Chapter 3
More movement. More pain. Sherlock's gasps hinder his respiration but the jolt of misery brings him back to awareness.
He tries to breathe through it by focussing on the smell.
John's car?
That means he is not in Germany. He remembers that when he returned to London John had already bought a car… It is very confusing for a moment, then he deduces he must have had a flashback.
The car smells a bit like John's old room in 221b, paired with another smell that is less familiar but not new. Sherlock is glad John never uses one of those horrible car odour 'refreshing' devices in his automobile. If he had, Sherlock would have downright refused to use the vehicle. He aims his attention at the smell of the A3 and forces his eyes open.
He's lying in the backseat, on his back; and he has no recollection how he arrived here.
"Sherlock?"
He wants to ask how he got into the car but forgets about it when John's hand touches his forehead, then his cheek.
"You're back with me?"
John is there, kneeling over him while both his legs are still outside the car. There's something keeping his right leg in the air, holding it in a fixed position. Sherlock can feel John is halfway in the back with him, moving him.
It feels crowded.
"Hey, can you try to sit up so we can get your legs in? If I pull you, it will hurt you further," John pants. "I hate to do this, but I think you should finish the lozenge. Right now another flashback is probably better than no pain control. You spat it out earlier."
Right, the taste…
No. Sherlock shakes his head and winces.
Germany was bad, he doesn't want to be forced to remember any more of it.
"Sherlock, we need to close the door. Getting your legs in will hurt."
"Nnn…," he moans.
John closes the door next to his head and rounds the car.
"Alright. Try to sit up, slide in further, until your back is against the door. I'm going to lift your legs in. Then we'll get out of here. Alright?"
Trying to sit up is pure agony. Sherlock screams and begs but he fails to sit up and position himself in a way that would allow the door to close.
"Okay, let's take a break. We are getting nowhere this way," John huffs. He's trying to figure out another way to do it. Sherlock's gaze finally falls on his legs, apparently John has cut away his trousers and reset his dislocated knee. His leg is now wrapped in a bulky layer of firm bandages to keep the joints in the right position. He wonders what John had used to brace it because something is off with the weight of his limb. He is still wearing his shoes and his socks but his ankle is exposed to the cold air.
Before Sherlock has really caught his breath, John decides to give it another try.
A few moments later Sherlock accidentally moves his shoulder; he emits a few chocked sobs. The hot orange anguish smothers every perception and reality slips away. He loses the connection to what is happening once more. All he can sense is how horrible it feels. The only thing he wants it is to end.
Some time later, he finds John leaning over him again, from the other side of the car. The door at his head is open again. Sherlock hasn't moved and experiences another wave of the panic of being under somebody who is overpowering him.
"It's okay, mate. We're going to be okay, it's just me," John soothes and Sherlock feels him lean in even closer.
"Open your mouth, you need this," John says and fumbles the lozenge out of it's packaging. "I am here with you, try to stay out of any mental danger zone. You are back in the UK; remember that." He seems almost anxious.
The aura of John's presence invades his space and it actually soothes Sherlock's raw nerves.
"Try to lock the taste away in your mind palace?"
The idea is a bit odd, but it is worth a try.
Their gazes lock for a moment and Sherlock is so desperate to escape the pain, he opens his mouth. The perception his oral cavity provides has always been a source of a wide variety of issues. Toothbrushes, food textures and ENT appointments have haunted him all his life, because his mouth is one of the areas of his body his mind is most aware of. The image of a 3D model of a sensory homunculus* passes before his inner eye and it reminds him once more how much his personal homunculus' proportions are different from other people's.
"Sherlock, focus!" John reminds him and gently taps his shoulder and he realises his thoughts have gone off the tangent.
Sherlock steels himself for what he knows is coming.
John gently returns the lollipop to his mouth. Although he expects it, the touch is invasive and intimate.
His tries to ignore the flavour but it doesn't work. Neither does it push him into another flashback. The panic and the urge to spit it out are dire nevertheless.
"You're doing good, stay with me," John mutters and puts a warm hand on his brow.
It's John. John is allowed. John crowding him is good.
It feels safe.
.
While waiting for the medication to kick in, John fumbles with a phone Sherlock had never seen before. Apparently, the device doesn't boot and John curses about some eBay seller.
"Right, we'll give it another try in a minute. Then we'll drive to the nearest hospital. We're two hours out of London, so not an option. The navigation system should guide us to the closest one in a matter of seconds," John informs him and reaches for the sat nav.
The disgusting taste lingers in Sherlock's mouth and he hopes the drug would kick in fast, allowing him to regain control. Something in the back of his mind warns him that the high will be followed by an ugly comedown. Most likely in the form of a bad episode of depression, but he can't bother to care about that at the moment. Muting the pain is all that counts right now. Sooner or later he would have tried to do something really stupid to evade it. He has been there before.
John being close feels reassuring, he reminds himself when he realises he is starting to dissociate.
Just as he notices that, his alertness is starting to be affected and dizziness is rolling in.
Is that the effect of dissociating or the synthetic opioid? Maybe both.
He feels disconnected from reality.
Seconds later an uncomfortable way of 'high' is coming in on top. It's kicking in hard and fast. Leaden drowsiness rolls over him so suddenly he sucks in air in surprise.
John carefully pulls the lozenge from his mouth.
"Alright, this is enough for now, I need you to be able to move. Try not to fall asleep on me, yet," he orders and once more closes the door close to Sherlock's head.
"Ready to give it another try, then?" John appears at his feet.
Sherlock can't hold back a few chocked screams before they manage to sit him up. The pain is more tolerable but the downside is he is uncoordinated, which raises the level of difficulty. Additionally, clinging to awareness is challenging. All he wants is to sleep.
The moment John finally closes the door, he slips into drug induced oblivion.
.
When drifts back to awareness, the engine is alive under him. The car is moving. There is some kind of intense pressure on his left arm.
He slowly regains his alertness and the world feels sharp and warm and fuzzy, all at the same time. The gentle spike in dopamine is like a swirling wave his consciousness glides on.
Why is he in the backseat?
He tries to sit up more to look through the front window.
"Jesus, Sherlock! Stay the fuck down!" John curses. The level of distressed in his voice convinces Sherlock to comply. He knows he is hurt, but it's not that bad any longer.
Wasn't probably that bad. He feels good. Why not sit up to see where they are? On the other hand, there is a bit of pain somewhere and he feels shaky. His arm is pinned down by what looks like parts of one of John's old dress shirts.
"Why…" he slurs.
"Sherlock? I know you feel way too good for your own good, but you are hurt and I gave you some potent pain medication and I need you to stay put. Lay back against the door! You trust me?...Don't move any more than necessary. I would also much appreciate if you talk to me…"
"'bout what?" Sherlock manages. Something is wrong with his finger. He stares down at it. A white stick is taped to his index finger, it has a wet white thingy on it's top. It looks like a half eaten lollipop.
"Yeah, that's the pain meds. Taped it to your finger so it falls out the moment you are out. We only have this one lozenge and the road will be bumpy until we are out of the forest. If the pain gets too bad, suck on it. Now talk to me," John explains.
"'bout what?" Sherlock repeats, unaware he has asked the same question just a few seconds earlier.
"I don't know. Mrs Hudson's current love interest? The case? Whatever. Just talk to me," John says.
Sherlock can sense he is in pain, too. His words have a sharp edge. Sherlock's sensory input seems to have heightened and every vowel in John's speech seems exaggerated, bulges with loud colours.
"So good to have a car that smells like you," Sherlock utters what comes to his mind. "Long time… cab," he adds after realising his brain to mouth filter is malfunctioning.
"There are no cabs here in this bloody forest," John announces and switches the indicator on; it's clicking is nauseating. The right turn John does a moment later jostles Sherlock's arm and he has to stifle a gasp.
"Sorry, habit. There's no one out here to even see me signalling. So Mrs Hudson has a love interest currently?"
Sherlock can't manage a straight thought. Everything is just so sharp and precise, except his memory, which is not working right. He can't focus.
He carefully shifts his weight, leans sideways into the support of the backseat. The fabric smells like John and Mary and suddenly he feels like drowning in the sensation of being bedded on that odour.
"Gee, that stuff really did a number on you," John gently stops the car at an intersection. They have finally reached a paved road. Sherlock wonders when John added that American word to his repertoire.
"You're okay, just stay calm," John soothes and puts the car into bottom gear.
Sherlock closes his eyes to block out his surrounding. It's all too intense. He focuses on the smell and the safety it brings.
A few seconds of peace are followed by a spike of pain when John drives over a bump and he can't help but moan.
"Put that thing back into your mouth if it gets too bad," John advises.
It is not as easy as it should be to bring his hand up and direct the lollipop attached to his finger in between his lips. Three pathetic attempts later, he finally manages. He bites on the stick to keep it in place.
A few exhales after that something bad is leaving his body with the air. It tastes anthracite grey, the sharp contrast to the Prussian blue air of the car has a calming effect. He knows of course that his optical nerves don't actually perceive these colours. One area of his brain is stimulated and another sense's input swaps over. He is used to that, though not at this intense level. He grins to himself about how ridiculous it all is.
Consciousness slips away another few breaths later and he is grateful for that.
.
A/N:
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