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.
I left the days over the paragraphs, at first I created them in order to not lose my sense of time, and decided to leave them there for your orientation, but Sherlock is definitely not aware what day or time it is. ….
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Chapter 15 – Sherlock's POV
[Day 2 - Saturday Night, late]
He remembered sweet things on his tongue, tasted odd, something was missing. H2CO3… maybe… probably.
Chemistry… he had tried to figure out why carbonic acid had such an impact on taste… that was long ago, very long ago…
Mummy was there and had encouraged him.
She didn't mind him trawl through the kitchen looking for things that contained it and trying to taste it with and without it… getting it out was easy, getting it in was somehow tricky.
In coffee was nasty, though; Mummy didn't like it, neither did he. She had laughed when he made carbonated coffee, and told him in Italy people actually drink that, it could be bought it in bottles… Sherlock had asked her to tell her about Italy.
Then he jerked awake.
John was there, "Easy. You're okay."
John was touching him…
Yikes… another expression from his childhood, from TV.
"Let me go."
The doctor did.
"Lean back against the pillows… You need to take this and get hydrated… Drink this. You'll feel better then," John held out pills.
"It won't stay down."
Something in him felt like it would erupt if he even considered thinking about swallowing something.
Why was the world so misty?… Mist was usually outside… and white, not black.
"It will, try it."
Why was John getting on his nerves?
"I'm not up for another round of vomiting yet, leave me alone."
"Sherlock, take these… Come on… Open up."
He felt dizzy, John vanished.
"Drink."
Hm, John was back, bugging him. Something touched his lips and before he knew what was happening his body had taken control and drank… He hated when his transport overruled his mind… and it did quite often recently.
"Sherlock, did you throw up into the bed?"
Why was it so cold in here? Warmth was back suddenly… what had just happened?
"I'll examine you, relax."
Bright light, made him nauseous again.
Cold traveling across his body.
John, this is not worth it.
Pressure.
Why was John bugging him?
"Go away," Sherlock managed, but instead of vanishing the pain in his hip increased sharply.
The world was moving around him, something shifted.
He took a deep breath and fought the nausea… and the pressure on his hip.
Then someone was slapping him.
Fall? What?
"When?… I fell sev'al times during the past thirty years, could'ou be more specific?"
"Did you fall since you puked for the first time on Friday?"
"I don't know."
This was ridiculous, he had fallen so often he lost count, especially when he tried to learn how to walk.
"Did you wake up on the ground since Friday?"
Why was that relevant?
"Maybe…"
"Do you hurt in some kind that would feel more like an injury than sickness?"
He hurt all over on so many spots… or maybe not at all, it was just confusing.
"I don't know."
"You want something? A book? Your laptop? Listen to a CD?"
Odd questions.
"My violin."
Yes, he really wanted her in here.
John brought her, he put the case down and opened it, this felt better.
It was kind bringing her in here, wasn't it?
John had been kind to him during the past hours… there was something to do to people who were nice, otherwise they wouldn't be nice again… Yeah, right, thank them.
He was so tired… Since when was fatigue an issue?
Fight it!… John had brought the instrument… God, having a muddled mind and knowing it was the worst thing he had encountered in a very long time.
Did he deserve kindness? He hadn't been nice to his flatmate and let his transport's malfunctions been visible on the outside, hadn't he?
But before he could figure that out, John was gone and he was alone… and then he was back, making him drink again… and again…
He decided to endure it and ignore that action in case it'd repeat… or let something else take over… automatism… He didn't want to be bothered…
Needed to preserve energy.
Retreat.
.
[Day 3 - Sunday morning]
Something woke him, it felt not good… nasty in fact.
Something was wrong.
He tried to sit up, huge effort… It shouldn't be that hard… Something was wrong!
His head felt different.
No, his mind felt far away from his body.
He was not able get up.
He was not able to do it alone…
Get help!
He was… he needed help!
A siren had switched on somewhere, like a claxon, bugging him.
Get help!
Why?
Lifethreatening.
Was this this serious?
Nonsense.
Go get help!
Damn autopilot.
Move… Get up!
Before he knew what was happening he did.
Trembling, his transport was misbehaving.
He tried to control it but felt very weak.
His heart rate was at a very uncomfortable high level, felt not good, this indeed was more serious than he had thought. It raised something urgend.
Another alert started somewhere. Panic mode warning?
What had trigged the emergency-programs?
He was shivering so much he was not sure he'd make it to the kitchen, but then - without remembering how he had passed the kitchen - he was in the living room, looking out of the window. If this was reality there would be street down there.
Ridiculous, if he was in his mind palace he could as well give the windows a view, though there usually was no exterior.
"Sherlock?… Shit…What are you doing out of bed?"
He dimly remembered... the living room had vanished… and he wanted to re-conquer it, look at the street, make sure it was still there.
"How are you doing?… Sherlock?… Are you with me?"
John was a nice soul… Maybe he needed to confirm that?
No, why state the obvious?
"Oh, John… Glad you're still here, too."
"Ta. Come on, sit down."
Something else was missing.
He was indeed perturbed… that his world might change…
Had he done something wrong….? Something was not as it was supposed to be… the autopilot was overruling him too much and too often. Had he taken something?
"Sit down."
Something was dragging him.
"You need to drink, sit down… Sherlock, come on, open your eyes… Sherlock!… That's it, all the way… Here, drink this."
He tried, he really did. But it felt so awful, felt ugly… He needed to push the feeling away, make it go away, keep it contained.
"Sherlock, if you need to puke, don't hold it back."
No, he would not loose it, it had been too much a fight to ingest it!
"John… You're a doctor…"
A pop up caught his attention: liquids, fast.
"I… I need a favour."
He had never before asked for a favour like this… was this a wise decision?
The pain was muddling with his thoughts, head felt like it was about to explode.
John said something but perception was disturbed.
He bit his fingernail, bad habit, but this was kind of… very private… He hadn't meant to speak about this.
He felt like drifting.
"Yes… Okay. I want you to lie back down first."
Something was pressing… cold on his forehead.
"Try to relax, I will get the stuff."
John was absent… and then back.
Something stinging on the back of his hand… fading down that sensation.
Then a sensation sneaked up his arm… and he felt empty, no, more like hollow in his head.
The absence of several strings of thoughts rushing by made him feel alone and desperate, his thoughts were in such an unsettling disarray and so simple it hurt. He wanted them to come back and behave as they used to be, not like in slow motion.
Was the pain driving them away?
What if they never came back?
"I need something else."
Had he really been so dumb to say this out loud?
"Feels… empty… my mind."
"Okay. What is usually there?" John could be heard in the distance.
Something felt even worse than before… his digestive tract was so hard to ignore. It was already when it was fine, but now it was… much worse.
"I don'know… Something hurts."
"Where exactly?"
Sherlock tried to describe the feeling and John suggested his tightness was adding to it.
He knew that, but relaxing had never been something that came easy, was quite hard in fact…
His eyes had closed on their own, again.
He tried to push the nerve-racking sensations to the back of his mind and escape to his mind palace.
Maybe he'd find some peace there.
But he was brought back when something cold happened to his face… gentle, felt good… fresh.
He hadn't had a bath in days and felt filthy.
If he didn't manage to put those sensations away he'd get insane.
When he felt the slight bitter chemical taste of sleep, he frowned.
It was so hard to call it when he wanted it, why was it here unwanted now?
But sleep was a good way to escape.
He felt his hand twitch and allowed his mind to fall backwards to the hard woollen blackness of sleep.
.
[Day 3 - Sunday afternoon]
Sherlock woke to the sound of porcelain moving in water.
"What happened?"
He eyed the IV line, his voice was hoarse.
"You asked John for intravenous fluids because you were dehydrated," a female voice came from somewhere nearby, Mrs Hudson.
He doubted he'd ever do something like that at first, but then some vague memories came back… He had indeed, but it felt more like a nightmare than a memory, so confused and mixed up.
"You were pretty sick, dear. Some nasty food poisoning or something."
"I don't get sick."
But more memories of running to the bathroom and throwing up came back.
When he tried to sit up his whole body seemed to ache, which convinced him to abandon the idea.
Some time later she tried to ask him about his childhood? No way.
"Oh, forget I asked. I was just interested in how you were feeling."
He didn't want to know how he was feeling at all right now… he wanted the sensations to go away, the memories of frailty.
"Don't do that. It's annoying," Sherlock was getting unnerved. He tried to explain why he didn't value her behaviour.
"You need to trust John with it… We have to watch you hurt, and that is hard for us, by the way," she scolded him, he once more felt like a child. But partially she was right, no one was profiting from him hiding his sickness, but it felt so wrong not to hide it.
"…John had some really bad days, too. I think he didn't sleep for more than two hours in one go, since Wednesday night. First chasing criminals with you and then taking care of you… He spend his time cleaning, and playing nurse. He looked like death warmed over when I came home."
So if he had behaved wrong, what would be the right way?
Hide it, to make John not suffer from his sickness?
He was irritated. He had tried that, he had failed… Was he supposed to hide it or not? Was she saying this to make him regret his behaviour?
Sometimes she was so annoyingly confusing!
He needed the bathroom… he looked around for a sterile IV plug, it must be somewhere nearby.
"John? Sherlock wants to get up," Mrs Hudson yelled.
He winced when the loud noise hurt his ears.
"I can do this."
"Leave that alone! He'll be here in a minute."
He ignored her. The moment he reached for the tube to unhook it she slapped his hand.
He stared up at her in disbelieve. Feeling once more like a small child. He had hated being a child, and he now found it repulsing to be reminded of how it felt.
"Did you just slap my hand?" he couldn't believe it.
"Yes, and I'll do it again if you touch that."
He opened his mouth to say something but then closed it, maybe he should just shut up, he was unnerved, she was unnerved. Probably John was unnerved, too.
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A/N:
RL background, don't read if you don't want to know:
I managed to get a Campylobacter-infection when I had just started senior high school / sixth form. I got a nice dress down by the doctor (when after four days I was finally dragged there) for not showing up earlier. I didn't dare to tell him I feared to be misunderstood once more and therefore didn't consider it.
I fetched it because I warmed up something in the microwave that contained contaminated eggs. Since it was the first microwave my family owned (and we had it only for a few months) I didn't know it heated the food up only to a temperature that was ideal for bacteria multiplying, the rest of my family had eaten the same meal before and didn't get sick. Well, now I know better. It was a nasty experience and the things I described that Sherlock thinks and feels here is pretty much what I experienced.