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.
.
.
Memories - Hospital Part 3
Later that night, John was woken repeatedly by Sherlock moaning in his sleep, he had been restless for almost an hour at that point.
It was half passed three in the morning and they all had slept most of the day, more or less with the help of pain medication or the sheer exhaustion caused by their injuries, or in Mycroft's case the aftermath of anaesthesia.
The older Holmes had woken several times during the evening but was quite out of it.
John decided he needed a bathroom break and began the painful process of shifting into the wheelchair. He could of course call for the nurse, but he needed something to do anyway.
.
When he came back Sherlock was tossing and turning on the bed, his face a grimace.
"Sherlock? Hey? Can you hear me?" John tried to guide the wheelchair over to his friend's bed, but he was slow and moving the wheels without hurting his hands was difficult.
"Stop touching me!"
"No one is touching you. I am not even there, yet. Open your eyes."
Sherlock blinked and frowned in some internal puzzlement, but kept his eyes closed. John knew that expression, he was trying to figure something out and the dim night time lights were still too bright for him. The medications were pushing his hypersensitive perception into the roof, causing him additional pain.
"Mate, what's happening?"
Maybe talking would chase away the drug induced horrors Sherlock was undoubtedly still experiencing.
"Hey, I know this feels bad, so just talk to me. Get out of your head. Then I can explain to you what is not real."
Instead of telling John what nonsense he had just uttered, Sherlock was silent for a moment.
"Fire, there was 'ire," he then muttered.
John hesitated before he answered, but before he could speak, the other man continued.
"The smell!... Mycroft was hurt... Mummy wascreaming."
John closed his eyes for a moment.
The first two utterances fitted the recent events quite well, but the third made clear this might actually be about the fire in his youth.
Thing was, it all sounded quite real. Reassuring Sherlock he had dreamt or his mind had run wild while he was drifting was pointless. The doctor felt quite helpless for a moment.
Then something else hit him.
Where the Holmes parents safe?
They didn't even know their third child was alive, did they?
Would she go after them, too?
Clumsily, Sherlock pressed his flat hands against his temples, making a noise of agitation and frustration, the IV tube stretched dangerously because a loop was caught under Sherlock's shoulder.
The fact that the other man didn't even seem to notice made John switch into doctor mode again. He guided the wheelchair as close to Sherlock's bedside as he could, lacquered metals collided with a soft clunk and stopped the movement.
He stood up and lowered the side rail of the other man's bed, then freed the tube.
Sherlock flinched and his eyes opened briefly when he heard the noises and felt the foreign movement.
His hands jerked into a defensive stance and the former surgeon wondered how conscious Sherlock really was.
Was he aware what was happening?
"Easy," John soothed but didn't touch his friend.
For any child, the memory of the own mother screaming or crying was a very distressing and bad memory. John's impulse was to ask Sherlock more about it, but then he decided it was enough for one night. He made a mental note to later ask Mycroft if Sherlock had been hurt back then, too.
"Hey, don't try to force those memories, it will do you no good!"
"Mike? Wh's he?"
"He's right here, next to you in the other bed. He will fully recover, few broken ribs, nothing that won't heal. We were lucky."
The detective tried to shift in the bed and John saw the pain lines in his face deepen.
"Can you open your eyes for me for a moment?"
"Wha' for?"
"I need to see if we are we on the same page here?"
"Which book?"
"No, Sherlock. I meant are you even fully conscious? Do you know where you are?"
"'ospital."
"Year?"
There was only a grunt as an answer and John reminded himself to be careful, traumatic memories could cause situations to go downhill fast.
"You remember the fire in Musgrave hall or/and the one in Baker Street?"
"Mem'ry of 221b 's fine... Musgrave still jus' glimpses. Bein' drugged seems to jog my mem'ries... Not in a pleasant way, though," Sherlock's voice was hard to understand but slowly getting clearer.
"Really?"
"Happened when Mary knocked 'e out before she left for... wherever... Morrocco?... Yes, Morrocco... I remembered the song then, although I didn't know what it was. When I sat at the Thames with Eurus, thinking she was Culverton's daughter... I..." he hesitated.
"What?"
"I... kind of... I felt... 't wasn't nice."
This remark actually made John tense up. Sherlock stammering wasn't normal, not even half drugged and in pain.
Also, what had happened while John had neglected his best friend, shoved him away in his grief was still a great source of shame he only hesitantly approached. The guilt he felt about it was still so intense he doubted he'd ever get over it.
"What happened there, Sherlock?" he asked carefully.
The other man's eyes closed even tighter than they were already.
"I... had a minor episode of... weakness."
"You collapsed while out there with her?" John tried to translate.
They had spoken about the meeting in detail recently, but of course Sherlock had left that part out, had only concentrated on his sister.
"Yes, I might have overdone... it a bit. No sleep in days, little food, walked all night..."
At a loss what he could possibly say to this, John kept his silence.
"She was kind, not the monster Mycroft said she was in her childhood... But she probably just learned how to... do things more... careful over time... I wonder why she did that."
"Yeah, let's find that out later. So, when in a bit of stress and drugged memories came back to you?"
"Apparently... My mind seems able to ream some areas of subconscious memories... or the restraints I put on them were released by the drugs... or the pain..."
His friend's features relaxed a bit.
"Has this happened before or just on those three occasions?"
There was a long pause and John wondered if his friend had dozed off again, but then he finally spoke.
"When Mary shot me... I saw Redbeard in the mind palace... He was there with me... I... I need to remember... " Sherlock's voice was getting worse, no more than a hoarse whisper.
"Did they... intubate me?"
"No. But you're suffering from a mild case of smoke inhalation. Also, you were screaming earlier.
"What?"
Sherlock actually opened his eyes in disbelief, disgust was clearly evident on his face and John decided not to dwell on that.
"Any chance there were any dangerous chemicals burning in Baker Street? You need to tell me," the doctor immediately changed topics.
"No... all safe in the new storage unit," Sherlock explained with a grunt, closing his eyes against the dim fluorescent light that was obviously irritating him.
When Sherlock had left a wounded Mycroft in his care on the landing, John had been surprised for a moment, expecting his friend to hover and find out how his brother was. But the detective went into the kitchen to make sure nothing dangerous was leaking, then killed the flames.
A few weeks ago, Sherlock had brought a safe storage unit for his chemicals when Rosie had shown the first signs of trying to crawl. It had really touched John when he was presented with it.
Only now Sherlock realised something was on his face. With clumsy fingers he tried to get the nasal prongs off.
His eyes were still closed and he was quite uncoordinated, but at least Sherlock now made a bit more sense again, which eased John enormously.
Gently he caught his best friends hands, stilling them.
"Don't. You need that."
With odd movements and slightly shaking fingers, Sherlock started to explore the form of the tube and followed it around his ears, even though John still held his wrist.
"Sherlock, to be honest I am not sure you are actually completely with me," the doctor stated, wondering if this was Sherlock running on autopilot.
With the tip of his forefinger, Sherlock unhooked the oxygen tube from his ear.
"Leave the oxygen alone and try to get some more sleep."
The doctor slowly tucked the tube back into position with his free hand, but didn't let go of Sherlock's limb.
"Hmn... Tight. Hurts."
Seeing his best friend in this much pain was difficult for John. The burns alone were probably mind-wrecking. Sherlock's pain tolerance was amazing, as was his ability to ignore it. The factor that the only thing he complained about was the oxygen tube, was a sign it was all too much, though.
"Alright. Let me loosen that a bit. Sorry, bit clumsy with those bandages."
He moved the slide bolo and adjusted the width to make it more comfortable.
Sherlock's breathing changed a few moments later and John understood he was drifting off.
He waited for almost three minutes and watched the monitors to make sure his friend really was slipping into sleep and staying there.
Finally, he limped back over to his bed, leaving the wheelchair in the middle of the room. It was quite a bit of work until John was back on his bed and when he was, sleep eluded him.
Half an hour later the night nurse came in and offered him some sleep aid, which he took gratefully.
.
The first day was quite horrible.
Mycroft was suffering quietly, or maybe he was just out of it because he was drugged up to the gills with the good stuff. He spent most of the day asleep.
Sherlock on the other hand was not receiving that luxury, he was in pain and miserable. Although he tried to hide it, there were moments were John heard him gasp and saw him fight tears of pain when he tried to shift position on the bed.
All John's tries to comfort him, talk or keep him busy were viciously cut off.
Sherlock refused to speak, turned away from him or kept his eyes closed, shutting out the world, to the mounting worry of the doctors and nurses.
Nothing really happened.
They were all unnerved, in pain and no one was eager to talk.
The boredom was just interrupted by more tests, more meds and more poking and prodding.
The fact that Sherlock was not constantly complaining about being bored said a lot about how bad he was. Not once did he even try to sit or use his laptop, but he didn't sleep either.
.
The complete next day passed without Sherlock taking part in anything that was happening around him.
Finally, in the late evening of the next day, Sherlock showed some activity and tried to work on his tablet computer, which didn't improve his mood but eased the mind of everyone else.
Sitting up caused too much pain and he gave up soon, but at least he had tried, which eased John's mind a bit.
But the gloomy atmosphere in the hospital room made the air thick with worry and overall quite depressive.
Additionally the doctors were worried because Sherlock was not healing as he should, so they pumped him full of essential nutrients via IV. Because – of course – he didn't even try to eat.
Overall he seemed to block everyone out. He neither cooperated with the nurses, doctors, nor with John. Remained in his own private bubble of pain and shock, or spent all day in his mind palace, trying to retrieve childhood memories.
Mycroft's recovery was proceeding way better, but he was in a good state of health to begin with.
When night time came John considered taking the offered sleep aid again, but then left it standing on his bedside table.
The detective had barely slept in the past 24 hours and it was getting to him.
Exhaustion and the bad dreams he even suffered when he slipped into a light doze made sleep a horror trip.
An hour after midnight Sherlock finally fell asleep.
John started his going-to-bed ritual, happy that he finally was able to do most of the routine alone, except shaving. He had a two-day-old beard but didn't care.
His roommates didn't look much different, the stubble made Sherlock look a lot younger and suited him, but it wasn't that flattering on the older Holmes.
John used gloves to keep the bandages dry when he carefully washed and brushed his teeth. Every movement had to be executed slowly and by his least wounded fingers.
A few minutes later the doctor returned to their room, made sure the brothers' vitals were fine out of habit and that Sherlock had in fact drifted off.
As silent as John could he put up the left side tuck-away side rails of Sherlock's bed that had been lowered during the day.
.
The night was bad and John had no sleep at all.
Twice, the nurses had to come in because Sherlock ripped off wires in his agitation.
The detective could never remember what he had dreamt of when he came out of his distressing doze, but at least he could be woken easily.
In the morning the detective was soaked in sweat and close to losing it.
"I need to remember!" he yelled at John and Mycroft after the nurse woke them up. "So tell me what happened, or give me some drugs so I can explore my subconscious memories on my own once more."
"Even if I would consider that, now is not the right time, you are exhausted, out of your mind from sleep deprivation and in no state at all to do such a thing right now."
"For God's sake! I need to remember, I can't do this any longer."
"John, could you please drug my brother into oblivion so that we can get some sleep? His agitation is interfering with my recovery," Mycroft begged, in his typical siblings-quarrelling-tone.
"No."
"What do you mean, no? He asked for it," it was clear from this voice that the British government's patience was wearing thin.
"He did, that's actually why I am not sure it's a good idea."
Mycroft sighed, "Agreed."
"Stop talking about me as if I weren't in the room!" Sherlock yelled and threw a glass filled with water against the opposite wall. Other items from his bedside table followed.
"Get me some of that dreadful ketamine!"
"Nope, not happening. You yourself said it was a really bad trip you had from that."
"Don't you understand? That is actually the point!"
"Calm down, mate," John tried, getting out of bed.
"Then I need to try something else. Surely there is somebody on staff in a MI6 facility that is qualified in hypnotising me and allowing me to enter my subconsciousness that way?" Sherlock suggested, his voice a bit calmer now.
"No," Mycroft stated, lifting the head of his bed with the remote.
"What? Really? I can't believe..."
"I meant I will not allow it, Sherlock! This thing almost destroyed you as a child. I can't allow you to go in there digging around ruthlessly. You need to proceed with caution, this could turn out very damaging. I will not rush things concerning this, and especially not as long as you are not fully recovered from the drugs and from your injuries."
With worry, John noticed that both siblings' vitals were showing their worked up state.
Maybe it had been a bad idea that they had to stay together in one room. For both brothers having separate rooms would aid in their recovery.
"Ridiculous, I am fine!" the detective turned on his side so once more they could only see his back.
"We hear how fine you are every night," Mycroft deadpanned.
"What?" Sherlock spat, curled up and sulking.
"I am referring to your nightmares, Sherlock. They are almost as bad as after our house burned down!"
"Then tell me what happened, for god's sake, so my mind can rest!" Sherlock yelled over his shoulder.
Finally Dr Welsh entered, the loud voices must have carried down the corridor of the otherwise quiet hallway, although the facility was exceptionally good when it came to soundproofing.
She ended the interruption of ward peace by giving Sherlock what seemed to be a fast acting sleep aid that was safe to use in his condition.
To everyone's surprise Sherlock – without fighting the drug or even recognising he had been given something, which must be a first – fell asleep within a few minutes.
"I think he has suffered enough for one day. Don't worry, he won't trip from it and it won't jog his memories. It's a fairly new drug, not available on to the public yet, but the results on patients with his issues are promising."
"With his issues?" John echoed while his eyes widened, not fond of the idea.
He frowned, but the result was in fact positive - at least at first glance.
"Shit, what did you give him?
"Nothing like a classic sleep inducing drug, therefore almost free of nasty side effects. I give you a hint: among other active ingredients, this contains melatonin."
"Really? You need to give us a prescription for that," John joked, baffled by the approach of using something that contained a sleep hormone, and relieved that it obviously hadn't been a classical sedative.
"Can't do. Not 'official' yet."
"Eurgh," John moaned, theatrically.
"I'll see what I can do," it came from the other bed. "Cancel breakfast, please. We need to sleep after this hell of a night," Mycroft added in a dry tone.
John sighed and just nodded.
Dr Welsh saw the point and actually arranged that they could sleep uninterrupted until late afternoon, which was a blessing.
.
.
A/N:
This might contain medical inaccuracies, I am not a doctor.
.
Sorry if I ask this, but... I published a chapter about Sherlock trying to retrieve his childhood memories of Eurus by using a breath work technique.
But the responses were kind of negative, at least I concluded that from the lack of feedback/reviews.
Or maybe there was a malfunction on FF and you guys wrote tons of reviews which I didn't receive?
Or you weren't even notified there was a new chapter?
I myself had that problem repeatedly with stories I have on my story alert list and with reviews I had written for other authors.
Whatever, I had three chapters planned written about Sherlock trying to recover more traumatic memories, but I won't publish it again, unless you explicitly ask me to.
If it was horrible I don't want to torture you with bad chapters.
So, in case there was a malfunction, tell me.
.
Constructive criticism welcome.
