Now Beta'd by Swimmergirl0726.
The pain would not go away, and by the time they informed him that it was time to go to surgery John was thoroughly relieved that he would be put out of his misery for at least a few hours.
The anaesthesiologist arrived with a kind smile as John was being prepared for surgery. He fussed over John and promised he would be alright in the traditional way of medical staff that John recognized from his own experience as a doctor. John nodded that he knew what to expect and agreed to count down from ten as the drug was pushed into his IV.
It didn't take him long to realize that something was wrong. He went strangely numb, but the pain did not abate… He was terrifyingly aware that the pain really should have gone away as his eyes fell shut… Then the voices around him became clear and terror truly seared through him. 'He's out… let's get him prepped,' the anaesthesiologist said and John knew for a fact that he was fucked…. He was nowhere near 'out', in fact he was very much aware of his situation.
He tried to speak up but his mouth did not move and his vocal cords did not react. He tried to open his eyes, but they refused to obey… he was beginning to feel true panic racing through his veins as he smelt the clean antiseptic of the surgery room.
John knew what was coming, and it was truly terrifying. When the brace was finally removed and the scalpel connected with his knee he was surprised that it did not hurt more. However, the relief was brief.
While the original cut of the scalpel was not particularly painful, the following invasion of his broken knee is mind-numbingly painful. As bones are realigned and pins put in to stabilize the broken pieces he tries to scream at the pain. His mouth refuses to work and no matter how much he tries to react, to release the tears burning at the back of his eyes, they refuse to open to let them fall. It hurts… terribly… so much so that he can barely breathe… he can't remember ever being this scared in his life… it was not this painful being shot… not being strapped to a bomb for hours… nothing can compare to this utter terror of knowing that there is absolutely nothing he can do to stop the insane pain of scalpels cutting into his already hurting knee and hands realigning bones that hurt like nothing he can even put into words.
The world spins more and more and eventually his body gives him the relief the drugs has refused him and he blacks out. Pain overpowers him and slowly, gradually, the world goes wonderfully black.
When John comes back to consciousness it is to the slow and merciful realisation that he can move again. His eyes blink, his fingers twitch and he can hear himself moan. For a second he doesn't know where he is or what is going on, and then the memory of the past few hours comes back and his heart picks up. He can feel panic rising at his throat at an alarming rate…
He starts panting as consciousness comes back. He realises he can blink and breath and that is enough to bring faint awareness back to his veins… panic is still, uncomfortably, the automatic reaction to the pain he is still in and adrenaline is pumping through his veins as he tries to regain an understanding of his surroundings.
'John, it's ok… breathe… you're ok,' Sherlock admonishes and it honestly does very little to calm John down, but he clutches at Sherlock's coat, hands grappling at the lapels. The feel of that well known fabric under his hands is a wonderful relief, something familiar, something to ground him.
The ability to move is so wonderful he is ready to thank God in every language he knows just for the sheer ability to move his hands, to open his mouth and he does the only thing that comes naturally: he cries, embarrassingly so. And he curses.
'Fuck… I will kill that fucking anaesthesiologist….' He sobs bringing his hands from Sherlock's jacket up to his face to try and hide the embarrassing tears.
'John, what's wrong? Are you in pain? Should I call the nurse?' Sherlock sounds worried and his gentle hand comes to rest on the blanket above John's chest.
'I was fucking awake… he didn't put me under properly. Christ, Sherlock… I could feel the whole thing. I will kill him.' John sobs into trembling hands and Sherlock freezes as the meaning of those words take effect.
'Oh God, I should have known. This place isn't safe… I'll call Mycroft, we'll have you moved. I'm so sorry, John.' Sherlock's slender fingers are brushing through his hair, his other hand simultaneously punching a number into his phone and this time John doesn't tell him off for using the phone in a medical establishment. He can't bring himself to care about anything other than breathing and not allowing the panic to swallow him whole.
He is vaguely aware of Sherlock yelling into the phone for a brief moment and a nurse turning up to yell at Sherlock, but he doesn't know what Sherlock said to get rid of her. He is so full of adrenalin and his knee hurts too much for him to be able to think properly. He is, however, very aware of Sherlock's hands lifting him gently, the slender arms wrapping around him and Sherlock's unexpected whispered apologies.
Tears still slowly sliding down his face, he nuzzles into the warmth that is his best friend. He still hurts, but at least for a fleeting moment he knows that he is safe. Exhausted with the trauma of the past few hours on top of a sleepless night he dozes in Sherlock's arms, safe in the knowledge that he is finally, wonderfully safe. At least for the time being.