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John stared at himself in the mirror adhered to the wall of the men's toilets and took a heavy, dizzying breath as he fought the urge to vomit. His cheeks were red, eyes wide and unfocussed, and his hands gripped the sink weakly by way of support whilst his legs felt like jelly about the knees. His resolve faltered and he arched forwards, vomiting vending-machine coffee into the sink with four, painful retches. This was disgusting, all of it disgusting and wrong, as acrid as the taste in his mouth. He turned on the cold tap, cleaning the sink with the fast-flowing water, and scooped handfuls into his mouth to swill it out. Sherlock, the man of strength and determination, who fought for the sheer brilliance of himself, had been crippled for life, broken irreparably, by three, small darts. It sounded like a cruel joke that nobody was laughing at.

Sherlock Holmes and a gunman walked into a bar…

Gripping the sides of the sink again, this time feeling steadier, John examined himself again. The anger at Mycroft was immense but it was nothing compared to the sadness he felt for Sherlock – the grief – at all he stood to lose. His livelihood, the very thing that kept him sane, was more than likely something he'd never do again. How could he be as free to move about the city in a chair as he was on long, graceful legs? And all for what? They hadn't even caught the guy, they were no closer to solving the original case and now they were lumbered with another that stood no chance of being solved. It was another of those jokes, John assumed, another of them oh-so-funny jokes that nobody found a shred of mirth in.

Sherlock Holmes wasn't able to walk into a bar…

It took a few moments for the colour to return to his face but he watched it happen slowly in the mirror. There was mostly anger, still, but he did feel a twinge of guilt as his feelings realigned at having talked to Mycroft the way he did. He was in no doubt that Mycroft, too, was suffering. Sherlock was his brother, despite anything that may pass between them and john knew from his experiences with Harry that, no matter what, blood was thicker than water in the times when it counted the most.

Straightening himself up and fixing his sweater, John left the bathroom with steadier breathing and a determination to keep the faith. He knew he couldn't hide in the bathroom forever and, as much as he wanted to get back to be there for Sherlock, he didn't rush his steps. Scuffing his feet, hands in the pockets of his cords, he glanced up at the many turnings off of the long corridor as he made his way back to Sherlock's small room right at the end. But the toilets weren't too far away and it only took him a few moments to reach the small archway into Sherlock's room. Mycroft was gone but his coat and umbrella were still in the position they were before, right by the door, so John knew he wasn't too far away. He wasn't sure whether he felt relieved at his absence or angered but he settled on it being good for Sherlock that he was still around; he needed all the love and support he could get right now, whomever was offering it.

He stepped quietly up to the bed and drew his hands from his pockets so he could take Sherlock's in his own. His long fingers curled around John's slightly and John took it as a sign that the Detective had some awareness over what was happening in the room even if he wasn't fully lucid. "You hear me?" he asked carefully and, once again, Sherlock's fingers twitched tighter around his. "I know this is probably really confusing but you're OK. You're badly hurt, it's not good, and you're on a cocktail of drugs at the moment but you're doing fine. Lestrade's back at Baker Street going through your pants." He smiled with damp eyes. Sherlock gave a groan behind the mask and John looked up to his face, his eyebrows knitted in the centre sympathetically. "Just relax, you're alright." He kept his voice calm.

Terrible, but for a moment he felt like he was back in Afghanistan and he blinked his eyes and shook his head to the sounds of bombs cracking ghost-like in his ears, the echoic screams and angry shouts and the phantom smells that flooded his nostrils with painful nostalgia. They got quieter slowly, fading back into his mind as he watched Sherlock's face for any signs of movement, his eyes quickly picking up the tear that rolled from Sherlock's closed, left eye and moved slowly down his cheek. "Hey," he reached out with his free hand and caught the salty droplet on his finger, "It's alright, I'm right here. It's alright."

Sherlock gave another groan from somewhere deep in his throat and his hand pulled away lethargically from John's grip. He tried to raise his arm a few times, the movement sluggish and feeble before giving another groan, almost weeping pitifully, and tried to turn his head to face John.

"OK, shh…" John shuffled further along to be closer to Sherlock's head and glanced over his shoulder quickly before pulling the oxygen mask down from his face. Sherlock took a deep breath, coughing a little through another moan, his nose scrunched up uncomfortably. "Try to stay still," John whispered soothingly, touching the curls that were reachable through the straps across Sherlock's forehead. "Sherlock, listen to me. It's OK, but you need to try to stay still. It's alright," He smoothed his thumb back and forth across Sherlock's forehead. "There you go," he spoke slowly as Sherlock breathed snuffily through his nose. "Are you in any pain?" he asked gently.

Sherlock's face scrunched again and he drew down his chin, his tongue smacking against his dry mouth and John understood.

"Thirsty?" he said gently, a hand on Sherlock's bare bicep. "Sherlock, do you want me to get you some water?" he stepped away from the bed for a moment and took the standard jug and beaker in the corner as being safe to use. He poured out a small amount of the water into the beaker and brought it back to the bed. There was barely a centimetre depth of water in the cup and John was able to easily tip it back into Sherlock's mouth without spilling it. Sherlock's lips closed gratefully around the cup as the water trickled in and wet his tongue. Repeating the action another couple of times, John watched the discomfort fade a little from Sherlock's face.

But the small physical action seemed to fatigue Sherlock, draining him of whatever amount of energy he'd drawn in before and he drifted into such a motionless, drug-aided sleep that John found himself occasionally checking the machines and watching Sherlock's chest for breathing motion, just to be certain. He leaned heavily on the bed, his hand wrapped around Sherlock's, and watched the rhythmic misting and clearing of the oxygen mask, unsure of how long he stood there, disturbed only by the sound of footsteps behind him.

A nurse stepped into the room on relatively quiet feet, her hair was pulled back she offered John a caring smile as she approached the bed. Silent and efficient, she checked the IV lines, Sherlock's blood pressure, his pulse and oxygen levels, his urine output and temperature, documenting it all in the folder in her arms. As she left, she offered John another sweet smile and he hoped the face he offered in return was something of similar grace, but he couldn't be sure. She disappeared without a word moments later, her shoes giving a small squeak on the polished floor, gradually fading off into the distance only to be replaced by another set of strides and John twisted in his position to see who it was.

With his suit jacket unbuttoned, Mycroft had returned with Greg Lestrade in tow. "I found him outside," Greg said, brows rising. "He looked like he could do with a cigarette, otherwise I'd have been in sooner." He explained by way of apology. Both were a bit weather-beaten, hair damp from the rain and mussed from a blustering wind, their cheeks and noses shining a little more red then was usual to their appearance.

"That's OK," John shrugged, dismissing any need for explanation.

Holding up the bag in his hands, Greg waved it a little in John's line of vision. "Yours and Sherlock's things are in there and Mrs Hudson sent food and a flask of tea." He set the bag onto the chair-cum-closet beside the door and rocked nervously on his feet, his hands pushing into his coat pockets, and transferred his gaze between John and Mycroft as Mycroft took the position he'd occupied before he and John had spoken. He couldn't bring himself to look at Sherlock, being in the room was enough for now. "Need me to stay?" he asked John with what he hoped emanated as a thoughtful tone.

"No; go home, Greg. Get some rest," John gave a sideways smile, "Thank you, for everything you've done tonight."

"Haven't really done anything," Greg shrugged one shoulder, navel gazing.

John released Sherlock's hand and turned to face the DI completely, "No, you have." He insisted, "You stayed through the surgery, you've gone above and beyond your professionalism. I'm really grateful, Greg, and I'm sure in his own way Sherlock would be too."

Greg laughed through his nose, "I'm pretty certain he'd tell me to sod off." His brows rose and he pushed his right hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. "Just call, OK? If there is anything you need, however small, whatever time, just pick up the phone."

"I know, thanks," John held out his hand to the DI. Greg's grip was firm as he took John's hand, shaking it meaningfully.

Nodding politely in Mycroft's direction, Greg excused himself into the night, not looking back and John knew that it was killing him to see Sherlock this way. He supposed it was memories of knowing Sherlock before he did, of his drug use and subsequent hospital stays that came with being an addict. Turning back to the bed, John pushed his hands into his pockets and pushed the toe of his left shoe into the back of his right, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth.

The three seemed to breathe at the same time which made the moments between each inhale seem silent, but for the static, and it unnerved John. He felt uneasy, unwelcomed almost, and guilt began to outweigh his anger. "I'm sorry for what I said," he finally spoke up and dragged his eyes from the floor to give Mycroft the respect of looking him in the eye. "I had no right to lay the blame on you, none at all."

"You have every right to voice your opinions, Doctor Watson, and I appreciate that this is as stressful a time for you as it is for me. But you should know that above everything, despite what the common man likes to assume they know, Sherlock is first and foremost my brother and that is the most important thing. I stood by him through addiction and many mistakes that have passed under the bridge and I shall stand by him through this, wherever that leads. And there is nothing," he licked his lips, his lids closing in a slow blink, "Absolutely nothing in this that brings me any happiness." His brow was firm but John could see his chin tremble. Emotions existed in the Ice Man after all.

"He needs everybody's support right now and probably for the rest of his life," John said, leaning a little against the bed, a smidge of the tension clearing.

"You're the medical man," Mycroft's tone softened, "Don't hold back in answering me when I ask, in the worst case scenario, what lies ahead for Sherlock?" John's sigh was louder than he'd intended it to be and a lot more forceful. Mycroft's brow arched further and he repeated his question. "I can handle it, Doctor Watson, whatever the prognosis. Life as a paraplegic for Sherlock; how will it be?"

John took a deep breath and tongued against his cheek, "Initially, it's going to be excruciatingly difficult. He will have to build up his upper body strength as soon as possible; he'll face back pain, not just from the exertion of muscles that weren't used to working so hard but because of the damage, he'll get spasms which will be pretty sore. There'll be gruelling physiotherapy and not just in the hopes of there being some miraculous recovery but for his health. Without regular movement he's at risk of sores, pneumonia, calcium build up in the blood," he explained carefully. "He'll have to get to know his body again, get to grips with personal care – we'll have to work out if he knows when he as to use the bathroom, he'll have to get a handle on catheters and suppositories, washing, mobility…" he rubbed the back of his neck, startling himself as much as he knew it would Mycroft. "But I think the biggest thing is going to be his mental health – it's going to take the worst blow, Mycroft, and we all need to be prepared for that. He's going to go through a range of emotions; he'll be sad and embarrassed and he is going to be so angry and probably for a long time, too."

John watched Mycroft as he nodded; digesting his words whilst his eyes lay on Sherlock's sleeping face. "We can get him counselling?" he asked, eyes flicking up momentarily.

"Naturally," John nodded, "But he'll only go if he wants to and he'll only say so much. He may talk to me a bit, Lestrade at a push, or if he did in the past he may talk to you."

Mycroft gave a breathy smile, "No. Sherlock and I never did share our feelings, being of the opinion that to express them was to express weakness. I don't think it will matter what happens or how bad things become, Sherlock would not come to me for help willingly. It would be you, Doctor Watson, and you alone."

With that, Mycroft took a deep breath and straightened his back. The Mycroft that John had come to know seemed to zap back into the man's body as he fastened his blazer. He crossed the room, retrieving his coat and silently pulled it on. "Oh," John frowned, "You're leaving?"

"Well, there is no use in both of us watching him sleep, is there?" he looked John in the eye a moment, picking up his umbrella. "The moment he is awake and lucid, contact me and I will come straight back." He fixed his coat collar as John gave a silent nod, his brow furrowed. "Thank you,"

"For what?" John's frown deepened.

Mycroft didn't reply, didn't change his expression and didn't meet John's eyes. He turned his back and walked away, turning down the corridor on quick but steady feet, confusing John further still. All the Doctor could do was watch him go; too tired to contend and too worried to argue. He'd been here, John told himself, he'd been here when he should have been and he'd been a different person, what more could he truly expect from him?

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 670