Vague Shadows

The tea was growing cold.

The toast had gone cold, John was going to be late for work, and Sherlock still wasn’t awake. It was uncharacteristic of him to sleep at all, and when he did, it was only for a few hours.

“What’s keeping him, d’you think?” I asked John, knotting his tie and straightening it for him as he finished off his breakfast. I grabbed his coat and helped him into it as he grabbed his case.

“I’ve no idea, honestly. I’ll check in on him before I leave, but you need to get ready for school,” he urged, giving me a smile as I handed him his lunch. I checked the time; soon I’d be running late too. I grabbed my bagel and jogged downstairs, glad I’d already showered.

I changed fast, pulling on my jeans, converse, and –after a quick glance out the window- a simple long-sleeved tee. I called it good enough and hurried back upstairs; when I ran into John in the kitchen, I was more than surprised.

“You should have left by now,” I said, concerned. John sighed; he had out the thermometer and a bottle of aspirin. I frowned.

“Sherlock’s got the flu,” he said, looking troubled. “His fever’s pretty high, and he’s not looking that well. He gets delusional when he’s sick, and I don’t think it’s safe to leave him alone.”

“You can’t miss work,” I argued, dropping my bag. “I’ll keep an eye on him today.”

“Laicee, you’ve got school. I can’t keep you out-“

“I can have Jeanette grab my homework, and I’ll borrow notes from Riley. Me missing school isn’t as bad as you missing work. Your patients need you, and we need the money.”

John eyed me, a bit skeptical. I knew he wouldn’t want me missing school, but I really wasn’t that troubled over it. John checked his watch and sighed; he was already a couple minutes late. Gritting his teeth, he shook his head and then turned to me.

“Fine, fine, here,” he said, holding out the thermometer. “Check him every hour or so. If his fever gets worse, call me. Keep him cool with a damp towel. Try to keep him hydrated, but he needs his sleep-“

“John, I’ve got it,” I told him with a smile, starting to push him out the door. “I’ll keep him safe. Promise. Now go on, you’re late and they need you.”

“Thank you, Laicee, truly. Good luck, and call me-“

“Go, John!” I urged, and after giving me a parting smile, he hurried down the street. I shut the door and hurried back up to the flat. I could hear Sherlock mumbling in his room, so I grabbed the towel and a bowl of cool water, and went to check on him. He was sprawled on the bed, tangled in his sheets. His damp curls were matted to his head, and his usually pale physique was lighter than it should have been, save the sickly flush in his cheeks. I put my supplies down and went to his bed.

Carefully, I untangled Sherlock from his covers. He was heavy, but not unbearable; I managed to maneuver him into a more normal position, and then tucked him in. I pulled the bucket to the bed and sat by his side. Wiping the curls back from his face, I wrung out the cloth and placed it on his burning forehead.

Sherlock’s lids flickered open, and he stared at me. His clear green eyes were bloodshot, and they didn’t look entirely focused.

“Lace…?” he mumbled, twitching his nose and looking around us. “What’re.. this is.. why?”

“You’re sick,” I told him, wiping his face with the cloth and then dipping it back in the water. I folded it neatly and then placed it back above his brows. “You need to rest today, okay?”

He didn’t answer me; instead, he sat up halfway and looked over my shoulder. He gave a salute, winked, and then dropped back onto his pillows, rolling onto his side and facing away from me. After a startling glance behind me to confirm nothing was there, I sighed and fished the rag out from under his head. John wasn’t kidding about the delusional part. As I wet the rag and began to wipe his brow, he reached up and grabbed hold of my hand. His cool, slender fingers ran over mine as he turned to look over his shoulder.

“Milk?” he asked, licking his lips and looking back up at me. I gave him a smile. When he wasn’t being an arrogant sod, he could be mildly adorable. I pulled my hand back and stood up, leaving the cloth on his forehead.

“Of course, be right back.”

I hurried to the kitchen and grabbed his mug, pouring the milk and then sticking the cup in the microwave. I’d just started the time when I heard an unsteady shuffling behind me. Sherlock wandered into the kitchen, looking overly disoriented. He was in a thin cotton shirt and a pair of boxers; he’d attempted to put his bathrobe on, but it hung lazily from his arms and trailed behind him instead.

“Sherlock, no, go back to bed,” I sighed; he swayed ominously, and I hurried forward. What good I’d be supporting him, I didn’t know. I was a whopping 5’2”, and Sherlock stood just over six feet. I wrapped an arm around his waist and used my entire upper body to keep him stable as he slumped down.

“Couch,” he mumbled, and I sighed. I couldn’t turn him around and drag him back to the room, so the couch it was. I struggled forward, pulling Sherlock with me. He was lucky I was relatively strong, or else we’d both be on the floor. I positioned him in front of the couch and then attempted to set him down gently.

He dropped down onto the cushions and kept his hold on me; I let out a squeak of surprise as Sherlock yanked me down onto the couch. My back fell across his lap, and he draped his arms over my waist and stomach. I gave him a look, trying to keep the tint of pink from my cheeks.

“Sherlock, I need to get your milk.”

“I’m cold, you’re warm. Stop moving,” he mumbled, dropping his head back on the couch. I sighed and started to struggle from his grip. For being sick and weak with the flu, he had a pretty strong hold. The microwave went off just as I extracted myself from Sherlock’s lap.

“You’re a terrible blanket,” he muttered. “Don’t make it your day job.”

“Sod,” I told him, straightening my shirt as I retrieved his milk. I stirred in a bit of honey, just like he preferred. I sat beside him this time and held the cup out to him. He took a sip, and smiled a bit.

“You remembered the honey,” he noted as I propped my feet up on the coffee table. “You do nice things for me.”

I shrugged and grabbed the remote, turning the tellie on.

“I try,” I told him. “Do you want to watch something?”

“No, really,” he said; his voice was heavy from the sickness, and I could tell he wasn’t all quite there. This was extremely uncharacteristic of him; I glanced up, and was surprised to see his eyes locked on me.

“Well, you’re not feeling well-“

“Not just the-“ he paused and frowned, then waved his hand around him. “Not just the this. I mean.. the everything. I’m not nice. I’m a lot of the opposite. But you? No. You buy me blueberry muffins.”

I let a small smile come onto my face as I turned back to the tellie.

“Drink your milk, Sherlock.”

“And I never buy you raisin ones,” he said, a hint of regret in his voice. I couldn’t look at him, because my face was most certainly a vibrant shade of pink. “A mystery, perhaps.”

“What’s a mystery?”

“I want to watch one.”

“Oh, right. Right. Any requests?” I asked, pushing myself up.

“Nothing dull,” he ordered, leaning his head back on the couch as he took a large gulp of milk. I rolled my eyes, knowing I’d just been given an impossible order.

“If you ruin the ending I’m hiding your skull for a month,” I threatened, popping in one of the few mysteries neither Sherlock nor I had seen yet. Honestly, I hated watching movies with him. He always unraveled the plot right at the beginning, and I was left to sit through two hours of screenplay while Sherlock shouted at the characters.

But, seeing as he was sick, I’d oblige. I made to sit in John’s chair, leaving Sherlock to the couch, but he patted the seat beside him. I glanced over, trying to keep my cheeks from flushing. What was wrong with me today?

“Why don’t you stretch out? You need to rest,” I offered.

“It’s easier to talk to you if you’re beside me,” he said simply, patting the cushion again. I paused for a moment, but slowly sat beside him. The movie had started, and I could see Sherlock’s unfocused eyes centered on the show. His lips began to move swiftly, almost unnoticeably. He was already piecing together the movie.

“I’m serious, don’t ruin the ending.”

“It’s obvious, though. Transparent,” he murmured, sliding down a bit in his seat. I gently eased the mug from his hands and sat it on the coffee table. Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and began to mutter to himself (or possibly me, but I was attempting to tune him out). About halfway through the movie, I realized Sherlock’s jumble of words had died out. I glanced over, and a small smile crept onto my lips. He’d passed out, slumped on the arm of the couch.

I shut the movie off and stood, stretching. I shook his shoulder gently, and his eyes fluttered open slowly. I eased him into a sitting position, then helped him stand.

“Come on, let’s get you to bed,” I said softly, wrapping my arm around his lean body as he got a grip on my shoulders. I led him down the hall, nudging his door open with my foot.

“Why…” he began as I settled him on his mattress. I pulled his robe off and hung it by his bed as he slumped down onto his pillows. “You are so kind to me. Why?”

“Sherlock, you’ve got to rest-“

“Answer me, then I’ll rest,” he offered, twitching his nose. I gave him a look, then sighed. He most likely wouldn’t remember most of this when he woke up, so I took a chance.

“Because even though you say don’t have friends, I do, and I consider you one of my best friends,” I told him softly, pulling the covers up around him as he shivered slightly. “I care about you. You mean a lot to me, and friends take care of one another. Now come on, enough chatting. Go back to sleep.”

Sherlock stared at me as his lids began to droop again. He reached out his hand and took mine again. I swallowed hard as my heart sped up just a bit. A small, almost miniscule smile flickered onto his face.

“Will you be here when I wake up?” he murmured, nearly half asleep. I smiled and gave his hand a squeeze.

“Yeah, I’ll be here. Promise.”

I sat next to him, my hand in his, until his grip slackened and his breathing fell steady. He began to snore softly, and I took that as my cue. Pulling my hand free, I stood up, giving one last glance at Sherlock to make sure he was set for a while.

As I shut his door, I heard his phone go off from the living room. At first I discarded it; Sherlock could check it when he woke up. But by the time I reached the kitchen it had gone off twice more, and I grew concerned.

I followed the insistent beeping to Sherlock’s coat and fished the phone out, checking to see who the messages were from. He had several messages from Mycroft, the most recent reading, Your safety heavily depends on this, brother. Do not ignore me. -MH

A small knot of anxiety tightened in the pit of my stomach. Any other message, and I would have ignored it and put his phone away until later. But, Sherlock’s safety? Surely Mycroft knew how dangerous his everyday life was. Unless this was something major, he wouldn’t have alerted Sherlock like this.

I unlocked his phone and typed Mycroft a quick message, hoping he was just exaggerating to get Sherlock’s attention.

This is Laicee. Sherlock is sick and resting right now. Can this wait until the morning?

I carried Sherlock’s phone with me as I settled onto the couch. Not even a minute had passed before I got a reply.

It cannot. A very important item has fallen into my possession, and Sherlock must deal with it. It is very time-sensitive, and waiting until the morning will most likely bring harm to my brother and Dr. Watson, I can assure you. -MH

I swallowed hard; time-sensitive was not good right now. Sherlock was in less than no state to be off solving crimes. The way he was right now, he’d be doing nothing more than stumbling along the streets of London, talking to himself and making his fever worse.

What kind of harm? I sent back, biting my lip as the knot in my stomach grew stronger.

As of now, they are already in significant danger. Failure to cooperate on this task and complete it may very well result in serious injury, if not death. This outcome cannot be helped without my brother’s full cooperation. I believe you can see the severity of the situation. -MH

My stomach dropped, and a wave of unease swept over me. Death?? Of course, something like this had to crop up the one day Sherlock wasn’t able to leave his bed. I swallowed hard, debating the answer I was about to send. For a second, I almost deleted it. I almost shut the phone off and walked away, but the thought of Sherlock and John being hurt –and possibly killed- forced my finger onto the send button.

Is there anything I can do in his place?

Mycroft responded almost instantly; I realized he had probably expected me to say this.

There is a car waiting outside. Get in. It will take you to my office. I will discuss plans further in person.

I sighed heavily as I stood. This was not good. This was really not good. I had a feeling this was one of the biggest mess-ups I was about to get myself into, but I couldn’t stand around and let this happen. I grabbed my jacket and sent one last text, to John this time.

Laicee’s asked that you come to watch me until she returns. -SH

I slipped my jacket on just as John sent back, Be right there. -JW

Silencing Sherlock’s phone, I slipped into his room and sat it on the bedside table. He was sound asleep, just as I’d left him. Shutting the door, I hurried down the stairs, zipping up my jacket as I stepped outside. There was a sleek black car parked outside the flat. A very lovely woman stood by the car, giving me a smile. She opened the door for me, and I got in without hesitation, ready for whatever was about to happen.