Pain Management 2
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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4x02 – The mortuary
Fuming, John left the mortuary and Sherlock on the ground behind, stormed down the hall.
He heard shouts behind him, assumed the personnel had just reached the understanding that he shouldn't be allowed to leave.
But he was through the door and out of sight before anyone could follow him.
He didn't plan to bolt; he just needed to get away from Sherlock, out of his mind with rage, not really able of reasonable thinking. He was running on instinct and a level of anger that some small aspect of him was quite surprised about.
John had been angry before in his life, several times even really angry.
But like this?
Only three or four times maybe, and in every situation the receiving end had really deserved it.
Never before he had never been this angry at Sherlock, though.
The fury was so intense it made him feel nauseous.
He hurried up the stairs.
"Shit, John, I can't believe you just did that," he heard someone screaming behind him. In his agitation, he needed a moment to understand it was a voice, trying to make itself heard over the noise of his feet on the concrete steps.
... And another moment to realise it was Mary.
He didn't stop.
She was dead.
She wasn't there.
Because Sherlock had killed her!
Bloody Sherlock Holmes!
So he ignored the ghost of his wife.
"I can't believe you just fucking left him there with that monster – alone in the same room! What the hell is wrong with you?"
He heard her steps behind him, following him - and hated his mind for doing this to him, couldn't he have one moment of peace from this nightmare!
He felt the need to punch something else... a wall... anything, but he didn't stop, he just ran.
"Go and get Molly," she demanded.
When he continued up the stairs as if she wasn't there she suddenly appeared in front of him, blocking his way.
"Now!" she screamed with a level of anger he had never seen on her before.
It was such a surprise he stopped dead in his tracks.
Both their anger seemed to be crackling in the air between them.
Sure, she was a person who could stand up in a fight, but this was new. She was equally angry at him as he was at Sherlock.
"You almost just beat you best friend to death - although he already has life threatening issues. Or did you fail to notice what Molly said?"
"He killed you!" John screamed and shoved past her, continued running up the thankfully empty staircase.
"No he didn't! Have you gone off the roof, or what?"
He was still boiling with an irritating mixture of anger and panic, her remark making it not better.
"He could be dying!"
"I don't care!" John spat.
"Yes, you do!"
But John didn't stop again to argue with her.
"John. Watson! Believe me, there are many many things in life you could do wrong I would forgive you, but not this! If you let him to get harmed I will never ever forgive you. He loves you... and he loves me and he'd never have done anything to get me in harm's way - in contrast to me I might add."
John just ran.
"What if it had been the other way round?" Mary continued, following him, "If he had died because he jumped in front of me? Would you have beaten me into a pulp and left my in a puddle of my own blood? Because that's what you just did to him. I swear to you, if you kill him after I died protecting him..."
Something boiled over again.
"That's different!" John stopped dead in his tracks again.
"No, it isn't... Why?"
"Because I am married to you!"
Of course John was regretting to have beaten Sherlock, but he deserved it still.
"Did you even see him? Did you look at him? Well, see but not observe, indeed."
"Are you here to gloat?"
"No. I am here to tell you that this is shit, John Watson! Did you realise he didn't fight you. He allowed you to abuse him. He didn't even try to stop you. He even fuelled your anger. He hurt himself this way."
"Bullshit."
"Did you even realise he was crying?"
"He was in pain. I wanted him to hurt, too. Feel the same pain that I feel because you are gone!"
To his utter surprise she slapped him.
There had never been any kind of physical or violent conflict in their relationship before.
"You don't need to, you know. What you just denied to see was his honest pain and desperation, his self-hate for letting me die. He knows very well how you feel, he's not a machine. He probably did this to galvanise you, just that you are too angry to open your eyes."
John sagged down to sit on the stairs.
Was she right?
No way.
"I am not blind, I am numb," he buried his face in his hands. "I can't do this anymore."
"You will not lose it now, John. Get off your ass and get Molly. He needs medical attention. And either you take care of him or you go and get someone he trusts!"
"I can't."
"Then get Molly, for God's sake! Before security finds you and arrests you. Get up," the last sentence was more an angry scream than just an order.
He dragged himself to his feet.
Two minutes later he banged against the doors of the waiting ambulance.
A surprised Molly opened the door, smart phone in hand, trying to clandestinely wipe her eyes.
"Where's Sherlock?"
"Inside, in the mortuary. He needs help, Molly. Go and help him."
"What happened?"
Her gaze wandered up and down his dishevelled form while she exited the vehicle.
"Take your bag and... he needs medical attention."
"What?... What happened?"
"I happened..."
"What does that mean?"
"Shut up and go!"
She flinched but fetched her bag.
With one last and a bit resentful glance at him she hurried towards the building.
Exhausted by the day's events John sat down in the open door and fetched his own phone.
It was time to call Lestrade.
When he dialled he spotted that his knuckles were bloody.
For a long moment he stared at the back of his hands.
Sherlock's blood.
He had shed Sherlock's blood.
And that was when it really hit him what he had just done.
He buried his face in his hands.
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When Molly stormed down the foyer she fought tears once more. Her knees felt still weak from the revelation about Sherlock's health. His state had shocked her and she was struggling hard with the realisation that he really might not survive this.
He had been half dead already an hour ago, had his state worsened this fast?
But if he was in critical condition John wouldn't have wasted time to come out and get her, this insight made her relax a tiny bit.
The hallways were eerie silent but when she hastened down the corridor that led to the mortuary she heard loud arguing. She ran towards the entrance door and when she pushed it open all she saw was a group of people, surrounding something on the ground, some people were kneeling, some standing.
More persons were in the back of the room, watching the event.
It took her a moment to realise it was mostly medical personnel, trying to take care of someone on the ground, but something was wrong.
"Go away!"
Sherlock's voice.
Oh god.
He was really and in fact in need of medical attention?
The people seemed not really interested in Sherlock's opinion and were trying to touch him anyway.
She carefully shoved through the cluster of people.
When she spotted his collapsed form on the ground she was close to panic.
He was half on his side, half on his stomach, his head buried in his arms.
Was he trying to hide or shutting the world out?
It was quite out of character.
She had never seen him do something like this before.
But she had rarely seen him under the influence, too.
She needed to do something; he looked like a wounded animal, desperate to be left alone, cornered.
"Just go away," he moaned.
His voice was neither loud nor angry, it was a pitiful whimper that broke her heart.
She caught her lips between her teeth to keep in a horrified sound.
It was her turn to be proactive and protect the detective.
She took breath.
"Step back, I'm his doctor," she almost yelled.
Several faces turned towards her, and some people stepped back.
Wow.
She hurried into the gap, put the bag on the ground and knelt down, more people backed off, obviously glad they were no longer responsible, completely ignoring the fact that Molly was the intruder here.
"He's dangerous!"
"He threatened Mr Culverton with a scalpel," voices warned.
"Well, then you better keep your distance," she grouched, surprised her displayed aggression was working so well.
It was not really real, but not entirely fake either.
How could they assume Sherlock would do anything like this?
"You're his doctor? He acted as if he was insane," a woman with a crutch said.
Had he?
Had the drugs made him delusional?
But he never lost control, except to create a tactical advantage.
"He's on drugs, isn't he?"
Real temper started to rise in her chest, her heart was beating way to fast. But the only thing she was angry about was the fact that she didn't know what was really going on here.
This situation screamed provoked or staged, only that something had gone wrong.
She hated being clueless.
And she hated their dreadful comments.
Not getting anything right, like Sherlock always said.
"Sherlock, it's me. I'm gonna touch you," she warned, but didn't wait for a reaction before wrapping her hand around his left arm and dragging it out from where it was halfway hidden under his shoulder, as if he had tried to prevent from being touched.
"Hey? Talk to me, please?" she addressed him in a smooth voice.
He didn't fight her.
To be precise he didn't react in any way.
But she was sure it was only because it was her. He didn't like strangers up close, especially not touching him.
On the few occasions she had taken care of his needs in a medical way – before John and after the Fall – it was her exclusive right to be the one who was granted to touch him.
She was sure he was aware it was her, otherwise he'd have fought it.
Slowly, she wrapped her fingers around his wrist.
His pulse was racing like mad and difficult to spot.
"Hey. It's okay," she whispered while she leaned closer.
Behind her, a woman sucked in breath in surprise. Molly peeled back Sherlock's coat, exposing his neck and shoving her fingers in to feel the pulse in his neck.
Her fingers met wetness and only now she spotted several small puddles of blood on the floor under Sherlock's head.
Horrified she pulled her hand back, but her fingers weren't red as expected... and it wasn't saliva either.
"Did he hurt you?" someone asked.
Not understanding for a moment she watched his back and found it was trembling... or heaving?
Oh god.
Oh god!
Her panic began to rise again.
Was he crying?
Never before had she seen Sherlock lose it.
Couldn't be.
Was he?
For a long moment she just stared at the back of his head.
Unable to think.
This was horrible.
She didn't dare to touch him for what felt like a very long time but could have only been seconds, afraid he might be in overwhelming agony.
Was his pain this bad?
"Of course he didn't hurt me. What happened to him? Why is he bleeding?"
"Dr Watson disarmed him and punched him," an arrogant sounding voice came from the back of the room. She didn't look up.
Also, she didn't believe the man, it was probably Culverton, Sherlock had briefly told her about his suspicions about the man during their ride.
"He was threatening me with a knife."
Now she had enough.
"Everyone who is not here to help with the medical emergency: OUT," she ordered; now real temper was flaring.
The same tone she had used to address Sherlock with earlier, telling him he was about to kill himself.
Several people, including Culverton and the woman with the crutch left the room, only a nurse in a blue uniform, an emergency doctor, and three other people who might also be pathologists, remained.
"Sherlock? Is it true? Did John do this?" she tried to get an answer from him again.
He didn't speak, just continued to tremble.
"Hey?"
She gently touched his shoulder, "Did you hurt your back?"
Sure he could hear her, she explained, "I need to know if we have to be careful because there might be injuries to your neck or spine."
"No," he pressed out, it was barely hearable.
She relaxed a bit.
He was responsive, understanding her and responding. But she was far from just trusting his word on this. Sherlock had switched off his pain reception before.
"Go get a gurney," she addressed the personnel in the disposable plastic lab coat, they hurried off.
Good, less people to stress Sherlock out.
"Where are you hurt?" she tried to check how aware of his injuries he was.
"Ribs... at least two fractured... Brow probably needs some stitches," Sherlock diagnosed.
"Well, thank you Dr Holmes, may I see for myself?"
Inaptly he tried to roll to his side, keeping his face turned away as much as possible.
"I need you to allow me to put you on your back," she suggested.
When he gave an unnerved grunt she knew he had understood and wasn't thrilled but as she knew him he wouldn't fight them now that she was here.
She signalled the other persons in the room to help her, who hesitated.
"I need your help now," she spat, once more badly surprised about her rudeness, but she didn't have time to care for them.
They were reluctant to help, but after three minutes of careful manhandling and several held back whimpers from Sherlock the detective was finally on his back. But she couldn't see his face, he had turned his head so he was facing the wall, and he was also hiding his face under his right bent arm, maybe to hide his pain or to shield his eyes from the bright neon light.
It was a sign of how bad he really was, that he allowed this, allowed them to move him.
If he had been in any way able to stand up or leave, Molly was sure he would have done it. This underlined in a horrifying way how overwhelmed and ailing he was.
He was obviously on the end of his tether; Molly hadn't even thought it was possible that he'd be this vulnerable and passive – especially with strangers in the room with her.
She leaned over him and gently shoved a hand under his arm to lift it away, then had to wipe away his greasy hair to finally be able to see his face.
She gasped.
Sherlock's face was quite bloody and he was bleeding from nose, mouth and his left eyebrow.
"Oh god... We need to bring him to A&E, there is an ambulance outside," she ordered, not caring the slightest bit any longer that she wasn't the one in command.
A moment later she remembered that this was actually a real hospital, and in contrast to Barts it actually had an A&E.
"No... Want to stay... here," Sherlock huffed, his voice slurred and thin.
He suddenly paler even further, started shaking even harder.
Maybe it was the better choice, her friend seemed to be going into shock.
"Alright. Want me to get John?"
"No," this time Sherlock's voice broke and he hid his face again.
"Okay... ehh..."
She opened the emergency bag.
With uttermost care and as gentle as she could she started to examine him, then remembered that he despised gentle touches and started to touch him more deftly.
"When did you last... take something?"
"After arrived... here..."
"What? You actually took something in here before you met the kids?" she was indignant at the fact.
He didn't answer and tried to hide his face again, but she caught his arm and held it.
"What did you take?"
No answer.
"Sherlock, what?"
"Pocket," he moaned and stopped resisting.
She fetched a small piece of paper and an odd looking vial from his coat pocket.
"Get me some meds to counteract this," she stood up and stepped over to the other doctor. The man took the list she handed over and read it.
"We'll get it once we arrive at the A&E," he answered, obviously hesitating to follow her orders.
"For God's sake, go check with Barts. Dr Molly Hooper, St Bartholomew's Hospital London," she handed him her ID-nametag, too.
"Why isn't anything happening? Where's security? Why isn't an emergency team already down here?"
"I am part of the team, others are on their way."
"Unbelievable," Molly huffed.
Was it Culverton's doing that they were all so slow? Sherlock had said he had a lot of influence here, it was partially his hospital, right?
To her relief, the doctor vanished after reading the list and giving back her ID.
Of course they needed to check if she really was who she claimed to be, everything else would have been extremely unprofessional, the request should have come the moment she interfered, and when she had stepped in Sherlock should have been tended to already.
Unbelievable.
She returned to Sherlock's side and knelt down next to his head, to shield him from the remaining two person's view, give him a bit of privacy.
He turned his head towards her knees, away from the light and her gaze.
When she palpated his skull she saw his eyelids flutter and close.
"No, Sherlock, stay with me."
He groaned.
"Did you fall? Did you hit your head?... Come on, answer me!"
"No... Maybe... in some way, yes... Punched... Three... times," Sherlock pressed out without opening his eyes.
Who? John?
But right now it didn't matter, all that mattered was to take care of Sherlock.
"Where else?"
"Kicked... me."
Now she actually saw a tear run down Sherlock's right temple.
Oh God...
The only reason Sherlock would actually cry was that it had indeed been John.
Frozen, she stared at another drop of liquid that pooled in his lacrimal caruncular, than spilled over the bridge of his nose and ran down his cheek.
Carefully, she stroked his hairline.
A few moments later it fell to the ground, it stunned her.
"Help's on the way, relax."
To her surprise his features suddenly relaxed completely and his head rolled forward.
"For God's sake! Sherlock!"
She gently moved his skull so he faced the ceiling, fetched a light and checked his pupil's reaction.
He was completely out.
But to her relief there was no sign of a concussion.
She unbuttoned his shirt and tugged it out of his waistband.
Bruises were already forming on his abdomen.
He gasped. The kicks had been quite hard, then.
Kicks, plural, at least three zones of impact.
"Oh, God, Sherlock..." she whined in a low voice.
No wonder he had lost consciousness.
He must be in quite some pain and the mental distress on top of that...
She could understand he hadn't really tried to stay conscious, had given in to the pull of painless oblivion.
Also, he was probably very well aware what would follow next, the painful process of undressing, a hospital gown, needles, IVs, x-rays, ultra-sounds, catheters, kidney function tests, and so on, not to mention the drugs she was planning to give him.
It wouldn't be a walk in the park.
If what she had diagnosed earlier was right, there was a whole barrage of tests necessary to confirm or disconfirm the details and she would make sure all of them were done.
Unsurprisingly, checking out was probably the best option from his point of view, from hers it was cause for even more worry.
She struggled with the idea that John might have kicked a man already on the ground. No matter how angry John was, she just couldn't imagine he'd ever do something like that.
But she didn't have a reason to not believe Sherlock.
Well, maybe he had hallucinated it was John when it was someone else, just because of his overwhelming self-loathing.
John had uttered he blamed Sherlock in Molly's presence on several occasions and she had tried to argue with him, careful but insistent.
If there was one thing that surely would destroy Sherlock and probably would even kill him, it was the loss of John Watson.
She assumed the self-harming behaviour and the drugs of the past weeks were the result of John blaming him and shoving him away.
This had to stop.
Monitoring his vitals she hoped they would hurry with that gurney.
"It's alright, Sherlock. I'm here to help. Just hang in there."
She stroked his greasy hair and wiped away another of her own tears.
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A/N:
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