Chapter 14: Breaking through the Walls
The journey up to Sherlock's room passed in a blur of white walls and laboured breathing for the two men. Dr. Janssen pushed Sherlock's chair hurriedly through the winding corridors and crowded wards. Sherlock was clasping onto John's jumper as if his life depended on it, causing the doctor to lean over slightly as he speed walked next to his wheel chair. He didn't have the heart to try and release Sherlock's iron like grip so instead he had no choice but to lean over awkwardly making it difficult to get enough air into his lungs. He didn't mind really, he was only mildly out of breath, and if it made Sherlock feel even slightly safer then it was worth it.
It was a weird thought, that clinging onto John might actually make him feel safer. This was Sherlock, the idiot that would fearlessly chase serial killers down alleyways without any backup nearby and without a weapon and would more often than not come out of it triumphant and unscathed. Of course there were occasions where he would be injured and John would have to literally chase him around the flat unto either John or Sherlock were too tired to continue. Usually it was Sherlock who gave up, as this usually occurred at the end of a case, and Sherlock may not have eaten or slept in about five days. Once John had caught him he would patch the childish man up, get him some food and a cup of tea and then berate him for the next half hour about his lack of ability to look after himself.
But it was all different now, different from all the other times that Sherlock had landed himself in hospital. This time it was not his fault, this time it was nobody's fault, he couldn't blame Sherlock's idiocy or some criminal, hell, he couldn't even blame Mycroft. This was all sheer misfortune, misfortune that Sherlock should never have to endure. Normally when Sherlock was in hospital he would sit there, getting angry at everyone and refusing to eat or sleep until eventually they would begrudgingly discharge him because being in hospital was doing him more harm than good. That was when the detective was in a courteous mood, a lot of the time he would get up and leave without telling a soul and nobody would ever notice him go. Even now he managed to leave the hospital unnoticed, but his escape attempt barely got him out the front door. This Sherlock was not the same as the Sherlock of a month ago. He was just as proud and stubborn, but he could no longer hide his weaknesses. The illness and the treatment had managed to battle him into submission and he was left broken and afraid.
It worried John that Sherlock's breathing was still laboured despite the fact that he had an oxygen mask pressed against his face in order to help him breathe. John sincerely hoped that it was simply the stress of the situation causing it and not a side effect of his treatment or, a possibility too terrible to even entertain for a moment, the leukaemia worsening. The detective's eyes kept on flickering shut before flying open again, as if realising he was drifting off. It was probably better for him to stay awake until they managed to get him back into his hospital gown and into bed. His head lolled forwards uncomfortably but he did nothing to try and right it, it was too much effort to fix it.
After what felt like an eternity they made it back up to Sherlock's room where a nurse seemed to appear out of nowhere. John, with some effort, managed to pry Sherlock's grip from his jumper and the utter look of betrayal Sherlock shot him tore cruelly at his heart. It took a lot of effort to simply step back and allow Dr. Janssen and the nurse to take over. They tried asking the detective questions, but he was either ignoring them or couldn't hear them. Instead of replying he just stared, unseeing, at the wall ahead of him. That blank look, it terrified John. Sherlock saw everything, he observed everything, but that look made it seem as if he was unaware of everything going on around him. To say it was unnerving would be an understatement.
He watched as the nurse and Dr. Janssen gently lifted him from the chair onto the bed, with a little coaxing he did change into the hospital gown again. He didn't make any fuss, he didn't insult anyone's intelligence, he just sat there staring straight ahead and pretending that there was nobody there. It was almost as if he had just completely given up, everything that made him Sherlock had just been sucked out of him and John could feel a nervousness bubbling at the bottom of his stomach. When Sherlock was fighting he would not allow the disease to defeat him. But if Sherlock had given up, then the only hope he had was in modern medicine and John did not like those odds at all. Once they had reattached all the wires to a passive and silent Sherlock they pulled the covers over him and reattached the oxygen mask. Almost instantly Sherlock rolled onto his side and drew his knees to his chest away from everyone in the room.
~0~
He knew that there was something happening, but his mind just didn't seem able to focus and he hated it. Each and every one of his bones ached and he could feel his stomach straining to rebel and it took a great deal of concentration to force it into submission. There was movement going on around him, or was he the one moving? It was impossible for him to tell. But John was there, he could tell that, so he grabbed hold of whatever he could and would not let go. John grounded him and let his mind catch up with what was going on around him. But pretty soon Sherlock could feel his friend trying to pull away from him so he grasped harder, hoping that the older man would not leave him, but he was too weak.
Sherlock looked up towards John, hoping he would understand that Sherlock did not want him to leave. He didn't seem to understand because he backed away from Sherlock's wheelchair. Then there were foreign hands on him and he did not like that but he was too exhausted to do anything about it. Since he couldn't stop them he resorted to what he always used to do when he was trapped, he would retreat to his mind palace. It needed sorting anyway, this disease had been wreaking havoc with it and nothing was in the right room anymore. It needed to be sorted before he lost track of where everything was.
~0~
The slight twitching of Sherlock's hands betrayed the fact that he had gone into his mind palace, his eyes were open but he didn't respond to anything that anybody said. He was hiding because he was afraid and his mind palace was the only place which seemed safe to him. John had tried coaxing out of his unresponsive state but each of his attempts had fallen flat and Mrs. Hudson and Molly had simply sat and watched concern for both the detective and the doctor on their faces.
After a while John simply couldn't cope with the silence anymore. He stood up suddenly causing both Mrs. Hudson and Molly to jump in their seats but Sherlock didn't so much as flinch. "I'm sorry; I just need to get out for a couple of hours. I think I'll go speak to Mycroft, find out if we can get him back to the flat any sooner. I don't think that being here is doing him any good mentally."
"On you go John," Molly said, giving him a sad and understanding smile. "We'll wait here until you get back."
"Thank you," he replied gratefully, shrugging his jacket onto his shoulders. He just needed to get out, have a distraction from what was happening even if it was just for a couple of hours. "If he comes out of whatever the hell this is before I get back call me," he said.
"Of course dear," Mrs. Hudson replied, giving his had an affectionate squeeze. He shot her a smile before hurrying out of the door.
~0~
"He could do with a break," Molly commented once John had walked out the door and Mrs. Hudson hummed in agreement.
"They're both as stubborn as each other, just in different ways." The older woman stood up and made her way over to the seat by Sherlock's bedside that John had been occupying.
"You need to let him in Sherlock," she said sadly, stroking his curls out of his eyes. His hair could do with a wash; she should mention that to the nurses. "He wants to help, we all do, but you won't let us and so we don't know how." There was no response, not that she had been expecting one. His hands simply kept on twitching as he sorted out the chaos that was his mind palace. Mrs. Hudson took hold of one of those twitching hands and clasped it in her own. It felt clammy but she held on, hoping that somewhere in the younger man's subconscious it would let him feel cared for.
~0~
Crowds of people bustled around him as he stood stock still in front of the supermarket shelves. The DI had managed to resist downing all of his whisky in on go and had managed to limit himself to two glasses, which had been the perfect amount to send him off to sleep for a couple of hours. He had the day off work, unless something major happened, so he'd decided to go shopping to look for things that Sherlock would be willing to eat and able to keep down. The list of things the self-proclaimed consulting detective was willing to eat under normal circumstances was worryingly short, so he was finding his task somewhat difficult. So far he had a couple of packets of digestives; he'd seen Sherlock singlehandedly destroy a whole pack because he wasn't thinking about it, and a few bottles of Lucozade. The DI was unsure if Sherlock liked the drink but the man did have somewhat of a sweet tooth and it did seem appropriate.
But that had lead Lestrade over to the stacks of newspapers and he managed to glimpse one of the headlines. Nobody was trying to drag Sherlock's name through the mud, they weren't trying to destroy his reputation; it was nothing like that. What had happened was someone had leaked Sherlock condition, in great detail, to the press. And there it was sitting innocently before him in black and white for the whole world to see. Sherlock would hate this if he knew; he'd go into one of his black moods and refuse to eat or sleep for days on end and only accept the occasional cup of tea. No matter what he claimed, he did actually care what people thought of him. He didn't want them to think he was human; he needed to seem invincible and smarter than any of them could ever hope to be. Up until then he'd managed to maintain that illusion, the world could not see him when he was craving a high and the manic behaviour he was prone to. All they saw was the genius detective running around the place apprehending criminals. But now someone had gone and ruined that illusion and it made him angrier than he could possibly imagine. If this information had been leaked by anyone on his team he didn't know if he'd manage to maintain ant semblance of self-control. The DI grabbed three different papers and stormed to the checkout, he needed to get to the hospital.
~0~
It was all Lestrade could do to stop himself from sprinting up to Sherlock's room; he had to force himself down to a fast walk. Ideally he'd wanted to speak to John, the doctor knew Sherlock's brother a lot better than he did and was much better equipped to deal with him than the DI and Lestrade was sure that Mycroft was the best one to deal with the situation. Unfortunately when Lestrade reached Sherlock's room he did not find the doctor but rather Mrs. Hudson and Molly. He took a moment to take the scene in as it was both sweet and heart-breaking at the same time.
Mrs. Hudson was sitting, carding her hand through errant curls and nattering away quietly whilst Sherlock lay passively on his side. He was either oblivious to her ministrations or was simply ignoring them. Molly was sat next to Mrs. Hudson whilst holding one of Sherlock's limp hands in her own. Normally Sherlock would shout at someone for merely thinking such a thing, but now it seemed that he did not care. Something had definitely happened whilst he had been gone; he just hoped he hadn't been given a worse prognosis.
Tentatively he knocked at the door causing the two women in the room to look up at him simultaneously, Sherlock's eyes were wide open but he didn't seem to even register Lestrade's presence. "Hey Sherlock," he said, coming in to the room but there was no reaction. Frowning, the older man looked up at the two women who shrugged their shoulders in confusion. He handed Molly the newspapers that he had picked up earlier. "Look what they've done," he said, unable to keep the anger out of his voice. Glancing at the headlines both Molly and Mrs. Hudson could feel themselves beginning to tremble with anger. Whoever was leaking the information on Sherlock's condition were going into great detail, he had absolutely no privacy.
"Who the hell is doing this?" Molly asked, with an uncharacteristic harshness to her voice. Mrs. Hudson rubbed her shoulder trying to reassure her but it did little to quell the fury that was welling up from within her.
"I don't know," Lestrade sighed, dropping into the only empty chair in the room and rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I'm going to find out though. Is John about? It'd be useful if we could get Sherlock's brother looking into this, but John seems to be the only person who can actually get that man to do anything."
"No," replied Mrs. Hudson. "John decided to have a bit of a break but he said that he would be back in a few hours."
"Oh good," Lestrade replied, leaning back into his seat slightly and breathing out a sigh of relief. "John really needed to take a bit of a break; he's going to end up making himself ill if he keeps on the way he's been going."
~0~
When it came to dinner time nobody had heard anything from John and Sherlock was still in his mind palace, hands twitching away and eyes darting about unseeing. Nobody worried about John, they knew he would be coming back; all he needed was some time to sort things out and decide what he was going to do. However, they did worry about Sherlock. It was very possible that he'd decided that he liked his mind palace more than he liked reality and chose to stay there. He might not be coming back. It just seemed like a very Sherlock thing to do.
Not a lot had happened in the few hours that they had all been sitting there. They had spoken a little but most of the time they sat in silence, Molly and Lestrade had taken paperwork that needed doing with them and Mrs. Hudson had taken a book with her. Dr. Janssen had been in a few times, his frown deepening each time as he saw Sherlock had not emerged from his mind. Dr. Harrison had also been in once to take some blood, she did not seem to care about Sherlock's unresponsive state. She simply walked in, took the blood, and left again without uttering a single word.
Molly noticed Mrs. Hudson's eyelids drooping and she smiled. "Do you want me to take you home?" she asked kindly. "I could do with an early night myself; I start at six tomorrow morning." The older woman looked sadly at Sherlock, all her maternal instincts screaming at her to stay there with him, but eventually reason told her she'd be no good to him if she was fast asleep.
"I think that's a good idea dear," she replied, hauling herself to her feet. She winced as her hip protested at the movement having stiffened up due to the lack of movement. Molly also stood up after gathering up all he bits of paper and putting them into a folder. As Mrs. Hudson said goodbye to her tenant, Molly turned to face Lestrade. "I can come back after I've taken her home if you want me to Greg." He shook his head.
"Thanks Molly but I'll be alright. I don't think he's going to be doing a lot and I have a lot of reports to catch up on. You've got an early start so don't worry about it."
"Ok, well I'll see you soon." The DI smiled in agreement. Quickly Molly said goodbye to Sherlock and the two women headed out of the room, closing the door behind them.
Once they had left the room Lestrade turned his attention back to the younger, almost catatonic, man lying on the bed. "You know," he started, leaning back in the chair and lifting his legs so that they were up on the bed, "If you told us what was wrong we might actually be able to help you." Lestrade searched Sherlock's face but there was no sign that Sherlock was listening or could even hear him. The DI carried on regardless, hoping that some of what he said was getting into the stubborn man's skull. "Believe it or not we actually want to help you, but we don't really know what's wrong, what it is that is making you act like this. We don't know if you're scared or angry or simply just bored. But if you told us we might understand and we might be able to help. Especially John, he's going half mad because he doesn't know how to help you. That doesn't mean he is going to leave though, he would never do that. He just wants to help you."
After his little speech Lestrade fell into silence. He felt a little stupid for talking to a man who obviously wasn't listening but it needed to be said. Anyway, if Sherlock was listening, he would probably just mock Lestrade once he came out of whatever the hell this was.
~0~
It was chaos in there, absolute bedlam, and he didn't like it. Obviously this was why he was having so many problems thinking with any clarity. The door to each and every room was wide open and a strong wind blew out of each room and into the corridor. Sheets of paper were blowing all over the place. Some ended up in rooms that they did not belong in and others ended up in the hallway, lining the floor. All of this chaos was giving him a nasty headache. Growling in frustration, Sherlock closed all the doors in his mind palace with a flick of both wrists. The wind instantly died down and everything was still. He could make out a low grumble which caused the walls to vibrate around him. From experience he knew that this was someone in the real world talking to him, but he was blocking them out. He didn't want to be out there at that moment, he didn't even want to think of out there existing. Out there he was sick and helpless, but in his mind palace he controlled everything. He was fully functional and his sickness didn't affect him. But it was affecting his mind palace and that terrified him. There hadn't been this sort of chaos since he'd gone through withdrawal.
He did feel a little bad; he knew that he was causing his friends worry. What he could not comprehend is why they were worried about him. Sure, he was sick, but they had other people they could turn to, they didn't need him so why were they constantly sitting with him? That was a puzzle that he had not been able to solve yet and it frustrated him. Perhaps if he got his mind palace more organised he would be able to come up with the correct solution.
He closed his eyes and locked all the doors, an old brass key appeared in his hand. Normally he would not lock the doors, what was the point when he was the only one who could get in anyway? However he had to make sure that no more papers went flying elsewhere. Cautiously he unlocked the room, took a deep breath, opened the door and darted inside as fast as he could. The papers were still flying around and Sherlock shook his head in distress at the state of the room. He headed for the window and shut it, and everything instantly died down. The windows in his mind palace weren't even supposed to open, so he didn't understand why they were. He would investigate that once he had sorted everything out, a task which could potentially take him up to a week.
~0~
"Sir," came a gentle voice from the doorway causing the DI to jerk awake. He shot a brief glimpse over to Sherlock, vainly hoping that he would be awake. Apparently he had not so much as moved since Lestrade had fallen asleep a good two hours ago. Finally his eyes came to rest on the source of the sound, Sally Donovan was making her way over to where he was sitting, she was in full uniform and water rolled off her high-visibility jacket.
"Everything alright?" he asked, pulling himself into an upright position and rubbing his eyes, willing his vision to become less blurry.
"Sorry to wake you. You weren't answering your phone so I thought you'd be here. There's been a murder and they need you at the crime scene, I wouldn't ask if it weren't important."
Lestrade glanced hesitantly at his friend; the last two times that Sherlock had been left alone he had made a break for it. But then again it was highly unlikely that Sherlock would be going anywhere given his current state. "Let me just call John to find out where he is and if he can come back, I don't really want to leave Sherlock alone. I don't think anything is going to happen but…"
"Lestrade!" Sally interrupted. He instantly stopped talking and looked at he and she gave him a brief, sad smile. "That's why I came down myself, I'm not needed up there so I can stay with him until either you're done or someone else comes."
The DI frowned as he thought about it. Sherlock needed someone there with him, but he wasn't sure Sally was the best option. She wouldn't do anything to harm him, of course; she'd been worried about him ever since she'd heard the diagnosis. However they hadn't had the best history, her and Sherlock, and although Sherlock seemed to have no interest in what was going on around him he didn't know how he'd react if he came back to the world and found Sally Donovan sitting by his bedside; the woman who he had been fighting with ever since they had first met. However, he couldn't just not go to the crime scene. Finally he consented, nodding his head in confirmation and pulling himself up out of the chair. "If anything happens call me or John or even Molly, just someone he trusts. Don't take this the wrong way but he might not be happy to wake up to find you by his side." Sally smiled.
"I know; I don't hold it against him. I'm not exactly a fan of him but he doesn't deserve this. Nobody does." She handed Lestrade the keys to the police car. "The address is programmed into the GPS."
"Thanks, do you want me to grab you a coffee or tea from the machine?" Lestrade asked.
"No thanks, I'm good for now." The DI smiled before hurrying out of the door.
Now it was Sally's turn to sit in the chair placed near Sherlock's head. She felt unsure of herself; even though Sherlock didn't seem to be conscious enough to even know she was there she still didn't feel wanted. Unlike the others, she didn't feel she could touch him either, she didn't feel like she was privileged enough to run a comforting hand through his hair. Sherlock was very selective about those he let into his life and the list of those he was willing to share physical contact with was even shorter. Sally was well aware that she was not on either of these lists. She was just there to make sure he was alright and that he would not do anything foolish, so that is what she would do. Removing a book from her bag she propped her feet up on the bed and began to read, she was getting ready for a long night.
~0~
Sherlock stopped, his arm outstretched to pick up and errant sheet of paper when he felt something in the air around him change. It became less musky; whoever was with him in the real world must have left. About time too, they all had much better things to do with their time than babysit a useless invalid like him. There were people much more deserving of their care than him. The detective ignored the twinge of loneliness which pulled at his gut and focussed on sorting out his mind palace, he'd gone through ten rooms and sorted everything but at the last count he had 211 rooms in his mind palace and hadn't counted in a while.
Suddenly everything around him went blurry and the walls began to fade in and out. It was like he was being pulled out of his mind, he clung on desperately, this hadn't happened before and it terrified him. He'd accidentally allowed things in before but he had never been pulled out. He ran out of time to dwell upon it, suddenly he was back in the hospital, sitting on a bed, doubled over as his stomach once again rid itself of its contents. It felt like it was twisting itself impossible tight so as to ring itself dry.
Between the gasping breaths and violent heaves he felt a gentle hand on his back and kind words being whispered into his ear. Momentarily he was distracted; he'd thought he was alone, so he glanced sideways to see Sally there, a look of concern on her face. It was an expression he'd seen her wear many times but it had never been directed at him. She couldn't possibly care about him enough to be concerned about his wellbeing.
"Hey, you're okay, just breathe," she soothed, just as she would if there was a terrified child at a crime scene. Still panting for air he tried to shrug her gentle touch off of himself but she was insistent, she kept rubbing his back until the heaves subsided and he slumped back into his pillows exhausted. Nurses busied themselves, scurrying about the room, changing the sheets on his bed, giving him water to rinse his mouth, and just making sure he was clean in general. Donovan just sat there and watched as all of this went on, carefully monitoring Sherlock's blank and guarded expression. She couldn't help but worry about his distinctly gaunt look and pale complexion but there was nothing she could do about that. It was down to the people he trusted to fix that.
As the last of the nurses left the room she fired a text to Lestrade to let him know what had happened and asking him to let John know. She didn't have the doctor's number so that was the best she could do. "How're you feeling Sherlock?" she asked gently once they were left alone. The detective looked as if all he wanted was to be left alone but there was no way she was leaving him to his own devices.
"Fine," he replied stubbornly, turning away from her. He wanted to get into his mind palace again; he needed to keep sorting it out. His mind was feeling disorganised and he did not like that, he needed to fix it. For some reason though he was having trouble accessing it, there was something stopping him from getting in.
"Now I know that's a lie," Sally commented with a sigh. "You do know there is no problem admitting that you're not feeling great, especially when there is something so obviously wrong. Nobody is going to hold it against you, trust me." He probably didn't care what she had to say and he had probably heard this speech a million times but she felt she needed to say it too.
"Fine," he growled. "My head is killing me and my throat feels like it is on fire. Are you happy now?"
"Not happy per se but glad you've told me that, now we can do something about it. See, this is why you need to tell people these things."
Silently she left the room, leaving Sherlock to question just how the hell she had managed to get that information out of him; he'd not even admitted this much to John. A few minutes later she reappeared with a nurse who turned up his pain medication, which he was silently grateful for even if it meant he couldn't think as well as usual, and who gave him a cup full of ice cubes. They felt absolutely fantastic on his abused throat.
Once he'd gone through about four of the ice cubes he glanced across to Donovan who was once again sitting at his bedside reading her book. "Thanks," he muttered, half hoping she did not hear him.
"You're welcome," she replied smiling at him, he was sure that he saw pity in that smile but he forced himself to ignore it. "You know all we want to do is help, we don't want to mock you or anything. Especially John and Lestrade, they're really worried about you. If you need anything just let someone help you." He didn't reply, but she didn't really expect him to.
~0~
When he woke up it was dark outside, he hadn't even realised that he'd fallen asleep. The room was dimly lit by light shining in from the corridor and the light from John's mobile phone that illuminated his face. Sherlock felt relief wash over him, despite what Donovan said he'd still been worried that John wasn't coming back. "You look awful," he rasped causing the doctor to jump.
"You gave me a fright," he commented, putting down his phone and leaning forward. "Are you alright?" Sherlock opened his mouth to say he was fine, it was a default answer, but then he closed it again as Donovan's words from earlier seemed to replay themselves. The fact was he wasn't fine, he was scared and in pain. Even though he might not be ready to admit that, he may never be able to admit that, perhaps he should take her advice. Start small he told himself.
Taking a deep breath he looked at John. "I… um, I need…" John could see how much Sherlock was struggling with whatever it was he wanted to say.
"Whatever you need Sherlock," John coaxed. If Sherlock could admit he needed something then this would be a massive step forward.
"Could you help me to the bathroom?" Sherlock asked quickly, he looked worriedly up at his friend, as if he expected John to leave over such a simple request. The idiot thought he probably would. John had to suppress the laugh, the way Sherlock had been acting it was as if he was going to ask John to run away with him or something equally as drastic. Instead of laughing John smiled at his friend who looked oh so vulnerable and smiled. "Of course," he replied.