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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Chapter 21 - Help
John didn't know how much time had passed when he felt something change, it felt like hours later.
"John?" the voice was calm and low, though there was agitation somewhere else in the room.
"John? Can you open your eyes for me?"
Sherlock's voice.
He tried.
His lids where unbelievably heavy and felt swollen.
Mouth awfully dry and his head… Hell, it felt as if it was about to explode.
He opened his eyes and realised he was held in a crumpled sitting position, resting sideways against something…
"John?"
…which vibrated with the voice… he was leaning against… Sherlock?
No way.
"John, can you hear me?" Sherlock asked again.
John nodded when he found his voice wasn't working, it was a minute movement but Sherlock must have sensed it, because he continued in a low voice.
"Did you have a panic attack?"
John nodded again.
Hell of an attack to be honest.
He was hurting all over and the exhaustion blurred his mind and his vision.
"Are you sure it's nothing more serious, poisoning or similar?" Sherlock continued.
A hand moved to his forehead and rested there for a while.
Perception faded in and out.
John managed to nod after Sherlock had repeated the question.
"Why are you sure?"
"'fghanis'an mem'ries," John managed to get out.
"Okay."
He saw a distorted hand move into his field of vision and then felt it rub his shoulder, the one that was not leaning against the detective.
Someone took his wrist and felt his pulse.
"Le'me 'lone pl'ze," he struggled.
"Let's get him into bed," another voice urged nearby, a foreign one, shit.
John flinched, embarrassed, all he wanted was to be left alone until this was over.
"You want them to leave?" Sherlock whispered into his ear.
The doctor managed to nod, even though he couldn't manage to really open his eyes to see who else was there.
"Okay, but I need their help to get you into bed before I send them away."
He felt strong hands on his body, more than two persons.
Before he knew what was really happening there was movement, but it was not him who initiated it, he was slowly leaned backwards and lifted by the foreign but skilled hands. His head lolled to the side and was caught in a gentle grip, which stopped the awkward motion.
The movements brought new nausea and pain, he gulped.
It seemed to last ages until he felt he was lowered to something soft, the bed must be under him.
They had carried him… more embarrassment made him want to hide.
Gently, he was positioned on the bed, upper body slightly elevated on a large pillow.
A moment later the touch on his forehead returned.
He was so very tired.
Every move was painful, the memories of the day hurt… the embarrassment hurt… the hand on his face warmed…
"Get out," Sherlock ordered whoever must be there.
There was opposition but Sherlock yelled, "Get out, now!"
Something moved over his hairline, something not as warm and soft as before, but gentle and reassuring.
"They are gone. Sleep," Sherlock's tone was emotionless.
John raised his hand trying to… "'m sorry," …touch something? He pried his eyes open.
"Don't be. You want something to help you sleep? The nurse left some meds."
He moved his head from one side to the other trying to find out where Sherlock was and what was happening.
The room was dark and his vision distorted.
Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the bed next to him and his hand was on his forehead. His touch was the opposite of emotionless, it was quite caring in fact, though a bit ungainly. The difference between his touch and his tone was odd.
John thought about the meds… if he asked what it was he'd refuse it as soon as he knew… so he ignored the question.
"Is this a PTSD-thing?" Sherlock wanted to know.
"Guesso," John answered, partly ashamed, allowing his eyes to close again.
Sherlock wouldn't understand this. What would he think? This was the third attack John had in front of the detective. He felt vulnerable and disgusted by his own inability to stop it.
"John?"
The hand ghosted over his face, not really touching it, but he felt the warmth hovering.
"Are you aware your eyes are leaking?"
John blew his breath out in a hint of sarcastic laughter.
Was this in fact a tactful way of asking if he was crying?
But there was no assessment in Sherlock's voice. He sounded more like he was just collecting information… emotionless as usual, which was a stark contrast to Sherlock's physical care.
"Are you in pain?" Sherlock asked neutrally.
Careful and actually listening to his needs?
"Hurts to think," John managed, referring on both his headaches and his mental agony.
"I know that sensation. Nasty one," Sherlock admitted to John's surprise.
"You need to rest," he continued.
John snorted slightly with real sarcasm now. He was far to exhausted and wound up to relax.
Sherlock moved beside him and a few seconds later his head was tipped back slowly.
"Open your mouth," Sherlock instructed while John was still surprised in his foggy mind about being touched by Sherlock.
John managed to half open his eyes and saw Sherlock's hand with a pipette nearing his face.
He let his eyes close again… He didn't want to feel anything any longer… he needed a break and Sherlock was suggesting he took the offer… He was in enough agony to see the need of that, too.
Slowly, he managed to open his mouth slightly and seconds later a thick bitter liquid ran over his tongue.
John gulped… he realised he was still trembling… and it was bloody cold in here.
Like as if someone was reading his mind a heavy blanket settled over him.
Then something touched his lips, cold and… a glass.
"Wash it down, the taste must be awful."
Sherlock was holding a glass to his mouth? John would have rolled his eyes if he weren't so tired. It took a lot of effort to actually gulp down a few tiny sips. Sherlock waited patiently and asked if he had enough before pulling away.
"Come on. Roll over onto your side, you'll be more comfortable." Sherlock took his shoulder and started the movement, John followed.
God, what was that stuff?… He felt it take effect already... it made him dizzy. Or was it from the movement?
"You need something else?" Sherlock's tone was stiff.
"No."
He wondered if Sherlock had taken the remarks about his bad bedside-manners seriously and was now practising?
This was a side of Sherlock John hadn't really spotted before. His flatmate had recently shown that he valued his critic on his social behaviour or sometimes even asked for feedback.
Was Sherlock in fact able to care for others, but intentionally not doing it? Or was he just so very inexperienced with these things that he just didn't know what to do? Or did he just need someone to actually tell him how to care in a certain situation?
John's messed up mind briefly wondered what must had happened to make his flatmate decide that he wanted to learn, if this theory was right. It must have been something utterly important to Sherlock.
Well, at least Sherlock learning how to care about other people would be a tiny little good outcome of this whole mess, or was he just fighting with the decision if he should abandon his not-caring only for John?
Moments later the pain receded.
He panted softly in surprise about how fast the drug worked.
"It's okay… Sleep."
Something heavy came to rest on the side of his head… was it a part of the blanket or a hand?
He was dragged into the darkness of induced sleep.
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A/N:
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