Chapter 5: The storm

I've been running to the shoreline
To the shelter over hillside
Under bridges that you built for me
We're bracing for the daylight

Are you ready for the storm to come?
Are you ready for it?

The Storm – Causes

Dry mouth. Headache. Nauseous. The awful feeling of a hangover engulfed John even before he opened his eyes. He immediately regretted trying. The room was spinning heavily his headache spiked. Even the smallest crack of light that came through the curtains was too much. He struggled for the glass of water and the paracetamol that stood on the bedside table next to the guest bed.
Greg Lestrade was a good friend. Not only had he correctly estimated that John would have a decent hangover the next morning, but he had been the best company John could have wished for that evening. Without asking questions, he'd grabbed a bottle of whiskey, poured two glasses, and silently let John drink his first glass. After that he had subtly started about recent cases at New Scotland Yard. This had been the opening for an evening of talking and drinking, without John having to tell why he was in London and what was going on. This was something John was very grateful for.
John tried to get his body under control and rose. He grabbed the towel that Greg had laid out for him and went to the adjoining bathroom with a little more difficulty then he anticipated. He turned on the tap, undressed, stepped under the warm jet, and closed his eyes. The water felt refreshing, cleansing. It was exactly what he needed after the rollercoaster of yesterday. After a long shower, he dressed himself, brushed his teeth and walked towards the kitchen.

"Good morning John, feeling okay?" Greg asked, looking up from his newspaper once he heard John enter.

John nodded. "Yeah, bit hangover."

Greg cracked a small, knowing smile. "There's coffee if you want. Would you like me to make you some breakfast?"

John walked to the counter and poured himself a large mug of black coffee. "Have to keep this down first," he replied and sat down at the kitchen table opposite to Greg.

Greg returned to his newspaper, but John could see he wasn't reading. He was waiting for John to start the conversation.

He put down his mug. "I know you have questions."

"I don't," Greg said, not looking up from his newspaper. "But if you want to talk about it, you can."

This was another thing John appreciated about Greg. He knew Greg wanted to know what was going on, but he didn't push. He never did. Even though he was a DI and knew countless techniques to retract information from someone, he never would use those on friends.

John took another sip from his coffee. Suddenly, he felt the urge to tell. He needed to vent, he needed to share. It was just too much to keep to himself, even though he didn't know he was allowed to tell.

"He's alive," John started, his eyes on his mug instead of the inspector. "Sherlock. They found him."

Greg's eyes grew big. "No way. That's not possible. Are you sure it's not of Mycroft's schemes? Another one of his twisted…"

"It's not," John interrupted him, still not looking up. He couldn't stop talking now. "I saw him. He is in a private hospital just outside of the city center. Mycroft came to Fairlight Cove yesterday, took me to see him. He was found in Kosovo a couple of days ago. Nobody knows what happened."

"Not even Mycroft?"

John shook his head. "No, I don't think so. He tried to talk to Sherlock multiple times. But he isn't talking. He isn't himself. He's aggressive, violent even. Attacked his brother twice."

"Jesus," Greg breathed.

"He's hurt. The injuries he has suggest he's been tortured back there. Multiple breaks, a heavy concussion, contusions, internal bleeding probably. They found gamma hydroxybutyrate in his blood."

"GHB?"

John nodded. He wanted to say more, but stopped. He didn't register that little fact properly yesterday. A shiver went through his spine. He knew how susceptible Sherlock was to drugs. He also knew GHB wasn't his drug. Heroin, cocaine and sometimes painkillers were his drugs of choice, not GHB. That only meant Sherlock hadn't taken it voluntarily.

Suddenly more memories from yesterday came to the surface. John felt panic engulfing him while Sherlock's words surfaced in his mind.

I'd rather die.

His hands started shaking. Sherlock refused treatment. He had internal injuries and refused treatment. Was it because he was being stubborn? To prove a point to his brother? Would Sherlock really go that far to risk his own life, even after he was rescued from Kosovo?
But John knew that was not the case. If only it were. No, this realization was much worse. Sherlock didn't want to be helped, he didn't want to be saved. This was Sherlock throwing in the towel.

"I don't know why I'm here. Mycroft came to me to ask for my help. I don't know what I could do what he can't do himself." John's voice sounded small, not his own. "I think he doesn't want to survive this."

Greg shook his head in disbelief. "That can't possibly be true. I've seen Sherlock going through hell and back, but he never stopped fighting."

John finally looked up at Greg. "He refuses treatment."

The inspector's face softened when he saw the unshed tears in John's eyes. He gave John a moment to blink them away.

"You still care about him," he said after a while.

"Of course I do."

"More then you want to," Greg continued.

John didn't reply and shrugged. Of course he cared about Sherlock, that was no secret. He'd always care for the man, friends or not. But why did Greg's statement made him feel uncomfortable then? And why was he so affected by all of this, more then he wanted? Why did it feel like he was about to lose someone he… loved?

"Look," Greg started after a long pause. "I'm sure Mycroft asked you to come with him for a reason. There will be something you can do. Maybe not now, but there will be. But please John, don't lose your faith in him. Not if he doesn't have any left of his own."

John opened his mouth to reply, but got interrupted by the buzzing of his phone. There was a text from Mycroft.

Car is waiting for you at Lestrade's house. -MH

It didn't surprise John anymore. Of course Mycroft knew he didn't went to the hotel last night.

He raised from his chair. "I have to go. Thank you for everything, Greg. I owe you one."

"Nonsense, that's what friends are for. Just promise me you'll call me if you need anything of if you need company. You need people."

John nodded and gave the inspector a little, knowing smile. Without further words, he left the kitchen.

Mycroft waited for John by the large window of Sherlock's room. When John approached, he saw that Mycroft's nose had become blue and swollen overnight. That must've hurt.
He stood next to the older Holmes brother. Mycroft kept looking through the window, his attitude professional and distant. It was clear that the emotion John had seen yesterday after the conversation with Sherlock was unintended.
John looked through the window. Sherlock was facing him, his eyes closed. This was the first time that John could take a good look at his face. He had become thin, dark circles under his eyes. His left orbital rim was stitched up, showing an impressive dark blue and purple bruise. His face was hard, tense. He was shivering and small drops of sweat formed on his forehead where his black curls got stuck.

"Withdrawal?"

Mycroft nodded in answer and John sighed. He saw Sherlock lunging forward, and was just in time to take a spit bucked so he could throw up. John flinched slightly. He knew this was only the beginning. Withdrawal from GHB could take weeks.

When Sherlock was finished throwing up, he lay down again, his knees raised to his chest. He clenched his unhurt arm around his stomach. His face showed a pained expression.
John started to worry. These were definitely signs of internal injuries.

"He's in pain."

Again, Mycroft nodded, his face still focused on the window with a closed expression. John suddenly realized this was Mycroft trying to keep control of himself and his emotions. It wasn't he didn't have any, he just didn't want to show them.

John noticed he started to lose his patience. There must be something they could do to convince Sherlock, something they could say.

"Why don't you let me try to talk to him?" he tried.

Mycroft shook his head and looked at John for the first time since he arrived next to him. "I don't think Sherlock will forgive himself if he'd hurt you while being in a psychotic state. That, and he doesn't know you are here. The stress it could cause will likely be too much for his body right now."

From his medical perspective, John knew that was the right call. But it didn't keep him from feeling helpless.

"Dr. Watson," Mycroft started slowly after another minute of staring. "When do you believe a patient is no longer capable of making his own medical decisions?"

John looked at the man. "You want to declare him medical incompetent? Sherlock?" He laughed hollowly. "I don't think he will ever be incapable to make his own decisions, even if he is psychotic."

"I think we have to, if it comes down to it."

John shook his head. "You really want to bypass his wishes?"

"I know you believe otherwise, but I don't want to bury my own brother," Mycroft spat.

This stung. Of course, John didn't want to either. He knew Mycroft cared much more for his brother then he showed.

John changed his tone. "Okay. If you think that's best. You can make the decision for him if he is no longer capable of doing himself."

"And that's just the problem. I can't."

John started to get frustrated with Mycroft. What did this man want? First, he wanted to declare Sherlock medical incompetent so he could make the decisions for him, and now he couldn't do it? "Of course you can."

"I'm not his medical proxy," Mycroft said, tiredness audible in his voice. "Of course, my brother is full of surprises. He assigned you."

John stared at Mycroft, not able to get a word out of his mouth. He was Sherlock's medical proxy? Why? How? He didn't sign anything, did he?

And then, he thought of a conversation he and Sherlock had two years ago. It was a brief one, just a casual talk between two friends. But Sherlock had taken it serious, very serious even.

"I can't do anything against his wishes," John stammered.

"For God's sake John, look at the man!" Mycroft snapped. "You know what's happening inside his body. He's slowly bleeding to death. You really think he wants to die?"

The panic took over John's thinking. "I… I know. But… I can't. You should be the one making the decisions, not me. I don't know what he wants, I know nothing. I'm just a friend…"

"Except you are not."

John just looked at Mycroft, bewildered. He didn't know how to reply.

"There's a note."

John didn't understand. What was Mycroft talking about?

"When we found him and collected his clothes at the hospital, there was an old note in the inner pocket of his coat. It's for you," Mycroft explained and sighed.

"Did you read it?"

"I did. You should, too."