Chapter Text
Sherlock Holmes was sat slumped against the wall of the cold bathroom tiles, his head lolled backwards as he attempted to try and support himself against the toilet seat, holding a bloodied tissue to his nose. His weak fingers feebly pinched the middle of his nose as he tried to stop the steady flow of blood streaming from his nostrils.
Each time he coughed, the blood fell faster, thicker. He hadn't been punched and his nose wasn't broken, and yet the crimson substance ceased to bring itself to a halt. Such an inconvenience, when the consulting detective could be pouring over recent case files sent by Detective Lestrade from Scotland Yard's home office.
Pulling the tissue from his nose, Sherlock studied the stained fabric and concluded that there was more blood erupting from his nose than the average person's nosebleed.
Then again, Sherlock Holmes wasn't your ‘average person’.
"Sherlock?" John was back from his shopping trip at Tesco's, having realised that their fridge and cupboards urgently needed a refill, and that there was absolutely no chance that Sherlock himself would restock their shelves of his own accord.
Sherlock quickly shoved the tissue down the toilet, pulled the chain and checked his face for any remaining traces of blood before hurrying out into the living room to confirm his presence to John. The sooner John saw that Sherlock was up and awake and moderately hydrated, the faster Sherlock could escape back to the bathroom; his bloody nose incident wouldn't hold up for long.
"Here, make yourself useful." John nodded at his flatmate as he rummaged around in the shopping bags. "Milk goes in the fridge, this time. Not the cupboard. Eggs - also the fridge. Bread can just go in the baking tin for now.I'll find a place for that later."
Sherlock leaned restlessly against the doorframe, subtly pinching the bridge of his nose. Why was John being so mundane? He knew that Sherlock despised any activity that involved anything to do with being (even just slightly so) ‘normal’. So, turning his back on John, Sherlock paced back to the bathroom as another trickle of blood leaked from his left nostril, leaving John annoyed and calling out for him to come back.
Sherlock stared at his reflection in the elegant little silver-rimmed bathroom mirror; his eyes appeared slightly dark underneath, his skin a fairer shade of pale than the usual. Poking at his none-rosy cheeks, he noticed the skin seemed tighter. His famously gorgeous cheekbones stuck out proudly on either side of his nose, and beneath, his lips lacked plumpness and colour.
But that was pretty much how the permanently malnourished man looked like on a day-to-day basis, which often worried Doctor Watson tremendously. Sherlock, however, didn't seem at all fazed by his lack of colour. The only thing he cared about was whether or not he was conscious long enough to make it to the crime scene and complete the case. (Which took a few hard hours of thought, on a good murder).
Now, that's what really concerned John; the fact that his partner couldn't always stay up and on his feet because he had ‘forgotten’ to eat in the last day - or two. Silly man, couldn't even look after himself.
"Sherlock, you in there?" John shouted, knocking (a little too loud for Sherlock's liking) on the bathroom door. "Let me in a minute?"
Sherlock quickly grabbed and rinsed John's flannel under the cold water tap and held it to his nose for a few seconds, collecting as much nose fluid as possible before slam-dunking the cloth back into the wash basket. "What do you want, John?" His voice sounded out harsher than intended.
"I want to talk to you."
"Hello, I'm here, I'm busy, go away, go see Sarah, leave me alone - talk done."
Sherlock could hear John sighing loudly from the other side of door, and felt guilty for a micro-millisecond. Soft footsteps padded away from the door, until they were no longer audible. A few seconds later, and the front door slammed shut.
Home alone.
Well, at least the nosebleed had come to a stop - he'd just have to be careful that he didn't cough or sneeze, as that could start it off again - and Sherlock didn't fancy having to sit in the bathroom continuing to catch gore in a torn off piece of Andrex toilet roll for a moment longer. He had a serial killer to catch.
"Right..." he mumbled, opening the door and depositing his tissue down the loo. "...case...". Sherlock Holmes flounced across the living room, eager to begin his work. Sitting down at his desk, he sifted through case files with nervous energy.
Ten minutes into his mastermind thinking, Sherlock had managed to locate where the serial killer had murdered his last victim - it was all in the shoe prints and the cigarette ash - obviously the killer had done the deed in the secluded space behind the not-so-popular apartments close to the railway line. Why near the railway line? So that not only could he make a quick escape, but also so that he had the chance to scatter the evidence under the wheels of the train along different railway tracks so that it would be crushed and compressed into a pathetic mess.
Proud of his efforts, Sherlock stood to go and fetch his cigarettes for a quick ‘one-off’ while John wasn't around.
When Sherlock stood, his stomach lurched. His head slowly began to feel both light and heavy at the same time and his line of sight swam unsteadily in front of him. In an attempt to steady himself and refocus, he took a firm hold of the desk, pushing into the table lamp and knocking it off its stand at the same time. A thin line of warmth crawled down over his lips, dripping down his chin; inevitably, the nosebleed was back.
Sherlock's stomach churned again, this time with an accompanying headache. Not good. Reaching distantly for the landline, Sherlock picked up the phone and pressed 1 - Lestrade was the first on his speed dial, followed by brother and Government Official, Mycroft Holmes, as number 2.
"Lestrade." Greg picked up on the second ring.
"I, uh-" Sherlock wavered, almost stumbling over his feet. By now his face had turned a ghostly ash white, his usually bright eyes dull. The sticky residue continued to seep mercilessly from, now, both nostrils. "Lest..." Sherlock's eyes flashed wide before his head lolled slightly off to the side, dropping the phone as it slipped through his weak fingers. He managed to stand upright, tall, for barely a second until - too late. Sherlock's knees buckled and his head fell backwards, eyes snapped shut. The detective's dead weight collided roughly with the carpet, his head banging painfully loudly as it clipped the wall.
Lestrade had apparently heard the crash of body-upon-floor (and a little bit of wall) from the other side of the phone and was now desperately calling the unconscious man's name repeatedly.
Sherlock couldn't hear him. He couldn't hear anybody. The detective was out cold. Next to his face, forming a clear glossy pool, was his blood; the crimson mess wasn't just flowing from his nose, now, but his mouth too.
Where's John?
Oh, yes. He's out; because Sherlock had demanded to be left alone.