Sherlock wakes the next morning to the sting of a needle being inserted in his hand. 'Hey I'm not the one who's ill.' He argues but he's too weak to really fight the determined looking nurse who attaches an IV bag to the needle she has just inserted and taped down.
Mycroft stands appearing at his brother's side, looking over the shoulder of the nurse as she works. 'Sherlock, you haven't eaten anything since you were brought here, you need nutrition, and liquids if you're going to fight this thing off. You'll be of absolutely no use to John if you end up developing pneumonia as well.' He argues and Sherlock grudgingly allows the clear liquid to start dripping into his hand.
He has to admit that he feels better as the liquid starts to seep into his body. Perhaps he had been overestimating his lack of need for food and water as of late. He had grown so used to having John there to guide him in his nutritional needs, now that John wasn't eating properly it is having a detrimental impact on his flatmate as well.
The nurse leaves with a promise of bringing Mycroft some tea and toast in a second. 'You're still here, won't the country grind to a halt or something?' Sherlock asks his brother before he starts coughing his arms wrapping tightly around himself rather taking the sting out of his words.
'It's the third time I've had to have you two committed to this place. You can't be surprised that I'm worried.' Mycroft prompts placing a hand on his brother's arm.
'I'm not the one who's committed, John's the one who's sick.' Sherlock argues weakly and Mycroft doesn't bother to tell him that at the moment he really is giving John a run for his money as far as being sick is concerned. Sherlock may not be as badly off as his friend but that really has more to do with the fact that John had had a knife pushed into his back recently. They were both running a rather impressive temperature which the staff was fighting tooth and nail to keep down. Though John was distinctly more ill than Sherlock he was also proving a better patient and the nurses were having no trouble administering the needed medication which helped to slow down the course of his illness.
A nurse Mycroft hasn't met before turns up with a cup of coffee instead of the expected tea but he thanks her and sips at the warm liquid. Sherlock has gone back to sleep and is looking rather peaceful curled in on himself. Mycroft hasn't spent this much time watching his younger brother since they were children. Slowly his eyes drift shut and he succumbs to the sedative placed in his drink. When the real nurse turns up with the tea and toast she finds all three men seemingly sleeping peacefully. She leaves her offering on the table next to Mycroft and leaves but she looks confusedly at the mug already sitting on the table, it is not one of the standard ones from the kitchen and she wonders confusedly how it got there.
Sherlock wakes up to the strangled gasps of the nurse and the beeping of John's bedside alarm calling out the distress of his friend. He is instantly awake sitting up in his own bed to see that someone has strapped John down on his bed. John is struggling against the ventilator clearly in distress and the nurse is grappling to undo the bindings holding him down. Tears are rolling down John's cheeks and Sherlock can tell that he must be either in a lot of pain or really frightened. John never normally cried.
John struggles to speak over the ventilator but the way that he cradles his left hand to his chest as it is released is indicative enough to Sherlock. He stumbles out of bed dragging the IV stand with him as he stumbles up to John's side. 'What happened? What did he do?' he asks as he gently takes John's hand in his. It is clearly broken, two of his fingers are awkwardly twisted out at an unnatural angle and it is already distinctly discoloured. It must have been some time since the damage had been done. Sherlock wonders how long John has been lying strapped to his bed with his hand broken and held tied to the bed, it must have been terrifying.
Sherlock notes sadly that it is John's left hand, his dominant one, whoever is doing all this has clearly done his research. There is no other reason to explain why he would otherwise hurt the hand that for most people was less important. 'Get a doctor now, and he'll need an x-ray, just look at this hand, damn how can you be so incompetent.' Sherlock snaps but then breaks into a coughing fit having to release John's hand to stop from hurting him. John is clearly in enough pain he doesn't need Sherlock to add to it by moving his broken hand around.
The sturdy nurse looks down at John's hand in horror wondering what on earth had happened to him. What with him being strapped down it is obvious that the damage had been done intentionally and it takes no more than a swift glance to confirm that his pain medication has also been stopped meaning that he has to deal not only with the pain in his hand but also that of the slowly healing stab wound to his back. Who could be that cruel she wonders as she pushes the button to re-administer the morphine that the man in front of her clearly needs. Then she bustles out of the room to search for a doctor to confirm the diagnosis of the patient's clearly broken hand.
Sherlock recovers from his coughing fit and straightens up to look down once again at John who once again has his hand cradled tightly to his chest his eyes squeezed shut as he waits for the pain relief to take effect. A second later his face relaxes and his hand slides to his side as the morphine wraps him in a comforting blanket of nothingness. He is desperately worried at the state of his hand but right now he is too tired to focus on that, he is too relieved that the pain is finally fading to care about anything other than getting just a little bit of rest.
Sherlock whirls angrily toward his brother who has not yet moved out of the chair. 'Mycroft, for Christ's sake wake up, I trusted you.' He shouts and then has to stop as he starts to cough again. This illness really is rather unpleasant. Sherlock can't remember the last time he felt this lousy, but then again that might be related to the malnutrition the clinic staff has told him he is suffering from or the constant ache in his chest as he sees John hurt over and over again.
He crouches down next to Mycroft noting his slow even breathing and he knows instantly that he has been drugged, is there anyone whom this man cannot get to. If even Mycroft is susceptible to his attack then there really is no one whom they can turn to for help. Sherlock finds himself feeling surprisingly helpless as he turns from his drugged brother to his best friend whom he feels hopelessly unable to protect. What if they can't fix John's hand, what if they can't fix John, he looks so very fragile lying in that bed with a tube down his throat and that disgustingly damaged hand lying on the plush blanket at his side.
Who could possibly be this cruel Sherlock wonders but his mind is slower than usual, drained by the illness and days without proper rest or nutrition and he can't seem to form coherent deductions. Instead he just stands at John's side rubbing his friend's shoulder. With the ventilator in his mouth, an IV in his right hand and his left a broken mess Sherlock is at a loss for how to comfort his friend, or maybe what he really wants to do is comfort himself. He can't hold John like he did before, he can't even hold his hand and it makes him feel even worse not to have the physical contact that he knows would ground him somewhat.