Johnny Blue-Eyes

Chapter 7: . . . Some days the bear gets you.

Sherlock woke up in a hospital bed. Not the first time that had happened, but this time he appeared, upon immediate inspection, to be uninjured. He lay very still and attempted to take stock. His mind felt thick and sluggish, like swimming through pea soup. They had obviously given him some sort of drug, and not one of the nice ones either, more the pity. He forced himself to run through a mental checklist.

Torso—ok, no pain. Head—no pain, but some memories were obviously missing, like how he had gotten to hospital. Dull ache in. . . right eye, but he remembered where he had gotten that, and it definitely wasn't enough to land him in hospital. Legs—no pain. Feet—hmm. . . slightly uncomfortable. He lifted his head (even though the movement set everything to spinning) and looked down at his feet, which were covered by a light blue blanket. Wiggled his toes, and rubbed one foot with the other. Bandaged, definitely, but he didn't know why. Arms—fine, no pain. Sort of felt like they were floating, but that must be from the drugs. It was sort of nice. Just float away. . . No, must focus! He attempted to pull his arm up to make a visual inspection, but discovered quickly that he was restrained to the bed by a pair of padded leather cuffs attached to the bar with a rattly chain. Again, nothing that hadn't happened before, but this time he had no recollection of the reason behind it. Nothing was broken or obviously damaged, so why was he in hospital? He attempted to corral his scattered thoughts. Last he remembered he had been at Molly's. Breakfast. Checking security video on the laptop. A bear . . OH.

Suddenly his head was full of images, fleeting pictures that he now realized were memories. A bear. He was staring at a bear, with a red and black beefeater uniform and tall black hat. A bear sitting on top of a telly, watching him with a big unblinking eye. A violin. Big hands over his small ones. Hands under his shirt. A man's hands, cool and clammy, touching him, hurting him. When he tried to see the face, his stomach twisted and his mouth filled with the sour taste of acid.

Trembling, he squeezed his eyes shut, as if he could block out the pictures that way, but it only made them stronger, the colors turning bright and garish. Sherlock's breathing sped up as the images flashed across the inside of his eyelids. Yellow and green flowers. A loose yellow thread. His hands, knuckles white, clutching at the fabric. A man's voice in his ear, whispering words that he couldn't recall. Spots of red in his pants.

Sherlock shook his head hard and the room spun around him. He realized sluggishly that these images had been haunting the edges of his nightmares for the past week, ever since Donovan had slapped that photo down in front of him. He had dismissed them, forgotten them by the time he had awakened, but he now realized that they were memories, not just nightmares, and they had been there all along, in a dusty backroom of his mind palace; not gone, just locked away. Well, now they were out, and there was no locking them away again. The best he could do was damage control.

Sherlock forced himself to take a deep breath and let it out slowly whilst counting back from five, then repeated the process. Calm. Control. By the third deep breath, he felt the shaking decrease. By the fifth deep breath, his hands were steady and he felt strong enough to open his eyes. Thinking about things logically, there was no reason for anything to change. Whatever had happened in that room with the yellow and green sofa, it was a long time ago. It was over and done. True, he hadn't remembered it until now, but the events had happened and they hadn't affected him then, so why should they affect him now? Simple answer: they shouldn't affect him. He wasn't a child any longer; he didn't have to give in to an emotional response. He could analyze the situation as an adult, categorize it, and file it away properly. Yes, good. He would do that later. It would be easier to think when he wasn't lying in a hospital bed. Time to go.

He tried to sit up, but was brought up short by the restraints. Oh, right, he was chained to the bed like an animal. He looked around the room for something to help, but it was almost completely empty. No telly. No remote, not even a call button. The only piece of equipment was an IV pole with a display monitoring his heartrate and respiration. One wall held a whiteboard with these words written on it:

Holmes, William S
DOB 12/7/1976
NKA
Dr: Vashti
Nurse: Teresa

A striped curtain blocked his view of the doorway, but he could hear sounds outside: soft voices talking, machines beeping, and then the squeak of crepe-soled shoes. So he took a chance.

"Teresa!" He called hoarsely. No response. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Teresa!"

The crepe-soled shoes squeaked to a stop on the lino, then turned and started coming back toward his room. Excellent. Now to attempt to appear perfectly sane and lucid. That would be difficult when it felt like the room was in the midst of a hurricane, but he could manage.

A middle-aged woman stuck her head around the curtain. Stout around the middle, faded ginger hair pulled up into a bun, glasses with vivid green frames. "Ah, you're awake," she said with a bright smile that matched the bright colors of her scrubs.

"Yes, apparently," Sherlock responded in an agreeable tone. No need to comment on the fact that she was pointing out the bleeding obvious.

"How are you feeling now? Better?"

"Fine. Much better." Probably a bit not good to say that he had no idea if he were "better," because he didn't remember the events that had led to him ending up strapped to a hospital bed.

Still smiling, the nurse stepped up next to the bed and folded the blanket down to expose one arm. One of her hands was deeply bruised. Her hands had freckles, short plump fingers. . . oh.

Sherlock suddenly had a flash of memory. Clutching that freckled hand hard enough to leave red marks. Couldn't catch his breath. While he stared at the hand, more images flooded in. He was running. Wet. Cold. Bloody footprints on the pavement. Someone was chasing him; he couldn't see the face, just the hands, cold and very white, reaching out for him, trying to catch him. The man wanted to bite him, to swallow him whole. Then that warm freckled hand holding his like a lifeline, with him pressing his face against the brightly colored fabric of her shirt.

"Mr. Holmes? William?"

Sherlock blinked, swallowed hard, and pushed the images away. He forced his breathing to slow again. In. . . out. . . in. . . out, slowly and evenly.

"If you're wondering, yes, you bruised up my hand a bit."

"Oh. Sorry."

"No need to apologize. I don't think you exactly knew what you were doing. You called me 'Mummy' and told me vampires were chasing you."

"Er. . . Right, well, I'm feeling much better now. Back to normal. So I'm ready to go. To be released, rather. All fine here." With a hopeful expression on his face, he held up one hand as far as he was able, chain jangling against the metal bedrail.

"Sorry, dear, have to wait for the doctor. I can page her in a moment and let her know you're awake."

"I need the loo."

"I can bring you a bedpan."

"I can wait."

"If you wish." The nurse gave him a half smile and wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his upper arm.

"That's a lovely top you're wearing."

"Thank you, dear," she said without looking up from the dial.

"I don't know why I would call you Mummy. You're much too young to be my mother."

Her half-smile was back, but she just said "shh. . ." and carried on taking his blood pressure, ignoring Sherlock's resultant scowl.

"Please, just help me out here. I promise I won't cause any more trouble."

"Sorry, love. Doctor should be along shortly." She took a digital thermometer from her pocket and slid it across his forehead and down behind his left ear.

She had just finished taking his vitals and was writing something on his chart when he heard an unmistakable sound in the hallway: leather-soled shoes with a little scuffing sound at the end of the stride from a toe turned outward, followed by the sharp tap of the metal end of a brolly. Mycroft. Sherlock's lip curled up into a snarl. A second later, the man himself came around the curtain, but before Sherlock could even tell him to go do unspeakable, not to mention impossible, things to himself, Mycroft's eyebrows went up, then he turned on his heel and strode out again.

The nurse turned an amused grin on him. "Friend of yours?"

"Not exactly," Sherlock growled.

The nurse finished writing on his chart and turned to go, almost running smack into a flustered-looking woman in a lab coat, who scurried in followed at a leisurely pace by Mycroft.

"We're waiting on a psych consult, Mr Holmes. We cannot release him until we've determined if he's still a danger to himself or others."

"I am capable of making that determination, Dr Vashti. You may release him into my care."

Like hell they would! Sherlock opened his mouth to disagree, but the doctor's next statement stopped him.

"We are looking into an emergency admission to West London Hospital. . ." Oh, no, not that. Anything was better than that, even being released due to Mycroft's influence. Once he was out he could easily give him the slip. Even now he could feel the fuzziness from the drugs decreasing. His mind was working again. Not perfectly, but at least the spinning had slowed down.

"That will not be necessary," Mycroft replied smoothly, just as the doctor's phone beeped. "If you check your phone, I believe you will find that the orders to release my brother have been issued by your superior."

The doctor gaped at him. "What?"

"Check your phone, doctor."

She frowned and pulled the phone from her pocket, raised her eyebrows at it, then put it away and muttered, "Very well." Her face had turned scarlet and her lips were pressed together in a straight line while she unbuckled the cuffs from Sherlock's wrists.

"Remove the IV," she ordered the nurse, who raised her eyebrows but complied without argument. Sherlock forced himself to look at her freckled hands calmly while she removed the IV and bandaged his arm. Suddenly it was taking every ounce of his tattered control to keep the images at bay. The same pictures kept leaping up to the front of his consciousness over and over, but he took care to show no external sign, nothing that would cause Mycroft to change his mind.

When she was done, Mycroft said, in a tone that brooked no argument, "Thank you doctor, nurse. You may go."

The doctor's mouth opened as if she were about to speak, but then snapped shut again. Then she hurried out, grabbing the nurse, who was watching with an amused expression, by the sleeve and dragging her along. As soon as they were out the door, Sherlock sat up and pulled the blanket the rest of the way off. He was dressed only in the thin hospital gown, barefoot except for the bandages. Not exactly his usual attire. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat for a moment, swallowing hard to hold down the nausea brought about by that small movement.

"A simple 'Thank you' wouldn't be amiss, little brother."

Sherlock looked up to find Mycroft flipping through his chart. He yanked it out of his meddlesome hands and tossed it down on the bed. "Have you brought me any clothes?"

"Hmm. . . no."

"Well, I can't go in this. I look like a mental patient."

"You have gone out in less," Mycroft reminded him with a note of amusement in his voice. Sherlock ignored him and started looking around the room. He quickly spotted a plastic bag in the corner that said "Patient belongings" in block letters on the side. Ah, well, pyjamas were better than nothing.

"Fine." Sherlock pulled up his gown and ripped the ECG leads from his chest, wincing when a few stray hairs went with them.

Now to get out of bed. Shouldn't be too difficult, right? He carefully pushed himself to his feet and wobbled for a second before gaining his balance. That would work. One bandaged foot in front of the other. Why was the floor sloping away at an angle? Gritting his teeth, he forced his feet to walk in an approximate straight line to the bag, where he did indeed find the hideous striped pyjamas he had liberated from Molly's bureau. They were damp and the cuffs were crusted with dried mud. As soon as he saw them, more images bubbled up to the surface. Running through the mud. White hands reaching out to grab him. Wet and cold. Bloody footprints. . . NO! Stop it! He refused to lose control. This was his mind; he was not having it hijacked by something that happened over thirty years ago.

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek and held up the pyjama bottoms. When he lifted up one foot, he had to grab for the wall to keep from falling down. Mycroft made a concerned noise, which he ignored and soldiered on. When he was dressed (well, sort of) and had pilfered a pair of ugly lime-green slippers from a drawer under the IV pole, he pulled back the curtain and strode out the door, ignoring Mycroft who had to hustle to keep up.

"Slow down, please. You're attracting attention."

"No, you're attracting attention by chasing me. Getting winded yet?"

"No. Would you mind telling me what's going on?"

"Go away. I can take a cab home."

"You're not going home."

"Oh, yes I am."

"Sherlock, you are lucky I found you when I did. Psych was on their way down."

"I could handle it." Sherlock had reached the elevator, which, according to the indicator light, was currently on the twelfth floor, while they were on the fifth. He decided it was too slow and headed for the stairs. Mycroft followed. Damn him.

"You could handle it? How would you handle West London Hospital?"

"That wasn't going to happen." He entered the stairwell with Mycroft hot on his heels. Mycroft followed him to the landing between floors, then caught his arm as he rounded the corner. Just out of sight of the security camera, Sherlock realized. Of course Mycroft would know exactly where the camera was.

"Let go of me."

"No. You are very fortunate you were found by American exchange students who have never heard of Sherlock Holmes, and doubly fortunate that they brought you here to Royal College Hospital instead of St. Bart's where everyone knows you on sight. Can you imagine if this hit the papers?"

"I didn't need you to come swooping in and rescue me. I was fine."

"Sherlock, you were babbling nonsense," Mycroft said in a conversational tone. He was trying to catch Sherlock's eye, but Sherlock kept his gaze trained on the far wall.

"No I wasn't," he said uncomfortably.

"They told me you were talking about a bear? And vampires."

Sherlock didn't answer that, just stared at the wall with a scowl fixed on his face. Finally Mycroft sighed. "Fine. You are coming home with me. I've cleared my calendar for the rest of the day."

Sherlock's lip twitched. Mycroft had cleared his calendar? He supposed that was meant to make him feel important, that Mycroft cared enough to make him a priority. All it really did was make him feel trapped.

"All right?"

"What choice do I have?," he snarled. He yanked his arm from Mycroft's grasp, straightened his pyjama top, and set off down the stairs again, just fast enough that Mycroft had to hurry to keep up. He found a sleek black car waiting out front, with its motor purring softly. Sherlock opened the back door and got in without looking back. He tried to close the door, but Mycroft pulled it open again.

"Slide over."

"No."

Another sigh, then Mycroft circled around the back of the car and got in on the other side, and the car pulled smoothly into traffic. Sherlock stared straight ahead, but he could tell that Mycroft kept looking at him with a concerned expression on his face. Half a block later, Mycroft could no longer contain himself.

"Would you like to tell me what's going on now?"

"Nothing. I was a little. . . confused."

"Confused?" Mycroft said mildly. "Delusional would seem a more apt description. And what happened to your eye?"

"Nothing."

"Trans-orbital hematoma. The doctors were convinced you had been assaulted."

Sherlock snorted. "No, that was Molly's fault."

"Oh?"

"She banged on the door in the middle of the night and startled me. I fell out of bed."

"I see. I thought perhaps she pushed you out of bed."

"That would be difficult for her to do from the other bedroom. Give me my phone and wallet."

"I haven't got them." Mycroft said (lied, Sherlock was almost sure), pulling his own mobile from his jacket pocket. "Call Drs Hooper and Watson. They are quite concerned about your well-being."

"I don't want to."

"Sherlock, do it. Dr. Hooper was in a state. Apparently you gave her quite a scare when you bolted from her flat this morning."

A bear with one big eye is watching him. Clammy white hands at his waist. Vampire teeth grazing his neck. . .STOP! "I don't know why she would be so upset."

Another long-suffering sigh. "Of course you wouldn't. Call her anyway."

With a huff, Sherlock grabbed the phone from Mycroft's hand and sent Molly a text, his fingers jabbing at the screen much harder than necessary. I'm fine. Stop worrying. SH.

"Good. Now John."

"She's with John. She can tell him."

"Fine." Mycroft held out his hand for the phone and Sherlock intentionally tossed it just far enough away so he had to move his hand awkwardly to catch it. This earned him a disapproving look that reminded him so much of their mother that Sherlock had to turn away to hide his smirk.

Mycroft tucked the phone into his inner jacket pocket and settled back into his seat. "You can stay with me tonight."

"Like hell I will."

"I told you I've cleared my calendar for you."

"You said the rest of the day. That does not include the night."

"It's nearly dinnertime. The 'rest of the day' does indeed include the night."

Sherlock looked out the window in surprise, and discovered that indeed the sun was near the horizon. He had lost almost a whole day? He noticed Mycroft watching him and quickly rearranged his face into a scowl.

"Elenor will feed us dinner. I've already notified her to expect us. She's familiar with your. . .eating habits."

Oh, Lord no. The last time Mycroft's housekeeper/cook/general dogsbody had fixed him dinner, she had tried to get him to eat steak and kidney pie. Disgusting. The thought of food turned his stomach just now anyway. Sherlock leaned forward and opened the window to talk to the driver. "Take me to Baker Street."

"Sir?" the driver said without taking his eyes off the road.

"No, my house please, Tim," Mycroft responded over Sherlock's protests.

"Yes, sir."

Mycroft's arm reached in front of Sherlock and closed the window. Sherlock sat back with a scowl. "Stop babying me. I can take care of myself!"

"Yes, obviously."