Pain Management - Chapter 7

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 7 - Sherlock's Hospital Room

He was ripped out of a doze by the pain.

The corridors had calmed down during the last few hours and he had send John home - to Baker Street.

John had asked him if he could stay there for a while, that question had brought Sherlock out of his drug induced stupor more than he had liked, and the fact that John was returning to 221 b… and also the fact that he sought distance from Mary.

Sherlock hurt.

Vividly, he was reminded that he had gone through the pains of risking his own life to show John that he should stick to Mary only hours before and right now that was in jeopardy.

The pain had risen to a level that tempted him to use the pump again, it was getting more and more intense by the minute.

Unfortunately, it was not the kind of pain that was stimulating.

It was the kind that caused nausea due to it's intensity and that obfuscated the mind… and that became really ugly soon.

The kind of pain, that sooner or later made one wish to end it all, even if that meant more drastic measures.

He had been there before, during his hunt, had experienced pain that went beyond his endurance, met his personal limits. Experienced moments where of true and real desperation.

He had of course considered it possible that hunting down Moriarty's net would be an intense experience, but in hindsight he had to admit it went much further than he had deemed possible.

The torture had introduced a level of pain and anguish to him that had surmounted any expectations.

He knew before how it felt to want to die, but it was a very unsettling thing to experience it like that.

The temptation to let go, to just be done with all the pains of existence.

Of course he had known there was an amount of pain that just destroyed any will to live, in bad cases even made people go insane or die because of it's intensity.

Being shot was bad, but it was different than he had expected.

It really hurt.

But the knowledge that he had access to painkillers and that there was a chance to get better over time, that every day it would lessen was something oddly reassuring… and something that changed all the facts.

The dark red tinge of desperation was missing but it caused the same mental discomfort he had experienced while he sojourned in the dungeon.

Ah, yes, it was a trigger to intense emotion this physical reminder.

And then there was the pain memory.

Nevertheless, this pain had a location, and for now it was intensifying and he was nearing the point where he'd press that button again, switch on the pain killers.

Was this addiction?

The knowledge to have that option was making it a whole lot better to endure.

He wondered if it wasn't there he'd be far worse, just because of the absence of the option.

Pain was an odd thing.

It killed the will to live fast when it became really bad.

It had been devastating to stand on that edge, that cliff of existence.

John was right, being there, changed people - had changed him.

Suddenly there was a reason, a reason to get up and fight, a reason to not-surrender.

In his youth, when he had deliberately overdosed because there was no reason to go on with the agony life was, he had never understood why people stayed, now he did.

He had stayed for John.

The pains he had gone through for John… it was odd.

He had never thought it was even possible to choose the ordeal of existence for anything. Nothing had been this important.

It had been a whole new world to explore, to decide to endure everything just for this one human being.

The pains he had endured…

The Fall.

The time away.

The pains of John's absence during his hunt.

The horror of doing everything to return and then find out everything had changed.

The pains of going through organising a wedding.

The obstacles of trying to convince himself that it was a 'new chapter'.

Serviettes, Beth, being insecure about social necessities.

Of the many things he had thought would be a part of his life, organising a wedding had never been one of those, especially not for another person.

The agony of writing a best man's speech, which had occupied his mind for weeks, caused awkward situations and kind of confronted him with things he never wanted to think about.

The torment of actually enduring the day of the wedding: the people, the speech, Sholto. The inconvenience of Janine at 221b, her perfume, her normality, her female needs, for a case that turned out to be not just a case.

He had tried to evade the ordeal of it all and concentrated on the case, had used drugs to get closer to his target, only to learn it was all connected.

The pains of his worst nightmare entering his home, his safe haven - and piss into the fire place, well this one he had thought wasn't related, but it was now, wasn't it?

His current pains, all for John. All for his well-being.

He had stayed for John and now there was no longer a reason to stay.

He was rendered redundant.

He had never expected anything could hurt this much, had never deemed it possible that a mental pain existed that was level with the physical inconvenience of being shot or tortured.

Now he knew better.

He had to make a decision.

And now he had to face the pains of protecting a relationship he wasn't even part off.

It hurt.

Far worse than anything had before.

And he was alone with the torment it caused.

Mary had wanted him not to tell John, he had nevertheless and now John was affected so much he was out of order and Sherlock was alone with the mess, vulnerable and drugged.

This had cost so much… and now everything he had been fighting for was in danger.

John's happiness.

At this very moment he doubted he'd be able to convince John to continue his liaison with Mary.

If there was any chance to save their relationship, it would be hard work for him.

He had tried to open John up for trusting Mary, had tried to convince him with his last clear thoughts that John needed to forgive her.

He had known this revelation would hurt his friend the moment he had understood it was Mary in Magnussen's office.

The pain of the knowledge had hurt, though her bullet had hurt more.

He had known she was a liar, but the betrayal had caught him off guard, the sheer extend of bewrayment was unsettling.

If he felt like this, what John must feel right now must be unbearable.

Where was John?

Right, it was almost three in the morning, he had gone home, it was the middle of the night, normal people used to sleep at this hour.

Another wave of intense agony washed over him, and this time he was not able to just let it pass.

For god's sakes, it hurt!

He knew his blood pressure was rising, knew his heart beat was speeding up, but the night nurse was busy, he wouldn't care, he was safe from unnecessary ministrations, had more urgent things to do.

Think!

Caregivers were overworked everywhere nowadays, to his luck.

He wondered how John was doing at home.

What was he doing?

Sound asleep?

He tried to imagine how John looked, sleeping in his bed.

It wasn't enough.

So he tried to reach for his phone to see if John had texted him - and groaned in discomfort. The sound of his own unexpected voice startled him, his transport was annoying.

Maybe he should text John… send him some sort of… greeting.

Wasn't that what best friends did in time of crisis?

Signal support?

And gratitude.

In the end, he had typed about five messages - and deleted them all again.

It had kept his mind of using that button, but now the pain of raising his hands to type was horrendous.

The only thing that remained was:

'thx, SH'

When he pressed the send button, he realised he was no use to John like this, unnerved by pain and sleep deprivation.

Only option: recover as fast as possible to solve this.

Therefore he needed to rest.

He heard himself groan once more when he realised that meant sleep.

Sleep was awkward.

He would have nightmares, medication like this always brought forward bad dreams.

To delay the decision to try to do it he resumed thinking about the problem.

But only for about ten minutes, then the nurse bustled in and checked his vials. Obviously he was not distracted enough and immediately spotted the switched off perfusion pump and then understood that the patient was awake.

Without hesitation he dialled up the dosage to the level it had been before.

Sherlock hissed in frustration.

"Just sleep and let me do my job, it's not my fault, you know," the young man told him.

"I don't want it."

"Your doctor is not here, so we continue as prescribed."

The man started the machine and it started to push the substance into his veins.

Why had this happened?

A former addict should not be treated with opiod pain killers, where was the sense in that?

It was stupid really, irresponsible, there were so many other painkillers available, why this?

Sherlock bit back a smart remark about the man's girlfriend and willingly succumbed to the rush of morphine into his system.

He had wanted to keep his head clear for John.

But it was all a bit too much.

All the physical and mental pains he had gone through and now this.

There was a lot more ahead of him.

Recovery was always nasty.

Far worse than anyone expected, the ups and downs.

Physical therapy.

The pain.

The weaning off the pain medication.

There was so much more anguish ahead and he felt weary.

Weak, unable to resist it.

He should rip out the tube and prevent this, but he was tired and…

He hurt!

The orange light was taken away and hesitatingly he was dragged into sleep.

For John.

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A/N:

I'd love to get a review!