Hospital (2016) - Part 3
Day 7
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After Sherlock had succumbed to the effect of the drugs, the nurses helped John to reconnect the lines. John was glad when – finally – the hospital staff left them alone.
Sherlock looked relatively relaxed, though not as much as John would have liked.
The small dose of anxiolytic wouldn't last long, but the doctor hoped Sherlock would remain calm after it wore off.
Experiencing the presence of the nurses and the other doctor as intruding was new to John. They were colleagues. He was used to colleagues, used to working with nurses, used to being in a hospital. Those things were an important part of his existence.
Nevertheless, it felt as if they had invaded his private living space and he needed them out. They hadn't been gone for more than three minutes, when things took a 180 degree turn. He suddenly felt abandoned.
The silence was heavy and unbearable, the loneliness overwhelming. This entire situation was a task he was not ready for.
In truth, maybe it was the other way round. John had abandoned Sherlock. If it was true what he had learned in the past few days then Sherlock would rather die than leave him – no matter how bad John treated him. It wasn't even the first time his friend had actually proven he would never desert him.
Sherlock had gone on several crusades just for John's sake. Moriarty, Magnussen and now Culverton.
This time his friend had done lasting damage to his body.
John struggled to understand this level of self-abandonment.
How could Sherlock even muster the affection for him to go to these lengths?
He was just a stupid fool who drank too much, struggled with anger management and failed to function like a normal human being. The past months had clearly shown he was an inadequate father – just like his father had been. He understood he was not worth his daughter. She deserved better.
As did Sherlock.
Sherlock's affection seemed to lack any terms or conditions, which couldn't be healthy.
The realisation that this kind of devotion needed protection unsettled him. Not because he wanted to keep it, but because it was fairly self-destructive. Sherlock needed protection from himself.
Was that what Mary had meant?
John bit his lip when once more was overwhelmed by his emotions. This entire thing was just so fucked up.
"Shit."
He was too tired and fed up to hold them back. He just hid his face in his hands and allowed them to silently flow.
It must have been over half an hour that John just sat there, lost in his helplessness when he heard the sheets move. He opened his swollen eyes and stood up.
"Sherlock?"
At first, there was no obvious movement, but after another moment he saw Sherlock's left arm tense, then his hand clutched the bed sheet in a tight grip.
"Sherlock?... You're alright," John cooed.
Sherlock's other hand came up and gripped the gown over his chest.
John feared Sherlock might freak out again and continued to talk.
It didn't help, though. Sherlock didn't react to his voice.
Probably, Mary was right and he needed to fix this by overwriting the hurtful touches he had caused with caring ones.
Sherlock's distress worsened, he started clutching the sheets hard and grinding his teeth. The sound was shockingly loud and violent - and thereby quite distressing. Seeing his friend suffer like this was becoming more and more excruciating for John.
If Sherlock had retreated due to his misery, he wouldn't be eager to return to more misery. John understood the need to touch him in a consciously caring - positive - way.
Although John was anxious to do it, he made an effort.
Firmly, but carefully, he pried Sherlock's right from where he clutched the hospital gown over the scar from the gunshot wound.
"Sherlock?... Your wound is healed. You are fine," John said – as calm as possible.
"Maybe you are aware that we are in the hospital but... you are okay. It is save to wake up, now."
John wrapped his own hand around Sherlock's and held it in a reassuring grip.
With bated breath, he paid careful attention to how Sherlock responded.
He didn't.
No twitch or change in tension.
Sherlock's face didn't tense up any more than it already was, though the doctor could spot the eyeballs rapidly moving under the closed lids.
"Hey mate, I get that you feel like shit. And you have every right to be... unnerved - and angry." The words were stupid, but he was lost for anything intelligent and he didn't want to use more medical terms.
He was here as a friend first and as a doctor second.
There was so much he should say, wanted to say, but he was unable to put it into meaningful sentences.
"If you want to stay in there for a bit longer to not have to see my face I am alright with that, too. I am with you, whatever you need," John promised and gently squeezed the hand he was holding.
Handling Rosie had changed John's understanding of touch – as well as Sherlock's. The detective rarely touched people, which was very obvious to John right from the beginning. John was surprised to find out that the only people he ever initiated physical contact with were John himself and Mrs Hudson.
Over time, Molly and later Mary were slowly added to the list of touch-recipients. Sherlock didn't refuse being touched by his parents, but he never did the first step.
If physically attacked, Sherlock defended himself. He also didn't hesitate to detain people if he felt the need, but he evaded touch whenever possible. He wore his leather gloves far more often than the weather would call for.
Overall Sherlock's touches had always been considered and conscious.
When it came to Rosie, Sherlock had been anxious in the beginning, afraid to do anything wrong. But it had taken surprisingly little time until his touches switched from hesitant to natural. The normalcy of it had kind of broadened until it also included unconsciously touching John and sometimes Mary.
It had been a huge change and John and Mary made fond jokes about it.
John leaned a bit closer to his friend's face and used his fingertips to stroke back the hair that was clinging to Sherlock's forehead. He made sure it was not a tickling kind of touch, not too gentle.
For a change, Sherlock was currently not sweating. His skin was rough and dry, and his lips looked as if they might crack any moment.
When the brief touch to Sherlock's brow didn't cause any reaction, John rested his entire hand on his hairline, to project familiarity and care.
"I am right here. I am not angry. I have no right to be angry, you did nothing wrong. I am the only one who committed misconduct... and I am very sorry."
Remembering that Sherlock might have actually tried to commit suicide brought back a feeling of fear and free fall.
"Sherlock, I need you. I know I don't deserve this, but please do not leave me alone. Please don't think it would be good to stay out of my life. You are one of the best things that ever happened to me. I need you. I need you in my life. Don't leave." John felt the tears rise in his eyes again and he bit his lips to keep them inside. "Please," he chocked and slowly moved his thumb back and forth over Sherlock's skull.
He felt pathetic and egoistic for uttering it, but maybe it was what Sherlock needed to hear.
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The quiet lasted only half an hour, then Lestrade walked in. By then, John had found his composure again, but the expression on Greg's face not bode well.
Greg stopped at the opposite side of the bed, very close to Sherlock and his gaze switched from John's face to Sherlock's and back.
"No change," John just muttered. He sat a little further afar from the bed than before.
"How are you holding up?" Greg all but stared at John's face with a frown.
"I've been better," John murmured and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Yeah. I can see that," Greg's tone was not overly sympathetic and John finally realised something was wrong. He lowered his hand.
"What is it?"
"Mycroft is this close to lose his shit," Greg lifted his fingers and showed him a very small distance between his fingers, "He's considering to throw you in some rehab centre at the end of nowhere,".
"Seriously? Why?"
"A bit before Sherlock had his epiphany last night, you were yelling in here – and your words weren't friendly! But we will not talk about it in here. The last thing he needs is being exposed to any form of aggression."
At first John didn't know what Greg was talking about, then he remembered the dress down he had received from Mary. He wasn't sure if these conversations with her were just in his head or if he was speaking out loud.
"Oh shit," the realisation hit him so hard he had to sit down. "Oh my god," he gasped, feeling nauseous.
"John? You better explain this or I swear I will haul your ass to rehab myself." Greg rounded the bed and started dragging John out of the chair not too gently.
"Greg, stop... I'm gonna puke," John whispered, afraid to make it worse if he spoke up. He actually wanted to get out of the room, but doubted he was able to walk out under his own power.
Greg let go of him and John shoved the chair even further away from the bed. His legs were shaking, but he needed to get some distance between himself and Sherlock. Then he leaned over to put his head between his knees. The idea that he had caused Sherlock's episode was turning his stomach.
A moment later his feet were shoved out of the way by a trashcan appearing between his legs.
"Thanks," he muttered, gulping frantically to spare them all from him being sick.
It was possible that Sherlock had freaked out as a result to his annoyed tone.
"So, what's going on?"
"God, I wasn't talking to him. I wasn't angry at him. I was talking to... myself," John huffed, desperate to let Greg know he had not relapsed into blaming his best friend.
"Didn't look like it," Greg's tone was sharp, which meant he must have seen the surveillance footage. "Actually, it looked like you were seriously losing it and hallucinating."
"I wasn't..." John gulped, "Or maybe I was," he realised.
"John? You're not making it any better," Greg stood beside him and John could feel his hand at his nape. "I think you need a doctor."
"No, I don't," John sat up a bit, but didn't venture to look up at the DI. "I.. I was talking to Mary," he stammered.
He was surprised that he managed to finally revealed this to anyone. It had been a carefully hidden secret.
To his surprise, Greg took a knee in front of him, his expression changed to worry. "As far as I know things like that aren't unheard of. Have you told your therapist?"
John closed his eyes is despair and shook his head. He felt hot and cold and sick and...
"Why the hell not? This is the second time in a few days you told me you didn't tell her something I really think you need to discuss."
"She talks back to me," John admitted and he could feel Greg's worry raise a notch. "Mary, I mean. In fact, she gave me a hell of a dress down. She thinks I failed to notice certain issues Sherlock has - and my involvement in causing them."
To John's surprise, Greg laughed. Though there was no humour in the sound.
"Good, then I don't have to do it," he stated.
John sighed. "To be fair, she was right. I was just not ready to hear it. She sat at the edge of Sherlock's bed and..." John's voice died because he couldn't actually say it, the emotional turmoil was too much.
"Alright. If he can hear us it might have been actually necessary that he heard this, too. You heard that, Sherlock?" Greg addressed the detective who was dead to the world in the hospital bed.
"I bet if he can hear us he put it together the moment I said the first sentence to her," John uttered.
"Don't be so sure about that. The first thing I heard you yell was 'I am fucking grieving!' and you became more aggressive after that."
"It wasn't directed at him. It wasn't even directed at her. She represents my... I don't know – my professionalism and conscience – who went both out the window some time ago. And I was not ready to hear it. But she was right. It was stupid of me to stay in here when... I should have gone outside. I didn't realise it was not just in my head..."
John hid his face in his hands again. "Oh God, I am losing my mind. He couldn't hold himself upright any longer. He slumped over.
"John?... Breathe!" Greg grasped his upper arm and squeezed.
"I can't believe I was this stupid," John groaned. "I... I am..."
"Lost for words apparently," Greg injected. "Come on, you need a break. Can you walk?"
"Give me a minute," John managed to press out.
"Alright. I will get you some water and then you'll go get something to eat. I will do my best to clean up this mess with Mycroft," Greg announced and headed for the door.
John was glad that obviously Lestrade believed him enough to leave him alone with Sherlock.
After the door had closed behind Greg, John addressed his best friend.
"Sherlock? If you can hear me... Listen... If I caused this... I am very sorry. Mary was kicking my ass, telling we how much of an asshole I am... and that I need to show you how much I care and how sorry I am. She said stuff that was hard to hear... but she was right. I hope you didn't think I was angry with you. I am not. I am so sorry, Sherlock."
John felt so guilty it hurt – everywhere.
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Half an hour later, Greg and John sat in the cafeteria. John had managed to drink some coffee and have half a sweet roll.
"So, what did she say?"
"Who?" John asked, a bit confused.
"Mary. What did she say that you were not ready to hear?"
"Oh... That my negligence almost killed him. That his PTSD is back and that he is self-harming... that he is suicidal..." The last words John could only whisper, they felt too overwhelming to be said louder.
"Yeah, well. He's been there before, so I think it is likely."
"Jesus, Greg!" John sat up. The information hit him hard and a sensation of cold dread spread in his chest. "When?"
Greg frowned and hesitated for a moment, taken aback by his shock.
"Sorry, I wasn't... I thought... you knew. He overdosed shortly after I first met him. I was the one who found him," Greg made a pause, visible fighting for control over his own bitter memories. "Went over because he was in a deep depression and had cut himself off from all communication, which worried me. He said later it was an accidental overdose but... I was never sure if I should believe him with things like this."
John lowered his head and felt his own stomach rebel about this bit of old news.
"Sorry, but I think 'Mary' is right. After her death Sherlock fell into that hole again. He got very depressed. Haven't seen him this bad since back then. I tried to stop his downward spiral but he wouldn't let me in."
Greg stared at the black liquid in his mug.
"He lost control. And he couldn't handle losing control. He needs to be in control."
"I noticed. I lived with him; he is a fucking control freak. I understood after a while it is not because he wants to dominate but because unpredictable things add stress. Its a method of... Compensation? The more anxious he is, the worse it will get."
"Yeah. Took me a while to get that, to. The worse he is, the more he tries to control things. Additionally, executive dysfunction adds to that. He wants to be in control but can't manage it."
"It's when he needs to be reminded to eat, drink and so on?" John asked, only vaguely familiar with the term but understanding what Greg was referring to. He had seen Sherlock having episodes of that - whatever it was called. During those Sherlock is overchallenged with simple things or even to get up from the sofa.
"It is even worse when he is in a mood of dejection and during withdrawal... I think we have to thank Mrs Hudson for taking good care of him. He probably would have collapsed weeks ago due to malnutrition. She was the only one he talked to, so I conspired with her. She was more than willing. He can be a handful."
"Yeah. I owe her... and I feel so fucking guilty. I don't know how to handle that."
"I know," Greg said, placing his hand on John's shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. "And Sherlock knows, too. But I think the thing you need to show him at the moment is not your guilt, but your fondness."
John nodded," Mary said that, too," he admitted, his voice shaky.
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