Chapter 11: The Cure Can Be Worse than the Disease
The dim morning light shone through the windows and between the small gaps of the blinds. It was an inappropriately nice day considering what was going to transpire. There was a gentle tap at the door and Sherlock curled in tighter on himself, unwilling to interact with whoever was at the door. He heard the feet of a nurse heading towards the bed, so he closed his eyes tightly, hoping she would think he was asleep and would therefore leave him alone.
Sherlock's plan half worked, she did think that he was asleep, but that didn't make her leave him alone, it actually had quite the opposite effect. "Mr. Holmes," she said gently. "Mr. Holmes, I'm sorry but you're going to have to wake up now." There was no reply, Sherlock forced his breathing into a rhythmic pattern, being careful not to breathe too deeply as there was a tickle in his throat that threatened to quickly evolve into a full blown coughing fit.
Tenderly she placed her hand on his arm to try and get his attention, she did succeed but not in quite the same way as she had hoped. Sherlock's natural defence mechanism kicked into action and he instantaneously retracted his hand, giving the nurse a fright in the process, and he shot bolt upright. He could feel his whole chest heaving as the tickle in his throat transformed as he feared, reducing him to a series of hacking coughs that left the nurse frowning in concern. She left the room silently to fetch Sherlock a cup of water, giving him a few moments of privacy to regain his composure. He felt far wearier than he should, and he was still gasping for breath. For a man who usually knew exactly what each of his limits were it was an extremely unnerving experience. And he could have sworn that his bones had not hurt this much yesterday, but he could easily be wrong, he was finding it hard to keep track of time in the hospital. The detective couldn't help feeling abhorrence towards the hospital, the building that felt more like a prison than a place of healing, and although he knew it was illogical, he found himself blaming it for the reduction in his mental acuity.
"Are you alright Mr. Holmes?" the nurse asked, coming back into the hospital room, cup of water in hand. She held it in front of him and he silently accepted it, glaring at her simply because she had been a witness to his weakness. She ignored his expression, used to all sorts of patients. She simply stood there and waited patiently as Sherlock raised the cup with a shaking hand to his lips. He couldn't drink for long, the tremors became too much and he put the cup down, but while it lasted the cool water felt wonderful on his dry throat.
"Mr. Holmes, I am here to take a blood sample and to insert an IV. Is that okay?" Instead of replying Sherlock simply rolled up the sleeve of his dressing gown and held out his arm. Inwardly she winced at the scars that littered it, but her professionalism prevented her from saying anything. He obviously had not done anything in a while, so really it was none of her business; however, seeing such evidence always made her cringe. The fact that he had not so much as uttered a word to her was also a little concerning and something that she should probably mention to Dr. Janssen when she saw him. But for now she had a job to do and she would do it.
"I'm just going to tie this around your upper arm, there may be a bit of discomfort but it shouldn't be too bad." As far as Sherlock was concerned, she needn't have bothered with the warning, as he was more than familiar with tourniquets. "You must be sick of having your blood taken by now, I'm sure you must have had more than your fair share of tests since you got here." As expected, Sherlock did not reply to her overly cheery enquiry. Her voice and foolish optimism was giving him a headache and he wished that she would just leave him to his misery. Gentle fingers started probing his arm looking for a vein and each touch felt slightly sickening. "You know, when I was little I used to think that doctors and nurses were vampires," she said to try and fill the silence. "I thought that the only reason they took blood was so they could eat and not get caught." Her voice grated on Sherlock's ears and her touch was searing. The antiseptic smell of the hospital was thick around him, overwhelming his mind with its sharp stench. The room was bright and the nurse was far too easy to read; sick as a child, happily married with a son and daughter, pet hamster and dog, right handed, uses antidandruff shampoo… the information poured in like a torrent.
Sherlock's breathing increased and his heart began pounding in his chest, all the information was swirling around him, but what really troubled him was the feeling of the nurse's fingers on his arm; they were searing into him. He wished she would just leave him alone, but her hands were persistent. He could feel the dull ache in his bones growing exponentially into a burning pain which made him squirm in discomfort and caused and uncomfortable churning sensation in the pit of his stomach. Suddenly the nurse's hands had left his arm and were grasping his shoulders. Sherlock heard his name being called but he didn't care, all he wanted was to escape the nurse's grasp. His vision was beginning to fade in and out and he could feel the room beginning to spin around him slightly. The nurse was resilient and refused to move, and he tried to push her off but his movements were clumsy and uncoordinated, Her hands were still there and this made the swirling feeling in his stomach beginning to move its way up, burning as it went, until it forcefully pushed its way out of his mouth and all over himself and the nurse. Surprised Sherlock looked down at himself, saw the vomit staining his hospital gown, then finally his vision faded into complete darkness.
~0~
John narrowly avoided running into a patient in a wheelchair as he careened down the corridor, staring at his watch. He was running a little bit later than he'd wanted to be but not too much later, only ten minutes, and he thought that Sherlock would still be fast asleep. However when he reached his friend's room it was empty, bed neatly made with no evidence of the clutter that seemed to follow Sherlock. The first thought that popped into John's mind was that Sherlock had passed away during the night, when he was alone, and even that fleeting thought caused him staggering emotional agony. The doctor forced himself to calm his breathing before he went to find the detective. If Sherlock had died then Mycroft would know, and if Mycroft knew he would have had someone phone John.
Taking deep, calming breaths he headed over to the nurse who looked in charge. "Excuse me," he said, forcing his voice into one of neutrality so he didn't sound panicked. The nurse looked up; she was fairly old and kind, but she also looked like the kind of woman who John certainly would not like to cross.
"Oh, you're friends with that detective chap aren't you?" John nodded in affirmation.
"I was wondering if you could tell me where he is. He isn't in his room, well, his old room now I suppose."
"Oh yes of course, he got moved down to oncology first thing this morning. If you go down to the second floor in the lift then the signs will take you there. Ask one of the nurses down there and they'll be able to tell you what room he is in."
"Ok, thank you," John said before turning around and heading for the lift.
"Anytime sir," the nurse replied, but by this point John wasn't listening, he was busy hurrying towards the lift. He willed the contraption to move faster but it simply didn't want to oblige. Despite knowing it was useless, John found himself pressing the button continuously until the lift arrived and when in the lift he tapped his fingers against his hand impatiently. If Sherlock had been moved already, the likelihood of him being woken up was very high. He absolutely abhorred the idea of Sherlock spending any length of time in the hospital alone, he'd hate it. John just hoped that if he had been woken up he'd gotten to read the note he'd left.
Just as the doors opened John felt his phone buzz, he pulled it out his pocket as he set off following the signs as the nurse had instructed him. This floor was slightly eerie, there wasn't much activity going on around him, there was nobody in the corridor other than him, and the stench of antiseptic was overwhelming. To distract himself from the hallway John looked at his phone and groaned loudly. Mycroft had just texted him saying he'd be visiting Sherlock later in the morning, that was sure to make a bad day worse. Sherlock, at the best of times, would be unhappy to see his brother. John could only imagine how a sick Sherlock in the middle of a chemotherapy session would react to seeing his sibling. It didn't even bear thinking about. John just carried on down the hallway towards his best friend; he'd just have to deal with one problem at a time.
~0~
After getting lost a couple of times due to incredibly bad signposting, John made it down to the oncology ward where he soon managed to locate a nurse. "Excuse me; I was wondering if you could tell me what room my friend, Sherlock Holmes, was in." The nurse looked him up and down warily for a few moments until a look of recognition sprung into her eye.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Dr. John Watson. Why?" he asked, suddenly confused.
"I thought so; I just thought I should check before I disclosed any information. We've been told you have the same right as direct family when it comes to sharing information with you."
"Oh?" John replied, now utterly confused.
"Yeah, sorry, I do tend to ramble a bit. Well basically this morning when one of the nurses went in to take a blood sample he had a panic attack when she touched him. He made himself sick then he passed out. He regained consciousness about fifteen minutes after and he refused to answer anyone's questions or eat anything. Just to warn you if he doesn't say anything to you." John nodded sadly.
"Thank you, he doesn't like hospitals, at least I don't think he does based on experience. It's not really the sort of thing he would tell me. But I'll see if I can get him to eat anything."
"If you could that'd be brilliant. He is on a food chart, and if he doesn't start eating something soon we will need to put him on a feeding tube." John nodded in understanding. "Oh, he's in room 27, just keep on down the hall the way you were going." As soon as the words were out of her mouth he left.
~0~
After once again regaining consciousness, Sherlock was bombarded with questions from both nurses and Dr. Janssen. They told him they were trying to help him, if they knew what set him off then they would be able to avoid it happening again in the future. But Sherlock did not answer. He didn't want to talk to people; he didn't want them to know what set him off. If he were to be honest he hadn't a clue exactly what had caused the panic attack and that terrified him. He hated now knowing because that meant he could be thrown into another one at any time in front of anyone. That was a situation that certainly needed to be avoided. Sherlock felt ashamed at even the thought of having a panic attack in front of John or, even worse, Mycroft.
"Sherlock!" At the sound of John's voice Sherlock straightened out his body slightly from it curled up position, IV port tugging with an uncomfortable sting. He glanced at his friend before turning his attention back to the drawers next to his bed, stubbornly refusing to utter even a single word. Without hesitation John pulled up a chair and looked at his friend with concern. "Are you alright Sherlock?"
"Fine," Sherlock replied without really thinking about it; it was the first thing he'd said since his panic attack. He hadn't intended to say anything, but for some reason he found he couldn't ignore John like he could with everyone else.
"I heard you threw up and passed out, I was worried." John decided to skip over the panic attack, he knew Sherlock would not appreciate hearing it said blatantly and John couldn't see how at that moment bringing it up would be of any benefit. Sherlock merely grunted in response because he wasn't sure how he was expected to respond.
The ex-army doctor wasn't really sure what to do. It was obvious Sherlock was not in a talkative mood but sitting there in silence also seemed wrong. It was at that moment that the toast on the table caught John's eye. "You know you really should eat something mate." This time Sherlock did not respond, John knew how he would feel about such a statement but yet again he was an idiot and brought it up anyway. If John was going to be so tedious and boring then he did not deserve a response as he was just like everyone else.
"Look, I know you feel sick and I know you really don't want to eat anything. But seriously Sherlock, you need to at least try. I was talking to a nurse out there and she says you're on a food chart and they're talking about putting you on a feeding tube."
The mention of a feeding tube got Sherlock's attention; he knew exactly what that entailed and it wasn't exactly pleasant. He also knew that if they thought he wasn't eating enough and he refused a feeding tube they would merely get permission from elsewhere, probably Mycroft, and he did not want to give the power-crazed idiot the satisfaction. Slowly he rolled over to face John, face contorting in pain with the movement, and John pretended not to see.
"I'll refuse to let them put it in," Sherlock tried, hoping that maybe for once he would be wrong.
"Sherlock," John said sadly. "You and I both know that if they think you need it they'll get it in somehow regardless of what you want them to do." Of course Sherlock knew that, he'd just been hoping.
"I think I'll be sick if I have anything," he said, looking at John pleadingly. That look had sometimes got him out of meals on a particularly long cases but it didn't look like it would work this time.
"Just have some of this toast," John said, being sure to keep his voice gentle. "It is dry so it should be fairly easy for you to keep down." Begrudgingly Sherlock raised the bed into a sitting position and took the plate and began to chew slowly. Each bite felt difficult to swallow, as if it was sticking to the insides of his mouth, causing him to choke a few times. He only managed one and a half slices, John made sure he schooled his expression into one of neutrality but inwardly he was more relieved by the effort than he really should be.
~0~
Sherlock watched John through cracked open eyelids while the doctor thought that he was sleeping. He was doing his best to ignore the pain; he'd been given mild painkillers, but he didn't want anything stronger because it would dull his mind. Given the choice, pain was preferable to impeded brain function. To try and ignore the pain Sherlock set his mind on thoughts of John and why he was still sticking around. John craved excitement and all Sherlock did now was sleep and vomit. So why was John still there? It was always possible that he was there to watch Sherlock in his illness so he could go away later and laugh at him. But John was a doctor; surely he wouldn't find illness of any kind funny. But Sherlock could comprehend no other reason for John to still be there. Perhaps if he had no drugs in his system at all he'd be able to figure it out.
Of course he could always ask John why he was still there but he didn't really want to. Sherlock wasn't sure he'd really want to hear the answer. And if John knew Sherlock was onto him, that John had some kind of ulterior motive, then he'd leave. Loathe he was to admit it Sherlock liked John being there, even if he had his own reasons, and didn't want to risk scaring him away early.
"How are we today, Mr. Holmes?" The distinctive voice of Dr. Harrison shattered the previous peaceful silence of the room. As she announced her presence Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he looked at her with an expression which positively screamed disdain. Strangely enough John wore a look that was pretty similar to Sherlock's. "I'm afraid today is the day," she said, trying to make her tone sound kind and caring. It sounded like neither of these things; Sherlock had heard fake concern enough to recognise it when he heard it.
She was being trailed by a shy looking nurse holding a couple of bags of clear fluid who, as soon as she entered the room, began fiddling about with all the equipment situated next to Sherlock's bed. The very sight of that innocent looking liquid made Sherlock's heart thump rapidly and he felt like he might be sick. Shutting his eyes he forced himself to calm down his body's response. There was no way he wanted John to find out how utterly terrified he was, although, it didn't look like John was doing much better than Sherlock. Why was John looking so scared?
As the nurse started pulling at the tube running into Sherlock's arm Dr. Harrison began to speak. "All we're doing here is switching your saline drip for the combination of chemotherapy drugs. The bags will then be attached to a pump which will regulate the rate at which the drugs will enter your blood stream. Then a single tube will go into your arm through the cannula." The fact that neither John nor Sherlock were yet to say a word didn't seem to bother her; once again she seemed pretty keen to leave the room.
At this point in her spiel there was a tapping at the door and all the room's occupants turned to look. Standing there, looking for the entire world like there was absolutely nothing wrong, stood the one and only Mycroft Holmes. Both John and Sherlock groaned audibly and Dr. Harrison and the nurse looked confused.
"Sorry, who are you?" Dr Harrison asked angrily. "We're about to start treatment, if you could come and visit another time that would be helpful." Mycroft seemed to take this as an invitation to enter the room, umbrella in one hand, newspaper in the other.
"I am Sherlock's big brother. If you try to make me leave you will regret it."
"Is that a threat, sir, because if it is I will call security!"
"Oh I wouldn't do that either and it wasn't a threat, think of it more as a promise. Oh, and don't bother finishing what you were saying, I can assure you my brother didn't care in the slightest."
"Can I see some identification, sir? You do not bear any resemblance to my patient and I need to be sure of your relationship before I can allow you to remain in this room." Mycroft groaned loudly but obliged and pulled a card out of his pocket. It was unusual; she had never seen anything like it before. It looked like some form of government issue. Either way it seemed to confirm his last name was Holmes so she was willing to believe what he said.
"As I was saying," Mycroft continued after she nodded he head. "You needn't carry on with what you were saying; my brother has no desire to hear you ramble on."
"I am legally obliged to tell him these things."
"I free you of your legal obligation."
"What?" The elder Holmes opened his mouth to reply but John got in there first to try and keep the peace.
"Just don't ask, but believe me, he has that kind of power." Dr. Harrison looked between the two men, completely bewildered, before giving in and going to help the nurse.
"Brother dear," Mycroft said, addressing Sherlock for the first time since entering to room. "How do you feel?" Unsurprisingly there was no response. "Ah, you're being like that are you? I just thought you would like to know you caused quite a stir in the papers today." He dropped the newspaper he had been holding and Sherlock glanced at it curiously. SHERLOCK HOLMES HOSPITALISED. His heart seemed to freeze; he did not want anyone to know about this. He heard Mycroft and John talking in the background but he was paying no attention. All he could do was stare at the headline, horrified.
~0~
"What the hell did you alert the papers for?" John hissed to Mycroft. His whole body was tense and proclaimed the rage he was feeling.
"This wasn't me, I just happened to notice." Mycroft replied. Neither man looked at each other, they were preoccupied with the blank expression pasted onto Sherlock's face, leaving them both to imagine the turmoil of emotion which must be bubbling under the calm shell.
"Of course it was you, who else would it be?"
"I can assure you, this was not me. What could I possibly have to gain by doing such a thing?"
"I don't know, to beat him in this petty feud the two of you seem to have going?"
"Dr. Watson, I know that you don't have the most complementary opinion of me but I like to think that you don't consider me childish. I assure you this was not me but I will be launching a thorough investigation into who leaked this information."
John stared at Mycroft, trying to ascertain whether or not the man could be trusted, in the end he simply nodded his head. Dr. Harrison, who had been listening in discretely suddenly intervened. "We're ready to go here," she said nervously, John put it down to Mycroft's presence. He was an intimidating character after all to those who did not know him.
"Well I believe that this is my cue to leave," Mycroft commented, spinning the tip of his umbrella against the ground. "Unless you want me here to see this, little brother." In response Sherlock glared at Mycroft. "I thought not. Look after my brother, Dr. Watson, I'll be in touch." And with that, much to the relief of everyone in the room, Mycroft left the room.
~0~
Dr Harrison told John and Sherlock that the treatment would take two hours, and would be continued for three days and then Sherlock's condition would be reassessed to see if they could progress onto the next stage of treatment. But now Sherlock was an hour into his first treatment and, John knew that it was his imagination, Sherlock looked a lot worse than he did before. His skin looked just that bit more pasty and the bruising looked just that bit more severe. Of course as a doctor John knew that the side effects of the chemo wouldn't truly manifest themselves for another couple of days, some of the effect could happen weeks after initial treatment.
John watched Sherlock sleeping soundly. Electrodes were littered about his bare chest leading to the heart rate monitor which emitted a steady beeping sound. John had always found it disturbing how low Sherlock's resting heart rate was, but then again the man did get a lot of exercise. John stared in horror as his gaze fell on the loads of scars scattered all over Sherlock's arms. No wonder Dr. Janssen wanted to refer him to a psychologist, there was only one way you could get scars in that pattern. John was thankful for one thing though, and that was that they were scars and not fresh wounds. If they were fresh wounds, John was not sure what he would do, the urge to wake Sherlock up and demand he tell John all about those scars was overwhelming as it was. But John knew that this was neither the time nor the place to make Sherlock tell him, once he was better, then John would ask about them.
~0~
The first day of treatments was almost over and John was incredibly relieved. He was exhausted but it was nothing compared to what Sherlock was feeling. An hour after the treatment had finished Sherlock became violently sick—as violently sick as someone who had hardly anything in their stomach could be, anyway. The dry heaves had shook through his frail body in waves until John was sure he was about to break. Once they were over and Sherlock lay back on the bed, John had a momentary burst of panic when he saw the vomit was mingled with blood, only to realise that Sherlock also had blood pouring from his nose. Still far from good, but a nose bleed was an awful lot better than internal bleeding.
Then the nurse had come through with fresh sheets and a fresh gown for Sherlock. The detective, being the stubborn fool he was, insisted on going through to the bathroom to change and to relieve himself without any help. A few minutes later there was a huge crashing sound which sent both John and the nurse flying into the bathroom. Sherlock had managed to change his gown but his knees had obviously given out as he was making his way out the bathroom. Since that incident Sherlock had refused to utter and single word so John spent the rest of the day supplying Sherlock with tea (which he drank if he wasn't asleep) and reading him news articles from the papers that he thought might interest him.
It was an incredible relief when Lestrade and Molly arrived late in the evening to see Sherlock. Molly's presence elicited a small smile from Sherlock, which somehow made the man look frailer than before. But that did intrigue John. He had read the card from Molly to Sherlock and he didn't understand it, but he kept on seeing Sherlock glancing at it. What was it about that card?
Both Molly and Lestrade were taken aback by Sherlock's appearance. He had a massive bruise forming on the side of his face from where he hit it when he fell, John suspected that Sherlock's entire right side was going to bruise which was going to cause the poor man even more discomfort. But the purple on his face only served to make the rest of him look even paler, almost grey even. His skinny frame was lost under the flimsy hospital sheets, his hair looked greasy and his eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. But of course neither of them made any comment on his appearance. They both knew him well enough to know that it would not be appreciated.
"So, how did the treatment go?" Molly asked as she sat down in one of the chairs. In response Sherlock grunted and said no more. It didn't seem like much, but it was the most Sherlock had responded to anyone throughout the whole day. The three of them tried a few more times to get Sherlock to respond. Lestrade tried insulting Mycroft and John tried getting Sherlock to talk about to Dr. Harrison but it was to no avail. Sherlock had obviously decided he'd had enough for the day and ignored them all and very quickly fell asleep. It would have been amusing if Sherlock's situation was not so serious; the man hardly ever slept, but for the last few days that is all he had done.
The three of them talked quietly for an hour, John outlined all that had happened to Sherlock that day and then Lestrade told John all that had been going on down at the yard. Much to John's surprise it seemed that they were all pretty concerned for Sherlock's wellbeing. When it hit nine o'clock Lestrade told John to go home because he looked exhausted. As expected he was reluctant at first but after some reassurance from the DI John complied. Molly left at the same time as she was on nightshift.
Just as she walked out the door Sherlock began to stir so Lestrade watched him carefully as he fought his way back into consciousness. It was slow, but Lestrade was patient and was eventually rewarded with bleary eyes staring hazily. Sherlock took in the room around him and Lestrade remained silent, waiting for the man to get his bearings. "Where's John?" Sherlock eventually rasped.
"He's gone back to Baker Street. He's been here all day and he's tired." Sherlock was sure it was imagination but he was sure he saw a hint of regret and sadness flash through Sherlock's eyes. Once again the detective looked at the older man.
"Is he coming back?" To Lestrade that didn't sound like Sherlock asking if he was coming back that night; it seemed like Sherlock was unsure of if John would come back again. This was sick Sherlock, and his walls were obviously beginning to crumble. He would need to tell John, this insecurity needed to be dealt with.
"I think he might have a shift tomorrow morning but he will come back as soon as he can."
Sherlock didn't seem convinced and he curled up on his side, wrapping the blankets tightly around himself defensively. "You know you don't need to stay here. I am a grown man; I do not need to be treated like a child."
"I think I'll stay here if it is all the same to you." Lestrade replied gently, placing a hand on one of Sherlock's hunched shoulders. Sherlock flinched slightly but surprisingly relaxed into the touch. He was inexplicably glad that Lestrade was staying, he didn't understand why though, he was Sherlock Holmes and he thrived on solitude. But he did feel slightly more relaxed in the knowledge that he was not going to be alone. Sherlock decided not to dwell on it, if he did he might find that he didn't like what he found.
Suddenly the hand left his shoulder and for a moment Sherlock felt incredibly alone, causing a shiver to make its way down his spine. There was the sound of someone rummaging through paper, and then Lestrade started speaking in his gruff voice. "Double homicide, August 2011." A faint smile made its way onto Sherlock's lips. Cold cases.