Vulnerable Sherlock

Three days. That is the amount of time Sherlock had been locked in his room. Three days, only leaving if there was a piece of equipment that he needed. I tried countless times to persuade him to emerge, but to no avail.  "Can't you see I'm working, John? Leave me alone." The only proper response I received from him.

Having thoroughly given up on trying to get through to Sherlock, I sat reading the newspaper in my chair. Suddenly the door to his room burst open, and Sherlock emerged with a look of triumph on his face. "I have it! The answer was there all along, I just had to know where to look!" He froze as he saw the look on my face.
  
        He opened his mouth to speak, but I got there first, "Four days, Sherlock! Four days with no explanation, no communication save for 'I'm busy, go away'" He looked at the alarm clock on the side, and his face filled with confusion. "I'm sure I was only there for a day, two at most" He frowned.

        I struggled to stifle the giggles that ran through me as I looked at Sherlock's confused face.  Unable to hold it in any longer, I burst out laughing. This only succeeded in provoking a stranger look from Sherlock that brought on another round of laughter.

         Once I had recovered, I asked Sherlock about what he had discovered, all anger from before having evaporated; it was impossible to remain annoyed with him for very long. He began to narrate to me the events of the case.

        "My client is a man named Dr Malcolm James. He works as a General practitioner, just like you, Watson. He came to me four days ago, late in the evening, with a very intriguing sample. It seems that one of his patients had tried to inject him with it, for it was presented to me inside a syringe.

        "Luckily, our doctor friend had the foresight to move away as the patient attacked and was able to avoid being contaminated with this liquid. I have spent the last few days analysing it, and have come to the conclusion that it is a harmless substance, and would have made no difference to the health of the Doctor had he been injected.
"I am not certain yet of the motives of the attacker, but I have come upon some theories. I will not elaborate until I have concrete proof, but I believe the attack was linked to our GP's social life. If you would get your coat Watson, I think we should pursue our first lead."

        Uncomplainingly, I picked up my coat and waited for Sherlock to come to the door. Once there, Sherlock hailed a cab and we set off. After a short while, the cab drew up at a Doctors surgery.  We entered the building, and Sherlock approached the receptionist "I have an appointment for Sherlock Holmes" The woman at the desk checked her computer then nodded and showed us into the waiting room.

        After no more than fifteen minutes Sherlock's name was called. "I trust you can wait ten minutes for me?" I nodded. During the ten minutes, I puzzled over why Sherlock had come to the surgery, and why he had brought me with him. I believed myself to be a very able doctor, and was more than a little offended that he had so obviously shown his distrust of my skills.

        Very soon, the door opened again and Sherlock emerged with a small smile on his face. Without speaking, he walked out with me at his heels, and within no time we were back at Baker Street.

        Once we were indoors, I confronted Sherlock "What was that all about? If you had needed a doctor, you could have asked me." Sherlock shook his head, "I needed to see Dr James in his working environment. Do not fret my dear Watson; I have complete confidence in your medical skills!"

        I relaxed. "So, what did you discover?"  He looked at me through playful eyes, and turned away. "All will be revealed Watson!  I would like you to meet me this evening at the Queens head. There, this case should come to a close! Wait by the doorway at ten o' clock tonight! For now, I have business to be dealing with." With those words, Sherlock swept out of the flat.

        At ten o' clock exactly I was standing outside the pub with my revolver in my pocket, pacing with anticipation. By ten past, I was beginning to get agitated so I decided to look around. After finding no traces of my friend inside the pub, I looked around the alleyway at the back.

        As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw a figure hunched against the wall. "Sherlock, is that you?" I walked towards him, fearing the worst.
At the sound of my approach, the figure lifted its head. It was Sherlock. His face, silhouetted against the lights at the end of the alley had a pale sheen to it, and when he turned his head I saw a vivid red gash cutting across his cheek, blood dripping freely onto the ground.

        I ran the last part of the journey and knelt down before my friend. He gazed across at me, his large blue eyes filled with tears. "I failed, John. It was all wrong. Everything. All of my calculations, all of my deductions. WRONG!"

        The severity of this last word caused me to start and take a step backwards. I came towards him again "Are you Ok, Sherlock? What happened?" Sherlock shook his head dismissively, and made to stand up. Carefully, muttering words of encouragement, I helped him and we made our slow way back to the front of the building.

        Once there, he allowed me to take his arm and lead him to a bench where we awaited a cab. Back at 221B, I sat him down in a chair and began to clean the wound. It was not very deep. Despite my burning curiosity, Sherlock seemed shaken by his ordeal so I restrained myself from asking what had happened.

        I was concerned that his face was so pale- so much paler than usual, and his manner weak and defeated. I have never known him like this.  I decided that the best thing for him would be to get some sleep, so I helped him out of the chair.

        Halfway across the room, Sherlock suddenly cried out and fell to his knees, clutching his chest.  I rushed to his side. Sherlock's breathing was laboured and his pulse weak and thready. He collapsed to the floor as I knelt down, his chest rising and falling rfrantically, his face paler than that of a ghost.  He opened his mouth, and managed to utter one word. Syringe. I knew what had happened.

        Wasting no time I pulled out my phone and called 999. Sherlock's breathing was becoming shallower, and his pulse skipping around.  I willed the ambulance to come soon. Looking down at Sherlock, I felt a thrill of fear and sadness. Who had done this to Sherlock? How could anyone reduce such a great man to this state?  

       Suddenly, I felt his pulse drop. Within milliseconds I was beginning CPR. Sherlock couldn't die, not here, not now. My arms tired but I continued. "Come on, Sherlock. Live!!!"

        I felt tears well up in my eyes as I looked at the face of my best friend. His mouth was slack and his eyes looked glassily up at me. It was too late. The poison had too much of a hold on his body. Sherlock was dead.

        No! I could not think like that. Sherlock was not going to die! Soon, I heard the ambulance coming. They carefully prised me away from Sherlock's body, and pinned my arms to me as I struggled to see him. Sherlock had to be alive! My life was pointless without him.

I remembered his face when I found him behind the pub. Pale, vulnerable.

I hated to remember him that way.

Vulnerable Sherlock.