Caught in transport

The bright screens illuminated his face as John carefully studied the images displayed on them. Mycroft had managed to arrange for John to look at them before neurology made any diagnosis, they got the hard copies and he saw the digital versions. He was no neurologist so if he was honest he didn't overly understand what it was he was looking at. He could identify the different parts of the brain, that was not much of a bother but he couldn't tell what was wrong, but there was something wrong, he was sure of it. There was something around the brainstem that didn't look quite right but he was not able to pinpoint exactly what that was.

"Mycroft, it's John, I think you should get back to the hospital as soon as you can."

Why, what's happened?

"Nothing yet, the MRI has been taken and thanks to you I've seen the scan."

Did you see anything?

"I did but I'm not quite sure was but I am certain there is something there. This isn't my area of expertise though, not many MRI scanners in Afghanistan."

No, of course, I'll be across shortly. Would you like me to contact Lestrade and Mrs Hudson?

"If you wouldn't mind, I want to get back to Sherlock."

Yes, thank you Dr Watson.

Mycroft sighed as he hung up his phone; resting his elbows on his desk he slowly massaged his eyes. He blamed himself for this entire situation, of course he did; it was his fault. It was too much to hope that when his brother emerged from his coma that he would be unscathed. Brain damage, his brilliant little brother could no longer be brilliant and it would all be his fault. People may think he didn't care but he did, he really, really.

It wasn't long before he found himself walking into Sherlock's hospital room, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson around his brother's bed, John looking concernedly at his hand and arm. "What's wrong?" he asked, his voice laced with concern that for some reason he couldn't hide anymore. John looked up and frowned.

"We need to get him moved as soon as possible Mycroft; someone's not been adhering to the correctly to Hippocratic Oath."

"Why? What've they done?"

"This IV, it's been pulled and it's ripped the skin and the skin all up his arm is bruised. They're fingerprints from where he hasn't been moved correctly. These things are all easily avoided and they simply should not have happened."

"It's alright Mycroft," placated Lestrade as he saw the signs that the elder Holmes was seething. "It's not like he's seriously injured or anything."

"Not now no, but a health care professional who gets away with this might be tempted to do something slightly more harmful. My brother has been through quite enough, thank you very much, and he doesn't need his supposed care takers causing him harm. If it's all the same to you I'll decide whether or not it's ok."

"Mycroft," said Mrs Hudson gently, laying a shaking hand on his shoulder in an attempt to comfort the powerful man. "Of course it's not on but you need to calm down. Sherlock's not in any real danger from it so there's no reason to get so worked up. Of course we have to find who did it but it could be worse."

Mycroft visibly took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, his calm, cold and collected demeanour returning. "Right," he said nodding, mainly to himself. "I'm going to text Anthea; get her to start tracking down who might have done this to him. We'll wait for his results and then we'll get him transferred to a private hospital. Any questions or protests?" Everybody in the room simultaneously shook their head, John still partially distracted by injuries on his best friend's arm.

Inwardly Sherlock whimpered as he felt John gently probe his arm, he knew it was John, if not from the voice, then from the gentle yet calloused hands which obviously knew where to look to check for broken bones. Yes, his arm hurt, more than he would care to admit, but he just wanted to stop John worrying. The nurses had been less careful than they should have been when moving him and he heard the way they were talking about him. He was described as a freak, nothing new there, evil, psychopathic and a disgrace to his family. The hypocritical woman amused him; he was shameful to his family? He could tell, even with his inability to move, that she was seeing two different men at the same time (not including her husband), she was an alcoholic and possibly a drug addict.

Footsteps. Sherlock knew them but they weren't familiar; they belonged to the neurologist who had given him the MRI. Did this mean he had news? Hopefully he did, hopefully it would be good news, that before long he would be up and about, just as he was before. "Is everyone here?" came the gruff voice of the doctor. He didn't hear anyone saying anything in reply but he heard movement right next to him indicating John had nodded. "Ok, I'm afraid it's not good news," he continued and Sherlock felt physically sick at that sentence.

"He's got something called Locked-in syndrome, the name is very apt for what it does to a patient. Have any of you heard of it before." There was a mixture of replies, John and Mycroft said yes but Lestrade and Mrs Hudson said no. Sherlock knew all too well what it meant, he'd worked on a case presented to him by a Locked-in patient and their carer, he had no desire whatsoever to end up like that woman did.

"Ok, well I'll just show you the images we took of the brain." There was the sound of sheets being laid out on a table but Sherlock was only half listening. He knew what being a locked-in patient meant. He was going to be completely and utterly dependent on others, they were going to be helping him with the most personal aspects of his life and he hated the idea. At best he was a private person but this news meant he was going to lose any and all of his personal privacy and there was no way around it.

John felt like crying, this couldn't happen to Sherlock could it? Not the great and aloof Sherlock, the man who didn't need anyone for anything. The army doctor listened intently to everything the neurologist said, unlike the rest of the staff at the hospital he sounded as if he cared and knew what he was talking about, he seemed professional and therefore worth listening to.

The neurologist, Dr Forsyth, pointed to an area on the MRI image, at the very top of the brain stem, the very same area John had thought looked a bit odd. "Do you see how this area has what seems like a black smudge across it? In a healthy brain that area would be white. It's caused by damage to an area of the brain called the PONS. This area basically acts as a bridge between brain centres, break it and the signal cannot be sent. This means Sherlock is fully conscious, apart from the usual sleeping cycles though due to his injuries at the moment he will be sleeping more, but is unable to move. We will test to see if he is able to breathe unassisted, the likelihood is he can but will need a supply of oxygen. Hopefully it won't be long before he can breathe totally independently, luckily vital processes and funnily enough vertical eye movements are unaffected. Many patients after some time can blink too allowing for a very limited form of communication. I'm sorry, this is horrible news, and at a point when we know Sherlock is awake we will have to explain it to him too. Unfortunately at the moment we don't know when he's awake and when he's not."

At that point John snapped his eyes up from the images of Sherlock's previously perfect and brilliant brain. "We might know," he said sadly. "You said we might be able to attempt a limited form of communication?"

"Yes, through blinking and vertical eye movements. There is technology available, it takes some getting used to but it can allow for proper conversations."

"Yes, but just for now, if Sherlock's awake it's possible we would be able to communicate, just if I ask him yes and no questions?" Dr Forsyth nodded and John walked round and sat next to Sherlock on the bed. He spoke carefully, making sure he didn't speak any differently to the man on the bed to how he would normally speak to him. At this news Sherlock would be feeling horrified and distraught and John knew he would want to retain as many aspects of normality as he possibly could.

"Sherlock, communicating is going to be hard, that much is obvious, but we'll work something out. But for now if you can hear me I want you to open your eyes, if you can't do that just move your eyes." And Sherlock did try, he really did, it was through shear will power that he managed to open them open, it was just a crack, and he only managed for a few seconds but he had done it. For a moment he felt elation but then he collapsed, feeling shame at being pleased with such a simple take. His eyes hurt from the light which had streamed in from the dim room and all he wanted was for the earth to swallow him up. The earth, apparently had different ideas so instead he had to make do with taking refuge in John's words and relaxing into his friend's tender touch on his arm.

"Ok, that's good. I take it you've heard everything that's been said." Once again he tried to open his eyes but found that the effort was to much and fell into an impossibly deeper pit of self-loathing. Seemingly John knew what was going through his mind. "That's ok, we'll work on that Sherlock. Just get some rest ok, someone will be here when you wake up and we're going to make this as easy as we can for you. I promise, we all will."