Chapter 24

To make up for the long hiatus in December and January, here is a long chapter. Hope you enjoy.

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The following two hours John spent walking up and down the room and trying to rouse his friend. Now and then he just talked to him.

As time went by, the former army doctor became more and more desperate. He obsessed about that Mrs Hudson might be right and that me might lose Sherlock, too. John tried to reason with himself, convincing himself that this was not a suicide attempt.

On the other hand, he had just learned that Sherlock's overdose on the airplane a few months ago was considered an active suicide attempt by Mycroft.

John was not yet ready to believe that. However, he had no real information about the events Sherlock had been quite close-lipped about what had happened exactly.

Although the detective had noted the drugs he took and which quantity, he never revealed what he had taken before Mycroft's call.

Nevertheless, Sherlock would probably have died if not for John's swift care and the meds Mycroft had at their disposal to counteract the overdose. The vivid memories of Sherlock crashing and John's dire panic to lose him where still sharp in his memories.*

The memories renewed the desperation to lose his best friend, overwhelmed John's already aching heart. He was aware he was in a state of instability, knew nothing anymore. His entire existence had turned into agony. There was no aspect left to ground him, nothing reassuring.

All those horrible feelings were so close to the surface these days and the grief work he had thought he would do in therapy was simply not happening – or not working.

Recently, he felt that all that was happening was that things were building up.

Guilt, shame, regret - not only concerning Mary, but also concerning Sherlock. He had ruined it all. His life was in shards.

Desperation was all that was left.

"So, you're finally realizing how selfish and egoistic your actions were. How misguided your anger?" Mary suddenly spat behind him.

John tilted his head back in despair; he so did not need another dress down by his dead wife. He did not turn around.

"You know, I was aware it would get rough when I asked him to start a fight with an enemy, still, I certainly didn't expect you to treat him this way. I am so disappointed in you, John," she continued.

Those words hit John harder than expected. Because, of course, he was so disappointed with himself, he understood where she came from.

"John, look at me... He did not deserve this!"

"No, he didn't," John whispered, his head down, still not looking at her.

"Your negligence almost killed him. That is worse than shooting him to protect you."

"No, it's not!" John spat back – suddenly furious – and turned around "I am fucking grieving!"

"Yeah, guess what, you're not the only one. He has not only lost one person, he lost us both."

John's anger evaporated as fast as it had risen.

"You can't honestly think this was not a suicide attempt. Allowing Culverton to choke him to death was definitely one," she continued, "Why do you think he would not try again? You expected that now that you are on friendly terms again, Sherlock's notions would vanish? Ridiculous."

John realised with quite a bit of shame that he somehow indeed expected that – in a way.

"He went away to kill Moriarty's men to save you. Then he let you go, because you mean more to him than his own life... And now that I am gone you made him believe you are better off without him."

John stood up, unsettled by the words the ghost of his wife was uttering.

"Well, being hit by you was probably traumatic, but expected."

"Now wait a minute..." John finally spoke up.

"No, you wait. How often have you seen him actually cry?" she interrupted.

John remained silent.

"He cried when you beat him... Christ, John! You didn't just break a few ribs. You broke something else. Something deep in his self. It hit him unexpectedly and one could actually see 'it' break. He understood that moment that he had miscalculated, that you would not come to save him. I think he knew that his chances of being successful with his plans were very slim."

John felt tears well up in his eyes, tried to breathe them away.

"He didn't even fight you. He thought he deserved it! YOU made him think he deserved it!" she was now yelling at him.

John closed his eyes, trying to get the image of an actually crying Sherlock out of his mind. He found it immensely unsettling. Sherlock certainly had displayed a lot of discipline, not showing his emotions. Nevertheless, those tears had escaped the detective, shown his desperation and the agony caused by John's transgression.

"If that wasn't self-harm, I don't know what is," Mary huffed with a sarcastic laugh.

She was probably right. Sherlock had expected physical violence, though not the amount John had unleashed.

John was horrified about himself. He had never thought himself capable of kicking a man already on the ground, or one that was not fighting back at all. Remembering this felt so ugly and disgusting, something he had not felt back then.

Besides the fact that he had tried to shove all memories of the event as far away as he could, additionally, his memories were a bit hazy, clouded by his rage.

Mary's explanations brought details all back clearly and the fact that Sherlock couldn't hold tears back unsettled John profoundly in hindsight.

His friend had been a shivering, crying mess on the ground and he had not desisted from hurting him even more. He was an arsehole.

"Yeah," she agreed to his thoughts. "And shortly after that Sherlock allowed himself to be slowly chocked to death, fully conscious and aware what was happening. That is not just self-harm any longer! That's a suicide attempt. For once I have to agree with Mycroft. He is fucking suicidal, John!"

John closed his eyes, shaking his head.

"This was the second trauma, and this one he did to himself. He punished himself for things that had gone wrong, things he had little influence on. He probably didn't even think beyond either saving you or die trying."

"Mary, please..." John choked, sinking back into the chair on the far end of the room he had occupied until a few minutes ago.

"God, he's showing textbook signs of psychological trauma. How can you not see it?!"

John just had no idea what to say to this.

"Eating disturbances, low energy, depression," she listed.

John considered each while she spoke, checking them all off as withdrawal or 'normal' for Sherlock.

"Anxiety, numbness, irritability, anger, avoidance, bad at concentrating and making decisions," she continued.

He nodded.

"Substance-abuse, self-destructive behaviour," she finished.

John took breath but Mary interrupted him before he could start.

"I know that what you are about to say, he is not normal. Anyway, you can't not consider it!"

"Yes, and what about me? You died in my arms, what do you think this did to me?!" John yelled back, suddenly angry.

"The same might be true for you, John. I do see that. The thing is, you are so not ready to talk about it I didn't want to breach the subject."

John closed his eyes again, trying to get a grip on the chaos in his head.

Was this really another round of Sherlock's PTSD?*

"And what about flashbacks and nightmares? You know the thing about the fire... I am not sure what it was but it was certainly one of the two. Those are not random hallucinations. Things are surfacing and he needs help with that."

With that, John had to agree. Sherlock's hallucinations had a touch that profoundly worried him, too.

Was it really possible those were actually memories paired with hallucinations?

"He needs help, John," she repeated, in a gentler tone.

"I know," John whispered. He felt absolutely helpless.

Whatever options he had available felt wrong or he was afraid it might make things worse. Those past days he had hovered in indecisiveness, keeping his distance while simultaneously pushing Sherlock to some aim he didn't even know.

Had he pushed Sherlock too much?

Was Sherlock's unresponsiveness the result of Sherlock trying to escape his aimless efforts and his still lingering anger?

"You are still angry about the drugs... and although you try to hide it – which is good – he senses it nevertheless."

John didn't know what to say about that – again.

"You rejecting him is the reason for all this shit. And your drinking makes it no better. In fact, John, you have no right to criticise his relapse. Your drinking is actually no better. You both just try to numb the pain. "

The last actually made John bury his face in his hands. He felt the debilitating mixture of agony and desperation rise and fought to keep his tears in check.

He had broken down way to often in the past weeks. Sometimes he felt as if he couldn't cry anymore, was just numb. On other occasions, it just broke out of him. At least he had managed to do the latter in private - without exception.

"You know the drugs probably heightened his experiencing, made everything more intense. That mixed with the grief makes one dangerous emotional cocktail. He probably doesn't even remember how 'good' or 'safe' feels any longer. You were his respite; his save place, and you took that away from him."

The sentence was the last blow John didn't need.

Tears started to flow and he turned away from Mary who was now standing next to the bed, he faced the dark window.

Roughly rubbing his hands over his face, he tried to get his composure back. This was not privacy. Someone could come in any moment and he just couldn't stand anything getting any worse. And it would if anyone realised he was as unstable as he was.

"Yep, you're good at hiding it," Mary commented sharply. "Even so, that might be the problem. He doesn't need an emotionless doctor, he needs a loving friend."

"I'm trying," his voice broke.

"Oh yeah? Not enough. Not the right way," she had no sympathy with him.

After a long silence, in which she seemed to wait for him to stand up and show anger or the willingness to fight or whatever, she started to explain when it didn't come.

"You have stopped touching him. Why?"

"What? I... I don't touch him."

"Yes, you did, John. You know how few people he actually allowed to touch him or how few he touched out of free will. Well, you can count them with one hand."

"What are you getting at?"

"After his time away, it got worse. He was hurt. He was traumatised by the hands of others. You know he never got back to his old normal more than I do. It might not be easily visible from the outside, but all those awful memories are in his head, pressing to burst to the surface. You of all people should know PTSD never 'heals', it's all about learning to live with it."

"I know."

"You need to get back to your old behaviours, John. To the easy and trivial little intimacies you shared before. You need to touch him. He is touched starved as it is, even without the most important person in his life backing away from the little caring contacts that used to happen."

"He flinches. He recoils when I...?"

"Seriously, John? Trauma. Remember," she interrupted. "You did this. You probably opened the old wound, ignited the issues that he had a hard time to keep in a smouldering state. Maybe you hitting him brought all those horrific memories of being tortured back to the surface. You are the one who needs to fix it. Touch him."

John shook his head repeatedly, not sure it was the right way to handle this. If she was right touching him might make it a lot worse.

"Show you care by going back to normal and casually contiguity. You did this since you knew each other, return to it. Don't be his doctor, instead take care of his transport's needs in an affectionate way. Bring home the message that you care by actually taking care. Maybe better overdo it than be too careful so that Sherlock gets it. "

The gap you created needs to be closed, not only the mental one, the physical one, too."

"I am not sure this is a good idea."

"You don't know until you try it. Give him some TLC. Use another than speech to underline that you want him in your life and that you care for him. The once thing Sherlock Holmes can not handle is you not being there. He needs to know that you are with him. Make it clear. Every single day. Give him a reason to stay! Make it unmistakably clear that you want him in your life. If you don't we might lose him."

John felt more tears collect in his eyes and he once more rubbed his hands over his face to wipe them away before they had a chance to fall.

The doctor didn't have the strength to turn around and look at his friend or his wife; he just stared blindly into the dark.

It took quite some time until he regained control, almost fifteen minutes passed.

The only sound in the room was the now and then inflating and deflating blood pressure cuff.

When he finally turned around he kind of hoped Mary would have vanished. Predictably enough, she was sitting on the edge of Sherlock's bed, resting her hand over the electrodes glued to his forehead. Now and again she stroked back his hair.

John briefly closed his eyes, the picture brought back new painful emotions.

He missed her so much.

Her care, her feedback, her love.

He bit his lips but failed holding in the new wetness on his face. A few seconds after that, it got even worse, his face actually crumpled when another wave of grieve and loss caught up with him.

He lowered his head, trying to keep himself together.

A moment later, he heard the sheets move a bit.

Sherlock hadn't moved on his own for hours, which meant the nurses had to turn him in regular intervals.

In surprise, John stared at his friend, trying to figure out what had caused the noise.

Then a small involuntary grunt followed, as if Sherlock was doing something straining, struggling.

With a few quick steps John was over at the bed.

"Mnn..." Sherlock made another little distressed noise and this time his hand twitched.

Immediately John's eyes flew to the cardiac monitor display.

Sherlock's blood pressure had risen, as had his heart rate.

The doctor rounded the bed and switched on the LCD display of the electroencephalogram machine that had been turned off to keep the lights in the room low.

The screen lit up and showed the rows of curves. There was suddenly a lot of different activity going on.

John leaned down and eyed every one carefully. He was glad that he couldn't spot anything that seemed related to seizures. Nevertheless, he couldn't make any sense of what he saw either. On the other hand, he was no specialist in reading these.

He turned back towards the bed, rested one hand on Sherlock's shoulder and gently tapped it.

"Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

With his other hand he wiped his face of the last remnants of his earlier desperation.

"Sherlock, come on. Talk to me."

Instead of an answer, Sherlock started to slightly move his head from one side to the other, it was only a few centimetres but it was a lot more movement than expected.

"Sherlock? Wake up!... Are you dreaming?"

John's question was answered with a small whining noise as Sherlock's face started to work.

"Hey, mate. You're all right. You can just wake up and it will be fine. Come on."

Once more, John rubbed his friends shoulder.

Sherlock's only reaction was that he started to become more agitated, his movements remained small and simultanously became more erratic.

The detective's arms and legs started to twitch and when his hand flailed, it tautened the IV tube. John had to catch his limb to prevent injuries.

Before John could reach for the call button the door flew open and a nurse hurried in.

"What's happening?"

"I don't know. He's distressed. Came out of the blue. It's probably not a seizure but I am not sure what it actually is. Get someone who can properly read the EEG. It's getting worse."

The nurse didn't hesitate, turned around and yelled something down the corridor.

A reaction to the noise followed suit. Sherlock tried to move away from it and roll onto his side, away from John. By doing so, he dislodged the pulse ox and the cardiac monitor started to blare.

John hastily reached over and pushed the mute button, but the alarm had obviously made things worse.

"Sherlock? Wake up and look at me, please? Tell me what's going on?" John addressed his friend and gently squeezed his hand he was still holding.

Sherlock's only reaction was to weakly try to get his hand free and turn his head away.

Unfortunately, the sphygmomanometer started to noisily inflate and thereby squeeze Sherlock's upper arm a moment later.

It noticeable stressed the detective and while John gently tried to keep his friend on his back, he was indecisive what would be the lesser evil, to open the noisy Velcro or to just wait until the device was deflating the bladder.

Even before it was finished inflating, Sherlock became downright panicky and tried to fight off the pressure, his hands aimlessly fumbling with the cuff.

"Alright, alright. I'll take it off," John ripped the cuff open and - careful not to scratch Sherlock with the spiky side - removed it from the arm.

If Sherlock's senses were spiking and he was overwhelmed by the sensory input this could make things a lot worse.

Or maybe they were already mid sensory overload and heading towards a meltdown.

John's brain started to list all the things he could do to minimize input and lessen the issues.

Suddenly, Sherlock's lips parted. "This is not real," he whispered. His voice was so hoarse John needed several seconds to register it was actual speech.

"Huh? You are in hospital, open your eyes for me," John rubbed his thumb over the back of his friend's hand.

Sherlock's hands started to open and close as if he tried to feel them and John let go.

A doctor hurried in, followed by the nurse.

"What's happening?" he asked – way too loud for John's taste.

John shushed him, pointed at the EEG monitor.

When the nurse stepped over to the other side of the bed and pulled a penlight out of her pocket John raised his hand over Sherlock's chest, wordlessly prompting her to give it to him.

She did.

"Sherlock, I am going to shine a light into your eyes. I am really sorry, I'll keep it as brief as I can," he spoke in a low voice and gave the other man a few moments to process the words.

He then lifted Sherlock's right eyelid and swiftly moved the light over the iris. To his great relief, the pupil reacted normal and immediately, but a few seconds later, Sherlock freaked out.

He started to make loud pain filled noises, tried to shove away John's hand and curl up on his side repeatedly.

The nurse reached out to gently pin him down, keep him from rolling off the bed.

"Don't touch him any more than absolutely necessary," the other doctor had finished inspecting the EEG curves. "Raise the bedrails. Give him some space, as long as he does no harm. Keep the tubes save," he addressed the nurse in an equally low voice. John was eased by that behaviour. It meant the man was informed about Sherlock's sensory issues and willing to respect them.

"Mr Holmes? If you hear me, please open your eyes or raise your hand."

Sherlock didn't react to them in a meaningful way. The few things that caused a reaction had no pattern, they seemed to be random. The BP cuff, the noise, the light had provoked reactions, but neither their voices nor the stimuli the doctor or the nurse tried in the following minutes brought any result.

Sherlock just continued to weakly struggle, as if he couldn't lie still because he was in severe pain. For a moment, they were just watching him, trying to figure out what to do next, when suddenly, Sherlock's hand went to his chest, pressed down on his own sternum hard, then started rubbing an area right to it with surprising violence.

Gently, John tried to stop it, well aware the scar from the gunshot surgery was hidden under the hospital gown.

Due to John's not very firm grip, Sherlock managed to rip his now shaking hand out of John's grip and he continued to frantically chafe the spot.

"Sherlock, don't. Come on. The wound has healed. You're okay, mate."

When John once more tried to prevent more harm Sherlock cried out in pain – or frustration.

Seconds later he started to frantically shake his head, gasping for air.

"Diazepam?" the nurse offered.

"No!" John immediately refused. "No drugs until we have no other choice."

Her questioning gaze went over to the other doctor, who nodded.

At that point, Sherlock started to fight them in earnest. They had only two options, drug him or hold him in place.

For the moment, they went with the latter and it was only possible to do so because Sherlock was so weak.

The nurse temporarily disconnected the IVs and other tubes as a precaution and they just waited, tried to keep the EEG lines out of the harm's way and monitored him.

By the time Sherlock started to gasp for air John decided it was enough.

"He's not getting out of it, it's getting worse," the other doctor turned towards the EEG, re-inspecting the readouts.

Sherlock was starting to struggle harder, his features contorted by distress.

"He's having a panic attack or something," the nurse uttered what John suspected, too.

There was a brief silence in the room before Sherlock started to kick and before anyone could stop him, his hands went to his head, his fingernails scratched over his scalp with such force that he ripped off the gauze protecting the EEG leads.

Three of the electrodes glued to his forehead were torn off immediately.

"Jesus, Sherlock, stop it!" John cursed.

The night doctor grabbed one of Sherlock's hands, tried to keep it at distance. John did the same with the other but it only enraged Sherlock.

John sighed, "Right. Maybe we should get whatever anxiolytic you have that has the lowest sedating side-effects," he looked at the other doctor, who nodded.

"Get it," he asked the nurse who bustled off.

"We'll only administer half a dose first, then see what happens," he said to John while dodging Sherlock's knee that was coming up.

"Overall, he has quite a high tolerance. His reactions to medication are jumbled up, better be careful," John added.

"I know. It's in his file."

Sherlock started to try to rub his head against the rails and the doctor hurried to pull the crumpled blanked up and place it in between Sherlock's skull and the side of the bed. To his horror, John spotted wetness on Sherlock's face.

"Let's switch places, I need to see his face," John suggested and they did. The moment they briefly let go, Sherlock's hands returned to his head and he completely shoved off the gauze that had only been dislodged earlier. Some of the cables went with it. The detective started to go for the electrodes still in place.

The other doctor caught both his hands again.

The places on his brow, where he had ripped off the other ones, had turned to an angry red colour.

"Shh... you're okay. There you go, Sherlock. Calm down," John soothed when he reached the other side of the bed. Sherlock's face was distorted from some invisible horror he was living through.

With one hand John reached in between his friend's head and the rails, with the other he did what Mary had done earlier, he placed his hand the side of Sherlock's head, tried to soothe him with a caring touch.

"Easy. Just take it easy."

For a while, they waited for him to come out of it.

Yet, Sherlock continued to struggle.

As the nurse came back in, John felt the wetness from Sherlock's face run down over his own hands. He leaned down and saw that Sherlock was crying.

The nurse slowly injected the first half of the syringe into Sherlock's bloodstream.

Within a few minutes, the small dose had the desired effect.

First, Sherlock's features evened out, then, in a matter of seconds he went slack within their grips.

"There you go. Relax. It's all right," John made sure to keep his hand on Sherlock's head while he let go with his other.

He gently stroked back Sherlock's hair, while carefully avoided the remaining electrodes.

Sherlock was curled up against the side of the bed, towards John.

John found it hard to see his friend like this, out of his mind, anxious and vulnerable.

Whatever he was dreaming or experiencing - it was bad, really really bad.

Again John had to bite his lip to keep his own emotions in check that threatened to overwhelm him. He was still shocked from the revelations the conversation he had with Mary had brought but now he was inwardly shaking from the additional strain of the last minutes.

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* I didn't write this but other writers did. When writing this, I had the story The ride home by Ernil i Pheriannath / Sparkypip in my mind. Because I am very sure Sherlock did not just walk off an overdose.