Pain Management
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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Incapacitated by pain and drugs, Sherlock has much too much time to sense and think in the hospital, drifting in and out of consciousness after the Operation, pumped full of medication that isn't agreeing with him.
This takes places shortly after Mary has told Sherlock to keep quiet, when Sherlock is still rather bad after the first operation. (Between chapters 2 and 3 of this story, I will put it there later, but for now it's here for you to find).
I felt the need to add a chapter about Mycroft, I am sure he would have been worried. Also, a review from 'Thanangst' inspired me to add a bit of what we all wanted to see: John holding vigil over a wounded Sherlock. Thank you for that :)
So, here is some more vigil: Mycroft (and later John), hope you enjoy
This happens when Sherlock decides what he executes later (after Janine's visit): thinking about Mary, just that now he isn't clear enough and in too much pain to dial down the morphine.
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Virgil Part 1 - Mycroft
When Sherlock woke the next time, his return to consciousness was even more unpleasant, because he was aware what awaited him, pain and the obnoxious haze in his mind caused by the wrong drugs. Unfortunately the medication was not strong enough to make him comfortable any longer.
It was no fun.
While he drifted his mind confronted him with a memory... one he needed a moment to sort out.
He had been on his back on the ground, in horrible pain, fighting for control.
Experiencing that had been... unsettling.
But there were more unsettling memories that followed. He wasn't conscious enough to fight the memory's assault.
Moriarty was bending over him, dressed in a straight jacket.
He jerked back to full consciousness, the panic about the proximity of final and eternal oblivion pumping adrenaline into his body.
The disorienting rushing and drumming in his ears gained volume but then something else was there.
Pressure.
"Sherlock?"
His muddled mind needed a moment to sort out that he had really heard a voice in the distance, it was not just in his head.
"Sherlock, calm down."
Pressure on his hand, the awareness that he had a physical body - and didn't consist of just pain in the dark - returned; his right hand was on his chest, rested close to his collarbone. Curled up in pain.
Then he became aware that a foreign hand was holding it, squeezing it carefully.
He knew that touch... and that voice, though for a very long agonising moment everything that wasn't pain was hard to focus on.
He exhaled, and it was like pushing out a grey fog, his lungs expanded with the new inhale, bad smells burning in his lungs.
It hurt.
The next inhale was careful and noisy, a small noise of pain escaped him.
Only a moment later he recognised the smell and tensed.
Mycroft.
"Sherlock, you are okay," his brother said in a low voice.
The memory of the intense pain - which he had felt while hovering so close to death and that had almost made his body decide it wasn't willing to endure life any longer - returned.
It was no longer a memory - the apple-green agony was blinding and present.
The tears of pain he had shed crumpled on the ground of Moriarty's cell brought once more wetness to his eyes. He desperately tried to hold them back, but this time his brother saw them.
He felt humiliated.
He wanted to go back to oblivion, wanted to escape feeling this.
Mycroft said nothing and the touch disappeared.
He was disoriented and unable to move, when he managed to open his eyes the lights were dim and his vision blurred, the world was spinning. He decided to keep them closed, it was not worth the effort.
Muscle relaxants?
But nevertheless more tears fell.
His breathing was stuttering and the unnerving tone of the heart monitor grated on his nerves.
At least Mycroft had left...
... but then the touch returned, without words.
A hand came to rest on his head and a cold cloth wiped his face, removed the residues of weakness and desperation.
The last time he had seen Mycroft he had shoved him against a door, twisted his hand and they had threatened each other.
That was only hours ago, but it felt like weeks had passed.
How long had he been unconscious?
How many days ago had he been shot?
"It was the day before yesterday, brother dear."
Damn Mycroft's deducing abilities, they were as obnoxious as ever.
His brother's voice though, carried worry and patience, nothing left of the carefully controlled anger about his drug use or the obvious resentment of his investigation against Magnussen.
But no doubt it was only a matter of time until he'd be pestered with Mycroft's opinion about breaking in there and where it brought him.
"Yes, that was very stupid," his sibling commented as if he was able to hear his thoughts.
He ignored him.
And the question - as soon as he'd be half aware everyone would ask him who the shooter was.
He couldn't answer them.
If John asked... he couldn't tell him, not yet at least... John would at first not believe him, at second tell him he had dreamt or hallucinated and at last leave in anger.
The events threatened to harm their relationship. He needed to be careful with handling that, it was too precious.
If Lestrade asked he had to remain silent because of the man's job, there was no way this could be solved via official police work.
And Mycroft was the last person he could tell. The machinery that would spring into action as a result might as well be all their downfall.
No doubt Mycroft had started to investigate Mary as soon as she spent more than just a few minutes at Baker Street and intensified when John proposed to her.
That was about it, the persons he could trust.
He felt as if inside a foggy glass vessel, unable to communicate, not just because of the drugs that clouded his mind, but also because of the consequences.
He couldn't make a decision like this, he needed a clear mind, and right now it was not available.
He considered manipulating the morphine pump, but the sheer memory of the pain was enough to recoil mentally and physically.
It was all too fresh.
The things he had lived through when his heart stopped had left a dark area in his soul, full of desperation and an impediment sense of horror.
"Sherlock, calm down. You need to relax," his brother said in the distance.
It took him a moment to realise that he was feeling worse than even a few moments before, the memories of being at death's door he had just touched lightly were effecting his body, his heart was beating too fast and his sped up breathing hurt.
Breathing wasn't boring currently, it was a source of constant pain. He felt bad, not only in a physical way.
Being this near death had affected him, there was no denying.
As had the anaesthesia, which usually had a similar devastating effect.
Both felt like something unbelievable horrible was lurking in the dark, caused distress.
Since both these factors were currently adding to each other existence was quite inconvenient. Life had become a living nightmare from which there was no waking up.
He was a mess.
The altered state of mind the anaesthesia caused on top of it all made him more than depressive.
"Sherlock?"
A hand slid into his left again, held it for a moment, then worked on gently uncurling it.
He only now realised he had tensed up, made a loose fist - he was too weak to even make a proper one.
But unfolding his hands was more difficult than Mycroft had thought.
"You're fine, relax."
Sherlock would have rolled his eyes if he could.
Mycroft this un-harsh was unsettling, the mild tone of his voice was, too.
Well, the tone was soft, but it was the usual no-nonsense style.
The last time he had heard him speak like this was when he had gone through withdrawal on his own. Mycroft had found him and stayed by his side when he refused to go to the hospital.
In the end they both had looked like death warmed over, it had been totally unnecessary for his brother to confront himself with this, up to today he didn't know why he cared. Especially since his sibling frequently reminded Sherlock what a mistake it was to care.
Why that?
He hadn't known then and didn't know still.
Was Mycroft planning to stay?
He wanted him to piss off.
"I won't, brother dear, get used to it. Your dear doctor needs a break, so you're stuck with me for the time being."
Had he spoken out loud?
No, definitely not.
He had been completely still, was far too weak to move, and his throat was still sore from the tube.
Being incarcerated by his transport was nasty. He had to wait, just wait until it recovered. The ugly truth was this would take a very long time.
He wanted John.
"He's getting a break, he has been here for over 24 hours. I send him home to have a shower and get some sleep. But I think he ignored me and went to the cafeteria instead."
Sherlock smirked internally.
"You told him you didn't saw who shot you. I don't believe you. You're protecting someone. And who in the world would you protect... Funny, there's only one goldfish that seems to be worth this level of devotion."
Sherlock clenched his jaw, Mycroft was getting there fast.
Mary's betrayal had caught him off guard.
Yes, there was always something, but this was... he had no words for it. Never before in his life had he felt this deceived.
Was that even the right word for this emotion? It was quite new to him.
Aghast?
Bewildered?
Of course he had been lied to before, had been bullied, had been betrayed, but usually not by people he trusted... The one exception was Mycroft.
That had been bad, but that had also been a very long time ago.
It had damaged him, had damaged his ability to trust people. But it had not only damaged him, Mycroft had changed, too. And sometimes he had the impression his brother was trying to make it up to him, although he fought against it, not able to consider anything that touched that topic.
And he was not ready to think about that now.
He had let her in, had entrusted her with John.
Of course he had deduced she was a liar, had even known that there were big lies, but this, this was different, this touched a part of his inner core he hadn't even known he was capable of. It was a place solemnly for John.
She had gained access, too, so he had allowed her in, assuming she was a part of John. Assumed she had only his wellbeing at heart.
But right now, he wasn't certain any longer.
She had seen John suffering after his faked death, had taken part in his recovery, she should be well aware how close his death had brought John to give up himself. And now that he had carefully forgiven Sherlock and had started to trust him again, it was questionable if the doctor would survive this a second time. She had risked his death, there must be a logical reason for that, he was just not able to think properly, it irked him, the impossibility to make deductions.
He struggled to clear his mind.
"Sherlock, just don't fight it, get some sleep."
He wished Mycroft would shut up, he was disrupting his sparsely ability to think even more.
Repeatedly, he tried to enter the mind palace, but the medication was affecting him in a way that kept him from entering most of the time. Twice he actually managed to get in, but it was all dark inside and when he tried to move invisible obstacles prevented any progress or advance.
So he tried to think without it.
Maybe she just wanted him gone, not matter what, but he had never thought she could be this cold, or that there might be a point of view from which this made logical sense...but, those were emotions some women had - men too - weren't they?
Base motives were still a mystery to him, he couldn't really comprehend people had those, he just knew they were there, not what they felt like.
But usually Mary was not the type to act on those, this must be more complex. Sure, she liked to make jokes about them, but act on it?
Nevertheless, the tremendousness of her actions were hard to reconstruct. The atrociousness of the act against John touched something deep inside his core... he hurt on John's behalf, more than on his own.
He didn't know how to handle that, or her, not at the moment at least, he needed to think, needed to figure it out.
But he couldn't, his drug induced stupidity made him agitated.
Thinking was taking its toll, it took more energy than he had and he drifted off once more.
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A/N:
I'd love to get some feedback.
Thank you for reading.
