Pain Management - Chapter 3

This is a collection of missing scenes from His Last Vow
SPOILERT ALERT! Don't read if you haven't seen the episode!

I have to admit two scenes from the episode triggered me (triggered like in PTSD). I love the episode so having it trigger me was not an option - because the next 375 times I want to watch the episode untriggered :) - I tried to work through it and this is the result!

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 3 - Leinster Gardens

Mrs Hudson held out the phone, and still lost in thoughts John pressed the 'answer' button, "Sherlock, where the hell are you?"

"John?... I…."

"How could you be so darn stupid to leave the bloody hospital like that?! Are you trying to kill yourself?!"

"John, we need to talk about something," Sherlock's voice was grave and sounded tired.

The doctor's internal alarm raised a notch.

"What is it Sherlock?…. Why did you put my armchair back?"

"You're at the flat then? Are you alone?"

"Yes and yes."

"There is a key on the mantelpiece… Found it?"

John stood up and saw a single key lying on the mantelpiece half hidden under the skull, he fetched it.

"Yes, can you please tell me what's…."

"You need to promise me not to inform anyone where you are going! Not Mrs Hudson, not Lestrade and even more important: not Mary!"

"Sherlock, you scare me…"

"Promise me not to tell her!"

"I promise," John was wondering why Sherlock was feeding him with little hints instead of bluntly telling him what this was about like he usually did.

"Yes, I promise!"

"Leinster Gardens, 23-24, third house on the left or so."

"Tell me what this is all about!"

"Fulfilling a vow…. Can you bring some morphine? Though I lowered the dose to a minimum the pump is empty now."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock!" John muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

It was quite obvious Sherlock had needed to stretch the filling of the pump and was also planning something and needed a clear mind… Which meant he was in a lot of pain.

John slipped into his jacket and grabbed his medical bag from the wardrobe.

"I will try, but I can't promise. I won't do anything illegal! See you in a few."

He hung up and was out the door moments later, heading for his car.

His thoughts continued chasing each other.

All the hints Sherlock had placed so carefully, they were pointing to his relationship with Mary…

No couldn't be… he doesn't want it to be… it... it was too damn ghastly a thought.

He didn't want all of this having anything to do with Mary!

And where the hell could he get Morphine?

Well, maybe the easiest way was to ask at the hospital, since Sherlock was not officially checked out and he'd do all he could to convince Sherlock to go back there. His chances to survive this without treatment were not good.

This was so stupid, to leave the hospital like that was definitely the dumbest stunt Sherlock had ever pulled!

The doctor on duty indeed gave him a small dose in a syringe after John had convinced him that he was working on getting Sherlock back to the hospital and needed to ease the transport.

When he reached the address he was wondering how he had made it here, he had been driving without concentrating on it at all. To his luck there were many empty parking lots.

And how had Sherlock made it here?

The building looked odd but he didn't take his time to inspect it closely.

In a hurry he fumbled with the key to unlock the front door.

The house was even odder on the inside.

At first he thought he was in a hallway but after a few seconds, when he had a glimpse around, he doubted it.

A gangway to the right was filled with an antique red leather chair, it was quite battered, and something that looked like a shabby kitchenette, covered with rubbish and dirty disposable plates.

Other old pieces of furniture and some shelves filled the gangway, looking as if someone has lived here for some time.

He didn't spot Sherlock so he returned to the hallway and followed it down. On its end someone had parked a wheelchair and he spotted the IV pole with the bag and the pump attached to it.

Another gangway lead of to the right, and when he looked around the corner he saw a prone figure on an old sofa. More cupboards where in that gangway, filled with lab equipment.

"Sherlock?" he whispered and stepped closer.

The figure didn't move.

"Sherlock?" he asked louder.

He knelt down in front of his wounded friend who now started to move.

Sherlock was lying on his side wearing his coat and shoes.

"Finally," Sherlock whispered his voice hoarse.

He opened swollen red eyes, "Did you bring medication?"

John rubbed his eyes, the gesture showed he was a bit desperate about all this.

"Shit… What is this about?… Believe me, if you kill yourself by staying out of the hospital I'll never ever forgive you."

"I won't stay here any longer than necessary," Sherlock groaned.

When he rolled onto his back and then tried to sit up, his face contorted in pain.

"Sherlock, stop!… You need help with this, you'll start bleeding again if you move like this… let me help!"

"'kay," Sherlock whispered, sinking back.

The pain was indeed more than bad now, it had been very uncomfortable for hours due to the reduced dose, but now it was maddening… he was sweating and the short rest had made it worse.

"I got a small dose of morphine, no chance to get more, but you'll get a new pump filling when we return to the hospital - and bring back their equipment, undamaged."

John unpacked the prepared syringes and fetched gloves and hand sanitizer. While he waited for his hands to dry he looked for Sherlock's hand in search for the IV port, it wasn't there.

"What did you do with the tubes?"

"I removed the IV from my hand, all the other stuff is still where it was, just unhooked them. I bet the central line is even stitched in place."

John gasped, aware of how uncomfortable his friend must be. Sherlock was pale and sweating and didn't move.

The doctor reached for his wrist and took his pulse, his other hand went to his cheek to check the temperature.

"God, Sherlock… How could you…"

He was worried and afraid that Sherlock would not come back to the hospital with him.

Sherlock's eyes were closed and he tolerated the examination without comment.

Slowly, John unbuttoned his shirt.

The central line was indeed untouched. Even the patches of the heart monitor were still on his chest. But these were good signs that there was a chance to get him back, if he planned to not go back there he would have removed the patches. The bandage was clean which at least meant he hadn't pulled the outward stitches.

"I'll inject it into the central line…" John warned, then cleaned the uncapped injection port.

Sherlock opened his eyes and searched for the other man's hands.

John held the syringe up so Sherlock could see it.

"Please use only half of it, save the other half for later… I need to be able to concentrate as much as possible."

John emptied half of the liquid into the catheter and then flushed it with saline from the second injection.

The effect was immediate.

Sherlock closed his eyes and silently blew out air through his mouth in alleviation and then felt fingers on his neck monitoring his pulse.

He gulped, steeling himself for what needed to happen next.

"John… this is going to be really difficult, so please just listen what I have to say…"

He felt his friend eye him, dreading what might come next.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked right into his eyes.

John realized there was hesitation… since when was Sherlock so careful?

"Mary was the one who shot me," Sherlock's voice was low and grave.

The words needed six seconds to sink in and John stood up and made a hasty step back.

"What?! Are you out of your mind?"

"No… Mary was…"

"This is absolutely nuts!… You can't be serious!" John's voice was getting louder.

"John, I am sorry, but there is no doubt that she was the one," Did John hear sorrow in Sherlock's voice?

"Did you hit your head?" John was getting agitated now.

"No," Sherlock decided to let John vent for now and wait for an opportunity to speak, he slowly raised his upper body into a sitting position, not able to hide a grimace of pain.

"Why would she shoot you?"

"We'll find out soon."

Sherlock decided to better not throw any theories at him right now.

"Why would she even be there?"

"I am sure Magnussen was doing what he always does: he blackmailed her."

"Even if he did, why would she go there then and shoot you?… This is insane, Sherlock. Do you know what you are saying?" John's voice continued to rise.

"I know exactly what I am saying, I fear."

"NO!…" John was obviously torn between trusting Sherlock and his wife, "No!… NonoNO!"

"Calm down, John."

"Calm down?… Calm. Down?!… You just told me you think my wife was trying to kill you and you want me to fucking calm down?" he was yelling now.

"Er…. That is not what I actually think, in fact I think she was trying to save us both."

"What?… This is getting better and better. You just said she shot you and now you're saying the opposite? Can you even remember what you said a minute ago?" John was furious.

"Semantics."

"That's it… We'll go back to the hospital right now! Are you having a fever?" John stepped closer, a worried look temporarily replacing the disbelief and the anger, when he rested the back of his hand against Sherlock's skin to check the temperature, again.

Defensive mechanism, unbelief and evasion, Sherlock concluded and endured the touch.

"I am not out of my mind, and we cannot go back to the hospital, we need to prepare."

"What?… What for?" John seemed to get nearer a violent tantrum by the minute.

"She'll be here within the next thirty minutes," Sherlock gently informed. "Maybe you'll believe it when you hear it from her mouth."

"I won't hear it because it is not true."

"John, do you really think I'd make up something like this?"

"No, but I think even a genius like you could be mistaken or mislead."

"I am sorry, John," Sherlock felt his own voice shake slightly with the memory of how caught off guard he had been when he realised it was Mary and not Lady Smallwood.

It had thrown him for a loop temporarily, he had been in fact so surprised he had stuttered and his blood pressure had dropped noticeable. He suspected John felt similar right now, but contrary to Sherlock the unmistakable proof was not in front of him right now.

It would be a very hard hour that was ahead of them and Sherlock was - when he was honest with himself - anxious to do something that would not soften but harden John's fall.

He needed to take all protective measures to prevent that from happening!

"You don't need to believe me right now, just help me prepare the scene, I need a dummy in that wheelchair in case anyone shoots at me again."

"You think she'll shoot you again?" John laughed and it sounded hysterical.

"No, not really, but I want to make sure if anyone shoots what might be me it isn't… there's an old mannequin bust in the back, go and get it."

"I only do this because this will prove she did not do it!" John argued.

Sherlock carefully swung his legs over the edge of the sofa and buried his face in his hands, trying to hide his pain and dizziness. He pressed his lips into a thin line when he finally looked up to John.

He didn't know what it was, but something made John put a halt on his tirade. He stared at Sherlock, not moving, just standing there.

"Oh god, you're… really sure… about this, aren't you?"

His shoulders slumped with the insight and he blinked several times. Sherlock could feel John's hurt flow through the small space, he didn't want to add to that.

For the first time in his life the truth had a feeling attached to it… He felt like not wanting to say it… and he didn't want to say it because he feared it might hurt John.

This made him more uneasy than he had anticipated.

He had thought about how to try to explain it, that alone was already unusual. Normally he didn't plan which exact words to chose, he just said what he thought… but this time, while waiting for John, he had tried to choose the correct words… Kind words might minimize the bad impact. But there was no kind way to tell somebody his wife was a killer.

Well, he had learned to use his words more tactful since he knew John, but not to this extend.

It worked more like: he wanted to say something and while talking an orange warning light started blinking in case he was heading towards something John had marked as insensible in the past.

Now he just nodded, it was no use… as hard as it was, they had to go through this, work on this, find a solution… his vow.

Were his emotions and sensations all chaotic and distended and hypersensitive because of the meds he was taking?

"I'm sorry," he whispered, feeling shaken by the strong current of distress, John's and his' alike.

When he was younger he had often wondered what the meaning of the verb to commiserate was… and had stored it as 'something people said', a polite phrase… But now he grasped with all his senses what it means to feel another person's misery.

John had tears in his eyes, he stood there like a statue, overwhelmed, disoriented by the blow of the news… and obviously fighting not to let them fall. His face a rigid mask, it reminded Sherlock of another moment John had shown that face, when he realised Sherlock was standing in front of him in that restaurant he so insensitively chose to confront him with the fact that he was still alive.

Top priority right now: protect John from any more pain, how could he manage that?

Was that even possible?

Laboriously, he stood up, at least stand close if he couldn't offer any other comfort.

"No, this must be a mistake… I love her, this can't be…" John maundered, evading his look.

"John, she loves you, too. I am alive I think… because she loves you."

"This is making no sense! What do you know about love?"

"At least that I learned to see it when it is present… Let's not jump to conclusions now, we need to prepare for her arrival. I'll try to gently confront her to find out her motives."

"Gently? How do you plan to do that? You don't even know the meaning of what you just said," yelling again.

"John… it is essential you let me do this… and do not interfere!… You need to promise me that you won't disrupt my dialogue with her."

"Why?… You want me to listen from a hiding-place?"

"Yes."

"You can't be serious…."

"This is a very delicate thing… and to keep your emotions, love, and your marriage safe you need to let me do it my way."

"If she really shot you, you still want to protect our feelings for each other?... This is insane."

"You are repeating yourself, John. We need… to prepare. Can you… fetch the dummy?"

It was much more work to stand upright in his condition and the effort made him breathe a lot heavier than before.

"I will sit in the chair," John whispered.

"What?… No!"

"Why not?… You do such stuff all the time."

"It might be dangerous in case I need to provoke her."

"She will not shoot… She would never hurt anything… I'm sure this is a mistake…"

"John..." Sherlock stepped closer and John was forced to raise his eyes by the unexpected proximity.

He looked into Sherlock's eyes and gulped.

"What if…" Sherlock started.

"When she shoots me thinking it is you… than… that's okay… I can't lose you a second time and I doubt I would survive her killing you in the long term anyway. So where is the use in hiding?" his voice was hard now.

The meaning of the words hit Sherlock like a punch in the face.

"I cannot…" he started, wondering if it had been a good idea to let John be present for this, he had decided to do it because he doubted he'd believe him if he hadn't heard it from her mouth himself.

It was painful to speak, "I'm not sure I would either…"

"Would either what?"

"John, we need to move, she's probably on her way," he evaded to answer.

Fifteen minutes later Billy had arrived and was busy installing a projector somewhere. John had hid his car and helped Sherlock to create the stage.

They were busy testing the light environment that would make it impossible to see who was sitting in the wheelchair from the entrance.

While testing the lights Sherlock's phone received a text, from Anderson by the sound of the alert.

"She is on her way. Anderson told her where I am," he reported after reading the text.

He texted Billy to get into position.

John also took his mobile, staring at it, waiting for her to call or text him to inform him she knew where Sherlock was. He stared at it for quite some time, sure it would buzz every moment.

"John, she won't tell you she knows where I am… Can you… administer the other half of the morphine now?"

Sherlock sat down in the wheelchair, it was the nearest thing and he needed to sit for a moment.

The doctor went and fetched his bag like in trance.

Sherlock's expression softened when the pain ebbed away after the second injection. He took some deeper breaths and stood up.

"Sit down, I want to see how it looks," he demanded.

John stored the syringes and his bag out of sight and sat in the wheelchair.

The detective slowly headed for the door to take a look at the scene. He returned to John's side after inspecting the lights carefully.

"Put your feet in the footrest… Something isn't right… you look like… you," Sherlock reached for the collar of John's jacket and flipped it upright.

"Sit relaxed so you don't need to move because it's tiring."

"How am I supposed to relax in a situation like this?"

"Your hair is not right," Sherlock scuffled his hands though his friend's hair for several seconds like he used to do it with his own, creating a mess.

He liked to do it because he didn't like the feeling when his hair attached too much to his skull after a while, or when it had been bent in one direction too long and needed to unwind… or his mind needed to unwind… whatever.

"Sherlock!" John complained about the unexpectedness of the touch.

"Sorry, you needed to relax, so I thought… this helps me unwind so it might…" Sherlock wondered if the touch had been inappropriate, "Looks more like me, now."

Another text alert could be heard from Sherlock's pocket.

"That's Billy, he must have spotted her. Three minutes at most… Ready?"

"No…" John sounded lost.

Sherlock leaned down to him, placing his hands on the armrests of the chair, invading his private space once more.

"He'll give her a headset and I'll talk to her. Don't speak and don't move!… Unless I signal you to do so." He looked into John's eyes waiting for confirmation.

Their gazes locked for a long moment and finally John nodded stiffly.

Sherlock retreated.

"Okay," he vanished into the dark hallway that diverged next to the entrance and they waited for her to switch on the headset.

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A/N:

I would really like to know what you think. Constructive criticism needed!….

Please, please review!