Rain lashed against the windows of 221B, mirroring the storm inside. Sherlock stood rigid before the wall of evidence—photos, strings, notes—all orbiting the same grotesque symbol. His coat hung open, sweat clinging to his temples despite the chill.\n\nJohn watched from the doorway, medical bag in hand. Three days of fever, ignored. Two sleepless nights chasing leads on wobbly legs. Now, Sherlock swayed slightly, pupils dilated, muttering about corneal pressure in the third victim.\n\n‘You’re not well,’ John said, stepping forward. ‘You need rest. Antibiotics.’\n\n‘Irrelevant,’ Sherlock snapped. ‘The pattern is breaking. I’m close.’\n\nA cough tore through him, violent and wet. He stumbled, catching himself on the table. John moved fast, gripping his arm. The skin burned.\n\n‘You don’t get to die on a hunch,’ John growled. ‘Not while I’m here.’\n\nSherlock tried to pull away, but his legs betrayed him. The case file slipped from his grasp.\n\nThe decision loomed: force Sherlock to bed and risk his wrath—or let him chase the truth into collapse.