A Gut-Wrenching Experience, Part Fourteen: A Regrettable Loss Of Control
Sherlock opened the cartons and spread the various tasty morsels on the hospital tray table. "They actually forgot to give me chopsticks, so I'm afraid your skills with those will not be tested tonight. You'll have to get by with a flimsy plastic fork, I'm afraid. Or your fingers."
This was a blatant lie; the woman at the counter had offered two sets of the usual disposable bamboo chopsticks. Sherlock had declined, thinking of what might happen if John did try to use them. He'd just laugh it off, no doubt, but he doesn't need any reminders of his weakness and clumsiness. A small voice inside him, easily ignored, told his that John would handle it just fine… that it was Sherlock who would find the evidence of his friend's further deterioration too painful to witness.
His earlier breakdown had shaken him. He was unable to remember the last time he had been so completely overwhelmed by the consequences of something that he'd done. He knew that he hated to be mistaken, hated to be caught in an error, hated the thought of others looking at him with that mixture of blame and sympathy that he'd seen directed at those who had failed in some way. He couldn't take that. Therefore, the solution was simple: neither John nor anyone else could ever know about Sherlock's unwitting role in his friend's illness.
Knowing the source of the infection wouldn't help John's doctors treat him. In fact, Sherlock rationalised, knowing the truth could damage John emotionally at a crucial time when he needed to focus all of his energy in getting well. No one else would be at risk, since the offending bacteria had long been banished from the flat.
So he had pulled himself together, vowed to do whatever he could to be helpful to John during his treatment and recovery, and consciously stuffed the chicken-wing incident into the most murky recesses of his mental files. He didn't quite dare delete it entirely until his friend's health issues were completely resolved – what if his reasoning was somehow flawed? But he earnestly tried to pack it away where it couldn't consciously surface and make him feel sick every time he thought of John's illness.
John appeared to be properly appreciative of the selection of dim sum arranged in front of him, and the two of them munched away for a while. Sherlock only ate a few pieces but John demonstrated a good appetite. He interspersed updates on his condition between bites.
"Spinal fluid came back consistent with Guillain-Barre. So they started me on the IVIG infusion this afternoon." He indicated the IV pole standing by his bed. "It'll run part of the night, then they'll most likely do it again tomorrow. After that, it depends on how quickly I respond." He opened another container. "Hey, you got all my favourites! Anyway… PFTs, that's pulmonary function tests, to measure my breathing strength, they'll do those daily. Today's were pretty good, only a little down from normal."
Finally, he sat back on the bed and belched heartily. "Whoops. Oh, well, one's allowed to belch in hospital, right?" He patted his over-full stomach. "There's a fridge down the hall where patients and family can store food from the outside world, if you don't mind packing up the leftovers."
"Not at all." Sherlock stood up and started to herd the remaining pork shu mei, char su bao, steamed meatballs, and lotus leaf sticky rice into the takeaway boxes. "I could take it all back with me tonight, but of course you might want it for a snack."
"I was hoping you'd hang around for a while, anyway. Sarah brought me what must be her entire collection of DVDs, and I've been watching some on my computer. I thought maybe… hey, what did you do to your hand?" John used his plastic fork to point at the clumsy bandage on Sherlock's hand.
There was a split-second of pure blank terror in his mind, when he realized that he had forgotten to come up with a cover story. The simple truth was that he was no longer accustomed to lying to John. The rest of the world… for those people, he lied as easily as breathing, just like he'd done for his entire life. But most of the time he could be honest with his flat-mate.
Tell the truth… or part of it, anyway.
"It's nothing," he demurred, knowing that too quick an answer would only raise John's suspicions.
"Sherlock," John growled. "Your hand is bandaged – and it's clearly a half-arsed job that you did on yourself – you're having trouble moving it, and there's dried blood soaking through. It's something. And you're not the only person in the world who's observant."
"It's a minor injury. It will heal without problem." He finished packing up the leftover dim sum, somewhat awkwardly, and closed the containers.
"It's your right hand, and the blood is coming from the skin of your MP joints – your knuckles. Did you hit someone?"
He sat back down in the guest armchair, trying his best to radiate an air of uncertainty and embarrassment. "I hit… something."
"What?" John's expression was tinged with both exasperation and fondness.
"A wall."
"A wall… you bloody idiot. Why… oh, just give it here."
Sherlock slowly proffered his hand, feigning reluctance. Even weakened by the disease, John's touch was sure as he peeled away the tape and gauze to reveal the injuries. He whistled softly at the sight of the bruised and swollen knuckles, the split skin. "Ouch. Okay, does it hurt here? Here? Not much? Now make a fist… can you straighten this finger?"
John worked his way around the injured hand, finally studying the cuts. "Did you wash these out? Thoroughly?"
"Yes."
John sighed. "I don't have any supplies to re-bandage this, but it looks like the bleeding has stopped, and nothing seems broken." He didn't let go of his friend's hand. "Sherlock, why did you punch a wall? Were you that angry?" Dark blue eyes searched Sherlock's own, and he found he couldn't meet that warm and worried gaze. He looked down at his hand instead.
"Frustrated would be closer to the mark." He swallowed. "And worried."
He felt John's fingers close around his, very, very gently. "Oh, Sherlock… don't be an idiot. How does you punching a wall and nearly breaking your hand help me get better?"
Tears stung his eyes. He could have produced them on purpose, to support his altered version of his story, but these welled up on their own. Apparently he was still a bit off-balance from earlier today. "It doesn't," he ended up murmuring, almost whispering. "It was … a regrettable loss of control."
"You do have your moments of humanity, don't you," said John quietly.
"I try not to," whispered Sherlock. To his horror, he felt his eyes overflow, felt the tears run silently down. He ducked his head, wiped at his face with his good hand. I need to stop this, now, or John is going to probe more deeply. He took a deep breath.
"I'll… just take this down the corridor to the fridge that you were talking about." He motioned toward the food.
"Leave it, Sherlock. It's fine for now." With an effort, John used his free hand to shove away the rolling tray table so that it was positioned over the foot of the bed. "Just come over here and sit for a moment, all right?" He tugged on Sherlock's fingers.
He got up out of the armchair and sat down gingerly on the hospital bed. John finally let go of his hand, but instead reached up with his thumb to brush a tear off of his cheek. He stiffened slightly at the touch.
"Stop worrying so much about being in 'control' all of the time, Sherlock, or you're going to explode someday."
He forced himself to smile. "That would be messy."
"Yes. And most unfortunate. You see, I would prefer you intact and unexploded." John sat all the way up, with obvious effort, then surprised Sherlock down to his toes by leaning forward and hugging him with a surprising amount of strength. "Don't hurt yourself for me, mate. Just … be around to help me, yeah?"
The hug was warm but brief; Sherlock barely had time to hesitantly lift his own arms and tuck them around his friend before John released him.
"Now go put those leftovers away, and let's sort through this pile of movies."
oOo oOo oOo oOo oOo
He was already lightly drowsing, musing over the events of the evening, when the nurse came by to take his vitals at ten o' clock.
Sherlock had stayed a little longer after their conversation about his bruised and bleeding knuckles, but he'd clearly been tense and embarrassed by his earlier display of emotion and worry. He'd watched as John displayed the impressive collection of movies, miniseries, and documentaries that Sarah had loaned him – a selection clearly more slanted toward a woman's tastes than a man's, which would have led to some giggling on John's part had they both been feeling less drained – but had begged off on any actual viewing. He'd bid John a quiet good-night and promised to come back in the morning.
"Text me if anything important happens, though." Sherlock had stopped at the door, and fixed it with an unreadable look.
"Does that include the suspenseful surprise ending in Bridget Jones' Diary?" John waved the DVD case in question at his flat-mate.
He'd expected a snarky response, or a least a Sherlock-smirk; instead he saw only a brief, sad smile and a wave of a black-gloved hand. "See you in the morning."
So he'd watched a movie, or most of one; a WWII documentary that was removed enough from his Afghanistan experience to not be painful but accurate and thoughtful enough to engage his brain a bit. As always when he thought about the soldiers and civilians of that era, he felt a sense of awe for what the British people – his people – had accomplished. So much bravery from everyone, he mused, from the airmen to the ground troops to the civilian volunteers… ambulance drivers, code-breakers, all of them. Even the evacuated children were brave. Who am I to be afraid of a little bit of neurologic dysfunction? He felt stronger after watching it, better able to face his own demons.
He smiled at his nurse, Jeannie, when she came in. "Have a nice time with your friend, then?" she asked cheerily, slipping the blood pressure cuff around his around. "We could smell the Chinese food all down the corridor. Much more appetizing than the hospital canteen."
"Yes, lovely, thanks." He tried not to watch as the machine checked his BP and the finger probe checked his oxygen saturations.
"He's quite the handsome fellow, he is. Old school friend?"
He was amused at the hopefulness in her voice. Ah, yes, another conquest for Sherlock. At least she wasn't assuming that they were a couple, unlike most people who encountered them.
"Flat-mate. Totally brilliant, rather mad, and very loyal… but his social skills are a bit on the thin side."
She sighed. "Sounds like my little brother. Good-looking devil, but doesn't know it. Doing university-level maths by the time he was twelve, yet no idea on earth how to ask a girl out. Even now." She frowned at something, and John looked over reflexively at the portable monitor.
"Your oxygen saturations could be better. Take a couple of deep breaths for me." She watched the number, as did John. It had been at 88, and came up briefly to 91 as he breathed deeply. She listened to him with her stethoscope.
"Do you feel short of breath at all?"
He shook his head. "Maybe a little but that's probably psychosomatic now that I've seen my sats." He felt a cold sensation in his stomach. He'd hoped very much to escape any respiratory involvement.
She frowned again. "I think we'd better put you on the sat monitor, at least for the night. And a touch of oxygen wouldn't go amiss." She seemed to see the look on his face, and smiled at him reassuringly. "Just a nasal cannula, just a little bit of oxygen should be enough."
"I don't mind the monitor… but please, could you check with my medical team about the oxygen?"
Now she looked puzzled. "I need to let your doctor know anyway, but why?"
"I've got muscle weakness, not lung disease." He remembered trying to explain these concepts to medical students, way back when. "Look, you're used to putting oxygen on people with pneumonia or… emphysema, for example. They have normal breathing muscles, but their lungs aren't taking in the oxygen properly, so they need extra."
"Right."
"With me… if I start feeling short of oxygen, I'll breathe faster if needed, and eventually start feeling a bit frantic. The thing is, with weak muscles, I'm going to need to breathe faster to get rid of my CO2." He actually was starting to feel short of breath, now that he was talking so much. "The brain senses low levels of oxygen, but not high levels of CO2."
He could see some comprehension dawning on her face. "So if I put oxygen on you…"
"You run the risk of telling my brain that everything's fine, and I slow down my breathing… and then next thing you know my CO2 is through the roof and I crash. A little bit of oxygen probably wouldn't do that, but it's a risk I'd rather not take while I'm asleep." He tried his winning smile again. "Go discuss it with whoever's on call for me, and make sure to bring up all these angles, and you'll impress the heck out of that doctor."
She checked his other vitals (heart rate slightly elevated, whether from anxiety, his illness, or Jeannie's pretty face and clean scent, he wasn't sure; temp normal, BP normal) and went out of the room to make the phone call. In a few minutes she was back.
"You're absolutely right. Dr. Philpott said to just go with the monitor for now. We'll have to set it to alarm at 85%; if that happens we'll need to wake you up and check you out." She looked at him rather seriously. "She mentioned CPAP as a possibility if you needed it."
He nodded. That was the logical next move, often used nowadays in cases of mild-to-moderate weakness of the breathing muscles. It would still allow him to speak and eat, and wouldn't be too horribly uncomfortable, but he still hoped to avoid it as long as possible.
"Let's hope I don't."
She hooked him up to the sat monitor. "I hope it doesn't give you false alarms all night. You need your sleep."
"Sherlock, my flat-mate, plays his violin all night. I sleep through that, mostly. A bit of beeping won't be a problem."
"Do you want help getting up into the bathroom, while I'm here?"
He tried not to sigh at the indignity of it, but realized he probably would need her help. Sure enough, getting out of bed this time required her steadying hand under his elbow. She supported him and expertly guided him and his IV pole into the bathroom, and reversed the process when he emerged.
Having settled him back comfortably into the bell, with both the call button and his mobile phone easily in reach, she tucked the blankets around him. "There. Take deep breaths, and call me if you need anything." She dimpled at him. "And thanks so much for the little refresher course. You were right; Dr. Philpott was very impressed."