A million thanks for your reviews … I really don't know what to say.
Touchy
John woke from a slight change in light: it was dawning. Very slowly he surfaced from a paralysing sleep that left him drained. Even before he was fully awake, his eyes wandered to the screens, checking Sherlock's vital signs. No change. Only now did his brain register the message from his own body: a crick in the neck, a stiff back and one arm completely numb – the one that still held on to Sherlock's hand. "Oh, hell," John mumbled, "I fell asleep in the bloody chair." He carefully flexed his fingers – soon enough, he was rewarded with searing pain in his blood-starved muscles.
"Morning, Sherlock," he mumbled, his voice as raspy as Sherlock's breathing. "Looks like a typical London day – could rain any moment." Bending over his friend, he checked for any signs of consciousness, but found none. Sherlock's lips were cracked, he noticed, and he had a hint of stubble on his chin and upper lip. That made him look at his own reflection in the window.
Appalled, John stumbled backwards. He looked as if he had been on drinking binge – eyes red and puffy, hair messed up, stubble on chin and cheeks. Was it really that long that he had shaved and showered? He sniffed surreptitiously under his armpits – ouch, irrefutable proof.
He turned back to Sherlock. "Listen, Sherlock, I need to shower. Urgently. Let me just get you something for your cracked lips, then I won't bother you any longer with my less than fresh smell." He rummaged around until he found the balm and applied it carefully. "There you are. The nurses will be in any moment, I think you're also due for a bed bath and a shave."
He suddenly realised that for the first time he would not be present when the nurses took care of Sherlock – so far, he had always talked him through everything as if he were awake, even lending a hand most of the time. He admittedly felt a bit ridiculous doing it, and it earned him a lot of sidelong glances, but as long as he had the slightest suspicion that Sherlock was aware of his surroundings, he wanted to make him feel safe. Even if everyone thought it was silly. Or suggestive.
"All right," John muttered. "See you in a moment. Behave, okay?"
The hot shower was bliss. It not only made him feel human again, it relieved his aching joints and somehow lifted his spirits. He stayed under the warm spray much longer than intended and then took his time shaving thoroughly. A new set of scrubs was waiting for him, as well as fresh clothes – Mary's doing. He thought about calling her, but realised it was a bit early, she had been working half the night, marking exam papers. With a smile playing around his lips, he dressed and wondered what would be served for breakfast – that was an undeniable advantage of private hospitals, he thought languidly, the food was excellent and the coffee strong and fragrant.
If only Sherlock could appreciate it. But he was dependent on a feeding tube, and whatever they fed him bypassed his taste buds, and the mush trickling through the tube certainly did not include coffee. Maybe he should smuggle some caffeine into Sherlock's infusion system, perhaps that would wake him? He chuckled silently, aware that his mood swings still bordered the hysterical, but for once, he did not care; he gathered his things into the bag and returned to Sherlock's room, expecting to find the nurses in the middle of giving Sherlock a sponge bath, a time-consuming procedure involving lots of towels which always left behind a strange smell consisting of Sherlock's expensive triple milled soap and various hospital disinfectants.
Instead, he walked into a war zone.
He knew something was wrong the moment he entered the white corridor: the air was vibrating with tension.
And then there it was, the running and shouting that indicated an emergency – a nurse and a doctor were hastening into Sherlock's room from which the unmistakable crash of a trolley being overturned echoed through the ward, with dozens of things tumbling to the floor.
John broke into a run.
When he stormed into the room, he stumbled straight into a puddle of water, slipped and crashed right into the melee, almost falling flat on his face. With his arms flailing, he managed to grab the door handle, and clinging to the door, he pulled himself up and surveyed the situation.
Bed bath, all right. Only, the up till now comatose patient apparently objected to it: Sherlock was tossing wildly in his bed, kicking and punching rather aimlessly at anyone within reach; he was not conscious, probably could not even see anything at all since his eyes kept rolling back in his head, but he put up an impressive fight threatening to rip out his tubes; they barely managed to keep him from rolling out of bed, and even with combined forces they failed to hold him down. The nurse was yelling for restraints to tie his wrist and ankles, but none of them could let go of the raging patient.
John's mind was racing. He took in the spilled water, the sogging wet cloth, the staff trying to immobilise Sherlock. And it all fell into place.
"STOP IT! STOP IT NOW!" He roared with his parade ground voice. They all froze; even Sherlock hesitated for a moment. "Let him go," he added calmly. "Step back and simply let him be."
They looked at him dumbfounded. Sherlock delivered another vicious kick, hitting the physician painfully in the ribs.
"Do as I say," John ordered in a steely voice.
They did.
After one final turn and an arm flailing uselessly in the air, Sherlock simply ceased all movement, slumping down on his side, panting and sweating heavily, his lungs making almost gurgling sounds. The monitors blinked and beeped wildly, and blood was slowly seeping into the bed clothes where Sherlock had ripped the IV line.
"Waterboarding," John explained quietly. He looked at the nurse, dripping wet from the upended water basin. "You tried to wash his face, I assume?"
"Yes, sure," the rotund woman gasped. "We always start with the eyes, it's standard procedure-"
"I know," John nodded. "So you took a towel, soaked it in water and began wiping his eyes. In doing so, you accidentally covered his mouth or nose."
"Well, possibly, but only for a moment-" she huffed indignantly.
"I know, it's all right," John held up his hands, appeasing. "I'm only trying to explain what happened. Your patient was recently subjected to waterboarding. Are you familiar with this kind of torture?"
The physician nodded, but the two nurses looked confused.
John sighed. "It is one of the most vicious kinds of torture because it leaves no mark on the body and looks like nothing to the outside if it's done carefully. The person to be tortured is held down, a cloth is placed over mouth and nose, and then a small amount of water is poured onto it, triggering the gag reflex and making the victim choke. The captive experiences the agony of drowning, over and over again. It can result in all kinds of injuries or none at all – but the trauma remains for the rest of your life."
The nurse blanched, looking at Sherlock, who just lay on his side, still breathing far too quickly. "Is it really that bad …"
"Have you ever accidentally walked into a washing line full of wet laundry?"
"Yeah, I have," the other nurse interjected, "into a silk scarf. It was quite a shock, really!"
"Then you have a small glimpse of what it's like." John gave her a wry smile.
"I didn't know, I'm so sorry," the rotund woman whispered. "I never meant to-"
"It's all right," John repeated. "It's not your fault. Really not. Now, let's get to work."
John approached Sherlock carefully. "Sherlock, can you hear me? It's John. You're all right, no one means any harm to you. You had a bit of a flashback, but it's fine now. I'm going to clean you up, don't struggle, OK? Just let me do this." He kept talking quietly as he began examining Sherlock, and although his patient gave no sign of recognition, he remained calm. Too calm, John noted: he had lapsed back into his inert state.
Puzzled, John stared down at Sherlock, now on his back again, his face pale and impassive. It was weird. Sherlock's reactions – or rather the lack of them – did not fit the the Glasgow coma scale. At all. He let out a puff of air. "Well, at least we now know that he does notice his surroundings and that he is indeed capable of reacting to stimulus."
The physician quirked an eyebrow at him. "Apparently, the coma is not as deep as we previously thought. We need to reassess him."
John smirked. "Good luck with that."
They performed the full test, checking eye, verbal, and motor response, but Sherlock came out as before: response zero.
"I don't understand!" the physician exclaimed in frustration. "How can he be at least on level 4, and then retract to 1 the next instance! It doesn't make sense!"
John chuckled. "Sherlock would simply tell you that your rules are wrong."
The physician stomped off in a huff.
John's eyebrows shot up, almost meeting his hairline. "Congratulations, Sherlock," he casually informed his friend, "you managed to upset two nurses and insulted a renowned physician without uttering a single word and while being thoroughly unconscious. That's gotta be a record, even for you!"
Sherlock never moved.
After this incident, John assisted in every procedure Sherlock was subjected to, now being sure that Sherlock was aware of his presence. He helped the nurses change the wound dressings, most of the time disinfected the catheters himself, turned Sherlock on his side, rubbed lotion into his skin, went through a whole range of motion exercises with him and even learned how to give a bed bath. He was extra careful when cleaning his face, wary of triggering another flashback, but Sherlock remained impassive.
John was always there and kept talking to him, assuring him of his presence, guiding him through every step of the treatment, making him feel safe. At least, he hoped he did.