Chapter 2: Fixed
John immediately felt twenty pounds lighter when he and Lestrade were told everything went beautifully. The DI was summoned back to work mere minutes after, and he bade John farewell and wished Sherlock a speedy recovery. Sherlock was bound to wake again soon, and it was all John could do not to sprint to him. He forced himself to progress at a reasonable pace and tried to control his breathing. He was so excited to see his best friend alive and well. They were led to a bed at the end of the room, and the curtains were drawn back to reveal Sherlock.
John could have cried with relief. There was his Sherlock, goofy heart on his head and all. Unfortunately, he was a little worse off than when John had last seen him. His skin appeared even paler than usual—nearly translucent. An IV line ran into his left hand, which lay limply at his side, adorned with another hospital ID bracelet to add to his impressive collection. His right arm was casted from wrist to above the elbow and elevated on a small stack of pillows. John could already foresee the coming complaints about the immobilization, and the detective wasn't even awake yet.
John took a seat on his left side and took Sherlock's hand in his, just as he had before Sherlock was taken to surgery. He gave it a light squeeze and was surprised to find his grip returned, however weakly. Sherlock was already coming to. John could see his lips beginning to move, but couldn't make out what the detective was attempting to say. He stroked the palm of Sherlock's hand to reassure him. Soon afterwards, the detective's eyes drifted blearily open. Even muddled with drugs, those blue eyes could stare right through John and read all his secrets like words on a page.
"You… worried," Sherlock managed to stutter despite his throat being dry and abused from intubation.
"'Course I bloody worried," John said. "Is this not worth worrying about?"
Sherlock pondered for a moment, remembering the crushing panic that had enveloped him before he was knocked out, but decided not to admit how much he himself had fretted: "Nah."
"If you say so," John replied, glad to have his friend awake and lucid once again.
"This makes… seven?" Sherlock asked. It took John a moment to figure out what he was counting, but when he did he was a little unnerved at the sheer number Sherlock had racked up.
"Well, there was the Ommaya reservoir, four—no, five—debridements, skin graft, now this. That makes eight. Nine if you count the central line for the bone marrow transplant. Let's not shoot for ten, alright?"
"'Kay," Sherlock mumbled, attempting to shift himself into a more comfortable position. He winced when the movement jarred his right arm. He glanced at it, for the first time registering the full scope of the fixation and growled, "Tedious."
"Tedious it may be, you're stuck with it for a few weeks. And you'd better listen to whatever they say you can and can't do, or you and I will have words," John threatened.
"Yes, doctor," he muttered, his voice a harsh rasp. He coughed several times, and John grabbed a water glass from the side table. His held it up to Sherlock's chapped lips and let him take a few sips from the straw.
"Better?" John asked.
"Much." Sherlock shifted again, his face involuntarily twisting into a grimace, before drifting off again. John sighed and sat back in the uncomfortable hospital chair. He was way too accustomed to this role: sitting by the bedside of his ailing friend. Hopefully this would be the last time they were forced to play this game.
~0~
"Yes, you have to wear it," John insisted for what felt like the hundredth time.
"Why?" Sherlock countered.
"To keep your arm elevated, and to deliberately make you as miserable as possible," John teased.
"I wouldn't put it past you," Sherlock grumbled, but he allowed John to force the sling upon him. He had to admit it was slightly more comfortable, and for that reason only he wouldn't immediately rip it off when they arrived home. Not that John would let him, anyway. He'd become increasingly protective—and frankly, bossy—since Sherlock first came home from hospital after leukaemia. While most of him hated it, a small part of him appreciated the fact that the doctor cared for him so deeply.
When the twosome arrived back at Baker Street, Sherlock's first question was, "When can I take cases?"
John answered: "When you're feeling up to it—within reason."
"What constitutes without reason?" Sherlock inquired.
"Doing anything today other than resting."
"Resting is boring."
"Resting is necessary."
"Why?"
"Are you going to argue with everything I say?"
"Maybe."
"Just go sit down and prop your arm up, I'll make you tea," John said. When he saw Sherlock open his mouth to retort, he snapped: "DON'T argue with me. Not right now. I'm still mad at you for hiding this." Sherlock grumbled under his breath, but followed John's instructions. It turns out their Union Jack pillow was the perfect height when placed on the arm of Sherlock's chair. Sherlock wondered what to do for entertainment while John effectively held him prisoner in this room, and decided just to pick up his phone. He hated to admit that working it using only one arm with a barely-functioning set of fingers was difficult.
"If you weren't left-handed before, you certainly will be after this," John commented, bringing Sherlock the tea he'd promised. "Our 14% of the population will be glad to have you." Sherlock showed off the dexterity his non-dominant hand already possessed by dropping his phone unceremoniously onto the floor. John picked it up for him and placed it on his lap. He asked, "Do you think you'll need a straw for the tea? I don't want you to break one of Mrs. Hudson's good cups, or spill on yourself."
"You listed breaking a cup before scalding myself in that list of potential consequences. What does that say about your priorities?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows questioningly.
"You know as well as I do how Mrs. Hudson gets when she's angry. She'll break my arm," John explained. Sherlock chuckled at the jest, but deep down he knew their landlady wouldn't hesitate if the mood struck her. He knew her to steal his handcuffs for goodness-knows-what on multiple occasions.
John watched Sherlock take a first sip with his non-dominant hand, prepared to catch it if the detective's grip slipped. Fortunately, nothing of the sort occurred, and Sherlock glared at John for 'hovering.' The doctor retreated to his own chair and sipped at his drink. A few moments passed in awkward silence before Sherlock spoke up.
"I'm bored."
"And what do you suggest I do about that?" John countered. "I'm not your personal entertainment system."
"Then what are you?" Sherlock questioned.
"Ouch. Are you trying to offend me enough to get me to storm out so you can do something you know I won't like?"
"No…"
"Then what exactly are you trying to accomplish?"
"I don't know! I just need something to do other than sit here and waste away to nothing."
"Sherlock, you're not going to waste away. That's ridiculous."
"That doesn't matter; my mind's going to dissolve into nothingness if it doesn't have something to do."
"I already asked Lestrade for cold cases, he said he'd bring you some as soon as he has time."
"Good. And until then?"
"Sherlock, you cannot insist on being intellectually stimulated every second of every day. Your brain will not degenerate from taking a day off. In fact, it could probably benefit. So please, just shut up and relax."
"I can't."
"You're admitting to being unable to do something? I thought you were an expert at everything."
"No. What a waste of time that would be."
"I consider arguing with you to be a waste of time, yet you're still forcing me to do it."
"I'm in no state to force you to do anything. You're engaging me of your own volition." Sherlock waited for John's retort, but it never came. The doctor had buried his nose in a newspaper and was pointedly ignoring Sherlock. It would've been cute if Sherlock wasn't so desperate for John's company. He figured they needed something they could do together other than argue, so he stood up and started towards his bedroom.
"Sling," John reminded him without looking up.
"Relax. I'm coming right back." Sherlock strode down the hallway and scoured his room. It took a few minutes, but he finally found what he was looking for. He returned to the living room and plopped the object down in front of John. It was the book they were currently reading: Host. John had chosen this one; it was a medical thriller by a doctor/author named Robin Cook. They'd discovered the author together a few months ago. His books were the only ones that had both John and Sherlock equally enthralled. They were the perfect combination of medicine and mystery.
This was the first Robin Cook John had allowed them to read after the Fever fiasco. That book struck far too close to home. In it, a researcher's daughter was diagnosed with leukaemia, and he's convinced it was caused by a company dumping benzene into a nearby river. The hospital tried and failed to treat her, but the father had his own experimental treatment he'd been working on. He went totally rogue, kidnapped his daughter from the hospital, used himself as a lab rat, and managed to cure her. After reading that, Sherlock furiously researched any potential source of benzene in London. He became irrationally convinced that his leukaemia had been a result of a deliberate poisoning attempt. John had been forced to bring in Mycroft to set him straight. There was no devious plot behind it; the cancer was a result of a biological malfunction, nothing more.
"Do you want me to read to you?" John asked.
"Yes."
"Yes, what?"
"Yes please," Sherlock huffed. He sat back down in his chair and propped his arm up on the pillow. It was beginning to hurt, and movement increased the discomfort. As John began to read, Sherlock tilted his head back and closed his eyes, wishing he could bring his hands up to steeple them. He listened as John narrated the story, feeling the first tendrils of sleep creeping up on him. Normally, he wouldn't nap at this hour unless he'd just finished a particularly tiring case, but the residual effects of anesthesia made him bone-weary. He lasted twenty minutes before he dozed off.
~0~
John glanced up from the book periodically to check on Sherlock as he slowly drifted off to sleep. He was relieved when the detective finally conked out; he was moaning and complaining, and John needed a break. If every day was going to be like this, John didn't think either of them would last the four weeks until the cast came off. Lestrade better bring those cold cases soon.
Though it might be Sherlock's priority, entertainment wasn't even John's biggest concern for the next few weeks. He had a hard enough time doing certain things with two hands, now he was one short. Fortunately, it was his right arm that was immobilized and not his left. Sherlock would be miserable with only three available fingers. This might even be worse than the period right after his first hospitalization, when the wounds on his fingers hadn't completely healed over and even minimal pressure was painful. He'd needed help with almost everything, and getting him to do physical therapy was a battle every session. He'd told John that he thought it was stupid and pointless, but John knew the real reason he hated it was because it was difficult and it hurt.
That was a recurring pattern with Sherlock: he never admitted when something was too hard or painful, instead insisting it was merely boring. If John could break him of this habit, both of their lives would become immensely easier. He didn't know if it was pride that kept Sherlock from acknowledging things like this, or a dismissal of the importance of his own needs, but it needed to stop. They'd had too many close calls that could've been avoided if Sherlock was honest.
So John decided that he'd confront Sherlock directly when he woke up. If he waited any longer, he'd chicken out and they'd have another incident like this. John was rather disappointed that it had taken a broken arm and another surgery to bring him to this realization. He busied himself about the flat while Sherlock slept for three hours. By the time he woke, John was raring to go and interrogate him.
"Sherlock," he began, once he'd given the detective a few minutes to fully wake up. "We need to talk."
"Meds first?" Sherlock requested. John detected the hint of pleading in his voice, though Sherlock had tried to disguise it. Of course, he'd slept through the time he was supposed to take a dose of painkillers and was probably in agony. If he was the one reminding John about this, it must've been unbearable.
"Of course." John ran to the kitchen and returned with the pills and a glass of water. Sherlock downed them and looked expectantly at John, waiting for the imminent inquiry. John sighed and finally asked the question that had been plaguing him: "Why do you hide things like this from me?"
"Things like what?" Sherlock responded.
"You know what I mean."
"No, I really don't."
"Whenever something bothers you, you try to deal with it on your own instead of coming to me."
"You hate to be bothered."
"No, Sherlock, I don't. Not when it comes to important things. Remember the thermostat incident? I would have much preferred listening to you nag me about how cold you were than waking up in the middle of the night sweating through my clothes. It's one thing to force me to make you tea when you're perfectly capable of doing it yourself; it's another when there are things you are actually incapable of doing."
"Did you call this 'family meeting' just so you can draw attention to my inabilities? If that's the case, then meeting adjourned," Sherlock scoffed and moved to stand up, but John stopped him.
"No! That came out wrong. What I'm trying to say is that I know you're struggling. It's not your fault. But I hate watching from the sidelines. I want to help, but you don't let me help until I force it upon you. I guess I just want you to know that you can always come to me if you need something.."
"I would, but I don't want to be whiny or high-maintenance."
"Sherlock, complaining about a broken arm is not whiny. That's perfectly reasonable."
"I didn't know it was broken!" Sherlock defended. John glared at him incredulously.
"You suspected."
"Fine, maybe I suspected it was related to that earlier break. But it still wasn't worth raising a fuss."
"I think this is plenty fuss-worthy. It needed surgery, Sherlock! If that's not fuss-worthy, I don't know what is. If you hadn't fallen, how much longer would you have hidden it from me?"
"I don't know," Sherlock muttered. He stared down at the floor, feeling John's gaze scrutinize him. "I didn't want to tell you because I knew you'd worry. I hate making you worry. God knows I've done enough of that."
John was taken aback at this declaration. Sherlock was willing to hide a broken arm, to live with that pain every day, to avoid making John worry. That was why he always tried to disguise when he was sick, why he never admitted to being in pain. He knew how John would react, and he wanted to protect him from that anxiety. It was noble, but it was reckless. And John had to put a stop to it.
"Yes, I do worry when you're sick or injured. Isn't that what friends do? Wouldn't you worry if I broke my arm, or came down with pneumonia? I hope you would, because that means you care. And I care about you. But it worries me more when you force yourself to suffer in silence and let things progress even further," John explained. He watched Sherlock's face fall as he laid that out.
"I'm sorry," the detective confessed. "Every time something like this happens, I remember what it was like waking up from the coma for the first time. I saw your face, and I could deduce the number of hours you'd slept in the past week—far too little—and how much weight you'd lost since I saw you last—far too much. To know that I was the cause of that… it hurts worse than any broken bone."
John thought he was going to cry. The backs of his eyeballs burned with tears, but he refused to allow himself to break down. This was the real reason Sherlock hated getting sick. It wasn't the physical misery brought on by whatever bacteria or virus decided to breach his fragile immune system; it was witnessing John fret over him.
Sherlock followed up that declaration with an even more painful statement, one that was uttered so quietly John almost didn't hear it: "Sometimes I hate myself for what I did to you."
"Sherlock, stop that right now," John commanded. "You cannot hate yourself for something that wasn't even remotely your fault. You didn't do anything to me—you never have. Everything I did while you were sick, that was my choice. You couldn't have done anything to prevent it."
"But with little things like the thermostat, I can do something."
"Yes, you chose to fry me alive instead of admitting to a persistent chill. Excellent decision. I wish you had asked me for help instead, because then I'd know you trust me. You can't handle everything on your own. Especially now you've only got one good arm, you're going to need help. And I don't want to have to deduce when you need it."
"Okay."
"Good. Now, shall we pick up where we left off?" John inquired, grabbing the book from where he left it on the table. Sherlock nodded affirmatively and settled himself a bit more comfortably. They read for another half an hour before Sherlock announced he was hungry and John wholeheartedly agreed. John trudged into the kitchen, Sherlock not far behind after pausing to strap his sling back on.
"Preferably nothing requiring a fork and knife," Sherlock commented before John even had a chance to ask what he'd fancy. "Or chopsticks," he added. Sherlock hadn't been able to use chopsticks since before leukaemia—the scar tissue and minor nerve damage from the debridement surgeries greatly reduced his dexterity. John knew this, and Sherlock knew that John knew this, yet he'd still taken the time to remind him. Maybe he'd really taken John's speech to heart.
They found pasta in the fridge leftover from a day or two ago. Fortunately, it wasn't spaghetti, but penne noodles, easily speared even with the non-dominant hand. As a show of support, John ate with his right hand. Sherlock scowled at him, claiming he was poking fun, but John insisted he just wanted to know what it was like. It was slow going, and John jokingly offered to feed Sherlock a couple times, but the detective managed well enough. Afterwards, John sent him off to bed, making him promise to yell if he ran into any struggles. Begrudgingly, Sherlock agreed and trudged off to the bathroom.
"Don't get your cast wet," John reminded.
"'Course not," Sherlock called back. John tidied up the kitchen a bit and returned to the newspaper he'd never been able to finish. He could hear the occasional grumble and curse coming from Sherlock's room, but he didn't call out. John thought it was best to let him be. He was about to go up for the night himself when Sherlock called his name. Relieved that he'd actually been taken up on his offer of help, John walked over and knocked on Sherlock's bedroom door.
"Come in," Sherlock said. John opened the door and glanced at the detective. He'd managed to change into fresh pyjamas and was sitting on the edge of the bed looking dejected. "I usually sleep on my right side. I can't get comfortable." This was exactly the type of thing Sherlock had said he hated to admit, the complaint that made him sound whiny. But John didn't hear whiny, he heard sad and forlorn.
"I'll see what I can do," John said. "You can try flat on your back or your left side, I doubt being on your stomach will be very comfortable."
"Left." Sherlock kicked the blanket back with his feet and turned to his left. This made it difficult to pull the covers back over him, since his good arm was underneath him. John grabbed an extra pillow and propped the bulky cast up on top of it, then drew the blanket back up to Sherlock's shoulders.
"Comfortable?"
"Yes. Though I haven't been tucked in like this since I was a child," Sherlock chuckled.
"Don't get used to it." John turned out the light as he left the room. "Good night," he called.
"Good night," Sherlock hummed.
John climbed the stairs to his bedroom, content for the first time in a long time. He hoped Sherlock felt the same sense of catharsis from getting that off his chest. He'd asked for help and John had given it gladly. This was how he'd always dreamed it would work, from the day he brought Sherlock home from the hospital that first time. When he phrased it like that, it sounded like a father and an infant, but the analogy wasn't totally inaccurate. Every parent wants their child to learn to express himself properly, to be independent but also unafraid to ask for help when necessary.
John hoped this would continue, that Sherlock would recognize that John wanted to help. He was a doctor, it was in his nature to aid people. Sure, it had taken a broken arm for them to finally confess their concerns to each other, but at least it was out there now. If that fracture hadn't resurfaced, who knows how long they would've kept up this charade? How long would he have gone without knowing what Sherlock hated most about being infirm was causing John strife? How long would Sherlock have avoided asking for help for fear of sounding whiny? Too long.
~0~
The first case Sherlock accepted arrived a week and a half after they'd discovered his broken arm. He was bored and desperate for brainwork long before then, the cold cases barely holding his attention, but John may or may not have told Lestrade to leave off for at least a week. For once, John was ready long before Sherlock. Getting dressed was a battle with only one working arm, but John wouldn't encroach unless Sherlock asked for help. After their conversation, he'd been much better about that sort of thing, but he was beginning to insist he learn to do certain things one-armed since he would have to for the next couple weeks.
However, this was the first time they'd gone out since the incident. John forgot that Sherlock insisted on dressing to the nines whenever they paid a visit to Scotland Yard, and had therefore spent an inordinate amount of time attempting to fit a dress shirt over his cast. Eventually, he called out to John to complain, and John had to intervene.
"For God's sake, just put on a tee shirt," John insisted.
"But we're going on a case," Sherlock countered.
"So?"
"There'll be people."
"Yes, and they'll all keel over from disgust when you show up in a tee shirt. Honestly, you're being ridiculous."
"I am not. I'm just frustrated that this thing—" he paused to glare at his arm "—has managed to prevent me from doing just about everything I want to do."
"It's not stopping you from taking this case. Only your absurd refusal to put a shirt on is doing that."
"Fine." Sherlock attempted to stroppily throw the tee shirt on, but had to pause to work the sleeve around his casted elbow.
"Poor thing can't even properly throw a tantrum," John chuckled.
"Shut up."
They both returned to the living room and headed towards the stairs, but not before John snatched the sling from the chair where it had last been flung. A brief non-verbal argument ensued, with John coming out on top. Sherlock grabbed his coat off the hook and they headed out the door. John had to admit he looked rather silly, with the right sleeve of his coat hanging empty against his side.
Of course Lestrade knew what had happened, but John had no idea if he'd told the rest of the Yard. Evidently, he hadn't. When the two of them arrived, they were met with plenty of curious glances. John hadn't felt this scrutinized since Sherlock's first case out of hospital. But Anderson's reaction was absolutely priceless. John usually gave him more credit than Sherlock, but sometimes the man really was an idiot.
He and Donovan were with Lestrade when John and Sherlock arrived. The first words out of his mouth were whispered (not quietly enough) to Sally: "Oh my God, did they have to take his whole arm off?"
The best part: he wasn't kidding. Sherlock's coat sort of hid his right arm slung against his chest, but not that discreetly. It was undeniably the most ridiculous thing John had ever heard Anderson say. John looked at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, and the detective looked back at him. And they both burst out laughing. Lestrade, too, stared at Anderson in mocking disbelief.
"While its function has been temporarily inhibited, it is—fortunately—still attached to my body," Sherlock remarked. "The same cannot be said for your brain, Anderson."
John had never seen a person's cheeks turn such a deep shade of red. Anderson didn't even bother to reply, knowing he'd inevitably lose the ensuing verbal sparring match; he just marched out of the room with his head hung. Donovan followed shortly after, but whether it was to reprimand or to reassure him, John didn't know.
"Lestrade, your team's intelligence never ceases to amaze me," Sherlock commented drily.
"They're the best of the best," the DI replied.
"Indubitably."