The progress is so slow that it almost seems non-existant. The doctors keep reassuring Sherlock that John is doing better, that he is improving but he just can't see it. Initially all the treatments take place in John's room and Sherlock is forced out twice daily, once for psychotherapy and once for physical therapy and he hates it. It doesn't in fact get any better when after a few days a nurse starts to turn up with a wheelchair to take John away for said appointments. It doesn't get better because Sherlock can see absolutely no sign of John getting in any way better.
He has stopped losing weight which is good but in return he isn't gaining any of it back either. Aside from not eating Sherlock has finally figured out that John isn't sleeping either. On two occasions he has become so exhausted that he has grudgingly agreed to take the sleeping aid that the doctors urge on him but the nightmares that plagued him on those two occasions seemed to have made insomnia preferable. He does sleep for short periods of time but invariably wakes up exhausted regardless after spending hours thrashing and crying in his sleep. Now that he sees John sleep Sherlock is amazed that he had ever been fooled by the still and silent faked sleep of before
Sherlock feels utterly helpless. He can deduce John, he has no problem figuring out exactly which horror his friend is reliving on each occasion he is awoken by nightmares. He can almost always tell when John is in pain or when he has had a particularly good or bad session with one of his therapists. This however, does little to help him find techniques for how to deal with the way that John has withdrawn into himself and is refusing to engage with his flatmate's attempts at socialising.
'Just talk to me John.' Sherlock snaps and John turns to look at him.
'I'm not unconscious, I'm just choosing not to socialise.' John grumbles turning his head away.
'Please John, don't you understand, that is even worse… I'd rather have you unconscious, than consciously avoiding me.' Sherlock complained and for a second something in John connected with the pained sound of his friend's voice before he slipped back into despair and self hatred.
It gets to the point where while John is sleeping more Sherlock is hardly sleeping at all. The doctors try to assure Sherlock that John crying is a good thing. Catharctic they call it but concidering the shame etched on John's face those times that he has actually manage to wake himself crying and found his face wet and his hands trembling had not seemed like any kind of progress.
And it gets worse. One day John comes back from therapy actually sedated. 'What the hell happened.' Sherlock shouts at the two orderlies who help lift John into bed.
'We think he had a flashback. He wasn't making a lot of sense.' One of them answers giving John's fingers a gentle squeeze. 'He'll feel better in the morning.' She promises but Sherlock seriously doubts that. At least that night John sleeps and even Sherlock manages a few hours. When he wakes however it is to the sharp smell of ammonia and muffled sobs from John's bed. When Sherlock looks over he is surprised to see that John isn't asleep. He is sat up in bed arms wrapped around his knees, they are both out of casts now even if they are still stiff and unmanageable. John's face is hidden from view but Sherlock can tell from the sound and the way he is shaking that he is struggling to muffle desperate sobs from his flatmate.
It isn't working and Sherlock slowly gets up and moves over to John. When he places a hand on John's shoulder John flinches away. 'It's Ok John.' He tries but the sobbing doesn't diminish.
'I can't do this anymore Sherlock. I'm disgusting, filthy.' John mumbles between sobs.
'No you're not. Well actually right now you sort of are, but we'll get you cleaned up. I'm not bothered by bodily fluids and neither are the nurses.' Sherlock reassures him and to prove his point he sit's down on the bed next to John and start to rub his back. The back of John's shirt is cold and wet but Sherlock is fairly sure that it is just from sweating. The dampness which spreads through Sherlock's pyjama bottoms however is not just sweat and John's head shoots up in horror.
'What are you doing? You'll ruin your pants.' John argues making Sherlock smile. John's eyes are blood shot and there are tear tracks down his face but he sobbing has abruptly stopped at the outrage of what Sherlock has done.
'It doesn't matter they'll clean. Come here.' He tries to draw John in for a hug but John resists.
'Mycroft does your laundry, what the hell do you think he will make of that?' John moaned his face growing increasingly red to match his bloodshot eyes.
'Mycroft wet his bed til he was ten. Besides can you see Mycroft doing laundry? He picks up a bag and has it outsorced. Most of the time he doesn't even pick up the bag the lazy sod.' Sherlock tries for light humour but it doesn't work on John.
'Mycroft knows everything. I swear he has eyes in the back of his head.' John says despondently and Sherlock doesn't answer with the obvious retort that yes, Mycroft is rather all seeing and therefore will likely find out about this little incident over his morning coffee along with the political situation in the middle east and the latest on the Dow Jones index. I can tell you some later funny stories about Mycroft's lack of control of his bodily functions if you like. The first time he got drunk he threw up all over his first bespoke suit. Mum put it in the washing machine and it was never the same again.'
John shook his head adamantly. 'I don't want to hear about your brother's bodily functions Sherlock.' He said forcefully and then hesitated. 'How old was he?' John could vaguely imagine a 20 year old Mycroft, straight out of uni getting his first bespoke suit and then celebrating by getting absolutely plastered. Most people had managed to get drunk way before they could afford a bespoke suit though.
'Twelve.' Sherlock responded and John's eyebrows shot up. 'Wow he started early.' John mused thoughtfully 'with the suits and the drinking. He should be the alcoholic not Harry.' Sherlock smiled happily. It was the first time since his admittance that John had shown any real interest in anything other than wanting to die and not wanting to eat. He promised himself that he would search the mind palace for more embarrassing anecdotes about Mycroft at the soonest available opportunity.
Right now however his first priority was getting John changed and cleaned because quite aside from smelling like a urinal he had started to shiver slightly in the thin wet clothing. 'I'm going to call for some help okay, we need new sheets.
'We need a new bed.' John said with a shudder. The one he was currently in disgusted him. It should probably be burnt. 'And I need a bath'
'I'll see what can be arranged' Sherlock said and disappeared out of the room. Something had definitely shifted. John asking for a clean bed, wanting a bath, John talking to him at all. Maybe the doctors weren't complete idiots after all. Maybe there was hope in sight.