Pain Management - Chapter 2
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.
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Part 2 - Sherlock's room
He was floating... the world was orange.
The familiar sensation of morphine in his system.
Hospital, right.
Had Mary been in here?
Or was it a dream?
He knew he was hurting… a lot… it was just hidden behind some artificial barrier.
His body remembered the sensation of the tube in his throat, it made him shudder, but it was gone now.
He should hurt, shouldn't he?
Something moved… was it Mary?
She had told him not to tell John?
He blinked.
Pain.
Something cold touched his forehead.
He tried to open his eyes, but they were so heavy.
The cold moved over his face, it felt good.
There was someone… making noises?
Or was Mary talking to him again?
No, it was a pitiful noise… and simultaneously with it his throat hurt.
For god's sake, it was his stubborn transport that made the noises.
"Sherlock? Can you hear me?" John's voice.
John was here?
"Joo'n?" his voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.
"Right here… open your eyes."
He did, it was work.
John was there, normal clothes.
They were in a room, no post-OP, a normal room… so better and on the mend.
Blinking and swallowing turned out to be as difficult as opening his eyes had been.
"You want something do drink?" John asked.
He nodded.
"I can't raise your head, yet, so you need to use a straw for now."
Sherlock felt the plastic touch his lips and opened his mouth.
The world was blurred and dark.
It was still night? How long had he been here?
He tried so suck on the thing but it took several tries before he managed to get some of the water into his mouth.
Feeling this helpless and weak was disgusting.
Uh, he realised there must be another disgusting thing under the uncomfortable itchy blanket. He hissed with indignation.
"You were agitated when resurfacing right after the operation in post-OP, they brought me in to calm you down. You remember that?"
He remembered John being there in post OP, but nothing before that.
"You tried to tell me something, you remember that?" John asked.
Of course he remembered that!
No one could forget something this important… but he was mixed up, wasn't he?
Not sure about what he remembered and what not.
Had Mary really been in here?
If she had why did she tell him not to tell John?
Was he too confused?
Had it really been Mary who shot him?
His memory about that fact was quite clear… all that followed was a mixture of… his mind at work, but he didn't know where it stopped and what was from his mind palace and what from what he had seen in reality.
His head was really messed up.
Had Mycroft been here?
Had Mary been in here or was it a thought process that had used her image as an aspect of his mind?
"Sherlock?"
John removed the straw and leaned over him, "Do you remember talking about my wife?"
Sherlock just stared at him.
His former flatmate looked bad… glad John was here.
It felt different to hurt and have him near… He had felt the contrast this time… to be in severe pain and alone felt different
After the torture he had felt bad, this was worse… on a different level. The physical pain - but John was here… and it made an aspect of the hurt change…
For the better?
Definitely!
Was this what was called comforting?
He was grateful John still stick to him. He didn't deserve it after the pain he had caused him.
John's pain… it would skyrocket when he learns that Mary had shot him… it would cause so much more pain… was it a good idea to tell him now? When he himself was not able to soften the fall?
And he was not able to think clearly?
Maybe he was wrong?
Definitely, he needed a clear moment to think about how to proceed and what was strategically a good idea before talking to John.
"Sherlock? I really hope you weren't dreaming about her inappropriately!"
He could hear in John's voice he was trying to joke about the thing.
But in fact… he had dreamt about her?
"You remember she visited you an hour ago? She was worried, too."
So she had been in here - no dream, then.
"I… hm… I… She…"
"Yes?" John looked at him, smiling fondly. Sherlock looked around the room to make sure she was not here any longer.
"Wher's she?" he managed.
"Cancelling my appointments for tomorrow… and bringing Janine home."
"Uh… No," he heard himself moan - he had to get a grip on this, he sounded pathetic.
"What?… I'm sure your girlfriend wants to see you as soon as possible… She doesn't know that you faked a proposal to use her yet, but I fear she might suspects something. She has a mild concussion."
"M'not," Sherlock managed.
Mary had knocked out Janine… hadn't she?
Had Mary… did she do the same he did? Befriended Janine because of her position as Magnuson's PA?
Double betrayal. Janine would be… outraged and would strike back as he knew her. He was not eager to see her in his current condition.
"Keep 'way," he mumbled.
"You want me to keep your girlfriend out?" John frowned. "Okay… but you deserve her rage, you know that, don't you?"
Sherlock nodded, "Lat'r."
"Right. I'll keep her out as long as possible… will be not able to keep Lestrade out, though."
"'kay."
"He'll want to know what happened. Who did this, Sherlock?"
Sherlock just stared at him, frowning.
"Do you know who shot you?"
He gulped.
"What happened there?"
How to say this?
He managed to shake his head and with a confused frown John changed the topic.
"How are you feeling?"
"'m fine," Sherlock grunted.
"Cold," he added.
His chest was uncomfortably bare and he felt the pads affixed onto his chest… and all the cables and tubes attached to him.
They brought a dire need to get out of here.
Soon people would come in and touch him and poke and prod him… The dim orange light was driving him insane… no it wasn't the light… it was it's flickering.
His eyes went through the room searching for the source of the rhythmic blinking.
"Fan… off."
"You want me to switch the fan off?" John repeated.
"Yes!"
The doctor turned the annoying thing off.
"I wan'to go home," Sherlock whispered.
John rolled his eyes.
"You realise you almost died? You can not move at all!" he sounded a bit angry somehow. "You'll risk internal bleeding if you do and that might kill you… Please…" John's tone changed to something else, switched from annoyed to afraid. "I can't loose you again!… It'll take some time to recover from this. I'll give you the details later, but for now, you're very lucky to be alive and please don't try to move."
"... no drugs… " Sherlock pressed.
"Why are you fighting the medication? You're in severe pain… You need to rest, Sherlock."
The detective tried to lift his head and find out in how much pain he really was by carefully moving. John's eyes went wide in alarm.
He grabbed both of Sherlock's shoulders and held him down gently. Sherlock hissed with the pain the movements caused.
"Le'mego," he mumbled.
"Bloody hell, stop moving!"
When Sherlock managed to open his eyes once more John was leaning over him, one hand still on one of his shoulders. He had his weight on his other hand next to Sherlock's head on the pillow. He was invading his space a bit too much.
"What are you doing? DO. NOT. MOVE!" He was almost yelling, distressed. John looked straight into his eyes, their faces not more than thirty centimetres apart, they were full of worry and the doctor looked as if near to tears.
"Blimey. This is stupid… I can't let you hurt yourself, I'm sorry."
Before Sherlock was able to protest John had removed his hand from his shoulder and pressed a button somewhere.
Only seconds later he felt the drug take over.
Why the hell did John do that? He had been pissed when Sherlock had taken drugs on his own and now he was doing it himself? Where was the sense in that?
Sherlock reached out and felt John take his hand, he was still leaned over him… hovering to stop him from moving?
"You're safe… relax!"
"No…"
He was not safe, Mary could come in here any time and finish the job.
Once more he tried to fight the medication but - the effort made his eyes water - again reality drifted further away a few seconds later.
His vision blurred.
He felt like falling and hoped the floating sensation would take over soon.
This was not nice when one doesn't want it… the last thing he needed right now would be any kind of a bad trip from this…
His eyes had closed.
No…
Hands on him…. soothed him and wiped his face with a cool washcloth.
He didn't know why… only that they felt kind of safe for a moment.
Then darkness took away perception and thinking.
….
Sherlock's sleep was fitful. He seemed to have bad dreams and groaned in his sleep. Sometimes his breathing got agitated and several times John got the impression he was fighting to get conscious.
Twice in the early hours of the morning he managed to open his eyes for a few seconds, but John was sure he wasn't really awake, nevertheless he told to him to go back to sleep.
John stayed at his side all night and the doctor on duty agreed to keep the medication on the lowest possible level, just enough to keep him asleep.
He knew Sherlock hated hospitals, he had expected he would try to get out… but not this soon. Something was wrong.
He had not answered John's question who had shot him.
He was fighting the drugs… this was so not good.
He hoped Sherlock was just babbling.
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I would really like to know what you think. Constructive criticism needed!…. Please, please review!
