Chapter 10
John was the first to wake in the morning. Well, if you can call one thirty p.m. 'morning'. He looked over to see if Sherlock was awake. The super sleuth was curled up in his bed sleeping away. John watched as one particular curl bounced when Sherlock exhaled through slightly pouted lips. He turned to look out of the window. The sky was still very dark, and the occasional thunder clap or lighting show would keep him entertained.
An itching sensation filled his leg, and all he wanted to do was get up and walk around. He could only move his arms a short way, and his legs weren't much better. He was beat up pretty bad. His wounds from Afghanistan seemed like a mere paper cut now. Nearly every inch of his battered body was covered in deep cuts, each just as infected as the last. The daily administration of bleach on the wounds had taken its toll on John's skin, leaving it completely riddled with horrific sores. He'd been shot in the leg, and the familiarity of the bullet wound was a bit upsetting. He ran his tongue around the insides of his cheeks, wincing as he came across the burned flesh of the few puncture holes.
The doctors had already said that they were surprised with the fact that he was awake already. John was resilient though, with the strength to stay alive through the whole event. Even when he'd thought it was the end, he stayed strong. And just because he was awake, didn't mean he wasn't in pain. Bandages covered him from head to toe, leaving hardly any skin bare. The live streams weren't the only times he was actively tortured. What Sherlock saw wasn't even half of his regular beatings. He didn't even want to look into a mirror because he knew that his face would be bad.
Their door opened, and Karen walked in with her usual smile. She had taken her hair out of the tiny braids and now had it flowing in waves down below her shoulders.
"Doctor Watson, you're up! That's good to see, so now I don't have to wake you up myself," she laughed. John said good morning and smiled back to the nurse.
"I just have to wake up Mister Holmes," Karen said, and tried to rouse Sherlock from his slumber, to no avail. She'd called out to him and shook him gently, all with the same result.
"Mister Holmes, you have to wake up! We need to change your bandages!" she said, tutting at how difficult he was to awake. John laughed and looked over at the two. He'd had an idea.
"Sherlock, Lestrade just called! There's been a triple murder and apparently it's a tricky one, too!" John shouted as loud as his raspy voice would allow. Sherlock shot up in to a sitting position, almost knocking over the IV. He spoke in a garbled voice saying something indecipherable along the lines of "get your coat John," and groaned loudly in pain.
"Ah, Mister Holmes, it's good to see you're awake! We've got to change your bandages and see if we can get you to the shower," Karen informed in her usual friendly demeanour. A trolley full of dressings was already set up beside Sherlock's bed. The detective looked over at his companion with tired eyes.
"You liar!" he accused. John just laughed hoarsely. Sherlock sat on his bed as the nurse untied and removed Sherlock's hospital gown. The thick blankets covered the detective's hips and legs, and John wondered for a moment if the detective was wearing any pants. It would be a pretty typical thing to ask, considering it was a fight just to get him to put on any clothing in Buckingham Palace. Karen removed layers of bandaging from Sherlock's stomach, shoulder and bicep, revealing large patches of thick dressings. There were red patches on the stomach dressing, probably because he kept trying to sit up so fast. One by one the soiled gauzes were disposed of, and the injury beneath it was cleaned and covered again.
Sherlock winced when the anaesthetic touched the tender skin. Each wound was cleaned and redressed in nearly record time. Soon, all but one was finished. Karen took out some fresh gauze and a large waterproof plastic sticker. She helped Sherlock stand and John noticed that Sherlock was wearing pants. It wasn't the first time he'd seen Sherlock in his underwear, and he just shrugged and continued staring out of the window. Karen handed the supplies to Sherlock.
"You can fix up the hip yourself in the bathroom. The bandages are all waterproof, so as soon as you get your hip sorted out, you can go for a shower. Right, you're all good then, if you need any help just press the button on the wall," Karen helped Sherlock walk over to the bathroom and left the room as the bathroom door shut.
John stayed in his place, looking out of the window. He was completely lost in thought. For some odd reason, he was wondering about Harriet. Why on earth would Harry want to visit him? They rarely kept in touch about anything. He didn't even notice the woman walk in and sit down beside him.
"Mister Watson?" she said. John turned his head and acknowledged her.
"Ahh, Doctor Watson, yes hello," he corrected. Looking over the woman, he made a few lazy deductions of his own. She had bleached blonde hair and wore more mascara than needed as well. The way she was dressed and the notebook she was cradling told John that she was certainly not a doctor. She also wore rather impractical shoes, so she obviously didn't do much walking in her job. That was all he could pick up on before she spoke again.
"My name is Madeline Smith; you were referred to me as a client. I'm a psychologist here at St. Barts. I understand you've been through an extremely tough situation? Would you like to talk about it?" the woman opened her notebook and took a pen off her lanyard. John sighed.
"Who referred me?" John asked back as Sherlock quietly emerged from the bathroom in his towel and made his way back to his bed. John looked away from his flatmate, who didn't bother pulling the curtain closed to take off his towel and pull on a pair of underpants.
"I'm afraid I can't say. Now, how are you feeling?" the psychologist asked again. John tutted.
"Well, I've been kidnapped, shot and put through a few days worthy of a Saw film. Honestly, I don't feel all that bad. A lot of morphine in my system seems to be helping a bit," he answered. The woman wrote in her notebook.
"How do you feel mentally? Are you experiencing any kind of stress?" she asked in an almost monotonous tone.
"Nope, I feel fine up here. There's no way I have any kind of mental illness," John replied, trying not to sound sarcastic. The woman wrote more in her book.
"Now, one of the first stages of having any form of psychological condition is the denial of actually having one. It's a likely possibility that you are in denial at the moment, especially after your experience," The false concern made John roll his eyes a bit.
"Wrong," a baritone voice piped up. John smiled, and the uptight woman ignored the interruption.
"Now, ahem, how did it feel being in the situation? Do you remember any of your thoughts?" she asked, and John began to grow a touch impatient.
"Well, I can't really remember what I was thinking, considering I was too busy getting sponge baths in bleach and getting a few new piercings," he replied sarcastically, gesturing at his face.
John could have sworn he'd heard a deep chuckle from the other bed. That was enough to make him smile, while the psychologist wrote down some more 'findings'.
The woman tutted, and looked at John. "It seems you've got post-traumatic stress. Your experience has had an effect on the way you're thinking, and you're using humour to mask it, I'll get your doctor to write up a prescription for anxiety medication and…" she was cut off by the same baritone voice.
"Wrong!" Sherlock announced, much louder this time. The woman turned in her chair to face the detective, who was watching the ceiling nonchalantly.
"Excuse me, but I'm trying to discuss something with my patient. Could you please stop interrupting," She demanded as politely as she could muster.
"Perhaps when you make a diagnosis that is even remotely correct, then I will be quiet," Sherlock didn't even look over at the woman.
The psychologist narrowed her eyes. "I'll have you know that I have a proper degree in psychology," she retaliated.
"Ooh, and somehow I'm obviously still more qualified," Sherlock looked at her with a sarcastic smile. John couldn't help but laugh silently behind her. Usually John would be telling Sherlock off for being an obnoxious sod, but John honestly had to agree with the Consulting Detective.
"I have diagnosed my patient, and I would appreciate it if you stay out of the matter," she spat. Sherlock laughed quietly and sarcastically.
"Oh please, John Watson with PTSD? If John was really at risk of that, he wouldn't be following me on my cases," Sherlock said, glancing over at his friend and seeing the huge smile on his face.
The woman looked at John, who shrugged. "When you're living with him, the chance of getting killed on a daily basis is something you sort of grow used to. I thought I was going to die, and I didn't. And I'm happy," he explained, "I don't need a therapist, or a councillor or anything like that. I just need a nice cuppa".
Sherlock smiled wide, and the psychologist closed her notebook and stood. "Well, it's good to hear that you're fine. Good afternoon Mister Watson," she said, and exited the room.
John sighed loudly and rolled his eyes. He disliked psychologists. He wasn't too thrilled with his first one. Who would even refer him? Probably Harry. "Thanks," he spoke loud enough for Sherlock to hear.
"You're looking better," Sherlock replied, and John shrugged. Sherlock knew it would be the best part of eight to ten months before John was completely well again. Sherlock would be discharged from the hospital much, much earlier than John. As soon as the bones in his shoulder and the damage to his kidney were healed, he would be allowed back home. The thought of having to go back home while John was still in hospital made him upset, and he tried not to think about it too much. He put his head back, exhaled loudly and closed his eyes, and tried to think of something else.