And here's part 4. Sherlock and Mycroft call pon farr the flu, like Tuvok called it in Voyager, out of his Vulcan need for privacy and discretion.
Fandom: BBC Sherlock/Star Trek
Story: Point of Origin
Warnings: slash, dubious consent mindmeld, rated R
Sherlock and John only stopped long enough to remove the crime scene gloves and suit. John noticed now that Sherlock's hands were as feverishly warm as the rest of him, and he hurried them outside the building.
As John hailed a cab, he considered whether Sherlock's fever constituted an emergency. "Sherlock, do you want to go back to the clinic? So they can give you your special drugs?"
Sherlock shook his head. "No, home. I have some there."
John blinked in surprise and looked at him cautiously. "You're not addicted to those painkillers they gave you, are you? Is this you having withdrawal from them?"
"No, John, please." He leaned close again and seemed to be smelling John's hair.
A cab stopped for them, so John hurriedly packed Sherlock into it and got in. He gave their Baker Street address, so that he could at least examine Sherlock sufficiently to know if it was serious, and to have a look at Sherlock's medicine.
Unfortunately, Sherlock kept leaning close to him, like that time he cuddled with John after leaving the clinic. John pushed away his clingy arms and warned that they weren't alone.
Sherlock stayed near, though, and murmured, "Should've known the fever... shouldn't have gone on the case."
"Right, you should've stayed home." John felt bad for being blind. "I didn't realise you were ill, Sherlock."
He shrugged with a frown. "I hoped it wouldn't happen because of the medicine."
"What happen? What kind of medicine is it?"
Sherlock shrugged and sighed into John's shoulder. "Just... the flu."
"You mean it was a vaccine? They shouldn't have done that so soon after your stabbing!" How incompetent, to infect him when his immune system was compromised.
"No, I mean..." He was having difficulty speaking, and his thoughts seemed slowed down. "Blood fever. Rejection... of transfusion."
"Oh? Oh. Yeah, you must have lost quite a lot of blood, but I didn't think you could still be rejecting any new blood now, days later." He frowned with worry and confusion.
Sherlock just closed his eyes and sighed, "John."
"Stay awake," John said, patting his head slightly and making Sherlock look up at him again. His blue eyes were bright, and his face flushed. It was very distracting, and they rode in silence the rest of the way home.
Back at their flat, John quickly took Sherlock to his bedroom and sat him down while he got a thermometer to check his temperature.
"And where's your medicine?" he asked, looking around at the clutter.
Sherlock opened a drawer and showed him a box that he recognized.
"Oh that's the package that was delivered after you came home from the clinic."
Sherlock nodded, still with the thermometer in his mouth.
"You didn't tell me that was medicine." John had assumed it was chemicals for Sherlock's experiments, since he felt so restless without a case. John sat down with him on the bed.
The box was open now, and John saw several strange vials and an odd device inside. Also, everything was printed in some language John didn't know. He had never even seen the characters or symbols before.
Before John could ask, Sherlock picked up the device and loaded it with a vial, saying, "Hypospray." He then pressed the hypospray against his neck, and it made an odd hissing sound before he removed it. It didn't leave any needle mark on him either. Sherlock spoke with concentration, "New tech from Mycroft. Avoid... needles."
John took the device and looked at it briefly before returning it to the box. "Mycroft thinks of everything where it concerns your drugs history. Stop taking your thermometer out."
Sherlock stopped him from putting it back in. "It's useless. Doesn't read that high."
Sherlock discarded the thermometer, then took both of John's hands in his. "I want to explain. Tell you the truth."
So he had been lying before! John asked, "Then tell me what that medicine is. What fever do you have?"
Sherlock nodded, then after a hesitation, he started to take off his suit jacket.
"Of course. Sorry." John helped him undress and lie back on the bed. Sherlock looked so green and ill.
Evidently still feeling hot, Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt too, but he didn't stop there, opening it and pulling John's hand near.
John was going to protest, but then Sherlock pressed his hand to his heart, or at least where it should be. "I can't feel your heartbeat! I should get a stethoscope!" He was panicking and hoping that he just couldn't feel it because Sherlock was breathing too hard or his hand was trembling too much.
Sherlock didn't let him pull away, though, and he moved John's hand over to his liver, right near the scar from his stabbing.
John was shocked to feel a heartbeat there. "What?"
Sherlock explained, "That's where it is. Supposed to be."
John's mind raced. "What? Then liver failure... How?" Maybe it was congenital. There were rare cases of people being born with organs in the wrong place.
"My blood is green too." Sherlock was speaking a little better now, as the hypospray relieved some of his blood fever. "I can usually colour it red well enough for minor injuries, but not that time. Not with so much blood at once."
John just stared from him to the stitches and back again. The thought of how close that criminal came to killing Sherlock upset him immensely. And yet Sherlock was raving about having green blood! "I-I don't understand."
"I know." He reached up to Watson's face and drew him closer. "I should've told you, but I was afraid what you might think. That you'd reject me." Sherlock's face actually looked upset and almost anguished
John thought he was in pain. "Sherlock!"
"Please!" he gripped John tightly. "Don't leave me. Say you still love me. Please."
John blushed, though he should have known that Sherlock could deduce his feelings. Hell, if Mycroft could deduce he was "emotionally involved," Sherlock could.
Sherlock touched his face with one hand, his long fingers splayed across his cheek. "Tell me. Tell me," he whispered, then started speaking an unknown language.
John wanted to ask what the hell he was doing and saying, but Sherlock's strange grip seemed to have a hypnotic effect on him.
Before he was aware, the foreign words changed to a chant of "My mind to your mind. My thoughts to your thoughts."
A vulnerable, exposed feeling overcame John, and he felt another presence in his head. Sherlock stopped speaking out loud, and a rapid-fire flash of images hit John all at once: A star-chart zooming into a red planet he didn't know. Hot and arid, with mountains. Something told him it was called Vulcan. Then he saw images of Sherlock, Mycroft, and Anthea, but they looked quite different. They all had pointed ears and eyebrows, and their hair was cut short and blunt. He heard Sherlock's voice in his head saying their names as Sherlock, Myvock, and T'Pan. They were all green-skinned, all alien.
Just as John was feeling panic and terror, there was a flood of tenderness and warmth. He felt Sherlock saying, like a prayer, "I love you, I love you..."
John gasped as Sherlock broke his grip and the mental contact stopped. The pictures disappeared, and so did the swirling emotions and thoughts that had enveloped him so intensely.
"I'm sorry." Sherlock caressed him regretfully. "I shouldn't have done so without your permission. Too much at risk. But I needed to feel you, to tell you." He pulled John close to cling to his neck. "Forgive me for being weak."
John's mind was still settling from the confusion. He stammered, "Y-You're not human? You can read minds? No wonder--" But he didn't care about deductions just now, and he swallowed, "You love me?" He hardly dared believe it.
Sherlock nodded and said, "Ask Mycroft to explain. I-I can't think. My fever... it's pon farr, and the drugs can only do so much." He looked into John's eyes searchingly. "You're not afraid? You still love me? Oh, John."
"Sherlock." He sighed and half closed his eyes.
Sherlock kissed him then, and John sank into it passionately.
But when he caressed Sherlock's face and skin, he could feel the high temperature, so he drew back. "Sherlock, your fever. We should take you to back to the clinic."
"No, John, I'll get better with you."
"I've no idea how to treat you."
"You do. Just touch me. Love me. I'll show you." He pressed two fingers together and started to trace the outline of John's face.
He nuzzled John. "You love danger."
"Sherlock!" He stopped his hand and sat up.
Sherlock finally lay still and opened his eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "If I had more time, I'd woo you properly. It is only this pon farr that makes me so weak. So lost in you."
"Pon farr?" he asked, then reached for his phone. "Is that what I should tell Mycroft? Wouldn't want to say liver failure and scare him."
Sherlock nodded, and watched John look up Mycroft's number. Sherlock told him how to spell it, at least in English, and then John sent the text.
"Well, um, you should get dressed again." John struggled to stay professional and not get lost in his beautiful skin.
Sherlock sat up to put the jacket back on, and he pleaded softly, "Come with me. Mycroft will want to take me away, but come with me."
"Of course!" John said, outraged at the thought that Mycroft would try to separate them again. He was starting to help Sherlock move into the living room, when his phone rang and he answered it.
"Mycroft, you got my message?"
"You sent it, not Sherlock?"
"Yes. He's got a fever, and he told me he's sick with this thing."
"I see. I'll send a car round for him."
"You mean us," John insisted. "I'm coming too."
"No, John, that's not necess--"
"It is! And he asked me to come. You can ask him yourself."
"It's only a flu--"
John scoffed. "I'll bet it's not. Or do they have flus on Vulcan?"
Mycroft audibly gasped. "H-he told you about Vulcan?"
"Yes. Sort of. I--it's all muddled, and he's not well. You can explain it to me yourself, but until he's better I'm not leaving his side."
"I see. Well then, John, you'd better call your work and let them know you'll be out sick for a week."
"Or more. And you'd better pack bags for both of you then."
"I'll send a car then. See you soon, doctor."
"Yes." John hung up, very pleased to have won.
Sherlock looked relieved, too, and John hurriedly packed for them. They then waited in the living room for Mycroft's car to arrive. John tried to keep him comfortable on the sofa despite his fever.
End of part 4. Continue to part 5.
Sorry for no sex yet. John's medical instincts won't let him succumb unless somebody explains things to him properly. Plus they've got to discuss the mind meld.