum that went all through him. “I know I haven't been...right, never mind that now. I'll stay with you the entire time at hospital, that's an absolute promise, but we really do need to get you there soon. You’ll need drugs I don't have access to and I don't think it can wait." He kissed Lestrade on the neck, nuzzling him. "All right?"
"All right," Lestrade said, giving in at last to the humiliation of having failed, needing help. John sighed, holding him tighter for a long moment, and then climbed back out from behind him.
"I should go and talk to Mrs. Hudson and Anthea," John said. "And the boys. Sherlock won't be happy."
"Is Sherlock okay?" Lestrade asked. "I wasn't watching. My fault."
"He's...fine, yeah." John's frown deepened, and he brushed a lingering hand against Lestrade's cheek. "He's fine. He's just downstairs. Nothing's your fault, love. The fever's making you confused, that's all. I'll be back in a few minutes."
Lestrade nodded and shut his eyes again. It hurt too much to argue. Everything was terrible beyond repair, everything was his fault. Everything.
*
John went downstairs and found Sherlock huddled in a tear-streaked ball on the sofa. He sat down next to him and gathered him up, and Sherlock burrowed against his body, rubbing his wet face on John's shirt front. "Is he dead?" he asked in a muffled voice. Mycroft, sitting at the desk with his laptop, rolled his eyes and made a disgusted sound, and John shot him a look.
"Not even close," he told Sherlock. "He's pretty ill, though. Listen to me, because you're not going to like this but it's non-negotiable. I need to take Lestrade to hospital for a bit and you can't come with us. I know," he said, when Sherlock jerked away from him with his mouth already open, wearing a completely outraged look of seven-year-old keenly felt injustice. "And I’m sorry. But believe me, Sherlock, I know everything you're going to say and it will not change my mind."
"You don't know everything I'm going to say! And I'm right! And why does he have to go, why can't you take care of him here, you're a doctor and I bet Mummy could get you anything you need if we don't have it here already and I could help!"
"Sherlock," Mycroft said, sounding annoyed. "That's completely--"
"Please," John said, cutting him off. "Please don't argue. I don't have time to explain it in detail, Sherlock. I'm worried about Lestrade, so I’m not the best person to take care of him right now, and I want to get help for him as quickly as possible."
"Pneumonia?" Mycroft asked. He was probably trying to sound grown-up and knowing, but his voice cracked again, and it came out in an unsteady warble.
"I don't know. That'd be my first guess, but he'll need a chest x-ray. Some sort of aggressive infection, anyway, from the way his temperature rose so high so quickly.”
“And his lungs were already all damaged and maybe black from when he used to smoke,” Sherlock said, wide-eyed. “I don’t really want to cut him open, though. Not yet. How long will you be gone? I still think I should be allowed to go with you. I know a LOT and I’d find out more while we were there, and I’d keep you company and distract you so you wouldn’t worry so much.”
John pulled him in for another hug. “I don’t know how long we’ll be gone,” he said. “I hope not long. Probably all night, anyway, and maybe longer if they decide to admit him. It’ll be very, very boring, Sherlock, loads of waiting around and sitting still in places where you have to be quiet. But Lestrade will still need a lot of taking care of and monitoring after we get him home again, I expect, so I’ll definitely be wanting your help then.”
Mycroft flashed him a look: well played, and John gave him a small smile over Sherlock’s head. “You’ll text us while you’re doing all the waiting bits?” Mycroft asked. He’d looked a bit gutted at the words aggressive infection, and John wasn’t sure how to reassure him without getting Sherlock worked up again. He wasn’t even sure he could, in honesty.
“Constantly,” John promised.
*
A&E was a nightmare. A loud, cold, incredibly uncomfortable nightmare. John got him settled in one of the hard green plastic chairs in Reception and then went to deal with the front desk and their endless intake paperwork, leaving Lestrade to hunch over with his head in his hands and try not to relive every horrible time he'd ever been in one of these places before. He felt like he was breathing through a straw that kept getting smaller and smaller, and he was nearly in a state of blind panic when a touch on the back of his neck made him start up with a violent flinch.
"Hey, shh," John said, kneeling in front of him, looking up into his face with such terrible concern that Lestrade had to shut his eyes, shutting him out. "Come on, I've got you a trolley in one of the triage rooms--it's not nice and we'll probably have to wait forever still to be seen, but at least it's quieter than here and you can lie down. Can you walk a bit? Not far."
John pulled the curtain round the trolley and helped him change into a gown--Lestrade was almost beyond minding the indignity, but it was bloody miserable getting undressed in the chill. "Nice pants," John said, deadpan, because he was wearing the ones John had given him in his stocking at Christmas, with ARSENAL across the arse. "Let's hope whoever sees you isn’t a Tottenham supporter."
Lestrade nodded, because even a wan smile would have been too much extra work, and lay gingerly down, shivering. John found a blanket to cover him up, then covered the blanket with his coat when he failed to stop shaking. The paracetamol he'd had at home had taken the edge off his fever, but he almost wished it hadn't. Chills were worse. Felt like he'd never get warm again.
They waited. John texted the boys. A triage nurse came in and took Lestrade's vitals, smiled sympathetically, said she thought it wouldn't be much longer, and vanished again.
Much later, a very young-looking junior doctor swept aside the curtain and began to ask for his history, then stopped when she caught sight of John. "I'm sorry. Mr...?"
"Doctor Watson," John said, standing up and extending his hand, smiling neutrally.
"My fiancé," Lestrade said quickly. "I'd like him to stay."
The young doctor said that would be fine, and it was, until she asked him about the onset and duration of his symptoms and whether he'd noticed any sudden increase in their severity.
Lestrade explained about the cough. "Was getting better, then it came on strong again a few days ago...Wednesday?"
"Thursday," John said quickly. "I mean...sorry. That was the first day you mentioned it again. I think. Pretty sure."
"Right, whatever day that was, then, when you...when I said."
"Any shortness of breath, wheezing, feeling of constriction?"
"Er...all of the above, yeah," Lestrade said, not looking at John. "Since Thursday. Bit before that, maybe."
"Did you seek out medical care, have you been taking antibiotics or any other medications?"
"No. I mean, John, Dr. Watson, he's been...but no. No medication."
John cleared his throat. "He's had a lot of bronchial congestion, but his lungs were clear as of forty-eight hours ago. No decreased breath sounds until today when the temp started."
The young woman gave him a brief quizzical look. "You're a medical doctor, then? Currently employed?"
"Not currently," John said. "RAMC. Discharged. And...not currently employed as a doctor, no."
"I see," she said. "Well. Let's have a look at you, Mr.--” she checked the chart, “--Lestrade, all right?"
Her hands were colder and lighter than John's, her manner more brisk. She didn't say anything at all when she listened to Lestrade's lungs, but she kept at him for a long time with the stethoscope, and then said she was going to order a chest x-ray straight away and directed them to a waiting room on the third floor. Then she left again, briskly still, devoid of pleasantries.
John passed him his trousers. "You'll want these. In fact, might as well just get dressed again for now; it'll be another wait. Can't have you walking the halls practically bare-arsed, anyway. You'll cause riots."
"Only if there's any Spurs fans around," Lestrade joked, feebly.
"Hmm," John agreed. He started helping Lestrade disentangle himself from the gown.
"John," Lestrade said, while he ducked awkwardly back into his t-shirt. "When she asked about...I didn't mean you should have done anything different. I didn't mean anything."
"Of course I should have," John said. "I should have sent you to your doctor first thing Friday, got you on antibiotics straight away. Sooner than that, even, maybe weeks ago. But I swear there wasn't any indication, nothing like...I don't know, maybe I missed it, maybe I was too busy with Sherlock. Could I have missed it? I could have, I suppose, I don't know. I don't--"
"I'm sure you didn't," Lestrade said, putting his arms around him, head on his shoulder.
"I didn't want you to be ill,” John confessed. “You kept saying you were fine, and I believed you because I wanted to. But I wouldn't have ignored it, if I'd heard anything, I swear."
"Don't," Lestrade said, feeling worse and worse. "I know. I mean...you're good. Doesn't matter what they think here. You're a good doctor."
"Yeah." John sounded utterly unconvinced, but he stopped talking about it, for which Lestrade was grateful.
*
The wait for the chest x-ray was longer than the wait in triage had been, and there was nowhere to lie down. The paracetamol John had dosed him with had begun to wear off, so Lestrade was hot rather than cold again, which was nice for five minutes and then unbearable. Made it harder to breathe again, too. John brought him a lot of little plastic cups of cold water from the cooler, which he mostly couldn't drink, but they felt nice pressed against his face and neck until his skin heated them up well past lukewarm.
John went up and had words with the waiting room receptionist, in a modified version of his Danger voice, and then had more words with some other, more managerial-looking personnel.
Please, please don't get yourself thrown out, Lestrade willed him. Just then John's mobile, which he'd left behind on his chair, began to buzz furiously. HOME, the screen said, and then a text message flashed up: I AM NOT GOING TO BED UNTIL I GET TO TALK TO LESTRADE. NON-NEGOTIABLE. -SH
Lestrade hit return call. "Hi, kiddo. It's me."
"LESTRADE," Sherlock shouted, loud enough to draw glares from around the waiting room. "Where are you? When are you coming home? What are they doing to you there? I need to know ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING and I need you to tell Mrs. Hudson I AM allowed to read in bed as late as I want, and-- NO, Mycroft, you can't have the phone it's MY TURN."
Lestrade couldn't help but smile a bit. "I'm waiting to get my lungs x-rayed, short stuff. I don't know what happens after that. Not really allowed to talk on the phone here, but we'll call you in the morning if we're not home by then."
"In the MORNING? But that's a lot of hours from now!"
"I know," Lestrade said. "Sort of trying not to think about that actually. Can you put Mycroft on for just a sec? I love you. I miss you. Please go to bed and be good for Mrs. Hudson."
"All right," Sherlock grumped. “Here’s Mycroft.”
"Hi," Mycroft said. "Sorry. He wasn’t meant to have the phone; I don’t know how he got hold of it."
"It's all right. Sorry for mucking up your holidays."
"That's not exactly my greatest concern at present," Mycroft told him stiffly.
"No, I know, but I'm sorry anyway. Just wanted to say goodnight and I love you."
Mycroft hesitated. "I love you too, of course," he said, as reluctantly as only a fourteen-year-old boy could. "The sudden sentimentality's rather worrying, though, to be honest."
"I'm a bit feverish," Lestrade admitted. "Sorry. Again. What's Sherlock shouting about now?"
"He forgot to tell you something. One thing, Sherlock. One," Mycroft said.
Sherlock took the phone again. "Iloveyoutoogoodnight," he said, and disconnected the call.
John had returned by this point, and was standing in front of Lestrade's chair with his hands in his pockets.
“What?” Lestrade asked. “What’s that look for?”
“You,” John said, kicking him lightly on the toe. “You and them. Ready? They'll take you next." He nodded his chin at the door marked A&E RADIOLOGY - PATIENTS ONLY.
"Oh, thank Christ. How'd you do that? Never mind. Tell me later. You'll wait here? Think I can manage this bit on my own." He was pretty sure he could, though he swayed when he stood up and had to take a minute till the dizziness cleared.
"All right," John said, a bit doubtfully. "Take care. I'll be right here."
*
When Lestrade returned, fifteen minutes later, he dropped into the chair next to John's, leaned over and murmured, "Hold out your hand." John did, and Lestrade dropped a pair of small curved silver barbells into his palm.
"Oh god," John said, pocketing them. "Yeah, I thought of that about a minute after you went in. I’ll help you put them back in later. How was it?"
"Cold," Lestrade said, shuddering. "Really bloody cold. And they kept telling me to hold my breath right when I needed to cough. It’ll be hours yet before they can get anyone to read the results, won’t it? Can’t we just...go home and wait?”
They were sent back downstairs, though, to another room of curtained cubicles and gowns laundered thin and neighbouring moans and cries. Lestrade’s temperature rose again, and he lay back and...not dozed, he thought, so much as faded in and out, opening his eyes over and over to reassure himself with the sight of John nodding off in the chair next to him. John. Not Bryan. Bryan never would have been there anyway, of course, but Lestrade couldn’t help checking, every so often, to make sure he hadn’t changed.
At one point in the formless bright-lit night, he startled awake and must have made some sort of distressed noise, because John got up quickly out of his chair and leaned over to pet his hair. "Okay, love?" he asked. "How are you bearing up?”
“Chest hurts,” he mumbled, which made a line appear between John’s already-furrowed eyebrows.
“I’m going to the nurses’ station,” he said. “Get you some ice chips, maybe see if I can get you bumped up in the queue a bit, all right?”
Lestrade fumbled to take his hand so he could hold on to him. “Don’t want you to go.”
“I won’t. I won’t.” John was looking more and more agitated now. “I only want to--oh, you’re, that's--right, let me just--NURSE!” he shouted, full-on Danger in zero to sixty, and there were running soft-shoed footsteps and then a low-voiced flurry of explanation and demand and placation.
Approximately two minutes later, another doctor came into the cubicle, read Lestrade’s chart, and obtained his drowsy consent to examine him with Dr. Watson present.
“His lips went bluish sometime in the last thirty minutes,” John said quickly. “And he’s complaining of chest pain. We're waiting for his x-rays to be sent down, but in the meantime can you get him on oxygen, and--sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sure there is absolutely nothing worse than trying to treat a patient with relations who've had the slightest bit of medical training, but I was a field medic and trauma surgeon for twelve years, and--"
"We'll put him on oxygen, assuredly," promised the new doctor, who'd been clipping something to Lestrade's index finger and getting a reading from an ear thermometer while John was babbling. "And an antipyretic. At the very least. It will be fine."
"Right. Yes. It's just--I've been monitoring him, and the progression's been extremely rapid over the past twelve hours. That. There, that's what I wanted to make sure you were aware of, and I'll shut up and let you do your job now."
Lestrade registered the conversation as vaguely distressing background noise, but wasn't entirely sure how it pertained to him. He reached up to touch his lips; they didn't feel blue. John sounding this upset was never a good thing, though. He was being asked to sit up, which he resented, and then he resented even more being prodded at with another freezing stethoscope, the coldest one yet.
“Mr. Lestrade, do you know where you are?”
Lestrade frowned at the man with the calm voice and calm hands. He looked from him to John and back, trying to focus. “Hospital,” he said finally. “Waiting for x-rays. Sherlock’s arm. I only took my eyes off him for a minute, I swear. I’m so sorry, John,” he added, but it did nothing to allay John’s terrible look of worried reproach.
“He’s talking about an accident that happened over a month ago,” John said. “Please, can you--are there any beds in your ICU?”
“Assuredly,” the doctor said again. “You can lie back again now, Mr. Lestrade. It will be fine.”
*
It was not fine, although John was relieved, he supposed, that the doctor had turned out to be competent as well as kind--in less than an hour he'd got Lestrade admitted and onto an IV drip and prophylactic oxygen while they awaited the readings from Radiology.
Still, it was not fine. It was far from fine. He debated over how much to tell the boys about how not-fine it was, but decided at last that honesty was the best policy. He didn't have the energy to keep up a lie, anyway, or even much of a concealment.
"He's on assisted breathing," he explained to Sherlock over the phone at around nine in the morning, when he couldn't put him off with brief texts anymore. "It's called a BiPAP machine. You can look it up online, if you want. Get Mycroft to help you."
"I don't need Mycroft to help me look something up on the Internet!" Sherlock sounded outraged.
"I know, but he might want to know, too. And he can try to answer any questions you might have about it, since I'm not there. It's basically an oxygen mask with big tubes, attached to a machine that pushes air in and out of his lungs."
Sherlock absorbed this. "Do the tubes go down his throat?" he wanted to know. "Does it hurt?"
"Nope. Just a face mask. Doesn't hurt a bit."
"I want to talk to him," Sherlock insisted. "Just for one minute, okay?"
"I wish you could," John told him. "I'm not with him right now, actually--stepped out so I could phone you."
"Can I come and visit later, then?"
"We'll see. Maybe tomorrow after school, if I hear you've been good."
"I have to go to SCHOOL TOMORROW?"
"You do, in fact. Sorry. Can I talk to your brother now?"
"But I still have loads of questions! You've hardly told me anything at all yet!"
"Write them down," John told him patiently. "I'll call again this afternoon."
Mycroft was more difficult. "I heard you telling Sherlock about the ventilator. So it is pneumonia?"
John sighed and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "No. Probably not, they think. No."
"Ah," Mycroft said. He was silent for a moment, interpreting the weight of John's words and the silence that followed them. "You don't have a diagnosis yet."
"Acute pulmonary distress and fever," John said. "Underlying cause unknown."
"Ah," Mycroft said again, which was unusual for him. "That could mean...several things, I imagine."
"They'll be doing more tests today. And they're giving him IV antibiotics anyway, just in case--it's too soon to tell if he's responding. The likeliest scenario by far is that it's something benign and easily treatable. It’s not time to worry about the less likely scenarios yet.”
“Then I’m sure you won’t,” Mycroft said. How could someone his age be so dry? John would never stop marvelling at it.
“Anyway,” John said, forcibly brightening his voice. “I’m sorry I won’t be home again tonight. I hate leaving you for this long. I should probably try to contact your mother, or...”
“And Nicky,” Mycroft reminded him.
“Christ on a-- How have I not called Nicky yet? Thank you. Yes. I will.”
“You should probably do it right away. She sort of...found out already, a bit.” Mycroft sounded hesitant now in a way he almost never was. Hesitant and guilty.
“Oh god. Mycroft, what...?”
“I was texting with Carla last night,” Mycroft admitted. “I’m very sorry. I thought you’d have contacted them already.”
“I didn’t want to worry her last night,” John said, hand at the bridge of his nose again. “I was still hoping we’d be picking up a prescription for amoxicillin and coming right home. All right. I’d better go and see if I can reach her. I’ll phone again as soon as I can. Take care.”
*
Nicky freaked out at him for five minutes straight, scolded him for not calling, finally listened to what he had to say (and didn't say), freaked out a little more, and then announced she was packing some bags and bringing the kids to stay at Baker Street until he could bring Orio home again.
“You don’t have to do that,” John said, but he said it half-heartedly; he couldn’t help thinking what a godsend it would be to have them there for the boys. He really couldn’t leave them with Mrs. Hudson indefinitely, and things were looking very...indefinite.
“Well, I am anyway. Try and stop me,” she said, sounding so like Lestrade in a strop that it made John smile at first and then have to shut his eyes against the ache. “We’ll be there this afternoon, and then when I visit I can bring you some clothes or whatever you need from home.”
“That would be amazing,” John admitted. “Thank you. I hope it won’t be for long.”
“Orio’s survived everything I could ever have dreamed up and then some,” Nicky told him. “Believe me. He’ll be fine.”
He’d have to introduce her to their friend from A&E, John thought. "I've got to go," he said. "I don't want him to wake up and find me gone. He’s been a bit confused."
"Oh John," Nicky said. "Yes, all right. Give him my love anyway."
He checked to make sure Lestrade was still asleep when he returned, and then studied his chart to see if any notes had been made on it in his absence, then looked at the IV bags and monitors. Only after that did he sit down in the chair that had been placed next to the bed and let his chin fall to his chest, hand over his eyes. His mind had been racing ever since they'd got the chest x-ray readings at four in the morning; he was too tense to relax, but his body kept trying to get him to fall asleep whenever he got off his feet, so he decided to give in to it for a little while as a sort of peace offering. Fifteen minutes, he told himself. No more.
*
The next forty-eight hours went by in a vague blur of worry and exhaustion and boredom. John began to miss Lestrade badly, even though he was right there--one of the IV drugs was a sedative to keep his respiration low. He opened his eyes from time to time, sought out John, squeezed his hand, then drooped into heavy sleep again, and that was as much as they interacted for an entire long day and night. He looked so unlike himself with the oxygen mask on, too, that in John’s state of sleep deprivation it was almost difficult to remember it was really him, that John hadn’t fallen down the rabbithole and gone back to Camp Bastion. The sick gut-clench of worry was what always brought it back to him; he’d been concerned about many of his patients before, but never afraid.
On Tuesday they lowered the sedation dosage a bit, and John was there, watching, when Lestrade began blinking, eyes rolling round, unable to focus for the first few minutes. “Hi,” John said, smiling, when he was pretty sure Lestrade was actually seeing him. “Hey. Good morning. Look at you.” Lestrade held his gaze, winced a little, and reached up to touch the oxygen mask. “Yeah, let’s get that off you for a minute, right?” John said, and pulled it carefully away. Lestrade’s face had deep red creases in it where the plastic had been resting, but he looked more like himself again, a bit. John reached for the water next to the bed and helped him take a sip.
“So I’m still here,” Lestrade rasped, very faintly. “That’s crap.”
John smiled again. “Nicky was here, not long ago,” he said. “You missed it. Be glad. She’d have read you the riot act if you’d been awake.”
“First mum now me,” Lestrade said. His voice was hoarse and weak, hard to understand unless John leaned close. “Poor old Nicks.”
“She’s looking after the boys now. We’re going to owe her I don’t know what. A yacht. Something.”
Lestrade nodded vaguely, looking sleepy again. John kept an eye on his oxygen levels, which were dipping, and his heart rate, which was up. “Listen,” John said. “They want to do a bronchoscopy later on this afternoon--put a tube down your throat and have a look round. I don’t know how awake you’ll be when that happens, but I wanted you to know, anyway. Could be a little scary if you wake up in the middle. I’ll be there, though; they promised it’d be fine for me to stay and watch.”
“All right,” Lestrade mumbled. “Good.” His eyelids were closing, and John wasn’t sure if he’d actually taken any of it in.
"I should put the mask back on you now," he said, and leaned over to give him a quick kiss.
"Hang on," Lestrade said, his eyelids flickering open again. "Want to ask something. First."
"Anything, yeah, course." John braced himself. He could do this, just about, if he didn't have to talk about it. Words would poke a hole in him that he'd drain right through, seemed like. Still, he couldn't refuse.
"Been here...what? Two days now?"
"Coming up on three."
"How come I," Lestrade stopped to breathe. "Don't have to piss?"
John covered his mouth, then rubbed at it to keep from laughing. "You. No, of course that's what you'd ask me, moment like this, you enormous...God I love you. You've got a Foley cath in; you don't remember? Hm. Good thing. You didn't much care for it. Okay, enough now." He kissed Lestrade again, then fixed the oxygen mask back into place.
*
What he hadn't told Lestrade--because he couldn't say the words, could hardly think them--was that he’d found out an hour ago that part of the reason for the bronchoscope was to take a lung tissue sample for biopsy.
"There's no obvious mass, no polyps or tumours," said the doctor who'd gone over with him the results of the chest CT they'd done the day before. "But this cloudiness--see here, and here?--that's a red flag combined with his history of smoking. We need to be able to rule it out before we run any further diagnostics."
Rule it out. It. Lung cancer. John had nodded and frowned, and asked the right questions in the right concerned-yet-firm tone of voice, because it was extremely useful to have the doctors here treat him like a colleague and not a troublesome next of kin. When the conversation was over and the doctor had gone off on his rounds, though, he'd had to sink into the nearest chair and do controlled breathing with his head between his knees in order to keep from blacking out. A concerned nurse had come over to him ten minutes later and taken his pulse and brought him tea and biscuits. He'd got the tea down. The biscuits wouldn't go. But he'd managed to thank her, and then he'd made himself stand up and go to the loo and use the shaving kit Nicky had brought over for him, though his hands were shaking so badly that he'd cut himself three times.
He could do this. Had to. And Sherlock was at school, Mycroft was taking Nicky and her two to lunch, so he wouldn't have to talk to any of them for a few more hours; he was almost sure he could sound normal enough again by then.
The actual procedure was difficult. Not medically. Technically it went perfectly well. He explained to a still very groggy Lestrade what was going to happen, that he’d be given numbing spray and morphine before it started and he shouldn’t feel much beyond occasional pressure, and then when it started and they tipped Lestrade’s head back and began to put the tube in, John discovered that he couldn’t watch. He had to pretend he was back in medical school, observing something being done to a complete stranger, in order to stay in the room at all. He stared at the camera monitor, steadily watching miles of laryngeal tissue unfurl in soporific pink waves, and everything was briefly okay until the pulmonologist said “Right, take as deep a breath as you can, we’re going to pass it through the vocal cords now,” and Lestrade’s limp hand in his came suddenly to life, gripping John in panic as he gagged.
“Bit more of the anesthetic spray,” the doctor said calmly. “You’re fine, Mr. Lestrade,” and waited till he’d relaxed again, but John was nearly on his feet with tension and couldn’t summon up a single calming word. “All right, Mr--Dr. Watson?”
John nodded, cleared his throat twice, said “Yes, fine,” and forced himself to meet Lestrade’s eyes and at least try to give him a reassuring smile. “Could use a bit of that morphine, if you’ve got any extra,” he told the assisting nurse, and everyone chuckled understandingly and went on as if it were just business, just another day that didn’t have the potential to rip his life to shreds and destroy him utterly.
After that he didn’t try to talk, just clutched Lestrade’s hand and watched the monitor like a horror movie as the procedure went on and on. No lurking tumours appeared, though, no lesions, and Lestrade was sufficiently numb not to flinch when they introduced the forceps and took a tissue sample. He gagged again when the tube came out, but only a little, and then it was over.
John’s first instinct even in the middle of going to pieces, apparently, was still to make sure Lestrade was okay. He went to him the moment the nurse finished syringing his mouth out with antiseptic solution. “All right?” he asked, and Lestrade was just able to nod and then pull a slight face, tapping his throat. “I know,” John said. “Tastes horrible, right? Sorry. You did amazingly, though. Beautiful lungs, by the way. Gorgeous. Not black at all. Sherlock will be devastated, won’t he? And...you’re already asleep again. You lucky bastard.” He kissed him on the forehead, then stood up and stretched and cracked his neck, sighing.
“We’ll have the results of the biopsy in around forty-eight hours,” the doctor told him.
“Any guesses?” John asked her, but she shook her head regretfully.
“Really not a clue on this one. I’m sorry. If you don’t mind a bit of advice, I’d suggest going home and trying for some sleep. They’ll increase his sedation again now the procedure’s over; he probably won’t be aware of much.”
“Oh,” John said. “No. I can’t leave him. Thanks, though, for doing the...and for letting me sit in. I expected I’d be a bit less useless than that, but anyway. Thanks.”
“You were a surgeon in Afghanistan, I hear,” the doctor said, looking at him curiously.
“Mm,” John acknowledged. “Front line casualties, the lot.” He looked at his hands. The left one was in tremor again. “Go figure.”
“I’m sure you were very skilled,” she said. “Which would make something like this all the more difficult, I imagine. I’m off on holiday after my shift today, so...well, best of luck and I hope I never see you again, I suppose.”
“No, God, I hope not,” John said, and then realised that had probably been terrifically rude, but she was already gone.
*
Sherlock came to visiting hours with Nicky, early that evening, and was indeed devastated to learn that Lestrade’s lungs had been fully visible on camera and that Sherlock had not been invited to the viewing. “I can’t believe you didn’t make them wait till I could be here!” he moaned tragically. “Isn’t there at least a recording of it?”
There probably was, but John had no intention of telling him so. “Only doctors and nurses are allowed to look at the insides of people’s actual lungs,” he told Sherlock. “Yes, it’s a stupid rule, I know. You can go in and see the outside of him for a minute, anyway, if you wash your hands with soap for sixty seconds first and promise to be very quiet.”
“I have a lot of things I need to tell him, though!”
“Remember what I told you on the phone? He’s asleep. Asleep-ish. He might open his eyes, but he’s pretty drugged up, Sherlock, he won’t be able to understand much of what you tell him right now. You can tell me,” he added quickly, when Sherlock began to look stubborn. “And I’ll tell him when he’s more awake. I’d like to know your things, actually. I’ve been missing you a lot. No hug, huh?”
Sherlock hugged him in a cursory sort of way, and then asked where he could go and wash his hands, so John pointed him to the toilets.
“He misses you like mad,” Nicky told John, when he’d gone. "You know how they are."
"I know," said John. "Mycroft decided not to come?"
"Said he'd take his turn tomorrow. He wanted Sherlock to have all the visiting time today so they wouldn't have to quarrel over who got more."
"Hmm." John wouldn't question it, he thought; it was a good thing, really, that he didn't have to hold up under Mycroft's scrutiny tonight. Sherlock was both more inward-focused and more easily distractible. And maybe Mycroft really had just been trying to help keep the peace.
Or something. But he couldn't worry about it now.
Sherlock returned, clean-handed. Only two visitors per patient at a time was the rule in this ICU, so John took Sherlock first with a promise to let Nicky visit solo next while he did the debriefing. He was prepared to bring him right back out if Sherlock got upset or asked too many questions or was just too much Sherlock for an eleven-bed unit of critically ill people.
Sherlock stayed quiet, though. He approached Lestrade's bed hesitantly, stopped at the foot of it, and then stood there for a long time, looking. He was very small, and very still. It looked uncanny. "Sherlock," John said, dropping down on one knee next to him, "It's okay, you know, if--"
"Shh! I'm busy." Sherlock waved him off. "I'm memorising."
"Memorising what? You can--"
"Everything," Sherlock said. "That's an IV line, right? For medicines and things? What's the other one?" He pointed.
"That...that's an a-line. Arterial line. For monitoring blood oxygen levels."
"Because his lungs aren't working properly so he's not getting all the oxygen he needs."
"Right. Although the ventilator's helping."
Sherlock nodded and continued to take it all in. After about another minute he looked up at John. "All right. I'm done. Nicky can have her turn now."
"Yeah? You can talk to him a bit, you know, if you want."
Sherlock looked at him in his are you being silly on purpose way. "He's asleep. And all drugged up. You said."
"Well, mostly, yeah. But he might hear your voice anyway, he might like that. And sometimes it feels good to say things to people that you want to say, even if you know they can't understand."
"That's stupid," Sherlock said dismissively. "But if he can hear me a little I'll say something. Don't listen! I want to say it just to him, okay?"
"Okay," John said. He got up and moved back to a respectful distance while Sherlock went close and cupped his hands around Lestrade's ear for a minute, whispering. When he had done, they left and walked silently back to the waiting room to trade off with Nicky.
"I wish I hadn't talked to him," Sherlock told John after a bit, kicking at the legs of the waiting room chair. "I don't think he heard. And he doesn't smell like himself at all. He needs to be in his own bed at home. I hate this place even if it is interesting. How much longer, do you think, before he's okay enough to leave?"
"I don't know, Sherlock. I'm sorry. Soon, I hope, but...I don't know." John thought he was doing a fairly good job of not shattering into bits all over the hospital floor, considering, but Sherlock looked swiftly up at his face and then away again. He didn't respond, but a moment later his hand crept up into John's, and he put his head down on John's shoulder with a small sigh. They sat there like that, watching a terrible talk show on the ICU waiting room telly, until Nicky returned, red-eyed but determinedly smiling, to take Sherlock home.
*
Mycroft was revising. He'd set aside these four hours for himself to focus on his revision, and for that amount of time, he told himself, nothing existed outside the walls of the room he was in. It was excellent practise for learning discipline and focus, really; the more things he knew were clamouring for his attention outside that door, the better.
He came in for a good bit of this sort of practise in general, living in a public school dormitory, but Harrow was nothing on his younger brother. Sherlock must have been aware that he couldn't be loud at one in the morning if he didn’t want to wake the entire household, but what he lacked in volume he made up for in persistence. He’d begun by shoving notes under the door for an hour, on bigger and bigger pieces of paper. When that hadn’t worked, he’d sent a degu to squeeze under the crack, and then another. Mycroft had them under an empty water glass on his desk at present. Now Sherlock was attempting olfactory bids for attention: first coffee, (which he was not permitted to make on his own, but he seemed to have managed), then warm chocolate cake (this had actually been a serious distraction; Mycroft had eventually rubbed a bit of peppermint oil under his nose and kept pegging away), and now, by the sound of it, he was planning to attempt something sulphur-related with his chemistry set.
1:29 in the morning. Mycroft shut his laptop, put his notes back in his attaché case, pushed back his chair, and walked over to the door with slow deliberation. He made Sherlock wait for one more minute before opening it. “I am taking a break from my revision for five minutes,” he announced, setting his watch. "No more and no less. Please put that away and clear up all this paper if you wish to speak with me during that time. Is there any of the cake left?"
"No," Sherlock said. "I ate it. Give me back my degus!" He shoved past Mycroft into the room and swept them in their glass off the desk. "They could have suffocated in there!"
"You should have thought of that before you sent them into hostile territory. Papers and chemistry set, Sherlock. Now."
Sherlock pulled a hideous mocking face at him, but he cleared everything away, put their degus in their cage, and returned. Mycroft looked at his watch. "Three more minutes. You should be asleep. John wouldn't like this, Sherlock. I hope you didn't drink any of that coffee."
"I only like coffee the way Lestrade makes it. With warm milk. I've been waiting and waiting and WAITING to tell you about seeing him in hospital. It's your fault I'm still awake."
“I’ll see him myself tomorrow. What is there to talk about? He’s very ill. I am aware.”
“But he’s been there forever and they’re not fixing him at all! He looks really bad, Mycroft. Loads worse than before he went in.”
“The doctors know what they’re doing. He’s only been in for a few days. It takes medicines longer than that to work, sometimes.”
“But what if they’re giving him the wrong ones? Doctors are mostly stupid, just like everyone else. You said yesterday they haven’t figured out yet what’s making him ill. Not even JOHN knows and he knows lots and lots about diseases!”
“True,” said Mycroft, who hadn’t yet forgiven John for not knowing. “And your point?”
“You should figure it out,” Sherlock said, as if it were obvious. “I can help. I’d do it myself but you’re bigger and they might listen to you more. And...you know more. About some things. Sometimes.”
Mycroft couldn’t help letting the corners of his mouth turn up at that.
“I said SOME things. SOMEtimes. You’ve had seven more years to read than I have! Anyway, will you? I memorised all the numbers on the monitors and the names of the medicines they’re giving him right now, so we can look them up and then we’ll know what’s not working, and--”
“Sherlock. Even if I could figure something like that out--which is by no means realistic--they wouldn’t listen to me either. I’m a fourteen-year-old student.”
“John might listen,” Sherlock insisted. “And the doctors might listen to John.”
“What if it’s something that can’t be fixed?” Mycroft asked, and immediately wished he hadn’t. Sherlock was only seven, after all. He took it with only a slight widening of his eyes and clenching of his fists, though.
“What if it can?” he countered.
Mycroft’s watch beeped. “Break’s up,” he said, and turned back to the desk. “I’ll think about it, Sherlock. Go to bed now.” He sat calmly down at his laptop again, and that was when Sherlock launched himself at him in a furious silent pummelling windmill of limbs.
“I hate you when you act like that! You CAN’T be like this right now,” Sherlock whisper-shrieked at him, while Mycroft attempted to hold him off without knocking over any furniture. “You’re going to sit up and revise for your stupid exams that don’t even MATTER but you won’t-- Don’t you care about ANYTHING? I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” Sherlock was starting to get loud, and his blows really hurt. Mycroft finally got a lock hold on him, pinning his arms to his sides from behind and carrying him over to the bed, dodging his frustrated kicks.
“Stop,” he said, taking Sherlock by the shoulders with a little shake and looking straight into his eyes, trying for the tone that John used when he really meant it.
Sherlock head-butted him and then started to cry, loudly and inconsolably.
Nicky came in. Anthea came in. Mycroft’s lip was bleeding from being head-butted. Explanations were made, and ice and scoldings were distributed, along with hugs and warmed milk. Sherlock’s sobs died down to hiccups and he asked if he could sleep in Mycroft’s room.
“Poor mite,” said Nicky. “Only if it’s all right with Mycroft.”
“Of course,” Mycroft said. “Just for tonight, since he’s upset.” Only after they’d left did he add, “You rotten little faker.”
“Not faking,” Sherlock insisted, taking over the duvet and all but one of the pillows to make himself a nest. “I AM upset. And your face hurt my head.”
“I hate sleeping with you. You kick.”
“I’ll try not to. I really don’t want to sleep alone. Will you come to bed soon?”
“When I’ve finished what I was going to do tonight,” Mycroft said firmly, and went back to the desk.
There was silence in the room for several minutes.
“If Lestrade dies, will John leave, do you think?” Sherlock asked in a shaky little voice from somewhere in the middle of the nest on the bed.
Mycroft shut his eyes and sighed. Then he closed his laptop again, turned off the desk lamp, and got into bed. “I’m sure he wouldn’t,” he said. “But it would be incredibly horrible. He won’t die, Sherlock.”
Sherlock was crying again. He gulped out something that Mycroft was able to interpret, with some difficulty, as that’s what you said about Grand-mère.
“Oh, for-- Fine, yes, you excel at emotional blackmail. I’ll do whatever I can. Which--though I’m touched by your faith in me--may not be much. Please stop crying.”
“I can’t,” Sherlock said miserably. “I am trying. I HATE crying when I don’t mean to.”
“You are entirely too old for this,” Mycroft said, reaching over to rub Sherlock’s back the way he’d done when he was very little and had nightmares. It probably wasn’t true; he was still only very little, Mycroft realised. He seemed hardly to have grown at all. Mycroft was the one who was too old for it. It brought back bad memories, and he lay awake in the night long after Sherlock had given the shuddery hitching sigh that meant he was finally falling asleep.