Lessons in Friendship 7 – Needing something

Standard disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

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This chapter was beta-ed by atypicalhumanbeing/ 221bhannah. Many thanks to her for her efforts/work. Check out her stories at FF. …

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Chapter 4 - Saturday

In the late evening, Sherlock once more threw up and this time John decided that he needed to go see to him as soon as he returned to his room. Sherlock had refused being examined further, or helped at all.

John made some more tea; he needed to make sure Sherlock was getting enough fluids or this would go downhill fast. This vomiting had lasted twenty-four hours now; if it was a bug it should be over soon. If it was not noticeably better by Sunday morning he'd need to consider something else and take more drastic action.

While he was waiting for the tea to finish, his phone beeped and he went to get it. He stared at the message; it was nonsense.

'Did I misplacd ot lost you? Do I ned sending seach praty? SH'

He didn't hesitate any longer and headed for the bathroom.

Sherlock had not come out of it in a long time.

"Sherlock?" he knocked at the door.

No response.

"I'll come in if you don't tell me how you're doing." This usually would be enough of a threat to make Sherlock reply, but this time he didn't.

The doctor cursed inwardly when there was not response at all.

"Sherlock?" he knocked, no response.

Another ten seconds later he opened the door carefully.

Sherlock sat sunken beside the porcelain bowl, leaning against the tub. The seat was raised and he didn't react to John's intrusion.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmmnn?"

One of Sherlock's hands was on the brim of the tub and John reached for his wrist, taking care not to startle him.

Sherlock's pulse was slow and not as strong as John would have liked. His skin was still kind of clammy and he didn't really acknowledge the other man's presence. Sherlock was probably a bit dehydrated and maybe even a bit out of it after so many hours of pain and puking and diarrhoea.

"Sherlock? I need you back in your bed. Can you manage to get up?" John tried.

"Hnnn," Sherlock grunted.

"Was that a yes or a no?"

Sherlock nodded and seemed to gather his will to get up. The obvious effort made the doctor reach for him and assist him. Not even fully raised, Sherlock started to sway and would have landed on the floor, nose first, if John hadn't kept him upright.

They managed to get him back into the bed unharmed.

"Sherlock, this is getting serious, a normal bug should not make you this disoriented. You really need to tell me how you feel."

"What for?"

"So I can help you."

"No one wants to help me."

"Well, I do… but you need to participate in it. So please tell me where you're hurting?"

"So you can twist my words… and make me the bad one?" Sherlock sounded kind of uncannily vulnerable right now.

"Sherlock… I'd never… wait, who twists your words?" John frowned once more.

Was Sherlock delirious? He took his temperature again, it was a fever, but not that high.

"Doctors," Sherlock whispered.

"When did doctors twist your words?"

"Always… and then they say I'm lying and they don't help," Sherlock sounded like a child.

"Tell me what you said to them and why they said you were lying," John decided he needed to find the out what was going on here.

"When… when I describe how things feel… and what hurts."

"And what did you tell the doctors?"

"That my ribs were broken."

"And what did the doctor say?"

"He felt for them and it made me want to cry because it hurt so much… but I managed to behave like a grown-up and didn't show anything… and the doctor said the ribs were okay and then talked to Mummy… and he told her I was fine and lying because no kid could possibly know that his ribs were broken and especially which ones and… even if they had a broken rib before… He said I was lying because the bike was broken and I wanted to evade the punishment for breaking it."

"Sherlock, how old were you?"

"I'm eight," Sherlock was lying on his side now, eyes closed, his lax left fist close to his nose.

"And why did you think your ribs were broken?"

"I could feel it. One broken and one fractured, left side, last two ones."

"And did your Mum believe the doctor?"

"She was very angry with me and scolded me."

"What happened then?"

"Nothing. Hurt for weeks."

"Did you tell your parents that it hurt?"

"Yes… They told me I was fine and that it didn't hurt and if I could feel it, it was false information and that I needed to learn to ignore false information."

John pinched the bridge of his nose and blew out air. This was not good.

"Was that the only doctor who said you were lying?"

"No," Sherlock was not giving any information without a question. His right hand was clenching the duvet. This was so not good! John briefly wondered if it was okay to interview Sherlock in this state and if his friend would remember later.

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A/N:

I hope not to offend any medical personnel by writing this. I am just trying to explain in which situations having a super accurate awareness are the hardest and how bad it really is when you know no-one will help because no-one understands. So please don't feel offended, I am really interested in medicine and would have worked in the field, if my PTSD hadn't got in the way.

Please review if you like my work.