At the hospital (2016) - Part 5
Day 7 - Late afternoon, Hospital
After Mycroft left, the sudden mental vacancy and silence hit John with unexpected harshness. The last days had been a rollercoaster of emotions and combined with the lack of rest and John's latest bender, he was beyond tired. He felt too heavy to even think straight. At the same timehe experienced a mental freefall in slow motion that made him restless.
He decided he needed a nap - right now. Not looking forward to the tough task, he opted for trying it one step at a time. So, at first he made himself as comfortable as he could in the high backed patient arm chair across the room. Then he closed his eyes.
For hours, his pounding head and the leaden weight on his eyelids had been the source of a constant nagging pain. The pain was the reason why he needed sleep and why it eluded him.
Whenever John had tried to rest during the past weeks, Mary's death replayed before his inner eye. He couldn't stop it, couldn't will the agonising mental images away. The only thing he could do was witness the inner cinema, allow it to happen. If he managed to endure it long enough to reach the point where he started to drift, things usually worsened.
It was nothing new. He had lived with PTSD for years now, and this course of action was horribly familiar. PTSD patients were prone to relive traumatic events once the mind became idle. This was the third time his PTSD caught up with him. First the war, then Sherlock's suicide and now Mary's murder. That it flared up was not unexpected, though he had somehow actually managed to forget how very devastating and debilitating it was.
Since his initial treatment by Ella years ago, he had been instructed how to work though it. He once more tried the technique, but it helped as little as it always had. He once more wondered if PTSD patients were only told to carry it out to keep them occupied. Or delude them into thinking that there were procedures that should help, to divert them from the fact that psychology was at large still more stumbling in the dark than real science. A moment later he wondered where that last odd thought about denial of research came from. It took him a few minutes to notice that - additionally to his mental struggles - he was experiencing a fierce physical need to get a beer.
The taste was on his tongue and he found the desire quite unnerving. Maybe it was because he hadn't eaten enough in the past few days.
The more he tried to ignore the sensation the more it turned into an obsession.
It was 15:30. He could go over to the store in the side street and get something to drink. No one would miss him, he'd be back in less than fifteen minutes.
The thing was, he was aware that he shouldn't do this.
Besides, beer wouldn't be a good choice. If anyone spotted him carrying a pack of six bottles into a hospital it would end badly - even if he tried to hide it in a plastic bag - it was too obvious. Something more efficient would be a better choice, like hard liquor.
He was already up and reaching for his jacket when the remnants of his earlier bender reminded him how stupid his behaviour was. It would make things a lot more complicated if he got drunk now. The chance that no one would notice were minimal. Nothing escaped Mycroft. The older Holmes would throw him out without hesitation, John was sure of it. Afraid of being shut out, he returned his jacket to the hook and slumped into the chair. The nagging need remained.
A frustrating hour later his resolution to remain abstinent was dwindling. The thirst for a drink had intensified and all he wanted was to sleep. The chair was uncomfortable and the pleather was making it worse because the moment his body relaxed, he started slipping down the seat.
With the help of alcohol, falling asleep was quicker. It at least enabled him to sleep deeply for a bit, which was better than no sleep at all. As a physician, he was aware it was only subjectively helping sleep. Overall it caused poor quality of sleep later on and he would lack
REM sleep and wake up too soon.
But he didn't care, he was too tired.
Also, this knowledge helped nothing to reduce the cravings - that's what they were - cravings. He had to face the bitter truth: his thirst for a drink was his body demanding more. He fought it with new vigour after he had confessed that to himself.
Nevertheless, another two hours later he was a mess, ready to walk over to that damn store and drink as much as he could in an alley where he would check for security cameras first. If he was careful enough there surely was a way to prevent Mycroft from finding out. He was already in his jacket and heading for the door when it suddenly opened.
A flushed Mrs Hudson bustled in, Rosie in her arms and additionally laden with her huge diaper bag.
"Oh, where are you going?" she addressed him.
"Mrs Hudson? I thought Molly would pick her up?" they spoke simultaneously and Rosie started to make a fuss. John put the jacket back on the hook - again.
"Molly called. She had some kind of emergency and warned me she would be late. I need to go see my friend - she is sick again. Molly agreed to meet here. She'll be here in a few minutes." Mrs Hudson pushed Rosie into his arms when the little girl started to fidget because she clearly wanted her father.
John wasn't ready for the level of noise and action. His headache was getting worse by the minute. When Rosie started to whinge he had a hard time suppressing the urge to yell at her. It took him a moment to realise his poor temper might be an actual symptom of alcohol withdrawal - poor temper. With horror, he realised that his tiredness and the inability to sleep were more indications this might actually be withdrawal.
How had he not seen this before?
Mrs Hudson's perfume wavered into his nose and his stomach started to churn.
Was this how Sherlock felt when his senses were acting out?
Was it Sherlock's normal to feel sick when he came close to intense smells no one else registered consciously?
Usually, Mrs Hudson was very subtle with her perfume and on a normal day, John didn't even perceive she was wearing any, though Sherlock insisted she was.
Or had she just gone a bit overboard today?
While John still meandered through the onslaught of sensations, Mrs Hudson stepped over to Sherlock's bed. She motherly smoothed his hair back. John made a few steps, rocking Rosie, to soothe her. When he approached the bed doing so, he heard the landlady talking, but her voice was so low, John couldn't understand any of it. Rosie's delight about her father's attentions was short lived and her momentary silence turned into wailing within half a minute. The noise hit John with unexpected intensity.
"John, dear? You look like you are ready to keel over. Sit down, dear," Mrs Hudson said and returned to them. "Don't worry, she's hungry. Had so much fun with the ducks in the park we forgot to eat, it's taking its toll. I have her bottle right here," she added.
John wondered if the wailing child would wake Sherlock. He wished she would. But a glance over to his friend told him he was unaffected. Rosie felt way to heavy or maybe he just felt unable to carry her weight.
Putting her down anywhere in the room was not an option. Bringing toddlers to a hospital was overall not the best idea, hospitals were a cesspool of all kinds of germs. John and Mary had always made sure to change at the surgery before coming home. Molly also never wore her work clothes with Rosie. It must have been a real emergency for her to suggest to meet here.
Mrs Hudson retrieved the bottle from the bag and held it to her cheek, then she offered it and a bib to John with a nod. He didn't have much of a choice but to sink back into the chair to feed her. It was a bit of work to make her suck, she was too busy crying to realise the teat was in her mouth. Finally, after several gentle tabs with the tip of the teat to the roof of her mouth, she started to drink greedily. John closed his eyes in relief.
The silence was wonderful.
A bitter realisation followed.
Was this the way his own father had thought? Had he deemed his children only as a source of annoyance, disturbing the quiet?
Was he turning into his always angry father?
Yelling at his kids just because they did the things kids do?
Had his father been in the state he was in now? Stressed out, willing to quit but unable to go through with it?
Because if he was honest with himself he had almost ruined everything. If Mrs Hudson hadn't arrived he would be drinking in an alley right now.
Had his father even tried to sober up?
Had he loved his kids and decided to give up drinking but failed?
The anxiety to turn into his father gave him new spirit to clean up. He would not inflict the hell of a childhood he had been through to his own child.
He would sober up - now!
No more temptations. No weak episodes. No rationalising it. This was the end of it!
He flinched when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Mrs Hudson was standing next to them and looking down with a sad smile.
"She misses you," she said.
"She misses Mary more," John spat, then he realised Mrs Hudson did not deserve his anger either. She was trying to hold things together and had given her best every day for weeks on end by now.
"Sorry… sorry", John mumbled. "You're right. I know. Thank you for helping us out, here. Rosie loves you and I am so happy she has you as a surrogate grandmother. You are the best," he tried to give her a warm smile. She turned away but he got a short glimpse of the tears in her eyes. They were all reaching the end of their tether.
Mrs Hudson picked up the diaper bag, fetched something else she then put on the small table next to John. It took him a few seconds to recognise the thermo cups he took to work sometimes.
"It's tea, dear," she explained when he frowned. Then she fetched her handbag and gave him a peck on the cheek. "Molly will be here shortly. You take care. See you tomorrow," she added in a low voice.
On her way to the door, she stepped over to Sherlock's bed, gave him another peck and left the room waving goodbye.
John stared down at his now slowly suckling daughter and wondered if Mary had looked like this as a child and who had fed her when she was Rosie's age.
By the time the bottle was empty Rosie was half asleep. He gently sat her up, aware she wouldn't like it, but he needed to burp her. With the bib and his daughter over his shoulder, he stood up to check on Sherlock. The movement resulted in black spots darkening his field of vision. He gripped the footboard hard and leaned against the edge of the bed for some long seconds before he dared to risk another step.
Sherlock still was out, nothing had changed.
While he gently patted Rosie's back, John started to - very slowly - pace the room. It always helped to soothe her. It took some time until he passed the table again. The thermo cup was in reach and he picked it up with his free hand, switched it open with his index finger. The tea was not as hot as he would've liked it, but way better than the brew from the hospital cafeteria.
He hadn't even finished a second circle when he heard a soft knock on the door. It immediately opened and John assumed it must be medical personnel. Molly stepped in and smiled when she spotted them. She carefully hugged them both to say Hallo, making sure she spoke in a calm and low voice, aware Rosie did not need excitement when she was already half asleep.
"Thought you might need some coffee?" Molly asked and placed a steaming cup on the table. She was over at Sherlock's bed a moment later, checking him over with her eyes and taking his hand.
"Tha..," John's voice caught and he had to cleared his throat. "Thanks."
A moment later, Rosie finally burped and it made them both chuckle.
"Well, it seems she is sated and tired," Molly smiled while she continued to take in Sherlock's state, "Mrs Hudson wore her out?"
"Guess she did. She was in a hurry, said something about the park and a friend," John answered.
"Right. I thought she'd wait for me outside the building. Must have been some miscommunication. Sorry," she explained with a frown and John wondered if it was something about Sherlock's state or the communication mishap.
John shrugged, aware Molly would be careful to keep germs from his daughter and Rosie's germs from any patients. "Kept her from touching anything but my clothes are dirty."
"Can I go to the nurses and ask for an update? Can you wait that long?"
She gave him a frowning look he couldn't really decipher.
"Yeah, of course, where would I go?"
"Right," she smiled again and left the room.
John experienced a strong urge to follow her, hear what they had to say but remembered that Mycroft had told him in no uncertain terms that he was supposed to be Sherlock's friend, not his doctor. Molly was their backup and she was supposed to be informed. Staring at the closed door, John realised he felt left out and a bit jealous but simultaneously too
tired to do anything but exist.
Hoping Rosie would fall asleep all the way he continued to walk through the room, this time he picked up the coffee cup and sipped it.
Way better. Coffee was what he needed. Though, he noticed a slightly funny aftertaste when he gently rocked Rosie and continued to walk in circles.
Ten minutes later Molly hadn't returned but he had emptied the cup. To his disappointment, the caffeine failed to give him a boost. Instead, he felt even more tired and shaky. Unable to carry Rosie's weight any longer he sank back into the chair. Rosie's breathing rate had decreased and when he twisted his neck to see her face her eyes were closed.
He sighed in relief, the last thing he needed right now was a toddler in need of entertainment. Being seated barely thirty seconds, he felt more of his energy drain out of him.
Drinking the way he had in the past weeks meant his nervous system had adjusted to the depressing effect alcohol had on his system. At this point, being keyed up and agitated should be expected. He checked for more alcohol withdrawal symptoms.
Headache. Check.
Feeling irritable. Check.
Shaking hands. Slightly.
Feeling wiped out. Check.
Tremor. No…. not yet?
Confusion. Not yet.
Nausea. Slight.
Vomiting. Not yet.
Sweating. Check.
Overall, the symptoms could be worse. He had seen Harry go through it all several times. It hadn't been pretty. The worst thing was the mean anger she directed at anyone, blaming whoever was in reach and treating everyone like a doormat.
He was sure he had done the same to anyone who had tried to help these past weeks - especially Sherlock. Would it become worse the more sober he was?
John knew his anger was misdirected and unwarranted but it was like an ever present flame in the back of his mind that turned into a welding torch within seconds the moment something triggered him. He knew grief and anger came side by side. He also knew frequent alcohol input was fuelling his anger and thereby negating all attempts to manage the part
that was the reason of his grief. He hated himself for drinking, for being a lousy friend, for ill-treating one of the two most important persons in his life… or maybe in fact both of them. He wasn't a good father at all at the moment.
What he needed at the moment was determination to go through with his very own detox. Not to break down and give in to the temptation to visit the liquor store again.
Alcohol was a drug so easy to obtain, it made falling for it simple. The fight was in his head, to stop himself before he got there. Overall he was a careful drinker, always aware of his family history. The problem was that after Mary's death he had crossed the point where he just stopped caring.
But he never drank as much as Harry did… or did he?
Maybe in the first week. The morning he had walked into a doorframe while carrying Rosie and had given her a bruise, he decided to make sure to not drink himself into a stupor… It had been only moderately successful.
No, he wasn't any better than his sister; he had inherited the same defect and now it was getting to him.
The good thing was, he felt there were two things in his life he couldn't lose. Sherlock and Rosie… He would fight to keep them… for them.
He jerked out of his dark thoughts when his arm that was holding Rosie against his shoulder sagged down a bit - and she with it. She gave a surprised gurgle but slept on.
At first, John dismissed it as another sign of his state. Then it slowly dawned on him, that maybe there was more to his current weakness, which raised a red flag. Although his thoughts were muddled and he could barely focus on anything, he wondered if this all-encompassing weakness was really normal at this point. Feeling this shaky and heavy was alarming.
He fought how it unsettled him for a moment, tried to rationally decide if it was really this bad. When he finally asked himself if he should call for help he realised he was probably not even able to walk on his own without dropping Rosie. While he tried to decide how to proceed, he succumbed to the heavy pull of sleep dragging him out of consciousness.
He was roused by Rosie slipping away. Some instinct told him she was falling out of his arms and he jerked awake, reached after her, tried to catch her.
She was gone.
"Shh, it's alright. I've got her," Molly's voice cooed somewhere near his head.
But John was already out of the seat, maniacally searching for his child while blinded by the bright lights and his headache.
He was confused, tired, in a stupor.
Shit.
Did they drug him? Did someone put something in his coffee? This level of confusion was not normal.
There was a second person in the room, he distantly realised, and it made more alarm bells ring.
"John? What the hell?"
Greg - it was Greg, and he was suddenly very close to John.
"Shit…" John huffed and the next thing he felt was someone hugging him and he lost his footing. The embrace tightened and he was glad for it because he wouldn't have been able to remain upright.
"Whoa," Greg made in surprise but he reacted fast enough to steady John.
He lowered him back into the seat. "That's it, mate. You are going home. You need a shower, a meal and some sleep. No discussion."
Molly was beside them in a moment, checking John's pulse with one hand while holding Rosie with the other. "Can you take her for a moment so I can check him over?"
John tried to shake her off, realising what was probably the reason for his qualm. "I drank too much the past weeks. Guess, I am detoxing." His own direct addressing of the bitter truth baffled him. Maybe the bluntness of his therapist was actually helping him to work on his issues. Although, her opinion as well as her approach on some things were a bit strange. But she was definitely not tiptoeing around difficult topics.
"Yeah, and the last thing you want is someone reporting it to the GMC," Molly said. "If this finds a way into your record, the consequences will haunt you. So I suggest you do as he says." Molly spoke in a no-nonsense tone, not the least bit surprised. "Admitting it is the first step in the right direction. Go home. Stay sober," she added in a gentle, kinder tone.
"Sherlock…?" John tried, but Greg interrupted him.
"I'll call Mycroft, ask him to stay the night in case Sherlock wakes up… Just to be clear mate, I will carry you out of here against your will if you don't come willingly," Greg's tone was hard and John knew he meant business.
He knew Lestrade was right. On one hand he was grateful for the - currently somewhat rough - help they were supplying after all his screw ups. On the other he was angry about the things that were decided over his head. It was his business and his responsibility and he could do this on his own, he didn't need being babied. He was a soldier for god's sake!
Or maybe he was more of a disgrace. He had demonstrated perfectly well that he wasn't able to handle things. Lately, he made a mess of everything he touched. The guilt of having texted a woman for weeks behind Mary's back and then blaming Sherlock for Mary's death were two things he was so horrified about in hindsight he struggled to understand how he could have been such an arsehole. He didn't deserve the care and leniency of his friends.
Being caught between his anger about himself and the need to stay with Sherlock he drifted off again.
.
An hour later, Greg roused John and dumped him into his car. John was so exhausted he was barely aware what was happening around him, let alone able to walk on his own.
The inspector had to help him up the stairs to 221b and out of his day clothes once they reached John's room. In the end, John couldn't manage to change into pyjamas, he slept in his boxers and undershirt.
Once more, he had a hard time drifting off, despite his utter exhaustion. He was aware time was passing, but he didn't think he actually slept, it was more like drifting in and out of consciousness.
The worries that had plagued him the past hours were constantly present, nagging at his soul.
At some point he realised things were happening around him, but it was like fragments of dreams he couldn't hold on to.
There were voices, touches, and it was unsettling, but he couldn't distinguish if they were imaginary or real, dreams or memories. At some point the pain was finally replaced by darkness and warmth and he slept.