Caught in transport

John smiled as Sherlock was wheeled off to get the MRI. It was amazing how fast things in a hospital could actually move when given a little incentive. Mycroft's clear display of power had resulted in more than a little activity on the part of the doctors, John had a feeling that Sherlock would not be messed about by them again. The small group took the opportunity to freshen up a bit, something none of them had much of an opportunity for anymore. John used one of the showers at the hospital; Mrs Hudson headed home, excited at the prospect to have a nice long soak in the bath and promised John to bring some sandwiches and cake when she went back to the hospital. Mycroft and Lestrade had to work but they both would be coming round to the hospital as soon as they could.

The hot water poured over John's clammy skin. Normally he was very conscious of his personal hygiene, hating it if he missed a shower even for one day. However, since Sherlock had gone into hospital his cleanliness had not been at the forefront of his mind. However on the odd occasion that he did get in the shower, this time included, he revelled in the lukewarm water that fell from the shower that was mediocre at best. To the doctor showering was a ritual, something familiar with which he could relax and prepare himself for the outside world. And he knew that whatever the outcome of this situation, even if the best possible thing happened life was going to be difficult for the next few months, perhaps even years. It was almost as if within the small shower cubicle he was safe and protected but once he emerged his whole world would be sent flying into mayhem. So he spent as long in the shower as he possibly could, unwilling to face reality until it was absolutely necessary.

Mycroft Holmes was well known for being emotionless and unsentimental. Some people though him as cold and heartless, he preferred to describe it as being not foolish enough to allow his emotions to cloud his judgements. And, as much as he hated to admit it, he knew he had a heart, but his heart took the form of his little brother. Technically he should be working on the latest crisis, the fact that HMRC had once again managed to lose important data disks. How they managed to employ such imbeciles he would never know. Anthea, which was her real name despite what she told people, took over it for him. She could do just as good a job. Instead he just sat in his office, laptop open watching old videos of Sherlock. He had been a lively little boy, very antisocial and had a genius level intellect, but as a child he had been happy, content to play and investigate by himself. There were several videos of him carefully concocting experiments with home-made chemistry equipment. There was one video, on Sherlock's seventh birthday. The young boy was dressed as a pirate, as was their father, and the two of them were chasing each other around the large garden with cutlasses. Sherlock's natural ability to handle a sword, albeit a toy one, still astounded him now as he watched the familiar memory unfold before his eyes. The two were evenly matched, Sherlock with his natural flair and their father who did fencing as a hobby. In the end it was the man who came out triumphant, stabbing Sherlock in the heart, the small boy's arm holding the sword in place as he pretended to stagger and convulse. He had a disturbing knowledge of death throes for such a young boy and he collapsed convincingly. There he lay, stock still on the grass, the steady rise and fall of his chest the only visible indication of life. The emotionless man felt a lump forming in his throat.

He couldn't open his eyes, why could he not open his eyes? It felt as if there was something on them but that wasn't what was stopping them, the appropriate muscles would not respond. Come to think of it, none of his muscles seemed to be responding. What the hell was going on? Despite the normal control he had over his emotions he could feel panic welling up inside him, threatening to overwhelm him, not allowing him to think properly. Suddenly a blinding pain shot through his head and he wanted to groan, scream, tense his muscles, something, anything but instead he remained completely still, the chainsaw in his head continuing to threaten to rip his head in two. There was nothing he could do to stop it, no way to relieve his pain. Just as he felt himself being thrown into unconsciousness he heard a voice, a kind and familiar voice. It reassured him, calmed him slightly. "Please Sherlock, are you awake?" Sherlock drifted into unconsciousness to the sound of John's voice.

SH

The next time he awoke the same panic overwhelmed him making his judgement hazy, logical thinking was impossible and he lost control. Even in his frenzied state of mind the irony was not lost on him, for the one time he lost all control his body wouldn't portray it, he couldn't show it and for once in his life he wanted to communicate how he was feeling with someone else. He felt trapped; his limbs felt heavy, his wounds plagued him terribly. The thing he hated most was that he couldn't tell if anyone was there, there was nobody talking, he tried desperately to hear someone breathing but there was no sound but he knew that the fear he was experiencing could make it impossible to tell. He embraced the calm clutches of unconsciousness, excited to be able to escape his useless transport and to become unaware of his horrific situation.

The next time he actually felt calm, how could he possibly feel calm. All he had to do was breathe in, and out, breathe in, and out. It was only then he noticed there was something wrong, his breathing was regular, so very regular and he could not control it. For a moment he forgot he could not move, intrigued by this new phenomenon. He tried to feel around his mouth but of course he could not and suddenly he was overcome by an overwhelming urge to cry. The detective did not even know if he would be physically capable of crying, but that wasn't even the point. He would not cry, he may not be able to walk, or talk, or move his limbs, or open his eyes, but he was still Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock Holmes did not cry.

"Hello Mummy its Mycroft. No, no, no, don't hang up. I need to tell you something."

Sherlock's thoughts stopped; there was someone in here with him. It was Mycroft, Mycroft was here. For the first time in a couple of decades the detective was truly grateful for his brother's presence. Mycroft, Mycroft would sort everything out.

"Sherlock's hurt, it's pretty bad."

Of course Sherlock knew his injuries were bad but hearing Mycroft say it, knowing he was sceptical of any and all injuries, made it seem worse. It was more real and he knew there would be consequences.

"He's your youngest son Mummy, that's why you should care!"

Mummy had hated Sherlock ever since he started on the drugs and he knew it, she wasn't reserved in her opinions of him, but it still hurt when it was spelt out for him.

"He, um, he jumped off the roof of the hospital, he smashed his head in and now he is lying in a coma in a hospital bed and has been for the last ten days."

Good, Mycroft understood what had happened, but he wasn't in a coma. People in a coma were most certainly not this aware.

"He didn't try to commit suicide."

But that is how it was supposed to look; he'd done it for John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, but mostly John.

"LISTEN! It's hard to explain, it's related to a, well a case he's been working on. The criminal threatened three of his friends and he had to jump to save them."

He did jump but he didn't die, did he have to die? Was John still safe? Oh crap, were any of them still safe?

"Please, can you come down and see him?"

Stupid question.

"What if he doesn't get through this and the last time you saw him was ten years ago, won't you feel bad at all?"

No.

"I thought I and Sherlock were heartless but you're just taking it to a whole other level."

Suddenly the angry talking had stopped, forgetting his state Sherlock tried to roll his eyes and noticed he, although he did not have full use of them, he did have the ability for very limited eye movement. It wasn't much but it was something, he could work on it. "Sherly?"

Mycroft, oh Mycroft, help me, please Sherlock cried in his head, desperate for some form of help or comfort. He nearly started crying again as he felt unconsciousness overwhelm him. He drifted out to the sound of his brother's voice.

SH

His periods of consciousness, though still lacking, were beginning to increase in both frequency and length. Most of the time he woke up, feeling so alone, there was either nobody there or they weren't talking and he just couldn't tell. That in itself was almost as soul destroying as not being able to sit up and have a look. He could feel himself being overwhelmed by sadness and didn't know how much he could cope with. But he was going to have to cope. He had no choice.

Sometimes he woke up and there was someone there, he still felt sad but those times strengthened him although he wouldn't admit it, even if he could. One day he woke up to silence once again and he felt his heart sink, he thought he was bored at 221B but this boredom was something else, it was thick and impervious. "You know that nice builder that came in to fix the ceiling in the hallway after you shot it? I invited him into my flat for a cuppa afterwards and he accepted." Mrs Hudson. As soon as she said this the detective felt his heart drop and he had to remind himself she was still alive so the likelihood was that he had done enough to stop his friends from dying. The elderly woman kept on talking and Sherlock did not even listen to what she had to say. Her voice was soothing and familiar, everything about her shouted motherly and in a way Sherlock supposed he did consider her to be his mother. She looked after him as a loving mother would, not how his mummy did when he needed her. She stopped talking as abruptly as she had started and he felt empty and alone, in his mind he cried out desperately to continue with her mindless chatter. Suddenly a hand was in his curls and he could feel the grease in his hair, it disgusted him. The touch was gentle, tender and loving and instantly he felt himself warming to it. There was a strong and pulling desire to lean into the touch but he could not.

"Sherlock, it's Mrs Hudson." Obviously. "Can you hear me?" Yes, yes he could but he couldn't anymore because she wasn't talking and he really needed to keep on talking, everything would be ok if she just kept on going but she had stopped. Why did she stop? Did she not know that it was vital that she kept on talking, anything would do. In a sudden sense of despair the injured man did the only thing that he knew he could do, he moved his eyes but it seemed to be enough, Mrs Hudson knew and for once he neither felt pleased or disappointed when he could see unconsciousness on the horizon.

SH

"I know what you're thinking, no point talking to a man who can't hear you, it's stupid really, but I have something really important to tell you. Just, stop being stupid and wake up. Can you do that for me? Just, just wake up, it's not a big ask. Will you do it? Will you do it for John?" Lestrade was here, when did Lestrade arrive, Mrs Hudson was here a moment ago so when did he get here? And why was he talking to someone he obviously believed to be unconscious? It was completely illogical but if he were to be honest, Sherlock was grateful. He now lived to hear the sound of someone's voice. He needed to be noticed, he needed someone to realise he was awake so he moved his eyes again before passing out, this time, he didn't see it coming.

SH

The next few times he woke up it wasn't so difficult. He was awake for longer periods and most of the time there was someone talking, either to him or to each other. He guessed the times he woke up to no sound were during the night, they still should have been talking though. The detective was not the slightest bit interested in what any of them had to say but he just enjoyed hearing their voices, it seemed to restore to him some of his humanity. John liked to read the newspapers to him, he tried to select articles he would find slightly interesting but he didn't always manage. Mrs Hudson liked to gossip about people on Baker Street to him, Lestrade told him about the cases he was working on or just solved and Sherlock didn't even listen to Mycroft. He just liked to make himself look important.

SH

One day he woke up to John's voice, he always liked those times the best but this time he didn't like what he had to say. "I don't know if you can hear me Sherlock but you're going for an MRI, I won't be with you but I'll be here when you get back. Either myself or your brother, most likely Mycroft, will see to it we get your results quickly." No John! He screamed in his head. Please come with me, please, I need you with me. He felt himself being wheeled through a door and into a corridor, it was so much noisier out here and he hated it. "I'll see you in an hour or so." The warm touch left his arm and he felt himself moving again. John? Suddenly he felt so, so alone and an inexplicable panic rising within him. But nobody knew, nobody would ever know. This time, he couldn't prevent himself from crying, and to his amazement and shame, he felt a tear creeping from his eye.