This chapter was not beta-ed. I am not a native speaker and I hope you'll be able to ignore my mistakes.
My wonderful beta is currently not available but I am very grateful for the work she already put into this.
Many thanks to Ernil i Pheriannath / Sparkypip! She just posted a wonderful new chapter of her story 'Recoveries'. For anyone who likes H/C – I recommend it hereby.
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Chapter 13
Day 5 in 2016, late afternoon
"How's he doing?" John greeted Greg when he came down in the late afternoon. Molly had picked up Rosie around noon and would stay with her overnight at the Watson's flat. Before that Mrs Hudson had done the babysitting.
"How are you doing?" Greg returned the question in a low voice, closely watching John's body language.
The doctor looked awful. Deep circles under his eyes, the stubble was clearly visible and his face was still swollen around the eyes, all clear signs of the hard night he had.
"Hung over. Hell of a headache," John admitted, not even hesitating. He seemed to want to add something but then just shook his head. Greg knew what was coming. His friend felt sorry for what had happened the night before and would sooner or later try to apologise for it.
"That's why we let you sleep mate. Did you sleep?"
"Bit... Listened to what you read to Sherlock for a bit, too."
Greg had been aware the door was open upstairs. Around noon, he had checked on John, who was fast asleep but he found the door wide open.
"It's quite interesting... that old case he's working on. If it is a case, that is."
"He hasn't told me about it in detail, yet," John muttered, seemingly, he felt shut out. "How is he doing? I should check on him."
"Molly examined him earlier but it is about time for the next check, I guess. They talked for a while, after that he seemed a bit more settled."
Greg watched John fight with himself, not sure how to approach Sherlock, apparently.
"He's... he feels quite guilty, too, you know," the DI tried to encourage him.
They together walked from the living room into the kitchen.
The doctor was well aware that Sherlock was walking on the edge, that his transport's malfunctions consumed most of his patience. Even 'normal' patients were grumpy and rude when in pain and feeling poor, John was used to it. For Sherlock this probably felt as if the difficulty level of coping with human company had skyrocketed.
John fetched a glass and filled it with water.
"He's awake then?" the doctor asked in a low tone while he sipped the cool liquid.
Greg nodded.
"He's getting worse. He-"
"Cravings?" John interrupted him.
"He's handling those better than expected. Depression was a bit hard on him last night. He had a dizzy spell, found him in the bathroom..." Greg explained what had happened, aware that keeping things from John wouldn't work.
"What is really disconcerting is that he had... he was seeing things."
"Seeing things? As in hallucination?" John looked at him with a painful frown, out of narrowed eyes, but his gaze was piercing.
"Yeah," Greg nodded, "Nothing too wild. And he didn't panic or anything, he was just..." Greg tried to find the right words.
"What happened?" John massaged the bridge of his nose between his fingertips.
"He was disconsolate, I guess, and... maybe we should talk about it later. It wasn't pretty but... he was aware it was a hallucination – which is good. When he left his bedroom, the spell seemed to be over."
"Alright." John took the charts and studied them, read what Greg and Molly had recorded, he was glad they were taking the documentation this serious.
"Sorry, I interrupted you. Is he awake?"
"He just slept for three hours but I think I heard him in the bathroom about fifteen minutes ago." Greg fetched a water bottle and headed down the hall where he carefully knocked on the bedroom door.
John hesitated, he was not up to this, yet – not before a strong coffee and some time to sober up a bit more. He still couldn't think straight and the ghost of what had happened last night hung still in the air and made him feel embarrassed and uncomfortable.
Absentmindedly, he stared at the spot on the kitchen floor where he had sat last night. At least Sherlock hadn't seen him.
"What do you want?" Sherlock's unnerved voice greeted Greg when he entered the room.
"Well, good evening to you, too, Sunshine!" the DI retorted in a low but not sarcastic voice while he scanned the room, trying to find out if something might be irking the other man.
"Brought you some water. Time for a check up, too. John?"
The doctor blew out air, trying to prepare himself to face Sherlock. A moment later he got under way to follow Greg into the room.
"Shh!" Sherlock made, and only then Lestrade and John realised he had his phone in between his ear and the pillow, was practically lying on it.
For a moment, the detective just listened, then he spoke to the person on the other end.
"Yes. Can you make a list of all members of the Family Bernhard Hollister who were born and died between 1830 and 1950, including the cause of death. Even better would be if you could send me a copy of all the documents... Yes, I will send someone over who will show you an ID. Thank you."
The moment the other person must have hung up was clearly visible on Sherlock's face because he dropped the false friendliness and closed his eyes briefly, as if the call had drained all his energy.
"Working?" Greg asked, grinning.
John wasn't happy and he had already taken air to once more remind the detective he needed to take it slow.
"New insights?" Greg then asked and John realised it was good that his friend even managed to think about the case and that he should be glad Sherlock was trying to focus on something.
When Greg held out the thermometer and the bottle of water, though, Sherlock moaned in frustration. The DI then placed them on the duvet, close to Sherlock's feet.
Meanwhile John was reminded of the events of last night by the bad taste in his mouth. He tried to prepare himself to say what he thought he needed to say.
It was no use to prolong it; he wanted to get this over with.
Sherlock needed to know he wasn't angry and that he understood mood swings were part of the process.
"Hey," he greeted his friend, tried to appear relaxed and easygoing. It somehow reminded him of evening rounds in Afghanistan. When trying to lighten the mood of badly wounded young soldiers by broadcasting a bit of confidence was what he had to do.
Back then, it had never felt this difficult, though. Probably because he rarely knew any of his patients personally.
The detective was slowly trying to move up a bit in his bed, leaning sideways, he tried to rearrange the pile of pillows behind his back.
Simultaneously, a wave of scrutiny hit John full force.
John should have been prepared for that.
Sherlock's eyes started to dart over John, though not with the usual speed. Nevertheless, it seemed as if every tense muscle, every tiny detail out of place was catalogued, every tiny movement analysed. John was well aware that he probably looked like a homeless drunk.
Without taking his eyes of John, Sherlock tried to sit up a bit more. But the fractured ribs were still giving him a hard time, and would continue to do so for a few more weeks.
Greg picked up the thermometer and handed it to the detective, who took it and then inserted the tip into his ear, pressed the button and removed it again- his gaze still not leaving John, although he didn't even once met his eyes.
Touch issues were getting worse, John realised, while he too tried to evade the gaze that seemed to strip him of every last bit of privacy he once had.
Despite that, he noticed the little tremors that were shaking Sherlock's thin form and that he looked even worse than last night.
"Want some tea?" Greg interrupted the uneasy silence.
A grunt was the only answer.
But it seemed Greg had interpreted the noise as an affirmation and left, leaving John feeling exposed.
For a moment, Sherlock's eyes narrowed and John lowered his head, it was no use trying to hide anything from his friend, and maybe it was easier than to have to say it to just let him collect the information himself.
Finally, John just wanted to suggest to forget it and go on but as he took a deep breath, Sherlock interrupted him.
"I am sorry," he said.
When John looked up this time, Sherlock was once more evading his eyes and looking sideways, not focussing on anything.
"It is normal to be irritable during this phase, no need to-" John muttered.
"Yes, there is a need."
"Okay. Apology accepted," John hurried to say, "Can we now pretend this didn't happen and continue to focus on getting through this?"
"I assume you assume that is the least stressful path of action and therefore the desired one?"
John huffed out a laugh, "Yes."
Sherlock didn't react to that. For a moment, he stared at the display of the thermometer in his lap, then handed it over for John to read.
"Can I examine you and help you change?" John asked, pointing at Sherlock's sweaty long sleeved shirt.
After an excessively long pause, the other man nodded and carefully started to pull his shirt over his head.
The doctor took his time to palpate his heart, his lungs, check his BP and everything else.
Sherlock just endured it passively, allowing the touch. John sensed how unstrung he was, mentally and physically.
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Fifteen minutes later Sherlock sat dressed in a fresh shirt. Getting changed had left him looking grey and breathing heavily. To reduce the stress John decided to let him do as much as he could himself of the tasks that were necessary for examining him. First, he asked him to pull the skin on the back of his hand up to assess the level of hydration.
They both watched him do it.
It took the skin way too long to flatten again.
Aware what that meant, Sherlock grimaced.
To John's horror, he was much more dehydrated than the doctor had thought.
"Greg said you were dizzy last night... Did your blood pressure drop when you stood up after lying down?"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed as if it was hard to remember.
"I don't know... maybe?" he said in the odd tone of slightly confused cockiness John had heard at the hospital when the detective had mused about the importance of the number 'three'.
"Mate, you need to drink – a lot!" John urged and pointed at the bottle of water Greg had left on the nightstand. He wondered if Sherlock was feeling more out of it than he let them know.
Blinking a few times, Sherlock nodded and picked up the bottle.
With worry ceasing his features into a frown, John watched him struggle to open the screw cap.
A moment later Greg returned with a large mug of tea in one hand and carrying a manila folder under the arm.
"Want to do some of the reading?" he offered the folder to John.
"No, he wants a shower and has an obnoxious headache," Sherlock narrowed his eyes, not in a calculating but in a struggling-to-see way. "So do I."
"Nope, no showers for you yet," John said in a warning voice.
"My own smell has turned into a source of discomfort," the detective argued.
"He sweated a lot last night," Greg informed.
"Maybe tonight. if you are more hydrated and have eaten. No getting the stitches wet. We bought some of those waterproof plasters. No promises, though. Let's see what your BP says later, then decide."
"Go. Shower," Sherlock urged him, trying to make it sound casual but failing miserably.
After a brief moment of hesitation and a nod from the DI, John finally left.
"So, I am the taleteller again?" Greg smiled at Sherlock and handed over the tea, which the detective accepted with great care not to spill anything. Wisely, Lestrade had only filled the mug two thirds.
"I need you to pick up the documents for me... Show your badge so they know it is a legitimate request."
"Alright. Where?"
When Sherlock's gaze just shifted into the distance and no answer came, Lestrade stepped closer again.
"Mate?"
The shaking of Sherlock's hands seemed to worsen and Greg carefully pulled the hot mug out of his grip.
That made Sherlock snap back to reality.
It was obvious something was causing a bit of distress.
Sherlock gulped repeatedly and his lips were pressed together tightly. Greg could see his jaw muscles work.
"Sherlock? What is it?" Greg tried again in a low voice.
"It's... The chemical changes in my brain are currently not easy to handle. Peaking, actually," Sherlock admitted. Though his voice was hoarse, it was carefully voided of all emotions.
"Hey, look at me..." Greg waited for him to do so, and his pause elongated. Sherlock looked at his hands, but no into his eyes. For Greg that was good enough, he knew Sherlock was trying to listen. "The cravings will pass, you know that. They don't last forever. You are able to manage those desires. They built up, they reach a peak, they subside. Just hang on until they do... I can read or we can watch telly or something."
After another long silence, in which Sherlock allowed himself to sink back deeper into the pillows, he finally dragged in a deep breath and cleared his throat.
Greg literally saw him fight his impulse to jump out of the bed and abscond to purchase whatever was available.
"Stay strong, you'll get through this," Greg leaned down a bit to try to meet his friend's eyes, but Sherlock just looked sideways a bit.
"Get my headphones... the ones on the skull," Sherlock pressed out and Greg could spot small beads of sweat on his forehead.
"On my way," Greg said slowly, as if not sure he should leave Sherlock on his own for even a few seconds. The man's stubbornness and discipline were amazing, but right now the DI was not ready to rely on them completely.
Still, it was a big step that Sherlock was informing him about the problem.
However, apparently letting anyone help with it was currently not the thing he was convinced could work.
Greg hurried to do as asked and when he returned, Sherlock had thrown most of the pillows out of the bed and was curled up on his side, facing away from the door.
Lestrade rounded the bedstead to see his face.
Sherlock had his mp3 player clutched in his right. The thing looked a bit ridiculous because a jack plug adapter was sticking out of it that was bigger than the device itself.
Sherlock opened his eyes when Greg cleared his throat.
"That bad?"
Sherlock didn't answer, just held out his shaking hands and Greg handed the high quality headphones over.
"You know, I could get you some in-ear headphones, to make it more comfortable... you know, lying down."
Sherlock manipulated the pillows to make a hollow for the bulky rounded ear cups before he took them out of the DI's hand.
"No... Need the... need the cup things... over the ears," Sherlock had obviously problems articulating things. "Works better with..." he trailed off.
When he hadn't finished the sentence fifteen seconds later, Greg asked.
"Sherlock, is this a danger night – I mean... I mean do you fear you might lose your nerve to get through with this?"
The other man looked sideways and seemed to be lost for words.
When no response came after almost ten seconds, the DI leaned a bit closer, making another try to meet his eyes.
When he spoke again, his voice was much softer and caring than Sherlock had heard in a long time.
"Alright. That's answer enough."
"I'll text you the address," Sherlock made a blatant try to change topics and throw him out at once.
Greg stood there for a moment, hesitating and not sure how to proceed.
"Leave," Sherlock huffed, but without any anger or resentment in his voice. It sounded more like unmanageable desperation than anything else.
Hesitating, Greg caught himself chewing on his lower lip in sympathy, then he left the darkened room – with the plan to return in under three minutes.
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A/N:
I hope to now return to frequent and regular updates, as planned.
I had a few difficult months and a side effect was that I couldn't concentrate on writing. But now I am a bit better and I spent a lot of time in the past three weeks working on this story and I had a lot of inspiration.
Constructive criticism welcome.