Chapter 11: Trying Again
This time waking Sherlock up would be done differently. John had asked Esther Cohen about what needed to be done to lower sensory stimuli to the bare minimum. "Do it at night, keep the lights off, except for the bare minimum to see what you are doing. Turn the air conditioning off, open a window. Keep the corridors empty, dark and the nursing staff as far away as possible. Turn the machines off unless they are absolutely vital, and those shouldn't have any audio- no beeps, whirrs or clicks. Limit the number of people in the room; ideally just you- because he's used to your scent and trusts you. Let him keep his eyes shut for however long he wants to; has to be his choice. Actually, come to think of it, it would be best to change the sheets on his bed to at least a five hundred thread count, hundred per cent cotton. And either ditch the hospital gown completely or get something in silk for him to wear. It's hard to imagine, but when he's in this state, wearing clothes actually hurts. "
She thought a bit, then continued, "Don't touch him at all. Speak in the softest voice you can without whispering and keep it very simple. Let him initiate conversation. Above all else, given what happened last time, let him make the decisions. Use a patient controlled analgesia unit. If he uses it to send himself back under, then so be it."
He followed her instructions to the letter. At half past midnight, he was ready. Esther Cohen and Robert Toulson agreed to keep their distance; they were in the briefing room, watching what was going on through CCTV footage. He'd been on the oxygen mask for 12 hours, then 2 hours on and 2 hours off for another 8, then it had been replaced by a nasal cannula. For the first time since John had laid eyes on Sherlock in the trauma room over a week ago, his friend now looked ...like Sherlock, rather than a critically injured patient.
John closed off the anaesthetic IV feed and switched on the PCA. He controlled the dose, lowering it slowly in increments every three minutes, keeping an eye on the single battery powered monitor, which displayed pulse, blood pressure and oxygen saturation levels. No sounds, just a digital display of the numbers. He'd called in a favour with some military people; treatment sometimes needed to be silent in battle conditions. The rest of the equipment in the room had been switched off, even the air conditioning. A window was opened slightly to let in night air.
Sufentanil is really quick acting and short lived, so altering the dose brought about a change quickly. After six minutes Sherlock's pulse picked up, and his breathing became shallower. John cut back the drug a bit more. Sherlock's thumb on his right hand twitched, and his head turned slightly to the right, where John was seated, waiting. A ragged breath and a wince of pain, but nothing more.
"John?" It was hardly more than a whisper. His voice was croaky, and it sounded like he had phlegm in his throat.
"I'm here, Sherlock." He didn't say anything more, and just waited. He hoped he wouldn't need to use suction to clear the phlegm.
Sherlock coughed and then groaned. "Hurts…"
"I know. There's something you can do about it. I'm handing you a control, just push it if you want some pain relief." He pushed the PCA control into Sherlock's right hand, and was relieved to see his friend's fingers curl around it, and a decisive push given to the button. He had set the parameters earlier to stop dispensing if Sherlock wanted too much, but the machine would not indicate anything other than it was responding, relying on the placebo effect.
Sherlock's breathing steadied. He didn't open his eyes, but his voice sounded stronger when he asked quietly, "Where are we?"
"Deduce it."
That brought the tiniest of smiles to the right side of Sherlock's mouth. In short whispers, he answered. "Not a hospital… too quiet; a clinic? Yes, private facility ….where else would let me have sheets like these? …somewhere out of London."
"How'd you figure that last bit out?" John asked, a little surprised.
"No traffic sounds. …window's open and I can smell grass, leaf mold, damp earth…besides, Mycroft will want me out of the way."
This made John smile. "Well, you haven't missed anything this time."
Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, and John found himself smiling into those grey green irises. Just slight pupil constriction, he's got the pain under control now at a low enough dose.
"My mouth's really dry."
John picked up something from the bedside table. "Open up and I can do something about that." He sprayed inside Sherlock's mouth. Before he could even ask, John answered the question: "It's a combination- the drugs, the oxygen and a bit of dehydration."
"What's the damage, doctor?" This was said with a slight air of boredom, as if to minimise what he would have guessed was coming.
"Well, to use your transport analogy, you're off the road, Sherlock. Broken and cracked ribs, pneumonia- that's why it hurts to cough- a lot of nasty bruising to your left lung and right kidney, you were drugged. Do you remember anything?"
Watching the camera feed in the briefing room, Esther shifted in her chair. Was John pushing too fast? Getting Sherlock to remember the traumatic circumstances of his abduction, beating and abuse might trigger distress and push him right back into a shutdown.
"Yeah, but you should see the other guy."
John snorted at that. Sherlock was playing back his own comment that John had made the first time he'd been knocked unconscious by a suspect and taken to hospital with a black eye and concussion.
Then Sherlock's smile faded and dropped off completely. "I think I killed him, John. I'm not sure I checked his pulse before I escaped; things are a bit blurry."
"It was self-defence, Sherlock. His name was Vladimir Kropitkin, a Russian thug from that trafficking ring we caught four months ago." John watched his friend's face, worrying about whether the time was right to raise the subject.
Sherlock was watching John, too. "He wasn't in charge, John. It was Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's sniper."
John drew in a breath. I owe Moran big time for both of us then, next time I meet the bastard. "So, did you tell Moriarty to piss off?" The question was posed cautiously.
"Never got the chance." Sherlock coughed again, and this time his forehead creased with pain. John watched as his friend pushed the button on the PCA again. When he had his breathing back under control, Sherlock continued "Moran…I underestimated him. He made sure I missed Moriarty's deadline."
John decided he had to take the chance, the unasked question that had been worrying both him and Esther Cohen. "Sherlock, there were also signs of anal bleeding, and a condom where they found you. I…need to know if we need to keep you on prophylaxis antivirals."
To his immense relief, Sherlock looked him straight in the eyes and smiled. Not exactly appropriate as a reaction, but it will do, John thought.
"I killed the Russian with a dose of cardiac paralytic. I made it on the kitchen table and stored it in an anal cylinder. It was the only thing I could come up with that was likely to escape a full body search." Talking took breath, so he stopped for a moment. "He didn't exactly give me a lot of time to retrieve it, and I had just been given a dose of a narcotic, so I wasn't particularly nimble fingered." He snorted, the smile still on his lips. "You can tell Mycroft to relax, my virtue is still intact."
Back in the conference room, Esther did just that, relaxed back in her chair. She was also marvelling at the scene unfolding on the screen before her. Sherlock, talking directly, honestly, engaging in eye contact and not in any way avoiding the conversation, despite the horrific details. My God, John Watson, you're a bloody miracle worker. What have you done to him?
