Title: Detour Down A Rabbit Hole
Chapter 2/3: A Mad Tea-Party
Rated: MA, for language and to be safe
Spoilers: Maybe. But there are three episodes. Seriously, just watch them.
Crossover: Torchwood. But you don't have to know it to get the story. I don't even know it that well and so apologise for any misrepresentation.
Summary: Sherlock has been abducted in Cardiff and now it's John's turn to play the hero.
Warnings: Drug use (abuse), language, weird narrative perspective. No slash but be my guest to read it like that if you want to.
A/N: Yay for reviews! They make my day brighter
Points for: Correcting my pharmacology. I hate pharmacology.
Disclaimer: I make money by sticking needles into other people's arms, not playing with other people's intellectual property. The latter is purely for fun. The former for fun and money.
"What's the opposite of clean, Sherlock?"
Your head, just moments ago so close to slipping off your arm, now jerks to attention and is fully awake. Ten hours. Ten hours since you and the others made it back to the 'Hub', as they called it. After falling asleep on your knee he hasn't said a word. Until now.
"What?" You stumble off the steps you were sitting (sprawling) on and over to where he's lying. The slab-turned-hospital bed where they were convinced they could monitor him better.
Well...at least it wasn't a hospital. Quite aside from the fact that you know Sherlock hates hospitals, you know what kind of questions the doctors will be asking, and you know you'll never be able to give them the truth. Hell, you're still trying to get your head around it yourself.
Aliens. Huh. Who'd have thought.
But that's not what's on your mind at the moment.
"What was that, Sherlock?"
His eyes stare off slightly to the left, away from you since your instinct is to stand on his right.
Did he even speak at all? Or did you dream it?
"What's the opposite of clean, Sherlock?" His voice is harsh and dry, but it's his. His eyes flick back and forward once.
Not dreaming then. Your brows furrow because you have absolutely no idea where this is coming from.
Your periphery notices Owen coming down the steps from the half-level up, but he hangs back. You briefly acknowledge the doctor's presence before turning your attention back to your patient. Your friend. Your best. Friend.
You take his right hand – careful not to disturb the IV that's feeding him a steady diet of saline and antibiotics. His other arm's being left untouched thanks to the recent perforations laddering the veins. Best to leave that alone for now, Owen had said.
"Sherlock, can you hear me?"
He doesn't respond, and instead keeps staring at an indistinct spot to his left.
You rub at your forehead. That can't be it. You can't have been waiting ten hours for a senseless question that he's asking himself.
You decide to check his Glasgow Coma score again. His eyes are open. Good. That's a four. You're going with a score for three for the verbal - intelligible nonsense. Now motor.
"Sherlock, can you squeeze my hand?"
No response.
"Come on, Sherlock," you give his hand a tap, folding his fingers around your own to encourage the following of your request, "Squeeze my hand."
No response. You try something different.
"Look at me, Sherlock. Come on."
No response. You sigh. And pull out a pen. You don't want to do it, you really don't.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I'm going to have to cause you a bit of pain now." The words fall from your mouth automatically. You understands why it's a sentence that relatives of brain injured patients come to hate.
You press the blunt end of the pen between his eyebrows. The last few times you'd done it he had withdrawn from you, moaning, sometimes trying to bat you away. Got angry. Angry was good. Angry meant he was still there.
But this response horrifies you. His arms, previously lying passively by his side are pulled up against his chest while his hands form tight fists and his wrists fold inwards. 'Like a kangaroo impersonation' echoes a registrar's voice from a distant memory. Shit shit shit shit –
"No no no no," you reach for his hands in the hopes that you can just pull them back down.
"Shit," Owen breathes, moving down the steps "Decorticate response."
"We should have taken him to the hospital," your brain begins to panic. You know this is bad. Very bad. You can't remember the exact area of the brain that needs to be damaged for this reflex to be elicited, but you know, quite simply, it's bad.
Calm down. Steady your breathing. You're no help like this.
Owen's leaping around waving strange objects in Sherlock's direction. You distantly note that they're probably diagnostic but it's taking a couple of moments for your brain to kick back into gear. It finally does and you skim through the possibilities.
Stroke, brain bleed, increased intracranial pressure, hepatic encephalopathy...wait.
"Owen, the drugs you detected, you said it was a combination."
"Which is why we couldn't treat pharmacologically," Owen's not really paying attention to you, but at least he's playing along.
"What if this is being caused by hepatic encephalopathy? It can, it's possible, he's had enough drugs in his system to bring down an elephant."
"I'm following," even though he was busy taking blood through the cannula in Sherlock's hand.
"I think GHB may have been primary."
"Okay..."
"When I landed in the water I got a drop on my lip. It tasted salty. I thought it was odd at the time because there was so much other gunk in there as well. The drug was in the water. He was obviously heavily sedated, almost catatonic, was repeating what I was saying and had some minor convulsions. All point directly to GHB."
"And to five hundred other drugs. About four hundred and ninety nine of which we found in his system."
Twelve, your brain wants to correct.
"Yes but hepatic encephalopathy, of which this reflex is a symptom, can be caused by screwing around with GABA receptors and that's exactly what GHB does."
Owen thinks for a few moments.
"He's not showing any sign of increased intracranial pressure...You remember all that from med school?"
"I've been googling."
Owen sighs.
"So what are you suggesting?"
"Flumazenil."
"That...could go down badly."
"He's getting brain damage."
You count two heart beats.
"Fair call."
Owen turns away to, presumably, find what you suggest. You hope you're right. You seriously do because you know the effects of flumazenil. Usually used for benzodiazepine overdose, you just hope you're not going to make matters worse. You almost hope that Owen doesn't have any.
You notice that Sherlock's wrists have become more relaxed, and you stretch them out, trying to ignore the reality of what they're telling you. Stretching out the fingers on his right hand, you note with a sinking feeling that they retract almost immediately. You tense your jaw and try again. They refuse to remain relaxed and you let out a frustrated sigh.
And catch him staring at you. Right at you, and you gape at the sight.
"Sherlock!" But he's gone again, and his gaze slides past you to somewhere over your shoulder.
And you realise that his fingers weren't closing involuntarily, he was trying to squeeze your hand. And you were getting annoyed at it.
"Oh Sherlock, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," you grab his hand again and try to make it fold around yours. "You can squeeze it now, go on, squeeze my hand."
But it's too late. He's already slipped beyond your reach.
Owen comes back with the drug. Oh please let it work.
"How much?"
"It says point two milligrams over thirty seconds but we don't know how it'll react with the other drugs in his system."
"Shall we go for point one then?"
By this time you know you're both flying blind.
"Sure."
Owen injects the drug through the IV line. You both watch intently. Nothing.
"Try another point one."
Owen does as you say, as you hold onto Sherlock's hand, willing it to move.
Still nothing.
"We'll try another point one then we'll wait for a bit."
Owen complied. It took thirty seconds.
The first sign is his deep inhalation and an indication that his eyes have come back online. They dart around the room trying to make sense of where they are and, presumably, how they got there.
"Sherlock," your voice is low but this time he's well aware of it, taking only a few seconds to seek out and lock onto your face. You smile but it's not a complete victory; you're not out of the woods yet.
He seems to be looking to you for answers and you're all too eager to give them to him.
"We're in Cardiff, in...well, a base, of sorts." This is probably not helping, you realise. "You okay?" And you know it's a trite question but you need to ask it anyway.
He swallows and grimaces, and you reach for the water bottle you've been using. Lifting his head gently, you try to tip some water into his mouth, briefly apologising for the lack of straw, but as soon as it touches his lips he pulls away, wiping at his mouth savagely.
"Okay, alright," the water bottle resumes its original place. "Sherlock, look at me."
He does and you want to whoop for joy, but his expression isn't very comforting. For the first time throughout this whole ordeal he looks absolutely petrified.
"John I'm sorry," he reaches up to grab at the front of your shirt. His voice is barely a scratchy whisper but it's infused with intense sentiment. Catching his hand you shake your head.
"There's nothing to be sorry for, Sherlock, it's fine now." You smile slightly as you repeat a phrase you used so long ago. "It's all fine."
He gasps as though trying to catch his breath and you're broken by the misery you see in his face.
"It wasn't me." That phrase again. Perhaps this time you can elicit its meaning.
"What wasn't you, Sherlock?" Your voice is soft. Don't freak him out.
But it's a lost cause because his face shatters and he lets out a moan that crescendos into a furious scream. The sound dies out but his face remains contorted in agony. It's several moments before he takes an enormous breath and bellows a second time. You lean closer to him, despite the assault on your ears.
"Sherlock, listen to me, this is the drugs you're feeling. You have several in your system and they're making you feel horrible, but it'll pass. Alright? Sherlock?"
Owen steps forward, perhaps to say something, but Sherlock's quicker.
"Piss off!" He screams into his face. When Owen doesn't immediately comply, he tries to shove at him, before attempting to rip the IV out of his hand.
"Sherlock, stop," you try to get the situation under control. You knew this could happen, now deal with it.
"FUCK OFF!" He pushes at you blindly.
"SHERLOCK!" You command, because you really don't want to put that cannula back in; it was difficult enough the first time.
He's breathing hard, but stops momentarily at your voice. Small miracles. You use the moment to your advantage.
"Sherlock, you're in withdrawal. Everything you're feeling is drug-induced." It's not entirely true, you think, but if he's with it enough it'll give him something to hold on to.
He's struggling, you can see, to think through the haze of anxiety and to trust what you're saying. His fist is still grasping the IV line, but he's not actively trying to pull it out. Keep it logical, you think. Stick to the facts.
"You could be feeling a lot of things at the moment, anxiety, nausea, anger, agitation. Sound about right?"
You know the answer, but you need him to think about it himself.
He doesn't look at you, but after a moment, he nods quickly, once.
Owen makes a small movement and Sherlock's eyes snap around to meet him. The look that your friend is sending the other doctor is savage.
"That's Owen, Sherlock. He's a doctor too." On second thoughts maybe you should have left that part out. From the way he's positioned it looks like Sherlock's about to leap out of the bed and into Owen's throat.
"Maybe you should give us a bit." You raise your eyes to convey your thoughts to the other man but he's already taking your advice. You're beginning to really love this team.
"Sherlock look at me." His eyes are slowly pulled from Owen's retreating form to your face. He swallows.
"Do you want some water?" His head shakes once. "Okay. Do you want to lie down?" Another sharp shake of the head. Okay. Breathe. You can do this.
"Where's Mrs Hudson?" You don't expect the question and it takes you a moment to answer.
"Uh, she's at home. At Baker Street." His eyes regain their intensity.
"Are you sure?" His breathing jumps up a notch but he manages to make the question sound like a command. Excellent.
You try to infuse your expression with utmost trustworthiness. "Yes, Sherlock. I spoke with her about an hour ago."
"Was she ever here, in Cardiff?" His tone is urgent.
So he was listening to you before, good, but you have no idea where this questioning is going.
"No, she stayed at Baker Street. Why?" His eyes dart away from you.
"They said they'd-" his breath hitches. "They said if I didn't they'd do it to her." The statement comes out in a rush. "She was screaming down at me. Screaming at me to help her." His eyes are shining and his jaw is clenched.
"She was never there, Sherlock," you supply. You know because you've been talking to Sarah and Sarah's been with Mrs Hudson for days now. "You must have been hallucinating."
"No!" He almost bites at you.
"Okay..." you say, because you don't really know where to go from there.
"Shape shifter." A low voice from the half-level up supplies. It's Jack.
Sherlock whips his head around to face him. "What?"
"The gang that took you. Some are human, some...not so much."
You weren't really planning on telling him this intriguing piece of information until his head was firmly back on solid ground. There goes that idea.
He's thinking hard at that one. Really hard. But you don't spot disbelief in his features.
"That's how they got to me," his voice has almost dropped to a whisper. "She was there. She was begging me to help her." And all at once you know he's no longer in the room, but reliving the moment when the 'invincible' Sherlock Holmes was reduced to 'not-quite-so-invincible anymore'. You pull out your phone.
"Sherlock, look at me," you say, dialling the number. He complies but still looks incredibly lost. "Mrs Hudson is fine. She's at home in Baker Street. Unless she's out at the shops..." you add, because it's really taking quite a long time for her to answer the phone.
For a moment your heart pounds in your chest. What if Sherlock's right? What if she was taken and you hadn't known about it? It certainly made more sense than the shape shifter idea.
"Hello?" A bleary voice tumbles into your ear, and then you remember that it's the middle of the night and the last time you spoke to your landlady she'd said she was going to sleep. Oh yeah.
"Mrs Hudson, I'm sorry to wake you, but..."
"Mrs Hudson?" Sherlock's already yanked the phone out of your hand and presses it hard to his ear. You notice his hand shaking but can't quite tell if it's drug or adrenaline-induced. You can hear her tinny yet emphatic reply.
"Sherlock! Is that you?" Sherlock almost collapses with relief and you steady one arm out of instinct. He doesn't seem to notice.
His face is screwed up and his jaw is clenched tight, as if trying to hold back a flood of uncharacteristic sentiment. He doesn't speak for a few moments.
"Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson is unaware of the detective's difficulty.
"Yes," he bites out, trying to retain his composure, but it's a lost cause because a contorted sob escapes with the word.
"Oh, sweetheart," Mrs Hudson breathes, and it's enough to break him. His shoulders are shaking and it has nothing to do with drug-induced convulsions. The only noise he makes is when he exhales and gasps desperately for air, but you know what's happening. For the first time that you've seen in your three-year acquaintance, Sherlock Holmes, self-confessed sociopath, unequivocal genius, is crying.
And it seems Mrs Hudson knows too, because you hear her take a deep breath through a suddenly mucous-filled nose. She's crying with him.
You feel your throat tighten and a sting behind your eyes and decide it's time to bring this to a close before you all lose it and become a sobbing mess. You gently take the phone from his grasp and clear your throat.
"Hiya," you say gently, trying to compose yourself. "I'll uh...call you later, yeah?"
Another sharp, wet intake of breath from the other side of England.
"Alright dear. Do take care of him."
You smile, even though you know she can't see it.
"Always."
Please please please review - I'm open to all types of criticism; grammar, characterisation, medical, Britpicking, anything you can think of. And then I'm more likely to read and review your stories as well =D.
Disclaimer for the medically minded – I hate pharmacology, so it's probably all wrong. However, I do know you can't use flumazenil for GHB overdose, so I tried to loophole it by using it for the hepatic encephalopathy instead. It's a tenuous leap, but who cares. They make stupid and tenuous and nonexistent leaps in House all the time. Nevertheless, tell me if it's wrong!