Caught in transport
Every hospital room in every hospital was the same; Spartan, clean, wreaking of antiseptic and an exceedingly bright white, which simply should not exist, it always overwhelmed the occupants. They all lacked a sense of personality, the patient was simply a code on a computer and the room was a reference. There is no mention of the daily struggle for life which is undertaken every day by the person, the human being, struggling to clasp onto life, to some semblance which makes them the person they are or once were. The patient simply becomes a code lost within hundreds of other codes, an inconspicuous number lost within the crowds.
Sherlock too lacked personality. The doctor could see the man but there was nothing of the lively, annoying yet stunningly brilliant and intelligent consulting detective to be seen. That man was lost beneath the wires and tubes that engulfed him, which made him just another patient, when he was lying there, face impossibly pale against the white sheets, he was just a man. But that wasn't quite true, the doctor knew that just below the surface there was so much, so much that would either be lost or restored. Not only was there a brilliant mind but also a man with so much to give if he were to be treated correctly. He was by no stretch of the imagination a kind or a loving man but John knew, John had seen, that he was most definitely, a good man.
It had been eight days since Sherlock had come out of surgery, still alive but unable to breathe for himself. The doctor's said there was a good chance that he would emerge from the coma but, as with all head injuries, everything was highly unpredictable. As a doctor John knew the significance of the first twenty four of a coma, that period is the time that a patient has the greatest chance of emerging. Every day, when his eyes lay on the unconscious form of the detective, as cliché as it was, he felt a little hope seep out of him. The longer spent in a comatose state the less likely the patient was to awaken.
There was one aspect of the whole situation John found humorous. Even when in a comatose state, and completely oblivious to his own existence, Sherlock still managed to wreak havoc. Perhaps that was a slight exaggeration but due to his run in with Moriarty, and therefore his sudden presence in the press, the were a large number on the medical staff who refused to treat him due to the lies which had been published about him. When Mycroft had found out about this he had managed to work himself up into a frenzy which resulted in two nurses a doctor and a porter getting fired. As soon as Sherlock woke from his coma he was scheduled to be moved to a private hospital, everyone agreed they didn't want to risk moving him before he woke up.
The steady beep, beep, beep of the heart rate monitor was both reassuring and disconcerting at the same time. It meant his friend was still alive, no matter what his distinct lack of movement indicated but such a machine should not be so much as associated with a man such as Sherlock Holmes, much less declaring to the world how completely and utterly human he was. Sherlock wouldn't abide it if he was awake; he'd have torn it out within seconds.
It must have been a mistake, it simply had to of been, but John could have sworn he saw a flicker of the eyes, a slight twitch from beneath the taped eyelids. He knew Sherlock believed in coincidence but he himself was not so convinced but if he saw what he thought he saw, then it certainly was coincidence considering his train of thought, but even so, it was probably only his imagination. Even so, he had to check with his doctor, just to be sure.
The doctor came, very reluctantly that is, but he still came and took a quick look. He obviously thought John was just trying to cause problems as he did nothing in any detail, rather he muttered something about involuntary movements of the eye muscles, and slinked back out of the room having swept away all of John's hope.
Mycroft Holmes observed his brother sadly, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest, correction; he watched the artificial rise and fall of his chest. His independent, overly confident little brother now had to rely on someone to do everything. He couldn't even breathe for himself. At the age of three Mycroft could remember Sherlock developed a case of appendicitis, of course the idiot attempted to hide it, even at that age he had been stubborn and hated help, and did so successfully until he collapsed. When he was taken to hospital he had to go in to emergency surgery as the doctor's realised it had burst. He had been so sick after that ordeal, lying stock still in the bed for days on end. But that stillness could not compare to what seemed to be a perpetual stillness now.
Mycroft sighed, he supposed he should really phone Mummy and let her know. The elder Holmes' and the younger Holmes' had fallen out with each other when both Mycroft and Sherlock had been relatively young. Sherlock had been ten and Mycroft seventeen. Of course, Mycroft managed to run off to university almost as soon as it had happened but Sherlock was trapped with them and, from what Mycroft could make out, had not liked a single second of it. That is where all of the resentment between the two of them had originated. Looking back Mycroft knew he should have at least let Sherlock live with him at university to escape but the past was the past, nothing could be done.
Hesitantly he picked up his phone and dialled his mother's number.
Hello Mummy its Mycroft. No, no, no, don't hang up. I need to tell you something.
Sherlock's hurt, it's pretty bad.
He's your youngest son Mummy, that's why you should care!
He, um, he jumped off the roof of the hospital, he smashed his head in and now he is lying in a coma in a hospital bed and has been for the last ten days.
He didn't try to commit suicide.
LISTEN! It's hard to explain, its related to a, well a case he's been working on. The criminal threatened three of his friends and he had to jump to save them.
Please, can you come down and see him.
What if he doesn't get through this and the last time you saw him was ten years ago, won't you feel bad at all.
I thought me and Sherlock were heartless but you're just taking it to a whole other level.
Mycroft glanced at his brother, just wishing everything was still ok when he saw something. He hung up quickly, in the middle of whatever mummy was saying (it probably wasn't important) and looked intently at Sherlock. He could have sworn he saw his eyes fluttering beneath the taped lids. "Sherly," he started cautiously, half expecting the unconscious man to jump out and hit him for using the long abandoned childhood name. "Can you move your eyes for me?" There was no response and Mycroft sat back disappointed, for a single moment there had been hope.
Mrs Hudson stared at the silent figure of the loud and lively man who occupied the flat she owned. Oh yes, he was incredibly infuriating and by the standard of most tenant, he was infuriating. But he was one of her boys and she cared deeply for him and he cared deeply for her, she could tell. He didn't show it, never very good at emotions but anger, that was one he could not hold back on. The idiot probably did not realise what one could reveal in a fit of anger. Of course, when he was really angry, properly furious, he wasn't loud, and he didn't come at the person fighting and letting the anger cloud his judgement. Oh no, quite the opposite in fact. He used the energy produced by the feeling of anger and used it to fuel his massive intellect and he used it to his advantage. Sometimes he would say a few scathing word that hit a 'low blow' so to speak. Other times it would come across as an icy rage. Like the time the CIA trained killer broke into 221B, he had used his brain to outsmart him and then, when he was in the grasp of the detective, he would release his fury. She smiled at the memory of the man being thrown out of the window onto the bins.
She stroked his head gently, knowing that if he was awake he would hate it but she found herself not caring. She needed some reassurance that the man was still real. She did not plan on talking but she found herself talking utter nonsense to him. "You know that nice builder that came in to fix the ceiling in the hallway after you shot it? I invited him into my flat for a cuppa afterwards and he accepted. After I gave him his tea he saw a number of my cupboard doors needed replacing and he said if I got the doors he'd be happy to do it free of charge for me. Of course I accepted, never have been good at DIY myself, I'd been planning on asking one of you boys to do it for me once I got around to buying some new ones. Well, I would have asked John, I very much doubt you'd want to fix my cupboard doors." She chuckled softly to herself. "I found a new scone recipe too. Oh my goodness, it's delicious, you have to recover soon so I can make them for you when you get back home. And you can't throw that "I'm not hungry" crap my way, I will physically shove them down your throat if I have to."
At that point she stopped talking in surprise; she could swear that Sherlock was moving his eyes beneath his eyelids. Could people in a coma do that? She didn't think so but she did not know much about medicine. The movement stopped and she dragged the chair closer to the bed so she could run her fingers through his curls. They were greasy; she'd have to talk to the nurses to get their act together. Even if the lies, and she knew they were lies, in the papers were true they should still treat him like a human being and she would damn well make sure that they did. "Sherlock, it's Mrs Hudson. Can you hear me?" The eyes flickered for a split second and she gasped. She didn't think it meant something but to those who were trained it might mean something. She'd tell John later, he was sleeping now though and he needed it, there was nothing, other than Sherlock properly waking up, that would cause her to contact him.