Stubborn and Silent

Dr Sheffield beamed at him. "So, taken all together, he's doing surprisingly well."

Certainly true, John thought darkly, if you're dealing with a collapsed lung, enormous blood loss and plenty of bone splinters, topped off with a dive in the Thames. "That's uh, good, good," he rasped, his voice breaking.

"He has an excellent constitution. Doing a lot of sports, is he?"

"Um, kind of …" John trailed off and wondered whether climbing down buildings and hunting criminals could be called sports.

"Very well, then," Dr Sheffield took off his surgeon's cap. "You can see him as soon as he's settled in. His primary nurse will assist you with anything you need and your medical advice is welcome at any time. Mycroft Holmes was very explicit – we know each other, you see, we're in the same club." He smiled benignly.

"Oh," John nodded, his brain vacant, stuck on the image of Sherlock being wheeled out of surgery. He had caught a glimpse of him, or rather of the stretcher surrounded by the medical team and dozens of bags, lines, tubes and monitors.

They were standing outside the operating theatre, and Dr Sheffield was still in his scrubs – with Sherlock's blood on them, John noted with a lump in his throat. He was sure that the surgeon normally briefed relatives in an immaculate white coat in his undoubtedly impressive office and not in a busy corridor in the butcher's clothes that were the trademark of their profession.

"Alright, Dr Watson, I'll leave you to it, Nurse Mills will accompany you." He made to leave, but John stopped him. "Dr Sheffield." John cleared his throat, unsure how to phrase his request.

"Yes, is there anything else?" The surgeon stopped, mildly surprised.

"Yes, in fact," John looked him in the eyes. "Um, I'm a surgeon myself, army doctor, in fact, so I know … the talk we give to relatives and, um, the things we don't say."

Dr Sheffield watched him with sudden interest. "I did not omit anything related to the surgery, Dr Watson. You can read the report, if you want to."

"That's not what I mean." John took a deep breath. "There's something you're not telling me."

Dr Sheffield blinked in unconcealed surprise, but remained silent.

"Please tell me." John's mouth was set in a firm line.

Dr Sheffield straightened almost imperceptibly. "Very well, Dr Watson. I obviously underestimated your observational skills."

'I'd love to hear that from Sherlock,' John thought.

Dr Sheffield sighed. "It turned out Mr Holmes has pneumonia."

"What?"

"Pneumonia."

John blinked in shock. Pneumonia. How …?

"We're waiting for the lab results to see what exactly we're dealing with, but-"

"I understand, thank you," John said in a dull voice. Then a thought struck him. "Have you received his medical records or the report of … uh, his latest examination? Do you know what happened to him in the last – I don't know – weeks?" John bit his lip. Somehow, he didn't want to say, do you know he was tortured and he's got a drug problem?

"No," Dr Sheffield shook his head. "We have not received any records, but Mycroft Holmes has informed me about what to expect. We're aware of the implications, Dr Watson – particularly with regard to substance abuse, and we will of course take it into consideration regarding medication and treatment."

"Um, okay," John said slowly.

Dr Sheffield nodded and made to go, but stopped again. "Dr Watson – I would not give up hope. By all rights, Mr Holmes should be dead, but he's survived against all odds. To be honest, I have never seen anyone hang on so stubbornly."

John swallowed hard, biting back sudden tears. "Yeah, that's him."

The surgeon nodded and left.

John pondered what he had said: no medical records. Why? He would have expected Mycroft to pass on any relevant information and surely, Sherlock must have been examined immediately after being rescued – he had been tortured, for God's sake, someone must have taken care of him?

Frowning, he fished out his phone and dialled Mycroft's number. It took only half a ring for Sherlock's brother to take the call.

"Yes, John, what is it?"

John listened for a note of concern in the voice, but there was none. He cleared his throat. "It's just – I've just talked to Dr Sheffield and he seems to have no medical records on Sherlock. I mean, Sherlock must have received medical care when your people got him out – I think the hospital should have all the information available, particularly on the development and possible cause of the pneumonia. Maybe you could make sure-"

"John, they have not received any records because there are none."

"What?" John blinked in confusion. "What do you mean, there are none? You said he was tortured, he must have been-"

"Sherlock refused to be examined."

"He – what? But-"

"I told you, John, he refused to be touched."

"Yeah, but -" John struggled with his own confusion. "I mean, I know he didn't let anyone touch him, after that – thing at Battersea, when he fell, but," he gasped for air. "I thought you had him rescued from some Russian dungeon or whatever? I thought - I mean, he must have been in a bad way, someone must have looked him over!"

"Superficially, yes. As soon as was awake, however, he refused to be touched."

"You mean, " John sank down on a chair, "he had no proper examination at all? All that time since-" he swallowed, adding weakly, "Russia?"

Mycroft sighed. "He didn't allow you to touch him – what makes you think he would have tolerated a stranger?"

John opened his mouth to protest but no sound came out. He was at a loss.

Mycroft sighed again – twice in as many minutes, John noted belatedly. He was concerned, then. "John, Dr Sheffield has all the necessary information and my brother is in excellent hands."

John said lamely, "OK."

"Get some rest, John," Mycroft advised him, "there is no point in you wearing yourself out." He ended the call.

John sat dumbfounded for several minutes. Somehow, he had imagined Mycroft's men to have dragged Sherlock from that basement unconscious, probably taking him to a helicopter. There, at the latest, an army doctor would have examined him, attending to his injuries. It seemed Sherlock had resisted even then - hadn't accepted help, hadn't allowed an examination and subsequent treatment that could have stopped the pneumonia in its early stages. And he hadn't come to him for help. Somehow, that was the most devastating realisation.

Pneumonia. It was one of the most feared complications in patients that required assistance with breathing. And Sherlock had managed to contract it even before he ended up in the ICU. Great. He must have been developing it for a while – and there was no way he hadn't noticed it, that great over-perceptive idiot. Sherlock hated hospitals beyond all measure, but he was no fool when it came to serious injuries or illnesses – he knew when not to ignore a problem. Therefore, he had wilfully ignored the pneumonia. Why?

Moriarty's words suddenly struck him: You don't seem very keen on surviving.

Suicidal, Mycroft had said.

Damn them all.

He suddenly noticed Nurse Mills bearing down on him. She looked like she wasn't going to let him out of sight another second – afraid I freak out, he thought. He followed her numbly, shaking his head at all her requests to go back to his room.

They reached the elevators and John pressed the button for the ICU.

"Dr Watson …" Nurse Mills looked at him pleadingly. "Dr Watson, please, you need rest and there's nothing-"

"No."

"He's unconscious," she protested softly. "He won't know you're there."

"I don't care."

"Dr Watson, you know the procedure – he's sedated and we won't even try to wake him up during the next days-"

"Take me to him. Now." It was said in his quiet but steely military voice, and his posture spoke for itself. Nurse Mills looked at him, then just nodded. Apparently, she knew when a cause was lost.

She accompanied him to the Intensive Care Unit, introduced him to the personnel, explained the layout of the unit and where he would find everything, and finally showed him where to change into scrubs.

After the familiar cleansing and disinfection procedure, John found himself in the middle of a gleaming white corridor, the equally white nurses' desk behind him, and a pair of wide glass doors in front of him. Behind that door, clearly visible through the pristine glass, was an ICU bed, surrounded by a stunning amount of state-of-the-art equipment and a nurse checking the monitors.

It was surreal; compared to an average NHS hospital, the place looked like a spaceship – all glossy surfaces, stainless steel, glass and diffuse light, the only dash of colour the cobalt blue of the nurses' scrubs. Everyone seemed to move with efficiency yet without hurry, radiating competence and professional friendliness. John hated it. He missed the battlefield atmosphere of Afghanistan and the bustle of crowded London hospitals.

But what he hated far more was the fact that he was close to a panic attack. He knew exactly what to expect in that room – for God's sake, he was an army surgeon, he had regularly sent people from his operating table to the ICU. Yet, it was Sherlock in there, in that bed, buried so deeply under tubes and lines and bandages that he was not even visible from here.

John took a deep breath, trying to force his anxious mind to calm down; it didn't help much, his heart was racing and he still felt so giddy that he needed to steady himself against the doorframe.

Sherlock was in there. Shot, barely alive. Sherlock, who had returned from the dead – only to die again? It was all a bit too much, John admitted, his knees almost buckling under his own weight. First, the thrill of his friend coming back, then his cold behaviour, the clash over the track marks on his arms … and then Moriarty emerging with a threat more horrible than anything he could have imagined.

John hung his head for a moment, gathering strength. It wasn't over; in fact, it had barely begun, and he could not get rid of the image of Sherlock fighting to breathe, slowly drowning in his own blood, eyes wide and desperate, clinging to him for help –

He stopped his memories from spinning out of control: the nurse attending to Sherlock was walking towards him.

He automatically straightened and braced himself. She pulled the glass doors open and smiled kindly at him. "Dr Watson?"

"Yes, that's me." John cleared his throat, annoyed that his voice sounded so weak.

"I'm Nurse June, your friend's principal nurse," she introduced herself. She was a wiry blond girl, steel blue eyes searching his face, trying to assess him. Far too young, John thought, she looked like a teenager, how was she supposed to handle Sherlock?

"Don't worry, I look younger than I am, and I am a very experienced nurse," she declared with a grin, but without malice. "I'll take good care of Mr Holmes."

"Yes, of course," John coughed, horrified that his thoughts had been so transparent. "Sorry."

"You're welcome to stay here. Your friend's stable now and we're keeping him sedated, so there won't be much change. I suppose I don't have to explain to you what all the machines are for?"

"No, no, certainly not." John pulled himself together and entered the room, cautiously approaching the bed. It was the only bed in here, although the room was large enough for two.

What struck him instantly was the lack of noise – there was of course the hiss of the ventilator and the beeping of the machines in regular intervals, but the sounds were rather muted, and the usual clanging and banging inevitable on a large ward with patients just separated by flimsy curtains was completely absent.

"It's, um, good that it's rather silent in here," John said, his voice still strained. "Sherlock's extremely sensitive to noise."

"Yes, we've taken extra care with that," she confirmed. "The noise in ICUs can be a real problem, with patients not getting rest and being confused, not knowing what's going on around them and not having their own room. We can't avoid it entirely, of course, but we're trying to be as quiet as possible, particularly during treatment. And we explain everything what we do to the patient, even if they are unconscious – you never know how much they notice."

"Yeah," John sighed, "especially with this one. He's hypersensitive."

Nurse June watched him carefully. "So I've been told."

"And what else have you been told?" John asked quietly, taking up a military stance.

Nurse June's eyes crinkled with amusement. "All I need to know. And that you're here to protect him, that you're likely to refuse to leave the room which is why we're moving a bed in here for you, and that I'm to follow your medical advice, should you object to anything the doctor orders."

"Uh," John blinked in surprise. "Okay, good. That's good … good." Mycroft's doing, undoubtedly.

"I'm finished here for the moment," she said, "so unless you want me to stay, I'll leave you alone with him."

"Yeah, that's fine," John nodded.

"I'll be checking on him regularly of course, but don't worry, he's being closely monitored from the nurses' station and by myself." She tapped a device in her pocket that looked like a phone. "We'll know instantly if there's any change."

"Okay." John looked around, taking in the high-tech equipment and the glass walls, making everyone and everything transparent. He felt a bit as if he had landed in an aquarium. "Listen," he called, halting the nurse in her steps. "I didn't mean to question your professionalism, I'm just … I guess I'm just very worried."

"I know, Dr Watson," she smiled. "It's okay."

"Right," John muttered as the doors swung close behind her.

He took another deep breath. Swallowed. Dared not approach. Let his eyes travel over the machinery instead, taking in every read out – the ECG, recording the activity of the heart; blood pressure measured directly from an artery line, body temperature, breathing pattern, oxygen and CO2 levels; the infusion system, a whole stack of pumps introducing medication into the blood stream; the Foley bag at the side of the bed, proof that the kidneys were working; the chest tube, draining air and fluid from the lungs and allowing the collapsed one to begin re-expanding; the ventilator, white and blue tubes leading towards the machine, the pulmonary function displayed on a monitor – Jesus, it was good to see the lungs working, even if their function was impaired. Breathing was definitely not boring now.

He held his own breath when he stepped closer.

He knew what to expect. Knew it. Intubated patient, eyes closed, face slack, skin pallid, tube and tape hiding the characteristic mouth, curls brushed back, looking all wrong. A myriad of lines and tubes connecting the body to the machines, blanket drawn up to the chest, the wound dressing partly visible; shoulders surprisingly well-muscled, bruised arms, track marks.

He looked nothing like Sherlock, John mused. Of course, all coma patients resembled wax figures, lacking all that characterised them as a person when awake. But in Sherlock's case it seemed far more extreme – with Sherlock's energy and arrogance gone, what was left was disturbingly ordinary and … frail.

John hung his head and took a deep breath, seriously afraid to sink to his knees. Humming silently, he pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his temples until he felt steady on his feet again.

"Sherlock," he rasped, "you've absolutely pushed it to the limit. Really. I mean, usually people have to watch their loved ones die only once. Which is horrible anyway. So, don't do that to me again. I just can't take it, okay? Um," he looked around, uncertain what to do. "Just so that you know, I'll stay here with you, I'm not going anywhere until you're out of the woods, and … yeah, I'm grateful you saved my life but if that means losing yours, it's not worth it." Driven by a sudden impulse, he grabbed the limp hand, almost dislocating the pulse oximeter. The machine complained instantly. "Oh, sorry, can't have that," he mumbled, quickly fixing it again, but then he let go of the hand, suddenly remembering Sherlock's aversion to touch.

"No," he huffed and gently picked up the hand again, squeezing it lightly. "Listen, Sherlock, you have to pull through this or I will never, ever be happy again, in my entire life. There. And, oh, if you hate being touched, that's just bad luck, because I will hold your hand and I will touch your face because it gives me comfort, and if you hate that you will simply have to wake up and tell me. Right. Um, that's settled then. Get better, okay? Then we can sort out this mess and get our lives back. Anyway, Moriarty is still out there and you cannot lose the game, can you? Seriously, Sherlock, dying would be losing, so that's not an option." He exhaled shakily, stroking a thumb over the back of Sherlock's hand. "Okay, then … I don't know how much you notice, but you being you, probably a lot more than an average patient."

He let his fingers trail over Sherlock's arm, studying each and every single one of the puncture marks. "Oh, you," he sighed, "you idiot. I can see now that the track marks are neither old nor new. So, part of the torture, right? And why didn't you just tell me? Was that your bloody stubbornness or did you seriously believe I would figure it out eventually? Tell me when you wake up, okay? Expect an earful about the whole coming back thing, Sherlock, we'll have to talk about this. I know how much you despise that, but we will TALK. Comes in handy that you're in a hospital bed, so you can't escape and can't tell me to shut up. Hah."

Sniffing, he bit back treacherous tears and stared at the ceiling until he felt a bit more in control of his emotions. "Right." He looked at Sherlock again, studying the face on the pillow – but what he saw frightened him.

Sherlock did not look asleep or relaxed – not even just lifeless; despite the sedation, he looked pained. Cheekbones too prominent, skin stretched tight over the skull, lines on the forehead and under the eyes, the bruise beneath his left eye starkly visible. He still could not figure out where that haemorrhage came from – not a punch to the face, clearly. At least the gash from the fall at Battersea was healing, but there was an unfamiliar scar, long healed and pale, beginning at the left temple and vanishing among the curls. John bent over him and traced it with his fingertips, realising that it ran almost to the back of the skull. "Jesus, that must have bled a lot," he muttered. "How did that happen? I don't even want to know how many more scars you're hiding under that blanket." He straightened and looked down at the still face. "You'll have to tell me, you know."

He looked around and discovered a chair in the corner; he pulled it over and sank into it, grateful that it wasn't the standard issue torture tool all hospitals seemed to have, but actually comfortable to sit in. He kept staring at Sherlock, and the image was just wrong. His chest was heaving, moved by the ventilator, but it did not make him seem alive. The brilliant mind was deeply hidden somewhere in the damaged shell, and the slackness of the body was entirely different from Sherlock reclining on the sofa, too lazy to lift a finger. He just looked weak – no, worse, paralysed. Trapped somewhere between life and death.

John let his head fall into his hands and groaned. "Oh God, how did we mess up like this …"

"No," he suddenly puffed and got to his feet. "They've done your hair all wrong, you'd hate that, you never wear it slicked back – it's funny, looks almost like they gelled it – really posh."

He felt a bit silly, but he still snaked his fingers through the curls, carefully tousling and shifting them back to where they belonged. "There, that looks a lot more like you, despite your hair being so short," he noted, satisfied when the curls settled into their usual position. "Though it looked quite smart that style, actually. Not that you don't always look smart, but combined with yours suits and your intellect, you'd look like someone straight off the cover of a magazine, sleek'n dapper. Jesus," he chuckled, "don't let Molly see that new look. She'd swoon. Straight onto you. But then, you wouldn't notice right now, would you?" His smile froze. "Well, I … I hope you feel better with your hair as it should be; I hope you even notice it. Or maybe not. I hope you're not annoyed with me messing around with your hair. Anyway, um, I hope you can just get some rest. Sorry, I'll stop babbling now. Just sleep, okay?" He swallowed around a lump in his throat. "Sleep. And get well."

Sherlock didn't look like it.

John settled down in his chair again and racked his brain how to make Sherlock more comfortable, but there was precious little he could do.

Then it struck him. Of course! Sherlock, sensitive to touch and scent.

Hurrying from the room, he took out his phone and called Mycroft.