Pain Management 2

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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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The Hospital - Part 2

They had made it into the hall and almost halfway down when John noticed that Sherlock was starting to become restless on his bed that was pushed down the hall in front of John. Mycroft's bed was the first in the row but was way down the hall already.

A few seconds later all hell broke loose when someone started to scream.

The bed caravan came to an abrupt halt.

It was more a screech really and John needed a moment to realise it must be Sherlock, which he only understood because people hurried over to his bed and tried to figure out what was happening.

Shit.

This didn't sound like his friend, this sounded like a panicked child, out of his mind in fear.

"Has he been given something to counteract the ketamine aftermath?" John asked Dr Meril when she passed him.

"Yes, but we could top that up a bit now. Pain killer is probably wearing off, too."

"Do it."

"I will top up both. Don't get up," the other doctor hurried to the detective's side but John ignored her and tried to move the bulky wheelchair on his own. The nurse who had pushed him had joined the others at Sherlock's bedside since he had started to struggle with his duvet and the hands that tried to calm him.

Right when he wondered how much damage he'd do to his hands by trying to wheel himself to his friend's bedside, another nurse appeared behind him and was grabbing his upper arm.

"Stay put, I'll bring you over," he offered and John thanked whatever deity there was for the understanding these people were showing.

The detective was surrounded by people now, who tried to calm him and keep him on the bed, but to no avail.

The state of the art hospital bed was rattling by the movements of the detective, he was clearly not aware what was happening.

"Mike?... Mike?" Sherlock yelled in panic.

"Make room, please," John addressed the medical personnel.

The staff allowed him to roll close to the bed.

"Sherlock, listen to me!"

But his friend didn't seem to hear him, still frantically tried to get off the bed on the other side.

Gentle hands hindered him and rolled him back onto the bedding but otherwise the staff tried not to touch him.

John stood up, cursing internally. Many times before his sheer presence or voice had been enough to bring Sherlock out of bad episodes. The doctor realised he had kind of started to rely on that.

"Mikemikemikemikemike?"

Sherlock's desperate cries echoed down the hall and gave John goose bumps.

"He's fine, mate. He's just out for the count."

There was so much panic and pain in the voice John was sure his friend was beyond talking down.

He reached out, carefully touched Sherlock's shoulder.

... And Sherlock went berserk, screeching and trying to get away.

"Hey mate, listen to me," John tried again.

There was no sign of recognition but he continued.

"Sherlock! Can you tell me what's happening? Come on. What's stressing you out?"

When his friend tried to get past the nurses and out of the bed, several hands reached out to prevent a fall.

It was as if an adrenaline rush was giving Sherlock extra strength, although – since he was very weak overall – it wasn't getting him anywhere.

"Alright people. Touching him is making things worse, probably because in his half conscious state he associates it with the torture he has been through about two years ago. The burns probably are hurting like hell now, which adds to the problem. We need to keep him still without touching him," Dr Welsh stated loudly.

"Mike... Mike...Mike..."

The calls became monotone, which was not really a good sign.

Sherlock's hand had formed fists and they opened and closed, clinging to the bed sheets. He still continued to call out for his brother, but his voice was getting hoarse.

"Get me a fair dose of that anti-anxiety drug recommended in his file, and add a good dose of the painkiller," Dr Webber ordered from the other side of the hallway and one of the nurses hurried away. "As soon as the meds are in, we let go of him and restrain him with the linens."

To John's sorrow, the only thing he could do was watch. He stared down at his friend, who was shaking and weakly trying to escape them, jerking his head this way and that, but hadn't had the strength left to even lift his torso or sit up.

"Hey, Sherlock, calm down. It's alright. You're gonna be fine," he tried to soothe.

But it did nothing for the detective, it was as if he had turned deaf and blind to the real world.

Sherlock's empty gaze scampered through the hallway, seeing nothing. His breathing was coming in short gasps and he was trying to shake invisible hands.

Another wordless scream echoed down the corridor, this time Sherlock sounded like a man.

"Sherlock!" John yelled, trying to make himself heard.

When Sherlock ran out of air, John addressed him again, loud and clear.

"Hey, mate! Come on," John raised his voice.

"Mikemikemike?" the words had turned into a whisper.

The former army surgeon recognised this tone of voice well; he had heard it from several patients in the course of his career.

He was sure his friend wasn't really conscious, his drugged mind running wild and on instinct, driven by fear and horrors only he could sense.

And the ketamine intensified all the negative feelings and sensations, pushed him unwillingly into amok mode while temporarily erasing most of his intellect.

There was no use in trying to reason with his friend, Sherlock couldn't really process anything in this condition, but he would hopefully also not remember anything later.

"Mate, you need to calm down. Look at me!" he tried nevertheless.

The detective continued to try to shake something off, then started to rock his torso back and forth. His movements were probably immensely intensifying the pain his injuries caused, which fuelled his anguish profoundly.

Then the nurse returned, armed with a syringe.

She pushed the substance into Sherlock's bloodstream while an orderly tried to hold the man's arm still.

"We'll try this, but make sure not to put any pressure on his lower legs, where the burns are... Alright, guys. Now, lower the side rails, grab the sheets and lift them high," she ordered and three nurses and two orderlies nodded and started to follow her instructions.

"Stretch them out in the air over him, tight. Lower them down on him and pin him down by tugging them under the mattress," she ordered.

The movements happened so fast John had barely time to blink.

They had Sherlock pinned down gently after only a few seconds.

"Wow. Where did you learn that?" John asked.

"Nowhere, but he was a bit agitated before, then we put him in the immobiliser for the scan and it kind of calmed him immensely... So,... this is just me improvising."

Sherlock's movements slowed down, the drugs and the gentle restraining taking effect.

Within just a minute Sherlock's resistance flagged, he slowly relaxed and his eyes drooped.

"I think we should keep going," one of the nurses urged.

When they started to push the bed further down the hall, John remembered just in time that putting weight on his ankle was not the best option and limped back to the wheelchair.

"God, I need some crutches," he cursed, then remembered that his hands were not in any state to carry his weight any time soon.

By the time they reached the room, the drug had done its full work, made Sherlock docile and relaxed, all anxiety chemically blown away.

Although the detective seemed conscious, his glassy and empty eyes spoke volumes about the state of his mind.

It made John cringe to see him like this.

The lost and sorrowful look reminded him too much of Sherlock on the ground in the mortuary, wounded and lost in desperation.

Remembering what he had done to his best friend still caused nausea in the doctor and although he thought he deserved to suffer from these memories, he didn't need to lose it with a handful of doctors and medical staff present.

The nurses connected Sherlock and Mycroft to the stationary equipment that would monitor their respiration, heart rate, temperature and blood pressure.

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It took almost thirty minutes until they were settled.

Mycroft woke up during the process, obviously not happy about the state he was in, but his first conscious thought seemed to be his little brother, which amazed John, who moved over to the older Holmes' bed as soon as he had uttered an weak and hoarse, "Sherlock?"

"He's being a bit difficult, but he'll be fine," John assured him.

"Was he... screaming earlier?"

"Yeah, he was agitated. He's been taken care of. Relax, Mycroft. They operated on you and you need some rest. You'll be fine."

When the older Holmes took a shaking breath to argue, John held up a hand.

"Don't get agitated, it might worsen your state. Just relax. I mean it Mycroft!"

"I don't do... agitated," Mycroft protested weakly.

John just rolled his eyes. There were so many things in which the siblings were so very similar.

"Yeah, right."

"Excuse me, but we need to check him over," the head nurse interrupted their conversation, "And I want you in your own bed, Dr Watson. You were injured, too. You too need rest."

John watched them give Mycroft potent pain medication that made him quite sleepy.

A few moments later the British Government was out.

Looking weak, damaged and vulnerable like the average human being would in his state.

John had never seen Mycroft like this before, it was ghastly.

As was the memory of Mycroft recollecting the things Eurus had done in their childhood a few hours ago.

This all felt so very wrong.

John needed to check on Sherlock again himself, even if he felt dizzy and shaky. He reassured his now also sleeping best friend – in calming words – that Mycroft was alright and that he would be too. Then he stroked his hair back, the burned smell of their home was still quite present.

John frowned.

They needed to take care of that. The smell was probably quite intense from Sherlock's point of view, might cause him to get agitated again. Better nip that in the bud.

The doctor made a mental note to inform the nurses about this as soon as possible.

His knees felt suddenly weak.

He had kept his cool until now, but the events of the day hit him full force and he realised that he wouldn't manage to stay on his feet for much longer.

Accompanied by a rising amount of vertigo he climbed into his own bed, shivering from exhaustion.

Somebody covered him with a duvet and with a hint of embarrassment he realised that he had forgotten that.

There was something he needed to tell them.

But sleep's tug was so strong he couldn't have fought it if he had wanted to.

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A/N:

I am sorry if my English is a bit bumpy sometimes, I hope you can ignore my grammar mistakes.

I am not a native speaker and writing in a foreign language I don't have the chance to actually speak is difficult.

Constructive criticism and feedback welcome.

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I can't believe I acutally did this, but I started to draw again.

If you want to check it out, it's in my AO3 account (same username)

or on deviantart:

username: theceruleanfeline

There is not much there jet, just a few pieces of fanart for It takes John Watson to save your life by Ernil i Pheriannath.