Chapter Four
"No, Sherlock, I'm not hungry."
"John, you have to eat."
John huffed. "Says you."
"My body is used to limited food. Yours is not. You need to eat."
The morning hadn't got off to a good start. John had woken in an irritable mood, still achy from his seizure. All he'd wanted to do was go back to sleep, but first the nurses, and then Sherlock, had nagged him into drinking. He had given in to that battle eventually because he knew he was dehydrated, but food was another story.
John balled his hands into fists. "You said they think I'll have another seizure today, yeah? Well, I'd rather not have to suffer this food simply to vomit it back up again later."
Sherlock sighed, glancing at John's hands and then looking down at his feet. "It's not guaranteed, John. It's just a possibility."
At that moment, Doctor Horton walked into the room. He'd heard the tail-end of the argument from the corridor; Sherlock and John's voices had been rather loud, after all.
Dr Horton nodded to Sherlock and then looked at John. "Morning, John. How are you today?" He picked up John's chart at the end of his bed and skimmed through the readings.
"Fine."
At John's terse tone, Dr Horton looked up. "What's wrong?"
Sherlock cut in before John got a chance to speak. "He won't eat."
"Why don't you want to eat, John?"
"I don't want to vomit if I have another seizure."
"John, you're a doctor. During a seizure, you wouldn't be aware of whether you vomited or not. It wouldn't be dangerous because there are people here to make sure your airways remain clear. If you do not eat, you will simply vomit bile, which will hurt your throat more. You know all of that, so why don't you want to eat?"
Sherlock stared at the doctor, impressed with his logic.
John, on the other hand, was not at all impressed. He smashed his head back against the pillow in frustration and closed his eyes. John's fists were clenched even harder than before, and his knuckles were going white under the strain.
"John?"
John shook his head, trying to stop himself from saying something he'd regret later. He was tired and irritated, and all he really wanted to do was fall asleep so he could block everyone out.
Tentatively, Sherlock placed his hand over one of John's closed fists, and leaned forward, lowering his voice a little, so that it became like a soft rumble. "John, what's wrong?"
"I'm fine."
"You're clearly not. Why are you so irritable?"
John exploded. "I don't know! I don't know why but I'm fed up. I want you all to sod off and leave me alone!"
After his outburst, John pulled his hand away from Sherlock's and rolled onto his side, hissing slightly with the pain his sudden movement caused. He focused on regulating his breathing and attempting to fall asleep as quickly as possible.
"Let's give John some space, Mr Holmes." Doctor Horton said pointedly.
Sherlock nodded and stood up. He followed the Doctor out of the room and into the corridor, where they both stopped.
"From your expression, Mr Holmes, I assume this isn't characteristic for John."
Sherlock shook his head and looked at the floor. "His does get cross, sometimes, if I annoy him too much. But he normally has loads of patience, and will only crack on a particularly bad day." He looked up, meeting Doctor Horton's eyes. "Is this because of his brain damage? I've researched, and they say that brain damage can cause personality shifts."
"That is true, and it could be, but irritability can also be a sign that a seizure is on the way. We need to keep a close eye on John from the next few hours."
Sherlock sighed and nodded solemnly; he had nothing else to say.
Lestrade jumped from his car and hurried over to the crime scene. The area had been cordoned off to prevent onlookers seeing anything. He located Sergeant Donovan quickly.
"Tell me everything."
"Hello to you too, sir. As far as we can tell it's the same person who's painted it as before. The paint appears to be identical. Again, it's addressed to Sherlock, and we're not really sure what it means."
"What's it say?"
" 'Are you still on the angel's side, Sherlock?' Sir, Sherlock must know what this means. Surely it's a reference to something that only he knows about, it must be."
Lestrade sighed and walked up to the wall, studying the writing closely. This was one of the times where he really wished he could think like Sherlock, see things that nobody else could, look beyond the obvious. "What did the last one say?"
"It said 'I was right; you are ordinary, Sherlock.' We need to tell him about this, sir. What if it's some kind of threat?"
Lestrade turned on Donovan. "Sherlock has enough on his hands right now. If it's a threat, then it's a threat to him. Mycroft knows, and he's insuring they're both protected. Nobody speaks of this to anyone else, you hear me? Nobody."
"Uh, yes, sir." She nodded hastily.
Lestrade's phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at the screen for a moment. "I've gotta go. Manage the scene, will you, Donovan."
"Got it, sir."
As soon as Lestrade had left the scene, Sally Donovan got to work. She sighed. She still felt guilty about what had happened two years ago, even though she technically hadn't actually driven Sherlock to suicide. Sally felt guilty because of what had happened to John, how he had been. Sometimes, in her sleep, she still saw John. She saw how he'd looked when she'd arrived on the scene, with smatterings of blood on his hands and shirt, face drained of colour, and with eyes that were empty. And now this 'accident' had happened. She sighed again, wondering when things were going to start looking up for John Watson.
Behind Donovan's back, Anderson also slipped away from the crime scene. He'd heard her exchange with Lestrade, and decided it was time to take matters into his own hands. If he wanted to get back to examining proper crime scenes rather than this blasted graffiti, he'd have to tell Sherlock about it, so he'd catch the idiot and put an end to it. He didn't like the idea of having to seek out Sherlock, but Anderson was determined that it was something that had to be done.
Will Meyer walked up the steps to St George's Hospital and entered. He had on a casual get-up of chinos and a shirt – there was no point attracting unwanted attention. Once inside, he glanced around for Mycroft. Seeing no sign of him, he decided to head straight to the room where Sherlock and John were staying.
He arrived in the corridor outside the room to utter and total chaos. Although, with Sherlock, that wasn't exactly new. Just outside the door, Mycroft was restraining Sherlock with the help of a nurse, although Sherlock appeared to be gaining the upper hand. Instantly, Will rushed forwards, pushing Sherlock's back against the wall of the corridor, and then pinning him in place with both hands. The nurse instantly let go, and Mycroft rested a hand on Sherlock's chest to ensure he stayed put.
Mycroft glanced at Will. "Impeccable timing as always, Meyer."
Will nodded in response, then turned to Sherlock, who was breathing heavily, and still struggling in Will's grip. "What's going on here?"
Sherlock's wild eyes focused on Will, and he seemed to relax a little at the sight of a friendly face. Then he lowered his eyes to look at Will's hands, which were clamped around Sherlock's wrists against the wall. "Let me go, Will. Now."
"Not until you tell me what's going on."
Sherlock huffed, and then nodded a little to himself. "John…he's….He had a seizure. Again. But this one was worse. All the machines started going off and then loads of people came in here and forced me out. I just want to know what's going on."
Will started calculating. He may not have had the deductive powers possessed by the Holmes brothers, but he knew how to deduce a thing or two. Sherlock was clearly highly stressed, he hadn't slept in at least 24 hours, hadn't eaten for even longer, and he was clearly on the point of physical and mental exhaustion. Will needed to keep things calm and slow, or everything was going to descend back into chaos.
"Sherlock, I'm going to let you go, and then I'm going to go in and find out what's happened. You're going to stay right here, and then when you're allowed back in, you're going to lie down and sleep for a while. Agreed?"
After several seconds of silence, Sherlock nodded slowly, but didn't meet Will's eyes. Gently, Will let go of his wrists and pulled away. He glanced at Mycroft, who nodded gratefully. They all knew Will was here to be much more than a bodyguard for Sherlock and John.
Will walked to the door of John's room and then entered. Various medical personnel were surrounding the bed; some had on jackets which had 'Anaesthetist' written on them in bold, white print. Gently, Will grabbed a free nurse's arm and pulled her aside.
"What's happening?"
"Sorry, sir, are you family? You shouldn't be in here."
"I'm his bodyguard, so please tell me what happened, and then I'll leave you to do your job."
The nurse licked her lips nervously. Obviously Will's answer hadn't been the normal response. "Okay, um, John had a seizure which caused him to stop breathing. Due to this, we've decided the safest thing to do for now is to intubate him and put him on a ventilator before administering IV anti-convulsant drugs."
Will scanned the room again. "I presume he's sedated now, then."
The nurse nodded. "Yes, he has to be for intubation. We don't tend to allow family to see the procedure because it can look rather alarming, but once we're done, I can allow you and John's friend back in here."
Will thanked the nurse and gave her a bright smile before walking out of the room. Mercifully, Sherlock had remained just as Will had left him. He was slumped against the wall looking drained, but as soon as Will appeared he straightened up and focused.
"What's happening? How's John?"
Will calmly explained to Sherlock what the nurse had said. It was twenty minutes later when the nurses finally left and Sherlock, Mycroft, and Will were allowed back into the room to see John.
I'm afraid I'm going away for five days now so there won't be another update for a week or so. I hope you're enjoying the story so far, and please review :)