Chapter 7

Day 2 – Saturday: Sherlock's POV

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He woke up in the middle of the night, disoriented and hurting.

Half-formed thoughts rumbled through his mind, undirected and rough. He had thought being sick would feel like being hurt, but this was different. This was not just one or more spot aching, it was feeling miserable all over… not being able to spot the unwanted areas of his body, there were too many.

He felt extremely weak, even trembling, he was sure he wouldn't be able to stand upright.

Ghastly feeling, that one.

Before experiencing this he had been convinced that with the right mindset and enough will and control he'd manage to get up, no matter how sick he was, but he had to face now that this might not be completely true.

He felt betrayed.

How could he be so weak to lose control over his body?

He was disgusted by his inability to make his transport follow his will. Feeling shaky kind of hurt his mind. Cold silver steely feeling on his skull's surface.

Shame.

Fragile.

Need to hide.

Ashamed.

He drifted back to sleep.

.

In the early morning the runs started, which was even more disgusting.

John brought tea and he felt dizzy.

When he closed his eyes he couldn't figure out which direction the sky would be; and he ran into the door once or twice while heading for the bathroom.

Since usually where the ceiling was there was also the sky, he just needed to remember that and orientation would come back.

He tried hard, but had to find out soon that his body ignored the knowledge, he got another bruise on his sheen from colliding with the bed.

John brought more tea, for what he was quite grateful, he was indeed thirsty. But it didn't do him the favour to stay inside him very long.

Drinking… too much effort, cancel action.

He went to the bathroom and back to bed, dozed, to the bathroom, to the bed, again and again.

…and again.

Actions blurred into each other.

.

Some time later, when he came back from the bathroom once more, he puked into his bin.

Not much, but he felt ashamed, for it had happened… and for the misconception that he was finished when he had left the bathroom… and for not being able to get up and bring the stinky thing outside.

He tried to sleep, but he couldn't, the taste in his mouth and the smell from the bin were bothering him.

Finally, he managed to stand up, he needed to get the bin into the kitchen or better the bathroom, it smelled bad there already.

But when he had struggled out of the sheets, something shifted underneath him and the next moment he fell back against the bed, which at least slowed down his fall.

With an ungracious noise he landed on the floor, hip first.

Pain rushed through his body... and it seemed as if it triggered more agony, uncovered those aches he had only distantly felt before, increasing intensity.

He gasped for air when he felt his intestines revolt and his stomach cramp. His head was throbbing…

Had all those growing pains been there before, dimmed?… And why were they gaining momentum now?

For now he wasn't able to go anywhere, though after some long moments he managed to sit upright against the bed. He needed to pause a bit, try again in a minute.

Fighting the new unveiled sensations he felt exhaustion try to overwhelm him.

This was nasty… a sharp memory pierced his mind while he slowly drifted back to sleep – this was not as bad as withdrawal but getting closer by the hour.

Wait… Was this in fact a kind of poisoning?

He was barely aware that his autopilot instructed his body to lay down on the floor when he slipped into sleep again.

.

He woke up and it felt as if hours had passed, still on the floor… The smell of stomach acid in his head and nose…

Needs to go… The smell needs to go or it will make him puke again!

Slowly he managed to sit up after he had finally realised he needed to get rid of it, it would not vanish by itself fast enough.

A wave of black spots washed over him and he hissed in discomfort, but at least he managed to prevent to black out.

Carefully, he made it over to the bin and with clumsy and slow fingers to close the plastic bag with a knot… Leastwise keep the smell inside.

He stumbled back to his bed.

How many days had he been in here?

Where was his phone?

He didn't know if it was day or night any longer.

He didn't know how often he had been in the bathroom.

…or how often he had thrown up,

…or why the world was like it was,

…or why the flat had only two rooms left… He remembered that there was blackness were the kitchen should be… Which was quite intriguing when he thought about it… but he was too tired to explore it back then when he had seen it and had moved back to his room.

He didn't know where John was and reality had become kind of abstract during the past hours.

It was all so dull… but took so much effort!

Not only the flat had reduced, his existence had reduced to his room and the bathroom, too.

Endless repetitions.

Was John gone?

How many days ago had he seen him last?

Did he need to convince Mycroft look for John?

He found his phone on the bedside table, thank god the darkness had not taken it.

…had it taken John?

It lasted an eternity but finally he managed to write a few words. Rationality returned… and… but… maybe he should text John first, before sending a search party.

Maybe John was out to work or do shopping… or some of those odd things people did… that was if shops and the outside world really existed any longer.

He was not sure how to distinguish between reality and dreams and being half conscious and drifting through the emptiness of his mind.

He saved the text and typed another one for John.

'Did I misplace or lost you? Do I need sending a search party? SH'

He stumble out of the bed in a hurry to reach the bathroom, again. The phone landed on the table with a hard 'clonk'.

.

He dry heaved into the toilet, this was even worse than vomiting.

Maybe drinking water before puking would make it less ugly, remember to drink next time.

Gasping for air he found himself leaned against the tub, black pressure on his forehead.

…and then John came in, thank god… he hadn't stored him somewhere never to be found again.

And John was even kind to him, even though he was probably a messy sight. He helped him back to bed and didn't complain about him being a nuisance. His flatmate was almost always kind, he was different than all the other doctors he had met when he was a child.

John rested his hand on his face. He knew that feeling. Mummy had done that when he was little… and when he was sick… but he was bigger now.

Sherlock vaguely noticed he slipped back into his childhood memories of being sick

…or hurt,

…distress…

He tried to shove away the memories that came up, they were kind of… painful…? … Unwanted anyway.

He got lost trying to flee.

There were people claiming to be doctors, and their only intention seemed to be to call him a liar, and then tell Mummy lies about him and no one made his pain go away, and no one helped him and they only caused more pain with needles and other things.

Maybe John wasn't a doctor? He had never done such things… No, he was a friend, he had said that, hadn't he?… He must be okay then.

.

He had fallen off his bike and then been taken to a doctor, at first he had thought the doctor would help him but then the man had told Mummy how he was a liar. He had protested and choked down the urge to cry because this was so ghastly. He was stunned, he knew other children could be mean, but grown-ups were supposed to be clever and especially doctors should be!

They were supposed to help hurting people, weren't they? Why wasn't he helped? What had he done wrong?

The man was mean, not only lying about him lying, but also lying about him not being hurt.

When they were home again he had hidden in his room, Mycroft came and he asked him if he had got it wrong and doctors weren't supposed to heal people. Mycroft failed to give a good explanation and said he hadn't got it wrong, doctors were supposed to help.

He remembered more doctors and more pain and being accused of faking symptoms… He didn't want to remember and he didn't want to be a kid any longer.

Having chickenpox wasn't nice… He was twelve. But he was able to reduce the itching to a minimum by trying to switch it off, like he had learned to do with the pain before… Then he passed the sickness to Mycroft, who was pretty bugged to get a children's illness at his age. But when they watched TV for days and ate ice-cream and played all games they had at least six times, it was fun. They played deducing sometimes, that was fun, too.

.

When someone called for him and shook his shoulder he was sure it must be Mummy, but it was John… What was John doing in his childhood?… A few seconds later he realised he was in Baker Street and neither John nor him were in his childhood.

"John? Uh, glad I didn't lost you somewhere."

"Glad you're back with me."

"Back?" Where had he been? Time travelling was not yet invented.

"You were a bit out of it, maybe dehydration, what did you drink during the past three days?"

He listed the liquids and their amounts.

"Jesus, Sherlock this isn't enough at all! No wonder you're dehydrated. We need to get this under control. I'll get some fluids, back in a minute, don't go to sleep."

Hm, sleep would be nice. When had he last slept? Felt like ages ago.

John helped him drink, he had already started to drift off when panic hit him.

Will his life be like this from now on? Will it stay like this because nobody was there to help, again?

"This will go away. I'll get some meds and you'll feel better tomorrow. Sleep a bit now. It'll be better in the morning."

Why was John so kind?… sleep took his questions away.

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A/N:

RealLife-hint (don't read this paragraph if it would make the story less good for you):

Since there was some feedback about the switching off the pain and problems with uttering where it is and how it feels: I'm not making this up, I'm simply describing it, my pain reception works similar, the problems and confusion around the problems aren't made up either. I think Sherlock would not behave as he does (especially in HLV) if he wasn't able to manage pain.

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Reviews and/or feedback would be lovely.