Downtime
Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.
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The Lab
Part 2 - Decon
He came to with a rush of panic, something was in his eyes, on his face.
He tried to fight it, desperately, but was held down.
"Don't move."
What was happening?
A wet cloth was on his face.
He struggled, but they held him down with even more force.
Where was he?
Water on his face - they were about to torture him.
The pressure changed, something plastic was pressed over his mouth and nose.
He needed to stay calm, assess the situation.
Think!
To his horror he felt fingers pry open his eyes and held them that way.
Then suddenly a constant stream of water was hitting his eyeballs, irritating them even more.
He'd drown.
He felt panic rise, tried to keep it down.
Not now!
His shoes and socks were removed.
Loud voices.
Chaos.
"We… to perform …wash, … calm down."
Voices faded in and out, disturbed by the gurgling water on his face.
Hands were everywhere, held or did something to his head, his chest, his hands, his feet.
He didn't want to allow them to see his panic but it was like being dragged down to hell, into endless suffering.
He tried to get them off, but was pinned in place, which heightened the agitation even more.
Eyes still held open, water flowing over his face.
He struggled to breathe but then found he suddenly could.
A mask was pressed down on his face.
He could breathe…
"We are trying to help, calm down… We need to perform an eyewash."
It took some long moments until that sentence reached his panicked mind.
They must be trying to clean him, not trying to kill him, then.
Finally, he remembered he must be in decon.
Water soaked through his clothes, he tried to stop struggling but his body seemed unimpressed by his understanding of the situation.
"Bring his brother, he's freaking out."
They were trying to help.
The adrenaline and the sensations of being tortured drove the idea away again, the panic remained and his body continued to react to the foreign touch and assault.
Stupid transport.
"Mr Holmes, we'll help you shower now," a female voice informed.
Right, his brother must be here.
Why was Mycroft not able to shower on his own?
Voices were screaming orders all around him, the general atmosphere of panic and pain and distress made him sick.
While he still tried to understand what was happening the irresistible mass of cold gloved hands was pulling and dragging at his clothes.
No John to assure him it would be over soon… He wanted John to be the one who treated him.
His own need shocked him.
Since when was he so… sentimental?
Maybe it was because of his condition.
He felt metal on his shin while water continued run over his body and face.
Tugging at his clothes.
Suddenly the water touched his skin directly, no fabric in between, on the whole length of his body.
He realised he was completely naked, in a wet puddle on a cold wet board.
Trauma shears, they had cut away all this clothes within moments.
Where was all this water coming from?
They started to wash him down even more ferociously, with soft sponges.
His arms were lifted and moved and it went on and on and on, the water was still forced into his eyes.
He couldn't see, couldn't hear properly, could only feel the sensory assault to his transport.
He hated being touched. Only John was allowed to do this.
Only John's touch was neutral.
It didn't stop, went on and he became more desperate by the minute.
Then he remembered safety instructions, which said eyewashes should continue for fifteen minutes… as well as body washing to get rid of chemicals.
He had lost his sense of time, it felt like an eternity.
But probably only three or four minutes had passed yet.
Another eternity to go, then.
He didn't want to feel this any longer.
"Sir, don't hold your breath… come on, you need to breathe."
He was busy enough fighting his panic and the horrible sensations, he couldn't concentrate on breathing on top of it all.
His chest was tight and hurting.
For the first time in his life he wished to pass out.
"Going into shock, hurry up."
Someone had fingers on his neck, monitoring his pulse, for some reason this touch bothered him suddenly even more than the water running over his eyes.
Their touches were rough but thorough, manhandled him to lie on his side, than the other, then back to on his back.
He couldn't handle this, his mind wanted to flee.
Then the eyewash stopped and something covered his face; they started washing his hair and fingers and feet, when they reached his private parts he started to struggle again.
Another hose down with more pressure followed, he found it hard to breathe.
Sharp cold oxygen moved in and out - they were helping him to breathe, bagging him.
Then it was suddenly all over.
"Wrapping him up now," someone screamed.
"More contaminated victims coming in," another voice yelled in the distance.
There had been other people around?
Then - from one moment to the other - he was covered in some extremely soft and slightly warm blankets, it felt improperly good.
They tugged them around and under him, even around his head; only his face, still covered with the oxygen mask, remained free.
"Clean, now, Sir," someone reported.
He was lifted from the plastic gurney onto a warm soft surface that seemed to embrace his form and hug him from behind.
It felt a lot safer but the stress from a few minutes before was so profound he found he was trembling all over.
"Sherlock, you're okay. It's alright. Stay awake."
His muddled brain needed several moments to realise it was Mycroft's voice he was hearing, it was close to his face and he felt a hand on his shoulder.
He must be imagining it.
"Sherlock, can you hear me?"
Mycroft was there.
He was safe.
That was if the chemical he was exposed to wouldn't kill him.
"You saved the whole city, you realise that? You prevented the components from mixing by the timer started apparatus, which would have resulted in a deathly concoction."
What was he talking about?
"Sherlock, concentrate on what I'm saying."
What for? It was nonsense.
Movement.
The ceiling changed colour over his head.
Tents, they must have established an emergency hospital.
The movement stopped and they started to unwrap him.
By now he was pretty fed up with being touched and manhandled and he just wanted to be left alone.
"Don'touch'e," he grunted.
"Sorry, Sir," a new muffled voice said.
Nevertheless he was partially unwrapped and hissed about the cold slipping under the blankets, but it was immediately replaced by warmness… and a sharp prick on the back of his right hand, then another one on his inner left arm.
Once more many hands were on him, but they spread warmth and he heard himself groan softly when warm liquid was pumped into his veins.
It gently started to heat him up from within.
"Stay awake, Sherlock. Look at me," Mycroft ordered.
Sherlock managed to pry open his swollen eyes and saw Mycroft was also wearing a hazmat suit.
It looked ridiculous, but he could see his brother was wearing his shirt and waistcoat inside it.
Sherlock's eyes moved to his hands, checking if he had his umbrella with him, which was utterly preposterous, but one small tiny detail of reality he tried to cling to.
The umbrella wasn't there and it kind of shattered his world, made it all much worse.
He felt wetness in his burning eyes, running down his temple.
Then, without warning, someone else leaned over him, forced his eyes open wide once more and dropped something burning first into one, then into the other eye and Sherlock's body started to fight the procedure.
For god's sake, couldn't these people have the decency to warn him, tell him what they were doing?
When he was unceremoniously held in place and urged to calm he realised he had started flailing and the warmth was falling away.
Sharp words from Mycroft flew through the air, but they weren't directed at him.
His eyes hurt… his whole body was bathed in burning pain.
"Sir, your eyes are irritated, keep them closed," another unknown voice said, but he didn't care to find out if it was addressing him.
The warmth returned, tight and relaxing.
Then everything suddenly fell away, voices faded in and out and Mycroft was urging him to stay awake.
He was dimly aware he was losing consciousness, but he couldn't care less and he didn't even try to fight it.
Mycroft was there, he had resources available that meant good care, he could check out. It was the best care he could get in John's absence.
He allowed the darkness to swallow him.
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"Come on, wake up, Sherlock," Mycroft woke him.
He blinked.
His headache was unnerving, his skin and eyes hurt and his vision was hazy.
"What happened?" he croaked, a moment later, he remembered himself.
Mycroft wasn't wearing the hazmat suit any longer and they were in a private hospital room of what was probably a secret facility.
"You destroyed the machine that was supposed to mix the dry components, resolve them, and then slowly release them into the water supply. You saved thousands of lives. It turned out the separate chemicals were not lethal, though very irritating when one comes in direct contact with them. Luckily you deactivated the intake for one but when you failed to do the same to the other you used brute force and simply emptied the container so nothing could get into the water."
Sherlock huffed, he still couldn't remember those events, his memory started when he woke up in the warehouse, though it felt more like a dream than a proper memory.
He found the bed controls and lifted the head end so he was more upright.
"The content spilled into the hall. When the timer controlled vents opened nothing was there to go through. Good thinking," Mycroft explained.
"I am a chemist, I probably calculated the risk and decided it was the best option," his voice was only a whisper and he was very groggy.
"You did, you told me when you called me. Although, by then you weren't sure what they were. This could have killed you, dear brother."
"I called you?"
"Yes. Before you did it, asked for a decon unit and… Well, queen and country are grateful, although I of course had to make sure your name wasn't mentioned."
"Oh, great, thanks," Sherlock said with sarcasm.
"I guess you'll be delighted to hear that you'll make a full recovery. You'll be out of here in about two days. They want to make sure there won't be any complications and that it is completely out of your system."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
The last thing he needed right now were more foreign people and their intolerable touches. He'd been touched enough to last for a lifetime yesterday.
Was it yesterday?
"You were out for about twenty hours," Mycroft deduced his question.
He wanted to sleep and go home.
… Right, there was no home any longer.
That realisation not only made his insides cramp, it also brought forth a wave of intense exhaustion and something else that didn't feel good, but he failed to identify it.
He closed his eyes, it was too much work to keep them open
"Sherlock, get some rest. You have worked hard these past weeks and are suffering from fatigue. It will do no good if you go on with this without being properly rested. Have a break, gather some strength," Mycroft advised, his tone not as insufferable as usual.
When he stood up Sherlock opened his eyes again.
"Rest."
His brother's tone was caring and Sherlock stared at him, he could see that the recent events had left their marks on him, too. He was worried, had feared for Sherlock's life.
Sherlock saw the wrinkles in his suit and realised his sibling had sat there for a long time, maybe since he had been brought here?
"Don't look at me like that."
Mycroft buttoned his jacket and took his umbrella, "See you tomorrow."
Sherlock deduced from the tired pace and the slightly hunched posture that he must have been with him the whole time. Though the suit was a different one than the one he had worn inside the hazmat suit.
Mycroft briefly looked back before he stepped out, nodding at him.
Tired as he was, he slipped back into sleep only moments after the door closed.
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A/N:
I am not a chemist and have no idea what chemical Sherlock could have been exposed to that fits my needs for this storyline. If there is anyone out there who knows, I'd be delighted to be PMed, otherwise the chemical remains fictional.
Sorry if anyone expected me to solve this. I thought it wasn't really important to do that, though I would have done more research if this had been a vital part of my 'Define vulnerability' story from which's storyline I removed this, but since I decided against using it there I didn't do the research, although I read and watched a lot about decontamination procedures.
Please review.
