Disclaimer!
A/N This is a flashback to the first night John woke up in the hospital... I don't really know what this chapter was intended for, but I don't reckon I would, as it's about 4Am and I'm really tired but I just couldn't get these two boys out of my head. Basically, think of it as a filler while I write more on the serious issues.
Please, read and review! And, as always, enjoy!
Medical Knife
Things like this don't just happen. Half-killing yourself isn't the product of the actions of one who intends to live—which John, up until the point of needing hospitalization, was able to convince himself of. Of course there are other faucets and depths that needed to be explored, and in all honesty, it was, mostly, an accident. It just wasn't preceded by caution, something John always took into account before taking the risk of applying blade to skin.
John was, also, never one to use the word "depressed", even if that's what he was (for no apparent reason, he often sadly thinks to himself). He would feel "a bit unwell" or was having a "not so good day". Even for moods that lasted well over two weeks, he was only "tired". Oh, never mind my mood, I've not been getting proper rest.
Accidents don't really happen—not when you're the person to blame for the accident, not when you're doing something you know is less than an act in favor of your well-being.
Although he didn't say it out loud, when John woke up in a hospital gown and in a hospital bed and attached to a machine that monitored his vitals, he knew he'd pushed too far, that something was, obviously, amiss in his life. In the following seconds, the day prior and all its nuances and biased emotional recollections came to him. His memory was branded with the grief he was feeling when he left the flat—why did Sherlock have to say anything to John when all he needed was a friendly companion to sit in silence with? It was well past midnight when John stormed away, out to do whatever he would without the interest of Sherlock monitoring his every mood. He came back quickly, which he assumed Sherlock predicted, as the detective didn't bother to try to follow him. It turns out that Sherlock failed to predict that, while John did return within thirty minutes, he would return with something concealed in his jacket pocket.
John didn't have the will to override whatever drove him to go to the 24-hour convenience store and purchase a box-cutter. When he returned to his flat, Sherlock didn't say a word to him. Obviously, he was pouting, and probably involved in his own little world without much care to keep track of John – John was particularly thankful for the distraction Sherlock's Mind Palace often provided him with.
Their argument was ridiculous, in retrospect—John sat up in his hospital bed, recalling the stupid little cutting-fit he'd thrown in protest to the rising disturbance within him, against the words of his previous encounter with Sherlock. His right arm was now dressed with medical wrappings up to the crook of his elbow, and his wrists were cuffed to either side-bar. He judged it to be just before six pm, as the sun was either just setting or just rising—he guessed the former because he was, now, all too familiar with the falsities of the rising sun, the promises for a new day that it offered yet, lately, didn't even try to deliver. The hue was all wrong. The hue was darker, bluer, not at all like the red of a West-going sun—the light on the window sill was of moon descent.
"You were undernourished," a deep voice commented. "That, and the amount of blood loss, caused you to pass out."
John's heart monitor spiked momentarily before his brain made use of his long-term memory. The room was somewhat laid-back – he saw immediately that it was a single-room—with a silenced telly, a potted tree-bush-plant thing, some lovely paintings adorning the wall closest to him, on his right; there were two lamps, but only one was giving off light, the sort of light found in lounges, though tainted in the twilight of the open window. It was beside that window that Sherlock was seated, in a more comfortable arm chair, near a coffee table with stacks of disposable plastic cups that John assumed once held a caffeinated beverage. Sherlock was a bit tired looking, though quite engaged as he looked up from the phone he had probably spent the last hour staring into. John recognized that Sherlock was at "work", as Sherlock still took on cases whenever he found one of interest, despite caring for John most hours of the day. He managed to solve eleven over the phone in the time since John became overwhelmingly "a little unwell". He was probably in the middle of solving one just then, when John woke up and disturbed him.
All the words that would have come to be voiced by John were apologies and regrets, which Sherlock picked up on nearly immediately. It was still too fresh for Sherlock to feel any real anger, and he instead felt the need to preserve his friend's delicate state of mind. He felt a bit concerned for the painfully aware glint in John's eyes as he woke. Initially, he felt fear when he ventured to the loo in search of peroxide, only to find John sitting on the floor next to the tub, passed out in a small puddle of blood. Curiosity soon followed when the doctors told him the John was fine except for minimal malnutrition and a lack of sensibility.
Sherlock made it a point to keep his stare fixated on John, to read the signs of disconnect of his first moments after waking up in a hospital. John looked at his wrists, then back up.
"Um, I'm unsure why I'm handcuffed to the bed…" His voice was hoarse. Naturally, it would be, as it had been nearly 30 hours since he'd last said anything, and even worse the fact that the last time he'd said anything, it was a yelling competition between him and Sherlock. No matter the reason, it remained a fact that John's voice was very small, and very uncertain. The heart monitor made annoying sounds to a quickening pace.
"I fail to see how you don't understand, but, if you'd like, I could explain the situation."
"I…"
"As it is uncertain whether or not you intended to kill yourself—"
"I didn't—"
Sherlock proceeded to stare at John in a vey silence-inspiring way, a way that made you question his intentions for the intensity of his steady, upholding gaze. It said shut up. It was a warning, because, as the moments of John's waking passed, it became easier and more acceptable for anger to take its place on the mantle of things Sherlock considered acting from. Sherlock had the capacity to recognize the effort John made to keep himself awake and knew it would be very priggish of him to start yelling and spouting off about everything that bothered him now. Sherlock knew he was tired only for the fear of confrontation – he'd tested it multiple times and it held up – but it didn't matter. "Sleep," he said, controlling himself, returning to his attention to his phone. "I am about to inform Lestrade that the father killed his daughters— she was murdered by the use of a snake, which is quite extraordinary, as it is impossible—well, nearly impossible – to train a snake to do such advanced tricks and then to do so with some amount of secrecy. The father killed his children with a snake and kept a circus and herd of animals of all sorts on his property of dozens and dozens of acres…"
Sherlock intentionally spoke on and on, subtly encouraging his blogger to nod off, to let himself recover. John didn't seem to understand this, but was thankful nonetheless to be able to escape confrontation, as he was unable to speak to any degree of accuracy exactly what he intended the last time he harmed himself. All he knew, as he listened to Sherlock's calming voice prattle on about case details, was that he was exhausted, even after many hours of sleep. He knew, just before he slipped off into the great nothing of a dreamless sleep, was that Sherlock was watching him – well, watching out for him. Yes, he was under the penetrating gaze of the observational, logical, deducing genius, but it was for the right reasons that he observed him. To keep him safe from himself… that was a comforting thought to John as he allowed himself to nod off into a sleep of sorts, one where he had no dreams, but a strange awareness of the company he was presently in as he did so.
John was, also, never one to use the word "depressed", even if that's what he was (for no apparent reason, he often sadly thinks to himself). He would feel "a bit unwell" or was having a "not so good day". Even for moods that lasted well over two weeks, he was only "tired". Oh, never mind my mood, I've not been getting proper rest.
Accidents don't really happen—not when you're the person to blame for the accident, not when you're doing something you know is less than an act in favor of your well-being.
Although he didn't say it out loud, when John woke up in a hospital gown and in a hospital bed and attached to a machine that monitored his vitals, he knew he'd pushed too far, that something was, obviously, amiss in his life. In the following seconds, the day prior and all its nuances and biased emotional recollections came to him. His memory was branded with the grief he was feeling when he left the flat—why did Sherlock have to say anything to John when all he needed was a friendly companion to sit in silence with? It was well past midnight when John stormed away, out to do whatever he would without the interest of Sherlock monitoring his every mood. He came back quickly, which he assumed Sherlock predicted, as the detective didn't bother to try to follow him. It turns out that Sherlock failed to predict that, while John did return within thirty minutes, he would return with something concealed in his jacket pocket.
John didn't have the will to override whatever drove him to go to the 24-hour convenience store and purchase a box-cutter. When he returned to his flat, Sherlock didn't say a word to him. Obviously, he was pouting, and probably involved in his own little world without much care to keep track of John – John was particularly thankful for the distraction Sherlock's Mind Palace often provided him with.
Their argument was ridiculous, in retrospect—John sat up in his hospital bed, recalling the stupid little cutting-fit he'd thrown in protest to the rising disturbance within him, against the words of his previous encounter with Sherlock. His right arm was now dressed with medical wrappings up to the crook of his elbow, and his wrists were cuffed to either side-bar. He judged it to be just before six pm, as the sun was either just setting or just rising—he guessed the former because he was, now, all too familiar with the falsities of the rising sun, the promises for a new day that it offered yet, lately, didn't even try to deliver. The hue was all wrong. The hue was darker, bluer, not at all like the red of a West-going sun—the light on the window sill was of moon descent.
"You were undernourished," a deep voice commented. "That, and the amount of blood loss, caused you to pass out."
John's heart monitor spiked momentarily before his brain made use of his long-term memory. The room was somewhat laid-back – he saw immediately that it was a single-room—with a silenced telly, a potted tree-bush-plant thing, some lovely paintings adorning the wall closest to him, on his right; there were two lamps, but only one was giving off light, the sort of light found in lounges, though tainted in the twilight of the open window. It was beside that window that Sherlock was seated, in a more comfortable arm chair, near a coffee table with stacks of disposable plastic cups that John assumed once held a caffeinated beverage. Sherlock was a bit tired looking, though quite engaged as he looked up from the phone he had probably spent the last hour staring into. John recognized that Sherlock was at "work", as Sherlock still took on cases whenever he found one of interest, despite caring for John most hours of the day. He managed to solve eleven over the phone in the time since John became overwhelmingly "a little unwell". He was probably in the middle of solving one just then, when John woke up and disturbed him.
All the words that would have come to be voiced by John were apologies and regrets, which Sherlock picked up on nearly immediately. It was still too fresh for Sherlock to feel any real anger, and he instead felt the need to preserve his friend's delicate state of mind. He felt a bit concerned for the painfully aware glint in John's eyes as he woke. Initially, he felt fear when he ventured to the loo in search of peroxide, only to find John sitting on the floor next to the tub, passed out in a small puddle of blood. Curiosity soon followed when the doctors told him the John was fine except for minimal malnutrition and a lack of sensibility.
Sherlock made it a point to keep his stare fixated on John, to read the signs of disconnect of his first moments after waking up in a hospital. John looked at his wrists, then back up.
"Um, I'm unsure why I'm handcuffed to the bed…" His voice was hoarse. Naturally, it would be, as it had been nearly 30 hours since he'd last said anything, and even worse the fact that the last time he'd said anything, it was a yelling competition between him and Sherlock. No matter the reason, it remained a fact that John's voice was very small, and very uncertain. The heart monitor made annoying sounds to a quickening pace.
"I fail to see how you don't understand, but, if you'd like, I could explain the situation."
"I…"
"As it is uncertain whether or not you intended to kill yourself—"
"I didn't—"
Sherlock proceeded to stare at John in a vey silence-inspiring way, a way that made you question his intentions for the intensity of his steady, upholding gaze. It said shut up. It was a warning, because, as the moments of John's waking passed, it became easier and more acceptable for anger to take its place on the mantle of things Sherlock considered acting from. Sherlock had the capacity to recognize the effort John made to keep himself awake and knew it would be very priggish of him to start yelling and spouting off about everything that bothered him now. Sherlock knew he was tired only for the fear of confrontation – he'd tested it multiple times and it held up – but it didn't matter. "Sleep," he said, controlling himself, returning to his attention to his phone. "I am about to inform Lestrade that the father killed his daughters— she was murdered by the use of a snake, which is quite extraordinary, as it is impossible—well, nearly impossible – to train a snake to do such advanced tricks and then to do so with some amount of secrecy. The father killed his children with a snake and kept a circus and herd of animals of all sorts on his property of dozens and dozens of acres…"
Sherlock intentionally spoke on and on, subtly encouraging his blogger to nod off, to let himself recover. John didn't seem to understand this, but was thankful nonetheless to be able to escape confrontation, as he was unable to speak to any degree of accuracy exactly what he intended the last time he harmed himself. All he knew, as he listened to Sherlock's calming voice prattle on about case details, was that he was exhausted, even after many hours of sleep. He knew, just before he slipped off into the great nothing of a dreamless sleep, was that Sherlock was watching him – well, watching out for him. Yes, he was under the penetrating gaze of the observational, logical, deducing genius, but it was for the right reasons that he observed him. To keep him safe from himself… that was a comforting thought to John as he allowed himself to nod off into a sleep of sorts, one where he had no dreams, but a strange awareness of the company he was presently in as he did so.