Chapter 4: A turn for the worse
Warning: this chapter starts with suicidal ideation
Notes:
Alrighty, I think we are at the lowest point now. It can only get better now.
Or can it?
Music that inspired this chapter:
Chris Notes ft Kyle Spratt - So Close
B-Mike ft JayteKz - Damaged
(They are awesome and deep songs, and should both still be on YouTube)
#
He had kept forcing himself to pretend that he was better. He couldn't see John's sad smiles of pity anymore whenever he wasn't 'alright'. So he just tried to act like he was getting better. For John's sake.
But it only killed him further, if the chest pains were anything to go by. And the ever darker growing circles under his reddened eyes. He couldn't cry anymore. His eyes were constantly dry and itchy and it was like his tear ducts were just a well run dry.
Or how he felt colder with every day, despite wearing his coat and blankets indoors with the heating turned up.
He still shivered when he pulled on his Belstaff over his dressing gown in the middle of the night and left the flat without any socks or shoes. His right hand was wrapping the fingers around and fiddling with the blade inside his pocket.
He didn't want John to find his remains when he had finally given up. He didn't want him to have to clean up the mess he would leave in the flat.
But he just couldn't do it anymore.
#
Sherlock had managed to go to the park a few blocks down the street. He was all alone, and he didn't care about anything anymore. He welcomed the shivers that wrecked his body. It was proof that he was still somewhat alive.
He sat there on one of the park benches, enjoying his last moments in peace.
He just started pulling his hands out of his pockets when he suddenly felt a presence coming up and sitting next to him on the bench, and already knew from the umbrella that he was not pleased to see the owner of it right now.
"Fancy meeting you here, little brother." He said in a smug voice.
"Why are you here?" Sherlock snapped, not looking at his brother and pulling his legs up against his chest, feeling the cool wood under his naked feet.
Mycroft only straightened his posture further. "Well. There are certain cameras in your room for over a month and you haven't taken them down yet. I had all the reasons to assume the worst by watching the footages. Back to old habits, are we?"
Sherlock growled at him. "I'm clean."
"On all fronts? Because the blade in your right pocket tells me otherwise. I thought you were over this pitiful game of yours." He said with so much disappointment that his voice may as well be dripping with it.
"It's none of your business. Why are you here?"
"I am having you admitted. Again. Gregory Lestrade told me you haven't answered his calls, my team told me you were armed and left the flat alone, and I find you in the middle of the night alone in a park, shivering like crazy, thinner than ever, and about to slice your arms open. So, brother mine, tell me: what do you think this looks like?"
"It looks like none of your fucking business." Sherlock swore at him.
Mycroft frowned at his little brother. After a short silence he looked down at his phone. "John is on his way. Maybe you will tell him what this ridiculous 'business' is all about."
Sherlock only huffed at him. "Why must you always put your nose into everything? Why do you always control me like that?"
Mycroft rose an eyebrow at his brother. "Because you need it, and situations like now are just proof of that."
They both heard the screeching of wheels braking, and seconds later a car door slamming shut and a desperate call of "Sherlock!"
Mycroft felt unusually amused.
John came running over to the two brothers, heaving a relieved sigh when he saw Sherlock alive. "Oh god... thank god..." he broke into relieved giggles as he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's still shivering form.
"Now that you are here, we can finally get going." Mycroft said and stood up from the bench.
"Go where?" John asked him as he pulled away from his friend.
"I am having him admitted. He is a danger to himself, John. He is barely alive as it is."
John glared at him. "He is alive, Mycroft! His heart is beating! Here, just take his-...his-... jesus..."
He had grabbed Sherlock's wrist out of the pocket — Sherlock had left the blade inside it — and took his pulse. John felt a horrible fear rise in him. "Sherlock... did you run here? Or get up before I got here?"
"We have been sitting here for about ten minutes, Doctor Watson." Mycroft supplied. "He always had a fast heart-rate and low blood pressure."
"This isn't just fast.. it must be around 160 in the least..." John said, utterly shocked.
Sherlock only continued to be wrecked by more shivers. "You wouldn't happen to have a blanket?" He asked John.
"If you two are done, could we please get going now? I already have a room ready in a very good facility and-"
"I am not going into your psycho prison, Mycroft!" Sherlock snapped at him.
"Yes, he is not going where you want to send him to!" John almost yelled and took a step closer to the elder Holmes.
Mycroft seemed to let up a moment later. "Fine, Doctor. Then let me at least bring you both back to Baker Street."
John and Sherlock shared a quick look and nodded.
Mycroft held up a hand when John pulled Sherlock to his feet. "Clear your pockets, little brother."
John frowned at him, then at Sherlock when the younger took something out of his pocket, turned and threw it away — and it landed perfectly in a nearby trash bin.
John didn't question it. Mycroft didn't comment. Sherlock glared at his brother and wished he had thrown it at his smug face. Although there wasn't really much of a difference in where he had thrown it.
The car ride was silent, and no words fell when the two men got out and back home.
"I still want you to get checked through by a doctor though." John said when they were both safely at home.
Sherlock only groaned but went into his room to look for the hidden cameras.
#
They had gotten a message from Mycroft the next day.
It had an adress, a doctor's name, and a time.
John was going to reply that they would not go to a doctor that he recommended, when he had received a second text, or rather a screenshot of the reviews.
Apparently it was the best doctor in town. And also a certified therapist, as he saw in the title. Better not tell Sherlock.
A few hours later they sat in the doctors office.
"Hello Mister Holmes, Doctor Watson. I'm Doctor Well. How can I help you today?" He asked them and they went to the seats around the table.
"Please just call me Sherlock. Mister Holmes is my annoying older brother." Sherlock mumbled.
Doctor Well laughed. "Alright. So, Sherlock, what troubles you?"
Sherlock glared. That sounded more like a therapist question.
John decided to jump in. "He needs help. He has severe tachycardia, weight loss, and a bad case of depression." He decided to stay formal, although he downplayed the last part, just because he was afraid that this doc would have him admitted.
Sherlock gave him a death glare at the mention anyways.
"I would like to measure your vitals, if that's alright." The doc said and pointed to the blood measure monitor on his desk. At Sherlock's nod and him freeing his arm of the jacket, the doc wrapped the gauge around his biceps and pressed a button.
"A hundred to 56, and pulse of 105." The doctor mumbled as he typed it into his computer.
Doctor Well thought for a moment. "How much do you weigh?"
Both didn't know the answer to that.
"Let's go to the exam room, I have a scale and a height measure on the wall." The doctor said and pointed over to a door in his office, that led right to the connected exam room. He freed Sherlock of the measuring cuff and went to the other room with the two of them.
Sherlock felt horribly self conscious, getting undressed in front of John and a complete stranger. Self conscious of the hundreds of scars that were open for everyone to see. Self conscious of the bones that were sticking out through his skin.
The doctor frowned when he saw the number on the scale and scribbled it down on a pad.
He then let Sherlock get at least dressed in his long sleeved shirt again, and had him stand at the height measuring scale on the wall.
The doc did not look pleased at all with the numbers if his frown was anything to go by.
"I want to listen to your heart and lungs for a moment. You can leave the shirt on." The doctor said and took the stethoscope.
He couldn't hear any abnormal sounds in either organ and they went back to his office.
After everyone took a seat again, the doc started talking. "Alright, so. Your BMI is at 15.2, low blood pressure and tachycardic. Your earlier notes say somewhat the same thing, so this has been an ongoing problem?"
Sherlock gave a small nod. John kept silent and debated on wether to put a hand on his friend in a silent 'I'm here for you'.
The doc typed a bit on the keyboard again. "I am having a nurse take your blood and referring you to a cardiologist and a endocrinologist, just to be able to rule out any physical problems. I also feel like it would be a good idea to start you on an SSRI. It's pretty obvious that you are not well, not just physically." He picked up his telephone. "I'll see if the cardiologist will agree with me on a specific one, to help with the tachycardia as well."
#
His blood tests came back normal. Even iron and potassium, despite him looking borderline anemic.
The cardiologist had agreed with the general physician and he was now on Zoloft. It was used to lower the pulse, help with depression, anxiety, OCD and even PTSD.
John had told him that he was to call him, wether on his phone or calling for him upstairs, if he felt suicidal (again) or generally like harming himself in any way. (He doesn't bother adding 'if you need me', because Sherlock is still hiding behind his pride to just cry on his shoulder.)
Both knew what a risk antidepressants were in the first few weeks. John had asked him if he felt any different after a few days, but Sherlock only shrugged and said "numb".
They had gotten pretty good bad news from the cardiologist. (Yes, you read that right.) And both their moods were a bit down.
His heart was in perfect shape. Though the cardiologist wasn't happy with the heart rate.
"I think you're not a person who likes sugarcoating. So I'll be frank with you. Your notes say that this tachycardia had been persistent for... over at least 15 years. There is also a definite rise in them since the last assessment. I understand that you are probably sick of bad news but at this rate your heart will give out in... lets say about 20 or 25 years." He had told them with a sad sigh.
Neither had said a thing, although John had looked pained.
"You are both men of facts. And I'm just making sure you know this: Your heart is racing in a constant overdrive, and working twice as hard to keep your body going. That is a huge strain on one fist-sized organ."
John had already known all this, of course. But hearing a specialist say it out loud was like a knife twisting in his chest.
He would probably out-live his best friend. Who was younger than him.
#
Sherlock had an appointment with the endocrinologist about a week later.
Sherlock told the doc about the tachycardia, the near constant feeling of freezing to death and the apparent inability to gain any weight.
It felt super weird, having to answer the "are you on any medication?"-Question.
Well, John told the doctor about that part. Sherlock felt ashamed.
Especially when the doctor had pried further and asked why he was on them.
John told him with confidence and Sherlock wanted the ground to swallow him.
What was even worse, was that they kept going from one room to another, that was on the other side of the clinic. And each time, the doc had him remove more clothes from his upper body. Always walking past the open waiting area.
So he went fully clothed from the office room, left the general exam room in only his shirt , and went from the ultrasound room completely bare to the blood-taking room.
A nurse came to take his blood for the lab to see if he had any hormone imbalances. She didn't comment about the scars, thank god.
She then told them that they'd get a call about the results in about two days.
Sherlock already lost all hope that anything about his problems could be physically.
#
John was still downstairs with Mrs Hudson to help her with cleaning (he felt it was only fair since she had helped them as well) when Sherlock's phone rang. The results.
Well, here goes nothing. He thought with a sad sigh.
He pressed the 'accept call' button and brought the phone to his hear. "Sherlock Holmes."
"Hello mister Holmes. You already know why I'm calling so let's skip all that. The results came back perfectly normal. No abnormalities anywhere. And your thyroid looks perfectly healthy and functioning, so you got a healthy and working organ." The doc told him with a hearable grin.
Sherlock wasn't pleased in the slightest. It would have been a massive relief if he had just gotten pills for his possible hyperthyroidism. But he had already known that that wasn't the case. His body was fine. It was always fine. It was only his fucked up brain.
"Listen, mister Holmes. I know, you wanted an easy answer and cure. But-"
"Sorry for wasting your time." He quickly cut him off and cancelled the call, before he would say something he'd regret.
He heaved a heavy sign and let himself fall down on the sofa with his eyes shut.
His heart was racing from the anger that flowed through him. An easy answer? Easy cure? Hell, after everything he's been through all his life, he felt he deserved that much. For at least part of his annoying everyday-symptoms to leave him in peace.
But apparently he couldn't even be granted that bit.
#
Alright so, I have decided to give him a limited lifespan, but I want him to have a longer one than my prognosis. I said I want him to get better, and this is as good a 'happy end' that I can even imagine. But you'll get it more with the story progress.