Author's note: After reading this, you might want to go back to the last chapter and re-read it because it will make a lot more sense knowing what was happening and give a few bits more of insight. This is not a mistake, bear with me.

Chapter 40

At the hospital (2016) - Part 6

Day 8 - Midday, 221b - John's room upstairs

When John woke the next day his head was pounding. The bright sun coming in through the closed curtains wasn't making it any better. With blurred vision he fumbled for his alarm clock and found it was almost noon. Cursing, he grabbed a set of fresh clothes and made his way down the stairs.

"Morning," Greg greeted him from the kitchen when he entered the living room.

"Why the hell did you let me sleep this long?" John grumbled on the way to the bathroom.

"You needed it," Greg said no nonsense and John entered the bathroom.

Greg's behaviour made him feel annoyed and grateful at the same time. The angry part was about his performance yesterday as well as the world in general. Being managed was something that triggered all kinds of crappy memories, although he knew his friends were only trying to handle a situation in which there were no optimal solutions.

After a quick shower John sloppily brushed his teeth, but he couldn't bother to shave; he wanted to go back to the hospital as fast as he could. At least the shower had improved the headache and he felt slightly better, it did little for the nausea, though.

"Where's Rosie?" he asked Lestrade, who was making breakfast in the unusually clean kitchen. Someone had been over and cleaned the entire flat, John realised after he checked his surroundings. Never before had it been in a state this polished. Even the linoleum had an annoying bright shine to it that reflected the sunlight coming in and the floor boards in the living room seemed so have had new wood stain.

The moment Greg cracked some eggs and started to fry them, the smell threatened to turn John's stomach.

Right. He was detoxing. Like his alcoholic sister had been more often than he could count. He was so disgusted by himself it made the nausea even worse.

"With Mrs Hudson downstairs," Greg muttered, ignoring his grumpy mood and putting two omelettes on a plate he then demonstratively placed on the table between them.

"I appreciate the gesture, but I can't eat. Sorry," John shook his head.

"Mycroft called. Said he arranged for Sherlock to be brought home later today," Greg explained.

"Oh," John just made. "Right… That's… that's good, I guess," he commented, a bit taken aback by the surprise about the sudden arrangements. Mycroft had discussed it with him the day before and the fact that preparations had been made meant that the hospital concluded that nothing physical was wrong with Sherlock - beyond the already known issues of course.

"He wants you to supervise the adjustments to the flat. A crew will be over soon to prepare his room for… whatever… He wasn't clear on what exactly," Greg elaborated further.

John was sure he meant to equip the flat with everything a comatose patient would need. Even if they had agreed that the state Sherlock was in was not a coma, his needs would be very similar to a coma patient for the time being.

John had barely time to get accustomed to the thought of transferring the flat into some kind of care home when a group of Mycroft's minions arrived and started to deep clean Sherlock's room and unpack an enormous amount of medical equipment. The doctor was blindsided by all the hustle and bustle as well as the long time arrangements all the equipment implied. Sherlock's clothes were removed from the commode and even most of it from the wardrobe and both were then cleaned and stuffed with medical supplies. John saw everything, from drip-feed equipment to hospital grade hygiene supplies only a bed-stricken patient would need.

The reality of the situation hit him hard and at some point he had to go downstairs and see Rosie to escape from it all. Greg took over organising the preparations.

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In the late afternoon, John took a cab to get back to the hospital, he couldn't handle the tube. Despite Mycroft's reassurances during a call an hour earlier - in which he promised that everything was arranged and John's presence was not needed - John wanted to be with Sherlock during transport.

Bustling activity greeted him when he arrived. Sherlock was surrounded by a team of nurses preparing him for transport and an ambulance crew that was briefed about his condition and needs.

Sherlock remained dead to the world but was now fitted with a nasogastric tube, anti embolism stockings, two permanent IV lines and several sets of electrodes to monitor him. He was barely visible under all the equipment.

Heavy heartedly John watched him being transferred to the ambulance's gurney and wheeled out of his room. He was only a bystander in all the proceedings and it made him feel utterly useless and incompetent.

The only thing he could do was receive the paperwork, listen to the medical jargon exchanged and watch it all unfold before him. He peeked into the folder. They had done an additional cranial MRI, a SPECT scan to determine if the blood flow in the brain was okay, and a cerebrospinal fluid analysis. It all turned out okay, which was a relief.

Separating himself from being a medical professional in this situation felt wrong and like being ostracized.

Well, he had been the one who insisted to be there although it wasn't necessary, so he had only himself to blame.

Finally, the small procession started to move and they wheeled Sherlock towards the exit. John's headache had come back full force from all the noise and the bright lights. The fear that he might be told to take a cab and follow the ambulance was unsubstantiated, they waited for him and granted him a seat in the rear of the vehicle.

Small mercies.

The interior of the vehicle looked quite new and the blue and yellow edges gave it a very modern appearance. John briefly wondered why Sherlock was transported in an actual ambulance, not by a NETS vehicle.

"Dr Watson? I'm Scott. We'll bring you home now," one of the men greeted him, obviously a paramedic.

John's didn't correct him. Baker Street was no longer his home although somehow he still found he somehow considered it his home base. Even scrubbed to an almost unrecognisable state he felt more at home there than he ever did in the basement flat in the suburbs.

"Dr Watson?"

Apparently, he had stared into nothingness to prompt being addressed with a worried tone like that.

"Yeah, sorry, a lot going on with all the preparations. Lost in thoughts, I guess. Nice to meet you," he answered and held out his hand.

.

John expected the ride to be smooth and last no longer than twenty minutes, unfortunately his expectations turned out to be wrong.

Ten minutes into the ride, Sherlock started to twitch and John unbuckled from the assistant's seat to get a closer to his friend.

The gentle rocking of the ambulance changed when they changed onto a main road. John barely felt them because the spring mounted rear was absorbing shocks well. Sherlock on the other hand seemed to react to them. His heart rate and blood pressure were rising. Scott leaned over Sherlock to see his face and John emulated his deeds.

They waited but for some long moments nothing happened, until another bump caused a moan from his friend.

"Sherlock? Can you hear me?" John asked. "We're going home, mate."

A left turn followed and the movement worsened Sherlock's restlessness. After two days of no movement all the rocking was probably hell on Sherlock's senses - even if he didn't feel them consciously.

Sherlock's agitation grew. It was just small movements and shifting on the gurney at first, but over the next two minutes things worsened. Sherlock tried to shift his hands and knees but since he was buckled in, it left him very little room to move. It became clear to John that he felt the restrains and was weakly trying to free himself.

"You're alright. You're buckled in so you won't fall off the gurney. Just relax, Sherlock, we'll be home in no time," John soothed.

Not that he expected that his words would have any effect, but he certainly didn't expect Sherlock to start to actually fight the restraints. His movements became testier by the minute. Sherlock even started to thrash his head from side to side, although his expression remained lax. That was until they hit another bump in the road and the detective's face contorted as if in pain, his breathing hitched.

John fumbled with the blanket that was neatly tucked in under the buckles. It took some time until he managed to free one of Sherlock's hands with his own left while he kept his right on his shoulder to gently keep him still.

He squeezed Sherlock's hand and much to his surprise Sherlock's hand clasped his in a desperate attempt to hold on.

Then Sherlock tried to roll onto his side and disturbed some of the equipment, which prompted the paramedic to try to hold him down.

"Easy… You're okay… Shhh… I've got you. Everything is alright." John tried to keep his voice calm, despite the prospect of Sherlock hurting himself by tearing out the lines.

Scott's gentle tries to keep their patient in place only his agitation.

Sherlock's grip on John's hand tightened even more, as if his life was depending on it and his breathing derailed. The heart monitor started to flash a warning.

"I think its time to give him something to calm him down," Scott announced and let go of Sherlock's shoulders to address the driver through the small widow connecting the front and the rear. "Pull over for a minute if you can."

The driver confirmed though John couldn't hear the exact words because Sherlock's breathing and shuffling drowned it out. John sighed. They didn't have much choice but to drug him. Sherlock's struggles were becoming more violent by the minute.

"Sherlock, you're okay… It's okay…" John muttered helplessly and tried to keep the nasogastric tube safe, which was starting to come lose from where it was taped to Sherlock's cheek.

The thrashing continued and John shifted his hands to hold Sherlock's head steady.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, listen to me. You are alright," he said in a firm tone but his friend didn't seem to hear him.

Instead of calming down Sherlock started kicking, which posted a threat to the equipment that was attached to him. Things were escalating fast and only moments later Sherlock really freaked out. At first his moans grew worse, then they gradually turned into screams that gained unexpected intensity.

Witnessing Sherlock's turmoil was painful. He seemed lost and devastated by whatever he was living through. As a doctor, John was well aware this could be a response to whatever was happening in Sherlock's mind or the meth withdrawal, which was currently at it's peak. The process of getting clean of the drug was painful and traumatic and he had hoped Sherlock wouldn't be too much affected by it while he was in some self-induced pseudo coma, but right now those hopes dwindled.

Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Scott prepare a syringe. Meanwhile, John had his hands full trying to carefully keep Sherlock from hurting himself.

Then suddenly Sherlock screamed on top of his lungs and John involuntarily flinched when his struggles became what could only be described as violent.

"I'm here Sherlock, I'm here," he reassured Sherlock and rubbed his hand to get his attention. The level of desperation evident in the scream was something John had rarely heard from his friend. Sherlock did not do panicked or horrified. He rarely failed to mask his vulnerabilities - especially when other people were present. Even when wounded, drugged or in other dire situations, Sherlock kept his head and an odd aura of superiority. It had saved their lives more than once. In their line of work, this ability was an advantage. When it came to emotional equilibrium, mental health and friends - not so much. Sherlock's masking was boycotting his personal needs most of the time. As far as John understood, it had become automatic over time. Sherlock couldn't switch it off anymore. The pretence of functioning albeit barely hanging on had delayed medical care and other important problem solving in the past. It had taken John some time to figure out it was a protection mechanism.

John assumed it had to do with having his vulnerabilities used against him too often in his early life, as a result Sherlock had weaponised his mannerisms. In some very private moments John had realised that Sherlock was unable to switch it off, even when he realised he needed to. Overall, he mostly failed to notice the program that was running was not goal-targeted for his own well being, instead it was a mechanism to stall until the discomfort was over. Having utilised and internalised this strategy he had a hard time unlearning it. Everyone would, but Sherlock of course was convinced his understanding of the problem would enable him to erase it, turned out he couldn't.

During Sherlock's earlier PTSD therapy* it had been revealed there had been dire phases in his life when displaying emotions meant he could be hurt, exploited and those emotion then used against him. Sherlock worked hard to pinpoint those phases but in the end was unable to remember them, even after weeks of sifting through his mind palace to find them. The only thing he had dug up was that Mycroft was systematically fuelling those misconceptions for some reason. According to the therapist, John had done the opposite from the beginning; even if he wasn't really aware of it he had channelled Sherlock's emotions.

Said therapist and Sherlock himself had insisted John's way to handle Sherlock was improving things. Just that - at the moment - John felt Sherlock was so far out of his depths that it had driven him to hide so deep in his mind palace that not even John was able to reach him.

Sherlock's head continued to thrash wildly from side to side.

Scott finally had the syringe ready and slowly pushed the medication into the IV port.

"John?" Sherlock moaned and John saw liquid spilling out from under his closed eyelids. The mentioning of his name brought home that even after all that had happened, Sherlock was asking for him in his most vulnerable moments. John had to bite his lip to contain his own ravaging emotions.

"I am here, Sherlock. It's gonna be okay. I am here." Once more, John squeezed his hand.

The drug to hold of Sherlock and slowly, his cries died down, as did the mindless struggling, even though his fingers remained clawed into the blanket and his jaw clenched.

The more the medication took over, the more Sherlock's tense muscles relaxed. Unfortunately, he also turned extremely pale.

"Sherlock? Listen to me. You are safe. I am here and I will not allow anyone to harm you. You hear me?" John repeated and felt like a broken record but he couldn't help himself, if there was the slightest chance to get through he had to try.

"Noo," Sherlock moaned and some of the tension returned.

"Sherlock? I am here! Look at me," John urged him in a loud and clear tone.

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered briefly and John felt a rush of excitement and hope.

"Hey mate, open your eyes!... Can you hear me?"

John's shifted his free hand to Sherlock's head and pulled one lid up, then the other to inspect his pupils.

"Sherlock, open your eyes!" He stroked Sherlock's forehead with his thumb.

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered again and a few moments later his eyes stayed open for almost two seconds before closing again. Sherlock seemed to fight to regain awareness. It was the most direct reaction he had given since this whole ordeal started.

"You're doing great, try again. Come on. Open your eyes," Scott encouraged him. He too reached for Sherlock and rubbed his shoulder.

John's hand stroked the side of Sherlock's head to encourage him with more sensory input, hoping it might anchor him to reality.

"You're almost there, Sherlock. Don't give up. Come on, wake up. Fight your way out of it!"

Sherlock's brows furrowed as if he was concentrating very hard and then his eyes opened a slit and stayed open.

John leaned closer to make sure he was in Sherlock's line of sight and the redness of Sherlock's sclera reminded him how much his behaviour was part of the reason his friend was in the state he was in.

"Hey. Can you hear me?" John managed to smile albeit the crushing guilt he was experiencing.

After a few long moments Sherlock's eyes seemed to focus and locked on John's face. He blinked repeatedly while his features remained contorted in pain.

"It's alright. You are okay. Can you squeeze my hand?" John reached for his hand again and pressed it briefly.

Sherlock stared at him but seemed painfully dazzled with the bright ambulance lights overhead. His expression showed shock and panic, as if he couldn't believe his eyes or was confronted with something world-shattering confusing.

"Scott, can you turn off the lights?" John asked the medic who immediately switched them off.

"Squeeze my hand, Sherlock?" John repeated and Sherlock's finger twitched and it brought another smile to John's face.

"Hey. Good to see you, mate. You're alright. We are going home. Stay with me," John squeezed Sherlock's hand once more.

But instead of being reassured by the interaction it seemed it only fuelled Sherlock's agitation. His eyes scampered through the ambulance for a few seconds before they lost focus and closed again.

"You think he recognised you?" Scott asked and reached for the control of one of the panels to see Sherlock's blood pressure.

John blinked away tears before he lifted his head to look at Scott. It seemed like Sherlock had reacted to him. After two days of worrying and losing hope this was a good sign. It had to be. The storm of emotions floored John's ability to think straight. He let go of Sherlock.

"I certainly did my best to make him notice me, didn't I," John retorted; he couldn't decide if he should be happy that there seemed to be a little light at the end of the tunnel or frustrated about Sherlock slipping away again. He knew of course that patients in a coma did things relatives might interpret as signs of awareness but that were merely the body reacting without conscious thought. Nevertheless, this was not a real coma so there was hope.

"Sensory stimulation sometimes helps," Scott added. "Maybe you shouldn't stop. This was the most aware he was in days, wasn't it?"

John just nodded, slightly overwhelmed by it all. Sherlock was out again and he was not ready to put himself on display any more than he just had.

God, what a pitiful pair they were.

John briefly wondered how soon his behaviour and affection on display would make the rounds at London's hospitals. The thing was, he had lost all self-respect in the past weeks and he couldn't bother to care. His life had gone to hell, he had reached rock bottom and it didn't matter any longer that people might gossip.

Nevertheless, he felt bared to his core by his own display of affection. Scott seemed to hone in on his distress and after he had checked all the monitors and made sure Sherlock was resting comfortably he put a hand on John's shoulder.

John barely managed to not shake it off.

"He's your best friend, it's okay to be unsettled about this," Scott reassured him and John realised he must look as shaken as he was.

"I just lost my wife, I can't lose him, too," John chocked, absolutely surprised by his own flamboyant honesty.

"I'm sorry," Scott said with true sympathy and squeezed John's shoulder.

Feeling ambushed by his grief, John just lowered his head and clenched his jaw. The entire situation was hitting home harder than he was ready to admit. His headache was back with a vengeance.

Scott knocked on the window and said, "We can go now, everything is settled," to the driver.

John heard a faint confirmation and a few moments later the vehicle started to move again.

.

Mycroft's people had finished setting up Sherlock's room when they arrived at 221b and two nurses were waiting to help settle Sherlock in. They transferred him to the bed and reconnected all the medical devices, then changed his foley bag and adjusted his IVs.

Sherlock never even stirred.

A short time later Mycroft arrived but remained in the sitting room, apparently not eager to watch the proceedings. At some point he called for John to discuss the arrangements he had made.

The nurses - Theobald and Marlies - would take turns but would be a constant presence at 221 b until Sherlock's recovery. They would take care of Sherlock's physical needs around the clock and sleep in one of the unused rooms upstairs, next to John's old room, which had been cleared off unused furniture and remnants of former tenants of Mrs Hudson.

Their planning was interrupted when Theobald poked his head into the kitchen.

"Dr Watson. I think he is waking up," he said.

John hurried back to Sherlock's room, Mycroft on his heels. John sat down on the edge of the bed and asked Marlies, bustled around with equipment to give them a minute.

"I think the less sensory input there is the better," John stated and everyone - including Mycroft - left the room. Someone switched off the light and left them in the dim daylight filtering through the curtains.

Sherlock's hand twitched and John reached for it, squeezing it once more.

God, how often had he done that in the past days? He lost count.

"You're with me?"

Sherlock blinked and opened his eyes, though they didn't focus for some long minutes. John was relieved beyond words to see him awake again.

"Sherlock? Look at me?"

Sherlock's eyes roamed around the room and finally focussed on his face.

There was unveiled fear and confusion on his face. They stared at each other and John forced a smile onto his face.

"Hey," he said lamely, suddenly lost for words. "We brought you home. Thought you would feel better here than in the hospital."

Sherlock was clearly unsettled and John's gaze wandered over to the silent vitals monitor, which showed Sherlock's heart rate and respiration had risen alarmingly. He tapped the BP monitor to stop the automatic that would blow up the cuff at regular intervals. No need to add more stress to the mix by surprising his friend when it blew up.

"You're okay. You are safe here," he squeezed Sherlock's and again.

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to say something and when he tried to speak nothing came out.

He gulped and tried to clear his throat, which must have slightly jostled the nasal feeding tube because the next moment, Sherlock reached for his face in panic, searching for it.

John caught his hands and held them.

"No, no, no. Leave it. It's okay,"

Sherlock tried harder to fight him, but he hadn't used his hands in days and was too weak to really do anything. He started to squirm on the bed, tried to dislodge John's hands.

"Need any help?" Theobald asked from the door.

"Maybe. Wait there," John huffed.

"Sherlock?... Sherlock?.. Listen to me. It's okay. It's okay! It's just a small feeding tube, it won't harm you. Don't try to rip it out, you'll hurt yourself."

John stood up and placed his hand on Sherlock's head, which was weakly thrashing from side to side, just as it had in the ambulance.

"Shh, calm down. It's alright," he soothed but it had no effect.

"Sherlock! Look at me!" he then ordered, still in a calm voice.

Sherlock took a hitching breath. He was clearly barely able to keep his panic in check.

"It's the feeding tube, don't pull it out," John repeated in a clear and slightly louder voice.

Sherlock stopped moving, stared at him. The anxiety on display was deeply unsettling and John decided they needed to up the anxiolitic.

"You are okay. We are home safe. Just relax."

John could see it was taking his friend a great amount of strength to focus on what was asked of him. The doctor just waited and gave Sherlock time to settle.

Slowly, over the time of several minutes, Sherlock's breathing changed to a smoother rhythm. John waited and watched, reassuring him now and then.

Finally, Sherlock had collected himself enough again to try to speak.

He gulped again and grimaced when the tube moved, but seemed to have accepted it's uncomfortable presence.

"Why di' you shave 'ff th' m'stache?" he muttered in a voice hoarse from disuse.

John huffed. Of all the things he was at that again. Then it dawned on him that maybe Sherlock's was not all the way there. He had shaved it off years ago.

"Apparently, everyone hated it, remember?" he tried for humour.

Sherlock shook his head slightly, which worried John all the more.

Memory issues?

"You want anything? Water?"

"Pipe," Sherlock moaned.

"What?"

"W'nt t' smoke. Stuff pipe f' me," Sherlock explained, his eyes more unfocussed than before. The adrenaline must be wearing off.

"Sherlock? Look at me."

Sherlock's tried, but his eyes had dulled even more.

"Okay, sleep now. We'll talk about it later," John reassured him.

"No cham'er pots," Sherlock murmured and drifted off.

John's brows furrowed.

What the hell?

.

*This happened in my story Define Vulnerability.

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A/N: Feedback an constructive criticism welcome.