Sick Mind
Chapter 3 of Anything, Anywhere, Anyone Else
Fandom: Sherlock, bbc. John/Sherlock
Author: ruelynian
Warnings: part one of a longer fic, regret and dealings with mental health issues
Word Count:2900
Summary: Haunted by regrets and past memories, John makes the most of his time with Sherlock, brain damaged from an encounter yet to be detailed. He works nonstop to make it better for himself, and the man he may learn to love.
A.N.: not to be pretentious, I'll just get this out of the way. When I say 'foil' I refer to the literary meaning, not aluminum or something. Right then, read on.
… . … . …
"John! John, for god's sake, leave the biscuits!"
"Some of us do require sustenance, Sherlock. Don't get jealous now." With a face stuffed of morning cookies, John offered the plate to the enraged detective. Just to annoy him.
As it did. "Oh, for goodness…ok. Right." Sherlock took a breath, apparently trying a relaxation technique, to the doctor's glee (John had been watching this little program on the TV for the past week, quite educational) . "Look, this just doesn't fit, not at all. None of it." He spun from his paces to stare at his foil. "John, listen to me. That thing last night-"
"Um hum…" Drinking tea.
"It was a message, left for me. From a very, very dangerous man."
"Oh was it? Thought it was a love poem from the decorators." Snide.
"Well it wasn't'." Was Sherlock for real? "The thing is, John, is that I've known him for…some time. We'd fallen out of communication quite a while ago, though, and really, I thought he'd gotten himself killed, or caught by now." He snorted, and leaned on the table, right in John's face.
"I am sitting here, Sherlock," John pushed the intruding person out of his morning dish.
"He's being obvious, John. And he is never, ever, obvious. It concerns me."
"Humm. I'll give you some options here. One, you can tell me what the hell is going on that's got your knickers in such a bunch, or two, you can kindly go have a tête-a-têtewith Lestrade. Sure he'd love to help you out. Maybe Mycroft?"
"Try as you might to heal our shattered brotherly bonds, John, it is not going to happen. God, this isn't even a mentalist problem, no! Why don't you make it a little more interesting, Jim!" Sherlock was shouting now, directing his anger at the ceiling.
"Jim?"
John's ears were far too sharp, and Sherlock's tongue too loose. Would have to see to that. "I'm going out, as you clearly are not." With such, the man had stormed out, coat and scarf seemingly flying after him.
… . … . …
"So, how's your proposition going there, Dr. Watson?"
"It's getting along, where's Bill? He's in yet?"
"Yes, in his office. Good day then!"
"Hunn," John grunted in reply as he went in search for his collaborating partner-in-research. Down the clean hall and turning at a slick modern door with glass accents, John let himself in. Spotting his friend at the corner table, he wasted no time and sat himself down.
"Hey there, John! So, what's the intended plan, then?" Most everyone in the office labs knew that when Watson bothered to come in, he didn't like to dillydally.
A memory drive was placed on the table, and John indicated to the computer. "Well, it's all in there. Did the book work and got it together last night." Bill took the key and placed in the appropriate slot. The monitor was taken over by an auto-run program rather like a slideshow, with links to in-depth documents.
"Last night?"
"Yup. Right here," John pulled his chair up, "I thought maybe we could try a virus vector method, you know. It's invasive, yes, but a natural single-use dose," he motioned to a simple flash graphic, "In a highly controlled amount that stimulates the conversion of the heterochromatin to euchromatin. We can unlock the segment for growth and reproduction in only the neurons that receive it, they begin to multiply-"
"Exponentially."
"Yes, well yes, the timing is pat down, follow this by another dose of a sort of anti-virus, convert it all back to the way it was, and poof!" He sat back in his chair. "You've grown back a certain segment of the brain, no information stored, of course, and you're back in business. Look, in this simulation, the regions that had taken over for the damaged area are back to normal levels. No compensation, nothing. Then I suppose you'd just administer a therapy program, and try to re-link all the lost connections."
"Right, well how about in this case," Bill leaned over a notepad, and began jotting. Their medical debate went on for some hours, perforated by coffee breaks, and a document was made up.
The sun had set in the large window, and stomachs were rumbling.
"So John, feeling peckish? I know I could go for a nice endless-bottom pasta dish. Nice place down the street from here."
The doctor knew it meant nothing, was aware colleagues ate together after a long day. "No, I'm actually fine, oddly enough. Thanks again for running through this with me, Bill. See you Friday, then."
"Alright, goodbye Watson. Have a good night."
Back at home, John threw together a quick dish. Pasta. It hadn't been a bad suggestion. He went to go check on Sherlock, plate and cutlery in hand. Setting the assemblage aside on a reading table, he ran over the monitoring equipment's automatic charts, took his patient's temperature and breathing rate. It all seemed normal enough. Thus, he went back to the sitting chair with his meal, flung his slippered feet onto the ottoman and sank into a comforting dish of pesto and linguine, soft beeping in the background playing music for them.
… . … . …
It was the night after Sherlock had run out in the morning that they found themselves eating at Angelo's. It had been another terse day and rather a long one at the office, John thought. This was a nice little outing, and had been surprised when Sherlock had suggested it. Though they hadn't spoken much since his outburst, the air was calm. John was enjoying the little candle on the table, saw it like an inside joke between them all, Angelo and the pair. What a cute little flame…
"Moriarty."
"Huh?"
"You asked for a name, John, and there it is."
"You gave me a name before."
"Unwillingly. Listen," he turned to his dinner-date and waited for his full attention. "I'm leaving the country for a few days."
"Humph. Always get the odd revelations from you, sitting here at this dinner table. I suppose you're going after him, then? Hungary, was it?" He took a shovel of delicious rosé smothered noodles into his mouth, apparently unconcerned with Sherlock's announced plans.
In something of a shock with the lack of incited reaction, Sherlock remained expressionless and seemed to be waiting a further reply. When none came, he uncomfortably filled the silence. "Yes, John. I am going to finish what I should have over eight years ago." He regarded the doctor for a moment. "I hope we shall meet again. My plane is in the morning, and I think I would rather stay awake tonight."
John looked up from under his eyebrows, mouth still positioned for maximized shovelling. "Melodrama suits you surprisingly well, Sherlock, but do you really think you're going alone? Not if I have bloody well anything to say about it. Say what you want about my meagre abilities of deduction, but you didn't bother to change the page when you bought that ticket on the British Airways site, on my laptop. Your mind working alright, Sherlock?"
"I-"
"Don't bother. I got myself a ticket and you should know I'm not a man to waste money. So! You've got accommodations lined up then?"
"As I was going to say, there is no possibility of you coming with me. I am sorry."
A stare. The pasta was either clearly forgotten, or John's stomach had become inexplicably full. "Two guns are better than one, Sherlock, and obviously you're not at your best right now."
"John!" The shouting came at once, ruptured from Sherlock's calm demeanour quite suddenly. "You cannot come, you are the reason my mind is so clouded! So why don't you just call up Sarah, then, and she can have the rest of my plate, as I will be leaving." He was already up and half-dressed before John could catch up to what he had said, and grab his arm. His grip was shaken off, and Sherlock stormed out of the little italian.
"Everything alright, mate?" Angelo's deep baritone was a welcome balancer. "I know he can be fussy and that, but his heart's in the right place."
"What does Sarah have to do with anything?" John was dumbfounded.
Angelo just slapped him forcefully on the back, and told him to eat up. Too many meals gone to waste from such sudden leavings.
… . … . …
Thinking back to that time now, John supposed he understood the backdrop to the outburst. And yes, he could now admit, maybe there was a thin thread of connection between Sherlock's anger and the suggestion of Sarah.
Thoughts for another time, however, as currently Doctor Watson was trying very carefully to replace the IV tubing in Sherlock's arm, and as a delicate procedure, it was not to be undertaken with the air of distraction.
The moist sensation of plastic sliding against wet flesh was properly ignored by John; it was simply a facet of his life as a medical man. The fresh tubing was prepared in advance, and reconnected to a new needle. He slipped it inside the vein, flicked the downwards connection and lastly verified the character of the stand. All good there.
It had been a little over a week since John had gone in to see Bill about that first plan launch, and he had surprisingly positive feedback (unusual from the council). Admittedly, he was a little excited about it. He returned to the brain-activity device, and as the last part of the daily routine, he made a fresh scan, selecting the automatic print option.
Grabbing the still-hot glossy paper from the feed, John took it with him into the kitchen, intent on making a nice cup of tea.
John nearly dropped the water-heavy kettle when he bothered to look at the results.
Four major regions of the bullet-path and surrounding swollen areas had shown a spike in activity, from just the day before, as if nothing had ever happened in those places.
He blinked. This was clearly impossible…
John rushed back and made a secondary scan, and yes, the same result was pushed out of the printer. It appeared that Sherlock…was healing himself? There had to be a decent explanation to all this, John reasoned with himself. Brain-injury patients didn't just start doing things like this, two months into their coma.
Yet the activity graph implied something quite different. And he had surfaced once before.
There was some movement from the bed. Hope riding high in John's chest, he turned around slowly, as Sherlock opened his eyes to tiny slivers of awareness. Lying on the bed, he took a sudden inhalation of breath, and twitched his hand as if to grab his chest.
"You're awake!"
"Good deduction, yes." There was pain in his voice, spoken with a strained softness.
"Sherlock, how do you feel?"
"Like shit." He groaned, and tried to sit up, and was promptly secured by his doctor.
"No, I think you'll be staying down for now." John could barely comprehend what was happening here. There was always a period of a few minutes at least before recently awakening patients got all their sense back online, and recognized where they were. Had Sherlock been awake long? "Listen to me, we'll take things slowly from here, alright?"
Sherlock stopped moving for a second, and his eyes snapped open in alarm. "John! I can't be alive! Do you know what this means? It means it was all for waste, John!" Sherlock howled with discontent, his face contorted in unbridled anger. "And you! Why the fuck did you leave like that, hum?" John was shocked into silence, and Sherlock gritted his teeth in self-loathing. "Uhnnn, why is it always like this? Dear god, do I not get anything I want, ever? No, I guess that was an irrelevant question. Jim. Oh this, this is not good at all. John!"
Hesitantly, "Yes?"
"I have to go after him. I need to leave, now." And suddenly, it was an impromptu wrestling match between John's toned soldier body and Sherlock's pumped with the adrenaline of having his rational thought centers impaired.
"For Christ's sake! Sherlock, you are not going anywhere in your pyjamas and with an IV tube stuck up your arm."
"Oh, that. Thanks for reminding me." To John's horror, Sherlock ripped it out without thinking twice. "Now please, you do not comprehend the gravity of this situation. You must let me go, now! He may be here at any moment!"
"Sherlock!" Lying across him, and being forced to use his entire body's weight to pin the man down, suffice to say bellowing into his ear got some deserved attention. "You've been in a coma for eight and a half weeks, and we're back in London. We're in the flat, Sherlock. I've got you in homecare."
"Eight weeks. Eight weeks? But why hasn't he…oh. The rude bastard. Thought I was as good as dead then, did he? I'll show him my mental capacities are just as polished as the day we met!"
The struggle to keep Sherlock on the bed was renewed, and failed, on John's part, as he wriggled out from under the oppressive weight, only to have his face connected with the carpeted floor. "Bloody hell, won't you stay still for a moment?" John jumped off the bed, and propped Sherlock up against the mattress, sitting with between his sprawled legs and supporting him with two hands against his shoulders. "Sherlock, I think there's still a bit of, uh, damage to be dealt with here. Even you must realize literally springing up from the bed after eight weeks in a comatose state is not a good plan? I had really hoped that we could do this in a more receptive environment, but well, Sherlock, the areas that have been affected are the centers of rational thought, planning and consequences, anticipation-"
"Bloody well everything I need then? Well as you can see, doctor, I am perfectly fit. Now please, excuse me." He pushed John off and stood up with considerably improved balance from the last attempt.
Following suit, John leapt to his feet. "Even a fool could see the irrationality of your behaviour right now, Holmes! Help me out here, and don't get yourself thrown into a relapse because you've gone bloody well bonkers!"
"Help you, no," Sherlock drawled, considering John's statement. "Help myself, that's a different story." Without warning or hesitation, Sherlock took a fistful of John's lab coat from the back, and crushed him against his entire body. John was too afraid to move, and Sherlock whispered into his ear, "You left me there, John. What was I supposed to think? Don't get yourself worked up over it though, I would have shot myself either way." He pulled back just long enough to deliver a scathing look of betrayal, before he roughly stole John's lips in the most violent kiss the doctor had ever before experienced. The force of it sent his mind reeling, not sure what had happened in the last five minutes. Some part of him didn't want to worry about it. In fact, it seemed John's body had begun to speak all on its own, his belly growing hot as Sherlock forced his tongue against his teeth, into his mouth; his hands moving like a Swedish masseuse along his backside.
"Uhn, Sher-" John's words were interrupted by a gasp when Sherlock moved one hand up to pull his head to one side and began licking and nipping his neck. "Stop, stop it, Sherlock. Stop it!" Taking much more strength of will than John thought should have been required, he managed to push Sherlock off himself, and stumble backwards onto the bed. "Bloody hell, Sherlock. You just woke up!"
"That I did. Sorry, forgot last time that you regretted it. Didn't seem that way at the time." He spit out the words, and strode over to the dresser, pulling out new clothes.
"You sprang it on me! Out of nowhere, Sherlock! Hardly call that very fair."
"Simply a lack of deduction on your part, John. If you had bothered paying attention, you would have noticed my…feelings towards you some time ago." It seemed to be an uncomfortable confession. "Again, my apologies, and I shall be going out."
"You. Will. Not. Be. As much as you don't want to admit it, Sherlock, there is obviously something lacking in your thought process right now. For god's sake, I hardly recognize you!"
"If I'm so outside of my own control, then leave me the living room. I suggest wearing toques and several layers of knit if you don't want to attract my attentions. Maybe there is a small grain of truth in your words." The admittance of that was made so low, John had to strain to hear it. "Please, John. Just give me space right now."
Sherlock wandered off, having gone from wildness to a daze in a heartbeat.