The second time he woke up, the heart monitor was still beeping beside him. The oxygen mask was still on him and he still felt the nagging discomfort as if something was logged in his throat, blocking his speech. Sherlock knitted his eyebrows together in discomfort as a wave of nausea washed over him. His throat still felt raw and itchy but he could move his head now so he tilted his head to the side. John was still there, unshaven, hand propping his head up as he dozed.
Sherlock decided to not wake him. Instead, he lifted a hand to touch his throat. There was some sort of thick plastic material across it and when he looked down, he realized there were large tubes sticking out of his chest.
Oh, I have been intubated, he thought, fiddling with the plastic tubes. He cast a glance at John but he was still sleeping.
Why didn't they stick it down my throat, he thought.
Then he remembered the harsh pain when he tried to swallow. Something was wrong with his throat. How long has he been here? Two days? Three? No, must have taken them a while to remove the cast around his neck. Around a week at least. Maybe even two.
Panic started to overwhelm him but he fought it down.
John I'm so tired, he thought, John, please help me, I'm so tired.
He exhaled, hoping for a sigh of sound, but still, nothing came out. He watched morphine drip slowly down from beside him.
Drip, drip, drip, drip, the drug continued.
In minutes, he was lured back to sleep by it's rhythmic sound.
—
This was the third time he woke up. The lights were still on above him, but the tubes were no longer in him. That should mean he's allowed to eat on his own by now. The IV line was still attached to his hand and the heart monitor was still hooked up to his chest but his throat hurt a lot less now. It was still sore but the pain was gone. Only a pounding throb remained, logged in his throat. A drink of water should do.
He twisted so that he could see John. John sat there looking at him. At least John was awake.
He looked at the sink. John raised an eyebrow. He nodded at the sink, trying to tell him that he needed water.
"You want some water?" John asked.
He nodded.
"Ok, I'll go get you some," John stood up and hobbled over to the sink.
Sherlock looked back down at the little white pads attached to his chest, counting each beat of heart. He started to peel one off.
"Sherlock…" John warned.
Sherlock let his hand fall back to the bed. John held out the paper cup and he gladly took it. He drained the cup in one sitting, but he drank too fast so he started choking on the water, coughing all over the white sheets.
John patted his back reassuringly, "The doctor said to not eat solids. Don't try drinking too much of something, your throat is still finding it difficult to swallow," he explained.
Sherlock wiped his mouth with the back of his hand then gave the paper cup back to John. He then rested his head on the pillow and sighed. No, not sighed, he only exhaled. No sound came out, as usual. He tried asking John what happened.
"H…o…w…" he tapped.
John frowned, "You… don't remember what happened?"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
John let out a sigh then leaned forward, "You were chasing one of Moran's men down the alley, remember? He had a knife and you two kind of struggled a bit. And then he stab your throat. It's a miracle you survived." He said. "Well, the knife was pretty short, only about five centimeters or so,"
John made some kind of weird shrug and frown. "But, it still did some damage though,"
Oh sure it did, Sherlock thought, looking up at the ceiling feeling vexed.
So… he got stabbed. In the throat. Oh wow. The chances of getting stabbed in the throat without dying is probably a one out of 10. Or two out of 10, depending on the health and where the wound was.
The wound.
He let his hand wander absently to his throat. A thick gauze was stuck there, probably half a centimeter.
He shifted a bit so that his whole body was turned to John. "Recover?" he tapped.
John took a deep breath then said the words that Sherlock hated.
"I don't know," he said softly, shaking his head. "I don't know. I'm sorry Sherlock. Maybe you will heal. Maybe never," he shrugged.
For an instance he thought John was going to cry. But he didn't. John just sat there, block straight as if he was back training in the military again.
"Doctor says you will be able to leave in around three days later," he said after a while. He shifted uneasily in the chair. "So…how are you feeling?"
Before he could start tapping, John stopped him. "Don't tell me you're fine," he said, "because I know you're not."
Sherlock shot him an annoyed look. "Achy," he tapped. He pointed to his throat.
John sighed. "I know Sherlock," he said, "I know."
Hey guys, Izzy here. Just to let you know, this type of muteness is called Aphonia, which disables the person to make any sound, screaming, groaning, crying, etc. It happens when vocal folds fails to adduct (come together to make a sound) but the vocal folds will adduct when the person coughs.
I hate bees.
*hides
Please don't kick me!