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Sherlockian Contradictoriness

Mycroft Holmes was – to say the least – astounded by the doctor's request. Perhaps even irritated.

"John, the hospital assured me that Sherlock receives the best possible care, and they also made it very clear to me that he is deeply unconscious. By all accounts, his mind is shut down, allowing his body to recover. They tell me he is basically in a very deep and relaxing sleep."

"Come and see for yourself," John grated. "He doesn't look very relaxed. And of course they tell you that he's just asleep and dreaming happily. He's not. He's comatose and no one knows how much he understands. We're dealing with Sherlock, remember. Anyway, the few reports from people who came out of a coma and could actually remember anything are not very encouraging – ever heard of hospital delirium or trauma caused by an ICU stay?"

There was a pause and he could hear Mycroft shifting. "John, I would not dare to question your epertise as a doctor, but as far as I know these patients were at least partly conscious."

John bit back an angry comment. "Maybe. That's why they lived to tell, Mycroft. But you know perfectly well that we notice a lot of things subconsciously. Now think about what Sherlock might be perceiving: acrid smells, strange noises, unknown voices, intrusive procedures he would never tolerate when awake – to him it must be a violation, and he will be frightened, or at least confused. Are you at all aware of what intensive care means? "

"Aware enough to understand your point, John. No need to go into details. I will of course do as you request."

John suddenly felt as if he had overstepped a line. "Sorry. I'm just freaked out with worry."

"I know, John," Mycroft answered quietly, suddenly sounding weary. "Just stay with him – if you are correct, then you are his lifeline. And really, that is all he needs."

Before John could answer, Mycroft had hung up. Puzzled, he looked at the phone – was that Mycroft doing sentiment? Probably. What had the world come to … John shoved the phone back into the pocket of his shirt – a light blue cotton top that looked as if it had been washed a few times too many compared to the deep blue scrubs the staff was wearing around here. Somehow it fit. He felt faded and worn out, too.

When he entered Sherlock's room, he instantly checked on him – and again, he was struck by the harsh reality of Sherlock injured and comatose. It felt like an abomination and made him choke. "Sherlock," he muttered, turning away hurriedly, taking deep breaths to force back the tears. He really needed to rest, the headache was threatening to split his skull and his frayed nerves bore testimony to his exhaustion: he didn't weep easily, yet he found himself constantly wrestling down hysterical sobs like a bloody hormone-shaken fourteen-year-old with a heartache.

Only now did he notice the cot that had been brought in. It was placed alongside the glass wall, and to give him privacy, someone had drawn the shades on that side. The bed was narrow and easily fit into the room, but it looked comfortable enough – army beds were certainly less cozy. God, was he grateful for that. He sank down on it, his limbs heavy as lead.

"Ah, Dr Watson," Nurse June stuck her head through the doors. "You see, we've done as promised. I hope you get some rest now, I hear you got quite a nasty concussion and shouldn't be up at all."

"I'm fine," John smiled wearily, "and thanks for the bed. I'm sure I can sleep now, I'm just glad I'm not too far away."

"Alright. But you really should get at least some hours of proper sleep somewhere quiet. I'll be coming in every half hour to check on him," she nodded towards Sherlock. "The morning round is at 8 o'clock, then the doctors will take a look at him, and after that we start the usual routine – you know the drill, checking everything, changing bandages, personal hygiene, turning him in the bed – I'm afraid you won't find much rest."

John waved her off. "That's okay, really. I can sleep almost anywhere. Army, you know – I'm used to racket and sharing space with snorers."

She laughed. "Okay, I'll leave you to it then." She made to go, but he called her back and asked, "Do you know how long he'll be kept sedated?"

"I don't know, but we definitely won't wake him too soon. You can ask Dr Sheffield during the morning round. You could go home, you know-"

"No way," John smiled sadly, and she just quirked her mouth. "Thought as much. But he's thoroughly sedated, he won't come round accidentally."

"I know. I'll stay anyway."

John sat down on the bed, feeling every single bone in his body. His head was throbbing with a dull ache; his ribs, in turn, produced a sharp pain with every movement, and his remaining bones and joints ached and groaned as if a herd of cows had trampled all over him. There was only one good thing about his battered state: he was so exhausted that sleep overwhelmed him instantly, knocking him out for several hours.

He missed not only the morning round but the entire day – he was aware of people puttering about, murmuring, and checking on him, monitoring his concussion, but he was too exhausted to stay awake. He noted that they moved Sherlock on his side, and after a while on his back again, but the pale face remained still and drawn. Nothing changed, so he just sunk back into sleep.

Until the alarms went off.

John felt as if he had stuck his fingers into a socket; a whiplash of panic racing through him, he bolted straight out of bed and launched himself towards Sherlock. His mind was incessantly screaming "Oh God please no, no, no, please no!" while his eyes fixed on the monitors, frantically taking in the readings.

He couldn't make sense of them. There was no flatline, but the pulse was too fast – and then he understood.

Sherlock was waking up.

Thoroughly sedated? John thought and couldn't quite explain it himself, putting it down to drug abuse and Sherlockian contradictoriness. Whatever the reason, the eyelids fluttered, the lips twitched and the muscles at the throat worked frantically to get rid of the tube. John felt his heart make a leap of joy and clench in fear at the same time – it was too early, Sherlock was too weak to breathe on his own but he wouldn't tolerate the tube either. Suddenly, his shoulders were heaving and he distorted his face into a grimace of anguish – and of course his hands flew straight to the tube to pull it out.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, peeling his fingers away. "No, Sherlock, no, don't-" He was shocked at the dexterity Sherlock mustered in his semi-conscious state: a moment later, and he would have ripped out the tube, tape, cuff and all. Putting his hands on either side of his friend's face, John called, "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

As if in answer, Sherlock grasped his wrists with surprising force. His whole body suddenly bucked and twisted, rolling away from him, hands desperately clawing. "No, no, Sherlock, no, stay still, please!" Panic rising, he hit the alarm button, his eyes on the drainage tube, now dangerously squashed under Sherlock's writhing body. God, if he managed to dislocate it –

John gritted his teeth, grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and forced him on his back. Pushing down with his entire weight and bringing his face next to Sherlock's, he quenched his own panic and spoke as quietly as he could. "Sherlock, listen. It's John, I'm here to help you. I need you to stay calm, please try to relax. I know you feel awful, but it's going to be all right in a moment. You're safe here, you're in a hospital, and you're intubated. Tube down your throat, did you get that?"

As if in answer, Sherlock made a choking sound, still desperate to cough up the foreign object stuck in his trachea.

"I know it feels dreadful, I'm sorry, Sherlock; you need the tube, you can't breathe on your own yet. Just relax and let the ventilator do it for you," John coaxed.

The fingers, now weak and clumsy, still fumbled around the tube – until John understood. He let go of Sherlock's face and grasped his hands instead, squeezing them gently. "It's all right, I'm here."

It was as if he had spoken a magic word: Sherlock stopped struggling, lying still except for the fluttering eyelids. John took a deep breath himself, all of a sudden feeling so giddy he had to steady himself against the bed. "Now what was all that fuss about, huh?" he chuckled, a warm wave of gladness washing over him. "Awake, are we? And up for a wrestling match," he murmured, stroking a thumb over the back of Sherlock's hand.

He heard the nurses rushing in, calling out in surprise, checking the machines, the catheters and, most importantly, the drainage tube. Nurse June bit her lips when she removed the wound dressing, but gave him a quiet thumbs up after a few moments. John sighed with infinite relief. Nothing damaged. Sherlock's eyes moved rapidly under his lids, but he did not open them, apparently still in distress. "It's all right, Sherlock, it's okay now," John murmured, gathering Sherlock's hands in his left and squeezing his shoulder with his right. "No need to worry, you're doing fine. Just hang in there, we'll give you something to sleep, so you won't feel the tube."

It seemed to work; he could feel Sherlock relax as the medication entered his system, and the distressed look slowly vanished. John exhaled with relief. "There you are, that's better. Just sleep." He looked at Nurse June, finding her smiling at him, and he cautiously smiled back, elation suddenly sweeping through him – Sherlock still had his fighting spirit, and he had woken up, even if it had been too early. But more importantly, he had recognised John's voice; and he had trusted him. Finally, he dared hope that all would be well.

They just needed time.