Chapter 1: Wednesday
Note: I don't own any of the characters from the Sherlock BBC television series, nor any of the characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Disclaimer: This is a fictional story! I am not a doctor or neurologist, nor have medical training! Should a real-life doctor recommend that you or a loved one get a CT scan, of course do consider it!
Trigger warning: Please don't read if you find the following disturbing or triggering: At about two thirds through this chapter, John wonders briefly whether Sherlock was violated. He finds that he was not!
Wednesday:
Sherlock disappeared while investigating a case two days ago. It was a 4 only, he had said, but he had been bored. John had to work that day, so was not along. When Sherlock did not return that evening, he began to worry, eventually later called Mycroft. So far, there has been no call, no text, no ransom demand, no trace. Sherlock was last seen on CCTV entering a tube station, which had to be evacuated an hour later due to an electrical fire. Neither Mycroft, nor Scotland Yard, nor the best canine/handler team, nor the homeless network have been able to find him.
John has stayed home from work, to be available immediately should there be any contact. He has blamed himself that he did not accompany his friend that day. He spent the past 10 minutes with Ms. Hudson downstairs, reassuring her that they are still looking for Sherlock, they have not given up hope yet. She has made him a cup of tea, which he drank, then gave him some scones, for Sherlock, to take upstairs, should he show up.
John is walking the stairs back up to 221B when he notices their apartment door slightly ajar. Wondering whether maybe he had not closed it properly, he deposits the scones on the kitchen table. He gets a strange feeling, like he is not alone in the apartment, goes to investigate. The bathroom door is also slightly ajar, the sound of the tap running can be heard. Looking inside, he sees Sherlock lying on his right side, back to the door, on the floor, his head rests on his discarded coat. John rushes around him, kneels down in front of him.
"Sherlock, are you alright?!" His immense relief to find Sherlock back at Baker Street is curbed by Sherlock's unfocused gaze and look of exhaustion. There's a 3 cm long deep cut above his left ear, the blood has dried already.
"Sherlock, can you hear me?" John asks taking his friend's pulse. It is steady, but a bit fast. There is no reply. Sherlock's lips are quite dry and cracked, his skin looks a tinge grey.
John gets up to fetch some water from the sink, to give it to Sherlock in a tumbler. The tap is still running, there's vomit in the sink, mostly bile, apparently Sherlock had not eaten much. He notices the toilet lid is up, there's darker pee, a little stool and some toilet paper in the bowl. Apparently Sherlock had used the toilet but did not flush.
John puts the toilet lid down, flushes, washes his hand, rinses the sink, fills the tumbler, returns with the water to Sherlock.
"Here's some water," he offers, crouching down. "Can you sit up?" Sherlock does not move or comment. John puts the tumbler on the floor, then manages to get Sherlock to sit up.
"Here, you need to drink some, please," he insists. "You're probably a bit dehydrated." Since Sherlock only props his head on his hands and closes his eyes, John shakes his shoulder and puts the tumbler to his lips. "Drink!" His voice sounds commanding.
Sherlock blinks his eyes open, looks at John. Though his face remains impassive he drinks, slowly emptying the tumbler.
"Thank you," John says when he is finished, noticing that one of Sherlock's pupils is slightly more dilated than the other. "Lie back down. Here," John helps Sherlock lie back down. "I'm calling an ambulance." When Sherlock does not protest or respond 'Don't be ridiculous, John, it's nothing, a scratch on the side of my head, come on, you know I hate hospitals!' like he normally would, John adds "Right," and gets up.
Running his hand over the top of his head, he retrieves his phone from the holster on his belt, dials 111. "I don't think it's an emergency," he adds after giving their address and explaining the circumstances, "but I don't want to take any chances should his condition worsen."
"You're doing the right thing, sir," the dispatcher reassures him. "We'll send an ambulance. Paramedics should be there shortly."
Sitting down on the floor in the bathroom, resting his back on the tub, next, John calls Mycroft.
"Mycroft, Sherlock showed up like five minutes ago! Found him lying down in the bathroom. He's conscious but does not speak. Has a cut over his left ear. Am taking him to hospital to have him checked out," he rushes through the details telegraph style.
"Thank you for letting me know, John." Mycroft's relief that his brother has been found is evident in his voice. "Is there anything I can do to help?" he asks.
"Not really. I hope it's only dehydration and a concussion, not something more serious. Can you please call Lestrade and someone from the homeless network, let them know Sherlock's back?"
"I will."
"Ta! We'll be in touch." John disconnects, then calls Ms. Hudson, explains the circumstances. He'd rather she not see Sherlock like this, he knows she would be worried.
"We'll just take him downstairs when the paramedics are here, get him checked out at hospital, then probably come back to Baker Street later. Don't worry!" he tries to reassure her, holding the phone a little distance from his ear when her "Oh, dear, poor Sherlock..." gets too loud. "You'll probably hear us coming back. It'll be fine, Ms. Hudson." He shakes his head, disconnects, puts the phone back in the holster.
John kept an eye on Sherlock while making his phone calls. His breathing is steady, one could think that he is sleeping, just resting. John kneels down beside Sherlock to take his pulse again. It is still steady and a bit fast. He does not know what to make of Sherlock's quietness.
After a few minutes, the doorbell rings. Because this call was deemed not an emergency, the paramedics arrived without sirens. John lets them in, brings them to the bathroom.
"Found him like this. I gave him some water. There was vomit in the sink. His pee in the toilet was darker. See the cut there above his left ear," John points out. One of the paramedics takes notes, while the other tends to Sherlock, tries to get his attention, takes his blood pressure and pulse.
"Mr. Holmes, can you hear me?" He shakes Sherlock's shoulder.
Sherlock opens his eyes, but does not look at the paramedic, he does not respond.
"Can you tell us what happened to you?" also goes unanswered. The paramedic sighs. "Alright. - Tim," he addresses his colleague, "give me a hand." The other medic comes over to assist. "We'll take you downstairs to the ambulance and to hospital, to be evaluated, Mr. Holmes," he informs Sherlock of what is going to happen.
There is no response from Sherlock, so the paramedics, one on each side, proceed to get him up. After having been lying on the floor, standing up seems to cause his blood pressure to drop briefly, he sags, but then recovers.
"You walk with us now, we're supporting you, alright?"
Sherlock complies but does not reply. Slowly they make their way out of the apartment, proceed down the stairs. John picks up Sherlock's coat, takes it along after putting on his own, then locks up their apartment. He follows Sherlock and the paramedics down the stairs, then rides along in the ambulance. It is quiet without sirens.
At the hospital, John stays with Sherlock in the waiting room. After only a short while he is seen and examined by a doctor. Blood is taken, the cut above his left ear is cleaned, disinfected, bandaged. Since Sherlock fails to answer any of the doctor's questions, in the absence of any other obvious injuries, they are told he will also be seen by a neurologist for further assessment. John doubts he or she will have any more success to get answers.
While they are waiting Sherlock is given oral rehydration solution to replenish electrolytes lost from dehydration. It takes more than one stern encouragement, but John makes sure Sherlock drinks every last drop of it.
When the neurologist enters, John makes a point of stressing that he is a medical doctor himself, and Sherlock's friend. The neurologist explains that, because at this time Sherlock appears unable to answer any questions, subjecting him to a neuropsychological exam, to try to find out which area of his brain may be affected, won't help.
"Do you know whether he lost consciousness at some point? If so, for how long?" The doctor addresses John.
John shakes his head. "I don't know. He was missing for a couple of days."
"With a GCS of 11 he may have a moderate brain injury, as in a worse than average concussion." The doctor scribbles 'GCS 11 = E4 V1 M6 at 16.22' in Sherlock's file.
Having treated trauma patients himself in Afghanistan, John is familiar with the Glasgow Coma Scale. He already expected Sherlock to get only a 1 for verbal response, since there has been, and still is, none.
"Is there any way to make sure there's no bleeding in his brain?" John asks, concerned.
"A CT scan might rule that out. But, as you know, it is associated with high levels of radiation, resulting in unnecessary cases of cancer every year. Mr. Holmes appears awake. Yet when asked he does not even attempt to answer. In my estimate, he is not fully conscious. - But, the anisocoria has almost resolved itself," the neurologist points out. "I think observation over the next several hours and days will tell us more."
John steps close to look at Sherlock's eyes. Indeed, his pupils are almost the same size again. He sighs.
"Alright. Observation, where? At hospital, or can he go home?"
"Is there someone who can stay with him?"
"Yeah, me." John purses his lips.
"In this case, I think home is as good as here. He'll be in familiar surroundings, which should have a calming effect. He knows you. Physical and intellectual rest is a must and will help. Should any red flags arise, do come see us immediately, of course."
"I'd say he is not himself right now," John counters, pointing out one of the red flags.
"In my professional opinion he is unable to speak because he is not aware that he is being asked something, which is not the same as not being oneself when fully conscious. Right now he is not fully conscious," the neurologist clarifies.
"Hmm, you're probably right," John agrees. Sherlock's gaze is still unfocused, his facial expression blank. "Thank you, doctor."
"All the best!" The neurologist leaves.
"Come on, Sherlock, let's go home." John pulls Sherlock up to a standing position, manages to get him to cooperate to put on his coat. He leads Sherlock back to the waiting area, from where he calls Mycroft.
"Mycroft. So, the neurologist thinks it's a worse than normal concussion." He purses his lips. "He says to observe him at home, watch out for red flags. - Can you send a car, please? Send the driver in to meet us in the waiting area."
"What do you think of this assessment, John?" Mycroft asks hearing the slight uneasiness in John's voice.
"I'm not a neurologist," John concedes. "I would have liked Sherlock to get a CT scan to rule out bleeding in the brain. The doctor mentioned the high radiation levels... So, yeah, wouldn't want him to get cancer unnecessarily... I'll watch him. S'alright." John's voice sounds determined.
"A car is there already. The driver should meet you momentarily. Thank you for keeping me informed, John," Mycroft says, polite as ever.
John blinks. The driver is stepping into the waiting area already.
"Driver's here. Thanks!"
"Talk to you later." Mycroft disconnects.
"Just walk beside us, in case he needs steadying," John instructs the driver. "Let's go, Sherlock." John walks close beside him, one hand holding on to Sherlock's arm, the other around his waist, to be able to grab him quickly if necessary.
The ride back to Baker Street in Mycroft's car is entirely too quiet for John's liking. He looks at Sherlock, who sits completely still beside him, sideways, hopes that he is not aware of his condition, that he is not climbing the walls of his mind palace in desperate frustration and utter boredom.
After the driver accompanies them upstairs, John dismisses him at the landing.
"Thank you! I'll be able to take it from here. Thanks again!"
The driver nods, then disappears out the door downstairs. Ms. Hudson has heard them come home, now looks out her door.
"I thought I heard you... How is he? Do you need any help, John?" she calls up at them.
"He must have hit his head on something, has a concussion. I'll manage. - Do you maybe have some soup I can bring up for us later?"
"Oh, yes, in fact I do. You can take the whole pot. I can make some more tomorrow."
John knows that their landlady does not mind sharing food with them when needed on occasion. "Thank you, Ms. Hudson! I'll be down later." He opens the door, leads Sherlock inside.
"Welcome home," he mutters. As expected, there is no response from Sherlock. He helps him out of his coat, hangs it up beside his own. Sighing, he leads Sherlock to the bathroom. His clothes look very rumpled, there are some smudges, and a musky smell from wherever he had been while missing. John decides that a bath is in order, that they will both feel better afterwards.
"Bath time," John announces, glad that Sherlock rates 6 for motor response on the GCS, he is able to follow commands. He quickly sprays some disinfectant in the sink where Sherlock had vomited earlier, wipes and rinses it. "Use the toilet first. Flush afterwards. Wash hands. Then take off your clothes," he instructs. "I'll pour the water in the meantime."
After making sure the rubber mat's suction cups stick to the bottom of the tub and attaching a small bath pillow at the slanted end, he looks in the cupboard for something to add to the warm water, decides on rosemary bath oil. As he is adding it, he hears the lid fall down, the toilet flush, the tap run and turn off. Smiling, he turns around, sees Sherlock in the process of undressing.
He has not seen Sherlock naked before. They are friends, surely Sherlock, who is certainly not prude, would not mind. There's a large purple bruise on his left buttock, his left hip and left shoulder are bruised as well. Maybe he slipped and fell, hit his head that way, John wonders. When the bathtub is half full he turns the water off.
"There's your shampoo and conditioner," he points to the bottles on the ledge, easy to reach for Sherlock, he opened the caps already, "soap here. Get in the tub, water's nice and warm." The rosemary oil smells aromatic.
When Sherlock does not move right away John takes his hand, leads him to the edge of the tub. "In you go," he encourages him.
Sherlock steps into the tub, sits down, then immediately curls up on his right side, his head rests on the bath pillow.
"Okay," John notes. This is not going as well as he expected. Either personal hygiene, taking a proper bath, is too complicated for someone with a 6 on the GCS for motor response, or he did not give the right instructions. He blows out a breath, touches Sherlock's shoulder to get his attention.
"Sherlock, you're going to wash your hair and body. Sit up, please!" Sherlock sits up. John smiles. "I'm going to wet your hair." He uses his hands to pour water over Sherlock's hair several times. Sherlock closes his eyes to prevent water from running into them.
"Hold out your hand," John asks. When Sherlock does, he pours a generous amount of shampoo into his hand. "Use the shampoo on your hair." Sherlock uses both hands to lather his hair with the shampoo. John is impressed.
"Fantastic! Here, use the shower head to rinse it off." He turns the water on, hands Sherlock the shower head. It doesn't take him long to rinse the shampoo out. They follow the same steps with the conditioner.
"Great job, Sherlock!" John praises him. "You can open the drain already." Sherlock opens the drain. "Now use the soap to wash up. - Like you normally do," John adds, not sure how and in what order on his body Sherlock normally uses soap. Sherlock uses the soap on his face, ears, neck, armpits, upper body, between toes, legs, belly button, midsection, private parts front and back, then rinses it. John is impressed by his thoroughness. He'll get him to brush his teeth after supper. They might tackle his stubble in the morning.
"Wonderful! Now please rinse off, then step out of the tub and towel dry." Sherlock does as asked. John hands him a towel. Since normally they use the toilet and have a bath in private, without the other present or watching, he is glad Sherlock is able to do all these things by himself, that he does not have to touch his body in order to do it for him. Not that he would not want to touch Sherlock's beautiful body, if Sherlock wanted that, he muses. So far they have not really spoken about these things, there was no need.
It occurs to him that it would be very easy for someone to give Sherlock instructions to do certain things or acts in his current state. Which would be unethical. No one has the right to take advantage of his friend like that, he would chase down anybody that would so much as attempt to abuse or violate him. The realization underscores his determination to protect Sherlock.
Suddenly he wonders whether someone did violate Sherlock while he was missing, before he returned to Baker Street. Maybe he does not speak because he is traumatized. The thought makes him feel nauseous. He kicks himself for not having brought the question up when Sherlock was examined at the hospital, to have a nurse or doctor physically check on that. He needs to know, for Sherlock's sake, to get him help should he need it, and for his own peace of mind.
While Sherlock is finishing towelling off, sighing, he rubs a hand over his eyes. He reminds himself that, as a doctor and Sherlock's friend, he can do this. Keeping his distance, he scrutinizes Sherlock's body for signs of violence. The bruising on his hip is only on his left side, no obvious finger or rope marks are visible.
"Stretch out your arms forward, please," John asks. His face is sober as he looks for track marks, in case Sherlock was drugged. Relieved, he finds none. "Thank you, Sherlock."
He is bending down now to look closer at Sherlock's penis and testicles. There are no visible abrasions, for which he is grateful. He needs to see Sherlock's glans, so asks, "Please, pull your foreskin back." When Sherlock does, it appears completely normal. "Thank you. Let it go now."
Lastly, he moves to kneel down behind Sherlock. He feels uncomfortable to have to ask this, but does anyway. "Please spread your buttocks." He should be used to it by now that Sherlock does as told, but finds it unsettling that he does even that when prompted, without hesitation. "Phew," John breathes a deep sigh of relief at the sight of Sherlock's anus completely normal looking, unharmed. He was not violated.
"Thank you! I'm sorry I had to ask this of you, Sherlock," John apologizes as he gets up. He feels like wrapping Sherlock in his arms, holding him tight, to let him know how glad he is that he is unharmed, and that he intends to keep it that way. Instead, he takes the towel, rubs some more wetness out of his hair and removes the now wet bandage from the cut above his left ear. He hangs up the towel, rinses out the tub, puts Sherlock's clothes in the hamper, then retrieves a tube of Arnica cream from a drawer by the sink.
"Here, let me put some Arnica cream on your bruises. They'll heal quicker that way." Since Sherlock will, most likely, not be able to tell him if the bruising is painful, he takes care to apply the cream using only light pressure. Afterwards, he washes his hands, puts the cream away, applies a fresh bandage to the cut. He is beginning to feel more comfortable in his role as, hopefully temporary, caregiver.
"Alright. - I think normally you use body lotion. And maybe face cream? Please get those. You were dehydrated, your skin can need the moisture."
Sure enough, Sherlock digs out an expensive looking bottle and small jar from underneath the sink.
"Aha, thought so," John comments, putting some of the face cream on Sherlock's fingers. "Rub that on your face." Next, he puts body lotion on Sherlock's hands. "And that on your body, like you normally do." He is not sure where on his body Sherlock normally uses body lotion.
They make their way to Sherlock's bedroom, where he picks out some clothes for him. "Here, put these on: socks, pants, lounge pants, t-shirt." Since it is getting evening already he wants Sherlock to be comfortable. After he has dressed himself, John suggests they go sit down on the couch.
As they sit quietly, John recalls the neurologist's "Physical and intellectual rest is a must and will help." If Sherlock could speak he would say 'Rest is boring!' They have only been home for about 40 minutes, and John is beginning to find the quiet oppressive already.
"Right. You stay put on the couch, I'll go get that pot of soup from Ms. Hudson quickly. Be right back."
He dashes downstairs, knocks on Ms. Hudson's door. She brings the pot of soup to the door, inquires about Sherlock. The two minutes he spends speaking with her feel like a mini-vacation from quiet Sherlock. He thanks her, dashes back upstairs. Sherlock sits exactly as he left him, his face impassive as before. John takes out two portions for their supper to warm up on the stove, leaves the rest in Ms. Hudson's pot and puts it in the fridge. He prepares two cups of tea, to go with the soup.
While the soup heats up on low temperature, he goes sit with Sherlock on the couch. He wonders how long he will be quiet for, whether he will recover. He sighs, picks up a medical journal to read in the meantime. For supper, he gets Sherlock to sit at the kitchen table, where they eat the soup and drink the tea.
Afterwards, in order to escape the quiet, John puts on one of Sherlock's music CDs. He has not heard of this composer before, but the music has something soothing and comforting about it. The CD is just finishing when Mycroft comes by for a visit.
"Good evening, Sherlock, John," he greets as John lets him in. Taking in the way Sherlock sits on the couch, not reacting to his presence, his gaze unfocused, seems to cause Mycroft pain. "I see," is all he says, then remains quiet for a minute. "How are you doing, John?" he inquires.
John shrugs his shoulders. "You know, I used to give him a hard time sometimes when he was bored, sulking. This is only day one! I think I'll get a new appreciation for what he may have felt like at times, though I sincerely hope I will not suffer to the same extent. - I do hope he is not aware of his condition. I think he might find it hard to bear."
Mycroft slowly nods in agreement. "Have there been any red flags?" John shakes his head no. They wouldn't be sitting here if there had been. "That's good. Let's hope it stays that way." He approaches Sherlock on the couch and, to John's surprise, bends down to give him a proper hug. "Get well, brother, for all our sakes, please." His voice sounds very sincere. "I'll come by again some other time," he says in parting as John lets him out.
From the apartment door John looks at Sherlock sitting still on the couch. He shakes his head, hopes that, like the anisocoria, whatever is causing his verbal unresponsiveness will resolve itself with time.
To distract himself John turns on the TV, chooses some 'crap telly'. But without any comments from Sherlock, how outrageously dull the program is, how people's brains must atrophy being subjected to this, it is not the same. He turns the TV off.
Around 9.30 PM he decides he has had enough of this day. "I'm tired," he announces. "You stay put while I go have a shower and brush my teeth." He gets up. "Don't go anywhere," he stresses before dashing up the stairs to his room to fetch his PJs, a change of clothes for tomorrow, his pillow and a blanket. He keeps the shower to a bare minimum, emerges in record time. After checking that Sherlock has not left, he quickly brushes his teeth, puts his PJs on.
"There, I'm back," he lets Sherlock know, then tugs on his arm. "Get up, come with me." He leads him to the bathroom. Asking him whether he needs to use the toilet before going to bed won't work because he won't answer, so he tells him instead, "Use the toilet, wash your hands, then brush your teeth, please. I'll wait outside while you do that."
He waits outside the bathroom door, his back resting against the wall. Occasionally he peeks around the door frame to keep track of Sherlock's progress and is relieved to see that he is able to brush his teeth. When he appears done but is not coming out of the bathroom, John goes to check on him. He sees the toothbrush and spit out toothpaste and saliva in the sink, foam from the toothpaste has dripped down Sherlock's right forearm, is still smeared on his hand and around his mouth, though he managed to keep his t-shirt clean.
"Okay, that's... good, so far." Apparently brushing his teeth is more difficult for Sherlock than using soap on his body. Or, maybe when he brushed his teeth before his disappearance he paid less attention than when he used soap, or maybe he is just tired, John thinks.
"Right,... Next time, and now, when you are finished brushing your teeth, rinse the toothbrush off, put it in the tumbler." John waits while Sherlock does this. "Use your hand to rinse out your mouth and the sink with water, also rinse your forearm off, then dry your skin with the towel." Again, he waits while Sherlock follows his instructions.
"Terrific! I know most days you don't go to bed this early, but physical rest includes sleep. So let's get you comfortable in your bed." John leads Sherlock to his bedroom. He fluffs his pillow, pulls back the duvet for him, has him sit on the edge of the mattress.
"So, erm... lie down to sleep, like you normally do," he suggests, not knowing how Sherlock normally sleeps because most times his bedroom door is closed shut.
Sherlock takes his socks, lounge pants, pants and t-shirt off, lies down on his right side, pulls the duvet up over his shoulder.
Seeing Sherlock naked again, John swallows. He takes the liberty of tucking the duvet closer to Sherlock's body, touches his hair very briefly.
"I'll turn the light in your room off now, keep your door open so I can hear you. If you need anything during the night go to the couch in the living room, I'll be sleeping there. - Good night, Sherlock. Sleep well!" He turns the light in Sherlock's bedroom out, makes sure their apartment door is locked. In the living room, he only leaves a side lamp on, then tries to get comfortable on the couch with his pillow and blanket.
There is no way he can fall asleep right away. Lying on his back, thinking of Sherlock how he was, before he found him in the bathroom today, and how he is now, tears come to his eyes. It hurts him to see his friend, so gifted, normally vocal, and brilliant, so quiet now. The new 'normal', he tries not to feel bitter about it, tries to hold on to the hope that Sherlock will fully recover.
He feels exhausted, mostly emotionally. Thank you, God, that Sherlock is alive, that he was not violated, he prays. Heal his brain so he can speak again. Let there be no deficits, please. He sighs.
Again, he thinks of the fact how easily Sherlock, not fully conscious but able to follow instructions, could be manipulated, taken advantage of. At this time, he realizes, there are only two people that he would trust to leave Sherlock alone with: Mycroft and Ms. Hudson. Three, he has to concede, if he includes Greg Lestrade. The strong surge of feeling protective of Sherlock he experiences now is not the first since they met... He is here to guard and watch over Sherlock!
ooo