A Song to Say Goodbye.Chapter One. I do not own Sherlock or any of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's work.
I'm well aware of how it aches
and you still won't let me in
and now I'm breaking down your door
to try and save your swollen face
though I don't like you anymore
you lying trying waste of space
There was a time in his childhood and earlier teenage years when John Watson envisioned himself much further along in his life than this, a girlfriend he was madly in love with and shagging on a regular basis, cramming to get good grades on his A levels in order to get in to a good college and become a doctor; partying and getting up to the usual mischief every seventeen year old did. But as far as life went, things didn't always go to plan and he had found himself here; alive.
Trapped in a room that was blindingly white and bare minimalistic John stared up at the mind dulling ceiling and squinted his eyes against the light, a dull ache lancing between the crook of his elbow and the back of his head. To be honest John was surprised they had even allowed him the IV line that was linked to the plastic cannula and bag of fluids. But then again, his wrists and ankles were strapped down to the cushiony bed. It wasn't like he could make a second attempt on his life outside of swallowing his own tongue. A sharp pang of pain shot through his head again, causing him to wince harshly.
John didn't know how long it had been since his father had knocked him on the back of the head, dropping him rapidly to the ground against his throes of struggle against the harried paramedics that had been struggling to restrain him. He had been fuming when his father had walked in to his bedroom, home three hours earlier then intended by John who had planned his suicide down to the T that night.
His father had been in a rage when he walked in to find John on the carpet beside his bed, half unconscious from the overdose already, forgotten words dying on his lips as he dropped down to his knees and took John into his arms and yelled at him for what he had done, what he had taken and how much. This had simply spurred John back from the brink, desperate to succeed he had pushed his dad off and stumbled away to find somewhere isolated but he had been followed, his dad already on the phone to 999. He'd made a lousy attempt to get the phone away but the medication was taking hold.
By the time the paramedics had arrived John was struggling not to throw up, his dad wasn't allowing him to go asleep and was slapping his cheek each time his eyelids fluttered closed against his pale cheeks. He had slurred to be left alone, he didn't want to live anymore; he thought he had even cried then as he swung out at the medics and struggled against them until his father had unceremoniously clocked him on the back of the head. It was all hazy from there.
John had woken up in the ICU strapped to heart rate monitors, a tube down his throat and numerous IV lines. His father was slumped asleep in a chair to his right and a nurse was busy writing notes at the head of his bed, he struggled against the breathing tube until another nurse had appeared with a syringe that made everything black until he had opened his eyes here.
Footsteps drew his head to the right, rolling his neck to watch the door open and greet a pair of black trousers and a white coat. 'Good to see you awake and coherent John, my name is Doctor Lestrade or Greg if you prefer. I will be the leader of your team during your stay with us here on the unit I am a psychiatrist.' The doctor- Greg pulled up a chair and sat down beside John with a clip board and pen in his hands smiling through an aged face topped with salt and pepper hair trimmed close.
'Where am I?' John croaked, throat abused from the tracheal tube.
'You are in a locked psychiatric ward in Leeds for young juveniles like yourself in need of some help. And we are here to help you, as long as you work with us and let it happen; we all want to see you walk out of here again.' John smirked, he was eighteen in six months and if he wasn't out of here by then he could at least walk out of his own will. Not that he would let it last that long, he didn't want to be alive and they were not going to be able to change that perception anytime soon. 'What you tried to do was a desperate cry for help John and you nearly got away with it.'
'I wanted to get away with it, that was the whole idea of it and I would have if my dad didn't come back when he wasn't supposed to.' He snapped back. 'I don't need any of your bullshit help and I want to go home.'
'You won't be going home anytime soon John, you attempted to take your own life and from what I just heard you say than- you plan on trying again. We can't let you go.' John laughed at him. 'I want to start a transitioning period for you, get you out of the restraints and make sure you don't try and harm yourself or any of the nurses over the next twenty-four hours before we move you to another room and integrate you into the program. After that you can meet your team and we can move on from there with a care plan and work out what we can do to help you from there. How does that sound John?'
The idea of getting out of this room and the restraints sounded like heaven to John's ears, he nodded reluctantly. If push came to shove he could lie, pretend he was getting better and do all the pleasing things they wanted in order to get home quickly and then he could try again.
'Alright then,' Greg leaned over John's ankles and released the Velcro straps doing the same with his wrists. 'Sit up slowly, you have been laying down for a while now and your blood pressure is still low. You will be on BD observations until it stabilises, along with twice daily bloods.'
'Why?' John was thankful to be sitting up, he hadn't noticed the throb in his back or stomach before when he was lying down but now they were making themselves known.
'The overdose you took did some damage, serious damage John. Your stomach was pumped on arrival but the medication had been in your system some time by then and several of your organs were affected including your kidneys, liver and heart. You will be taken to the medical ward for dialysis on your kidneys three times a week, the hope is that will repair the damage and avoid the need for a transplant. You will also have a few run of the mill tests on your heart for maintenance of your treatment plan.' Greg dragged a hand through his hair and looked hard at John who simply stared back blankly, showing how little he cared with the vacant expression in his eyes. 'Well a nurse will be in to take your observations shortly, along with lunch. I will come and see you again tomorrow morning for transition.' He extended a hand; John took it reluctantly and shook it.
Over the next twenty four hours John paced the room and acted on his best behaviour. He ate sparse amounts of plain food, swallowed medication when he was meant to and allowed the nurses to do what they pleased with him. It wasn't long before he woke from a sedated sleep and looked up in to the eyes of the morning shift arriving with his bland breakfast. Apparently his stomach was too damaged to accept anything to heavy right now, he brought most of it back up anyway.
Sweaty head hanging over the toilet bowl John groaned and pushed away from the cool porcelain and leaned against the tile with a sigh. He hadn't expected to survive, so he hadn't looked up the consequences if he did. It only made him want to be dead even more amongst the suffering.
'Are you in here John?' Greg's voice carried through the bathroom, alarmed.
'Bathroom.' He mumbled back, making no move to get up or flush down the sickly smell of his vomit. Blood streaked the bowl and tainted his pale lips, another side effect of the OD having damaged his stomach lining and oesophagus. Greg came in with a plastic cup of ice cubes and a spoon which he handed over to him.
They sat in silence for a moment before Greg spoke. 'We have a room ready for you on the ward, it is shared with another male two years younger than you but I am sure you won't have a problem.' John just nodded; he didn't have the energy to reply. He just wanted to go home he didn't care who he had to deal with to lie his way out of here. 'We have a wheelchair now if you are ready to go up?' He just nodded again and stood up shakily and shuffled in to the outer room where a nurse stood waiting with the chair.
Sinking down John allowed the IV line to be reattached and for himself to be wheeled towards an elevator where an orderly joined them, the three staff flanking John so he felt like a criminal. It was a quiet short ride to the unit, he dozed lightly in the lift but a hand on his shoulder woke him up when they had arrived.
'John Watson this will be your new room for the next few months, and this is Sherlock Holmes your new roommate for the rest of your stay.' John looked up and met the icy blue eyes of a very pale teenage boy with incredibly curly hair that sat atop sharp cheekbones one of which was marred with tape holding down a nasal gastric tube. The boy didn't say a word; he left angel bow lips closed in disdain before turning away and returning to the book held in bony fingers.
As the wheelchair was pushed past Sherlock's bed he couldn't help but stare, the boy was incredibly thin which explained the tube down his nose, and incredibly startling to look at. That was when John noticed the bandages around the younger man's wrists and he quickly looked away feeling guilty like he had seen something he shouldn't have.