My dear reviewers, you're absolutely spoiling me! And I'm very grateful for that because it makes me unbelievably happy!
To answer your questions:
How long did it take me to write the story? I started this year at the beginning of April, sometimes writing five days in a row and then having no time to write for several weeks – and the daily editing still takes a shocking amount of time!
The coma patient with the medieval battlefield illusion is based on a real case given in a medical book (to be more precise: Ullrich, Lothar, Dietmar Stolecki and Matthias Grünewald, eds. 2010. Intensivpflege und Anästhesie. 2nd ed. Georg Thieme Verlag. 86-92.) I'm not medically trained, so I'm scraping together knowledge from various sources – but beware, Sherlock being Sherlock isn't going to be a typical coma patient!
It's not a Johnlock story (though I'm not opposed to Johnlock at all), I rather wanted to explore the dimensions of friendship – which in my experience sometimes involve a love even more complex than that supported by physical attraction.
Alas, I'm not a native speaker, so please feel free to point out language errors to me!
Long talk – I'll shut up now! :-)
Breathing's boring
The next days passed in a blur. Sherlock's fever rose quickly and they battled it with medication and cold compresses, hoping to bring it down, but it neither peaked nor broke. The pneumonia was just as persistent, sapping all strength from Sherlock's body, strength he desperately needed for healing the bullet wound.
There was some good news, though: the collapsed lung was unfolding surprisingly fast, stunning doctors and nurses. But John dared not cheer, warily checking the drainage system over and over again, not liking what came out of Sherlock's chest at all.
Then, virtually overnight, Sherlock gained the upper hand: the fever dropped and he seemed to overcome the pneumonia, though it would probably be weeks until the symptoms resolved completely.
The doctors marvelled at the progress and attributed it to their excellent care and an exceptionally strong immune system; John put it down to Sherlock's unwillingness to let Moriarty succeed in killing him.
But Sherlock did not wake up. They lifted the sedation, yet he remained in a coma, unable to breathe on his own.
They checked for brain damage. John spent hours waiting for the results, the scenarios playing out in his mind more terrifying by the minute.
When the results finally came back, they were inconclusive. He was as wise as before. John put his head down on Sherlock's bed and told him to stop being too lazy to breathe. Sherlock did not answer breathing is boring. Neither did he breathe.
The respiratory therapist muttered and tutted, looking unhappier everyday and John knew that a tracheotomy was inevitable and should have been performed days ago, but he himself had prevented it, and now he tore himself to pieces over the decision. But the idea of Sherlock regaining consciousness and being unable to speak simply scared him, and if he was honest with himself, he also hated to see a scar on Sherlock's throat. He knew this was highly unprofessional, and that was probably the reason why patients should never be treated by relatives or friends. Sentiment, John thought wryly. In truth, he had hoped for a miracle, for Sherlock to show signs of waking up and taking charge of his body again. Instead, John saw him grow weaker, losing the battle with the infection and the massive injury.
He sat and talked for hours to Sherlock. When he ran out of words and his voice grew hoarse, he gave in to his own need and took Sherlock's hand, clasping it firmly; he croaked an explanation, hoping that Sherlock didn't mistake it for some sort of violation; he apologized for not having consented to the tracheotomy earlier and described the procedure in detail, knowing that Sherlock would want to understand.
When they were ready, instruments all laid out and the surgeon poised to make the incision, John lost his nerves.
"No," he rasped. "Give it one more try. Please."
"Dr Watson," the surgeon protested, "you know as well as I do that it is necessary. He's in a coma, no signs of waking up. And really, it is not such a big deal."
"I know. Do an SBT. Please," he begged, his voice breaking.
The surgeon sighed. "He doesn't meet any of the requirements for a spontaneous breathing trial. On the Glasgow coma scale, he's-"
"Yes, I know, I'm perfectly aware of it," John stated, suddenly finding strength in his voice again. "But this is Sherlock." He managed to hide his panic over the finality of the step, as if it meant that Sherlock would never wake up. He knew how irrational it was, but he couldn't help.
Nurse June exchanged a glance with the surgeon, and the man nodded curtly, clearly convinced of the futility of doing a spontaneous breathing trial on a deeply comatose person. He did it anyway.
With the assistance of the ventilator gone, Sherlock stopped breathing. Of course he did. John bit his lips until he tasted blood. He watched the sats drop dangerously, heard the alarms going off. Nothing happened.
"I'm sorry," Nurse June said, and John just nodded.
And then Sherlock stumped them all.
Let down by the ventilator, he finally attempted to breathe. The machine gave off a cacophony of acoustic signals, but to John it sounded like angel choirs: Sherlock was trying to breathe, and not just feebly – he was doing a surprisingly good job. His muscles were far too weak to keep it up, of course, but he was clearly ready for the weaning process.
"How the hell is that even possible?" the surgeon muttered, doing a series of tests and exams. "He hasn't responded before, not at all …"
"That's Sherlock for you," John chuckled, a grin spreading on his face that tried to reach all the way to his ears.
It seemed, once Sherlock had made up his mind to breathe, he did so reliably. He needed help doing it, his muscles lacking the strength, and he would be on the ventilator for quite a while yet, but he was now breathing at his own rate. They opted for pressure support ventilation, giving him control over depth and length of respiration with the ventilator delivering positive pressure into the lungs whenever Sherlock initiated a breath – which he did like clockwork. During the following days, they would now gradually reduce the pressure until he was ready for extubation.
John just sat and smiled happily, holding Sherlock's hand and talking with a completely sore throat. "You know, you could try the next feat, you mad genius. How about waking up, huh? You're lungs are looking so much better, though you still got a bit of a fever." He bit back his worries about possible brain damage from the cardiac arrest. They could not exclude it, and Sherlock breathing did not mean he would ever wake up or that his brain would be intact. But one step at a time, John told himself. Sherlock never stuck to the rules, so he was not surprised that he made no progress on the Glasgow coma scale. He half expected him to jump the stages in one go anyway.
After two days, John's heart sank again.
"You know, waking up takes time," John said to Sherlock. "Normally, patients start slowly, with small movements and reaction to painful stimuli, they open their eyes and make incomprehensible sounds – or is that beneath you? Can you do that for me? Or do I have to pinch you?"
He received no answer whatsoever, but he did not pinch Sherlock either.
He regularly updated Mycroft, but Sherlock's brother did not come back to the hospital. He also did not share any news on Moriarty – no matter how much John protested, Mycroft refused to address the topic.
John also talked to Mary on the phone, usually several times a day, but he begged her not to come to the hospital. She was safe at home, and there was nothing she could do anyway. "I could hug you," she protested gently, and he could hear her smile, but he refused. "No, Mary, I'd only freak out with fear that Moriarty might attack you on the way here. Even Mycroft can't protect you all the time."
"I know," she sighed. "And Sherlock shows no signs of waking up?"
"Nope. Wound's healing fine, lungs are much better though still producing lots of muck that needs to be suctioned out – God, he must hate it."
"But no waking up."
"He wouldn't just wake up anyway. I mean, it's not like on the telly when people seem to be asleep and then just pop their eyes open, smiling and thanking everyone."
"Well," Mary replied dryly, "I'd rather expect Sherlock to insult everyone anyway."
"True," John conceded, but he didn't smile. "Waking up from a coma is a slow process with many stages in between and no guarantee that the patient progresses to the next stage. It could take months. He could get stuck. Or he could never wake up at all. Mary," he sighed, "as soon as he shows any signs of waking up, I'll come home, I promise. I just-"
"Shut up, John," Mary cut him off. "Do not have a bad conscience because of me. Just don't, OK? If he shows signs of waking up, you need to be with him more than ever. He'll be confused, right? So stay. Stay, and don't feel bad. You're the best friend he could have. And he knows that."
John swallowed hard. "Mary?"
"Yes?"
"Love you."
"Love you too, John. And John?"
"Yeah?" He barely managed to suppress a sob.
"Pinch Sherlock from me."
"Yeah," he barked out a laugh. "How do you know I can't do it?"
"Cause I know you."
John smiled, feeling a little more light-hearted.