My Little Sherlock

Running Out of Time

221b
2:12am

  I head back to Baker Street and quickly make my way back to Sherlock. I enter my bedroom and see Mrs. Hudson in a chair beside the bed and stroking Sherlock's hair while humming a soothing tune.

  "Mrs. Hudson?" I whisper as I quietly walk over to them. "Oh, Doctor." She looks up at me."Anything?" She asks, hopefully. I sigh and sadly shake my head. She bows her head, disappointedly and looks to Sherlock, sympatheticaly and with love. "Will he be alright Doctor? . . . And will we get him back as an adult?" I REALLY, REALLY hope so. "I pray that we do."

  The room is silent except for the wheezing coming from Sherlock. I decide to take his temperature again. I settle the glass thermometer in his mouth and wait for the results. After a minute or two, I check it. 104.1°. Damn it! It's not getting better. Mrs. Hudson notices the worry in my face. "what is it Doctor?" "104.1°. That's way too high. We have to get it down or . . . It won't be good." I finish, gently.

  I then proceed and gently scoop Sherlock out from the bed and cradle him in my arms. I take him into the leu, and settle him on the toilet seat. He's out cold. I then begin to take off his clothes. When I'm finished, I carefully lay him in the tub and fill it with cold water. Sherlock whimpers and flinches at the ice cold water biting his fevered skin. "Shh, Sherlock. It's alright." I comfort him. Mrs. Hudson stands by, helpless to do anything

  "You're gonna be alright, Sherlock . . . You have to be." I whisper, puting the back of my hand to his cheek.

  After 15 minutes, I decide it best to take him out before he freezes and goes into cardiac arrest. Mrs. Hudson helps me, gently dry Sherlock off and put his pajamas on him, before bringing him back to the bed.

  We lay him down and have just the thin sheet cover him. I place another, cool, wet washcloth on his forehead. He coughs a bit, but settles back down. Gladstone scooches back over and sets his head back on little Sherlock's shoulder. I take Sherlock's temperature again. He still doesn't respond as I put it in his mouth, and a minute later, pull it out. 103.9°. "it barely went down." I say, sadly. Mrs. Hudson frown and runs a hand through little Sherlock's hair.

8:15pm

  The rest of the day, Mrs. Hudson and I tent to Sherlock, re-wetting his washcloth and checking his temperature every  40 minutes or so.

  When it comes bed time, I get ready for bed and replace the washcloth on Sherlock's head and check his pulse. It's not as rapid and thready, but still fast and faint. I sigh in exhaustion and get into the bed beside Sherlock. I lay on my side, facing Sherlock. I watch his chest rise and fall from shallow breaths. I look at his face, still pale as a sheet and flush. I can't lose him. Even if I never get his adult self back, I can't lose him. He's too important to me, no matter the form. I loved him like a brother and now I love him like a son. He BETTER here in the morning.

3:50am

  I blink open my eyes, with blury vision an close them shut again, trying to go back to sleep. Wait, something was wrong. I snap my eyes back open and turn to my right to find Sherlock not laying besid me. I sit up, helpless to stifle a yawn, and look about the room. "Sherlock?" I say, quietly. No response or sight of little Sherlock. I throw the covers off of me, and get out of bed. I go to Sherlock's side of the bed, to see if maybe he fell to the floor. No. He's not there, either.

  Well, he's too sick to have gone somewhere on his own. Fear rises inside me and i walk/run out of my bedroom and into the sitting room. "Sherlock?" I say, louder and look around the darkened room.

  I almost run out of the room and go search the rest of the Flatt when I hear what sounds like a match. I whip my head towards the sound and see I tiny flame shining enough light to show an arm of the person who holds the match, then it is thrown into the fire place. It lights up enough of the room to to show a man. Not just any man. Dan Musel.

  My eyes widen in shock. "Well . . . Good morning, Doctor Watson." His scratchy gruff voice greets me. He then turns around, holding something in his two, big arms. My heart sinks when I see what it is. Or might I say who. It's sherlock. No. Damn it! No!

  "Sorry if I woke you, just spending some time with the little one." He states with a sickly grin and looks down at Sherlock. Sherlock's asleep and still pale and sweating profusely. "What do you want Musel?" I ask, angrily, not taking my eyes off of Sherlock. He looks up at me. "Just wanted to see how he was doing. He doesn't look so good, Doctor." He says, mockingly. I begin to take a step towards him, when he pulls out a pistol and aims it at me. "Don't move." He orders me and then leans down, laying Sherlock on the nearby settee.

  "Well, if I am to be truthful . . . I came to make sure he was being taken care of. Well, not the way you think." "You're making him sick, aren't you?" He smiles. "Comes with the curse." "Why did you turn him into a child?" I ask, curiously. "Because I thought it would be enteresting and it would make him more vulnerable. I also wanted him to suffer before the inevitable." He finishes.

  I shake my head. "He didn't even remember you or what you did and you're punishing him for it. He's just a child." "He's still the great Sherlock Holmes." "Why are you doing this?" I ask, already knowing the answer. "He ruined my life. Sent me too jail for the rest of my life!" He finishes with a shout, causing Sherlock to stir just bit. "You murdered 8 people." I remind him. "They were corrupted and blinded by false hope and beliefs. They need to be saved and released." I furrow my eyebrows at his insain explaination.

  I have to get Sherlock away from him. His attention turns to Sherlock when Sherlock coughs and whimpers. "He's dying, you know? It shouldn't be too long now." Be states with a smirk. "But . . . I don't think I'd feel full closure, just letting him die, not from my very hand." He moves his arm, and slowly aims the gun at Sherlock. "No!" He looks at me, grinning. "Please. Don't hurt him." I beg. "He's going to die anyways, Doc. Might as well take him out of his misery." I shake my head, panic rising in me. "No, don't. Just change him back. Lift the curse, please." I beg, not so hopefully.

  He shakes hi head. "But I wouldn't get my revenge and . . . where's the fun in that?"