Home Random Page


CATEGORIES:

BiologyChemistryConstructionCultureEcologyEconomyElectronicsFinanceGeographyHistoryInformaticsLawMathematicsMechanicsMedicineOtherPedagogyPhilosophyPhysicsPolicyPsychologySociologySportTourism






Thanks for reading!

 

John woke early but refreshed the following morning to the sounds of the working hospital. Sherlock was still sleeping, both arms raised above his head on the pillow, fingers slack in loose fists, flat on his back like an infant with a look of relaxed pleasure across his sleep-softened face. John couldn't help but smile and just managed to resist reaching out to touch his fingers to the Detective's rosy cheeks. He rose quietly from the chair and stretched his back out with a quiet yawn. Fishing through the bag Greg had left, he found out his clothes and wash bag and snuck quietly from the room with his phone, smiling politely at those he passed as he made his way to the bathroom and locked the door quickly.

He checked the time – seven-twenty-five am – and numerous messages on his phone as well as two missed calls. The most recent of the texts messages was from Lestrade. Placing his bag and clothes onto the lip of the sink, he opened the text.

How's the patient? Nothing new overnight here but then I suppose you knew that. Donovan has the bit between her teeth for this case, not sure if that's good or bad. Keep me up to date, yeah? – Greg.

He tapped out a quick message of thanks in rely, letting Lestrade know that Sherlock had 'perked up' over the course of the evening and then set about quickly washing and changing. It wasn't the most private of facilities but once he was changed and shaved he felt close to human again. He folded his warn clothes and carried them back with him, tucking them inside the pocket of the bag so that they weren't mingled in with the clean clothes and paced quietly around the small room, eyes constantly drawing back to Sherlock in his infinitely relaxed state. It was rare to see him this way, John reminded himself, and so he intended on savouring it. Sherlock favoured staying awake and occupying his mind over forcing it to shut down and sleep; it wasn't that he didn't like sleep, he did, but insomnia and an over-active mind that dwelled on the things it needn't often led to nights on end of sitting straight-backed on his chair or hunched over an experiment in the kitchen.

Pushing his hands into the pockets of his clean jean, feeling less formal now that the checked shirt he'd been wearing had been replaced for a thin, long-sleeved t-shirt, John tilted his head and watched Sherlock's brow creasing as his chest rose up in a stretch, his body and mind slowly coming into wakefulness. They had stayed awake into the early hours after Sherlock had woken in the night and then John had watched Sherlock slowly fall back to sleep, mostly down to the drugs still in his system, but John somehow didn't feel tired now for the lack of rest. The minimal sleep had been a welcomed rest but the chance to have talked to Sherlock, to see him open up the way he had, had been cathartic for them both in its own manner. John shuffled closer to the bed as Sherlock's arms stretched up and his jaw dragged down in a yawn, his long fingers twining through his curls as his body jarred to tense every muscle, a small groan leaving his throat at how good it felt.



"Morning," John gave a wide, closed-lipped smile that pushed up his cheeks beneath his eyes.

Groaning again as his body relaxed, Sherlock returned the sentiment, dropping his arms to his side, "Morning," he yawned again. John leaned down quickly to kiss against the sympathetic-looking wrinkles on Sherlock's warm forehead.

"Ugh," John wrinkled his nose, "You need to brush your teeth."

"You need to-," Sherlock began, voice husky from sleep, "I can't think of anything," He smiled, sleepily. "I'm hungry."

John smiled, "That's good." He perched against the side of the bed, "The nurses should be around soon, and the doctor, so I'm sure they'll sort breakfast for you then." John folded his arms across his chest. "You sleep like a child," He muttered and raised his arms up, holding them beside his head in a mock of Sherlock. "A soother between your teeth wouldn't have looked out of place; you suck your tongue a bit anyway, I'm sure it'd be welcomed." He chuckled.

The quip failed to settle with Sherlock and his eyes disappeared into a thick-browed frown, "You limped around for God knows how long without actually having anything wrong with your leg and yet you mock me for sleeping in the only way I could find comfort," He snapped and John held out his hands quickly in defence.

"Whoa!" his eyes darkened, "I was teasing, I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it, I was just kidding." Hi hands lowered slowly, "I'm sorry," he said again, genuinely, but Sherlock's face stayed set in a firm pout.

Today clearly stood to be less pleasant than the previous night – it was going to be one of pitiful anger and aggression toward everyone, John could tell, as – feeling a little stronger – Sherlock would begin to realise where his new limits lay. John knew he was fully entitled to this, to react so sharply, but he wasn't looking forward to it one bit. Sherlock's temper could be demonic at the best of times and John knew that with such a reason as this behind it, it didn't bode well for the coming hours.

Sherlock ignored John completely as a male nurse entered with a broad smile, "Mr Holmes, how are you feeling this morning?" he asked with a courteous smile. Wordlessly, Sherlock glared at him. "Not very talkative then, that's alright."

"Ignore him," John cut in, a stickler for manners his entire life, "He's a moody git by default but today he has decided he's going to surpass himself." His tone dripped sarcasm and the nurse, though he said nothing, clearly picked up on the tension.

"How is the pain in your head today, any better?" he pressed on chirpily and a silent, tight-lipped nod shuffled Sherlock's head by way of response. "Good, that's good. How do you feel about breakfast? We have cereals, fruit, toast – unless you have specific dietary requirements, in which case we'll do our best to meet what you need." He smiled widely with dark, happy eyes.

"Nothing," Sherlock's voice found its way, somehow, through clenched teeth.

"You should try to eat something, Mr Holmes, even if it's just a slice of toast, or some fresh fruit." The nurse coaxed hopefully whilst John stood back, eyes fixed on Sherlock, looking lost somewhere between anger and acceptance. "Please?"

"I said no!" Sherlock snapped, snatching back his hand from the nurse whose gloved fingers were gingerly prodding at the cannula. "Don't touch me." His tongue was sharp and venomous. Stiffening his shoulders, the nurse simply turned and walked away, resigned to the cantankerous behaviour and resolved not to push it.

"You were hungry a minute ago," John said, sarcasm and annoyance high, fidgeting with the blanket at the end of the bed.

"Now I'm not." Sherlock's tone was petulant as he folded his arms across his chest indignantly. "I don't want his pity."

"That wasn't pity, Sherlock, it was duty of care. He's a nurse!" John sighed, exasperated by this already. He knew he shouldn't be because Sherlock was just lashing out, transferring his emotions, but John was finding it too hard to carry his own grievances as well as Sherlock's. "You told me not five minutes ago you were hungry, yet when a member of staff come sin you all but slap them in the face out of sheer petulance because I teased you."

"He poked me!" Sherlock threw out his arms, hitting against the side of his bed.

"He's a nurse! Nurses poke people, Sherlock, it's their job." John's voice rose as his arms did in exasperation. They were stuck in a childish argument, built up out of their frustrations of a very adult situation. "I know it's brewing Sherlock – you're angry and want to get upset, so stop pretending and just do it."

"You don't get it, John." Sherlock growled, "You don't get it because it is not you sitting here. It's me. You don't get it at all. I'm the cripple, I'm the fu…" he closed his eyes, close to tears, and gritted his teeth. "Go away," he whispered finally, not bothering to open his eyes. "Go away, John. Anywhere you want, just get out – just go, leave me alone." His head shuffled against the pillows and lulled to the side. "Go!" his voice rose. When at last his eyes did flicker open, John wasn't in his line of vision. He'd done as he'd asked, he'd left him alone, and the emptiness was all-encompassing; all he wanted was for John to come back.

He wanted to curl up in to a tiny ball like he did on the sofa at home, but his body wouldn't listen to his commands. He wanted to lie in a protective cocoon but nothing would happen and nothing would react; nothing would bloody listen! With hands bracing the bars beside him, trapping him in the cot, Sherlock pulled himself to sitting; his arms shook with the weight and effort, his knuckles whitened at the attempt to pull him upright and he felt sickeningly dizzy at the sudden height his head and shoulders had gained. He breathed huffily through his nose, bearing down on his arms, and willed his lower back to listen as he fought against his body to pull his hips up and back a little further down the flattened mattress, shuffling his body up a centimetre at the most.

With heavy breaths, he gave in to the weight and effort, relieving the pressure from his arms, and clattered his body back down against the bed, rattling the framework, with a guttural moan. His breaths came quicker as, a moment later, he gained purchase on the bars again and forced all his weight onto his hands again, trying to shuffle up the bed a little more, succeeding in only lifting his hips from the bed slightly whilst his legs lay limp and unresponsive, adding a downward weight and making his attempts all the more difficult.

His arms refused to hold the effort any longer, aching painfully, and gave out sending him back as his bum glittered against the mattress again, rocking the bed viciously. Exhausted, Sherlock tried to keep his aching back straight against the fatigue that claimed his shoulders and abdominal muscles but the pain was growing. With ragged breaths turning to tears, he tried to placate himself but found his erratic intakes of breath made it impossible. Sobbing, he called out for John.

"J-Jo-John," his tongue smudged against the top of his mouth in exhaustion. He needed to lie down, feeling dizzy and sick, hot and overwhelmed; feeling humiliated and feeble. His shoulders and back pained impossibly, not used to bearing his entire weight. Here, he realised through his tears, was where the learning began. "John!" he called out louder, teeth gritted.

The footsteps that approached were familiar but not John's and, as Sherlock looked up from his lap with watering eyes and his face red from exertion, his eyes fell on his older brother. Mycroft looked unseasonably different to the man he'd been in recent years, suited and well turned out. His blazer had been swapped for a round-neck jumper that sat over a shirt without a tie. His coat was over his arm but quickly abandoned into the chair beside the door. His shoes were noisy against the floor as he moved with haste to the bed.

"I-I…I can't…do it…" Sherlock's sobs were hideous. Dirty, loud, heavy and deep and as Mycroft's arm silently encased him, holding Sherlock's upper body against his own chest as he leaned over the bar of the bed, Sherlock inhaled deeply against the scent of his childhood and tried to grab roots on it, trying to ground himself, to stop his mind from spinning out of control, "I can't do it M-Mycroft."

Mycroft stayed silent, one hand behind Sherlock's back, the other reaching under the ruffled blankets to hook beneath his brother's limp legs. The crooks of Sherlock's knees were sweat-dampened and hot from his efforts. Almost cradling him, Mycroft shuffled Sherlock's body down and laid him flat against the mattress. He was clinical in his silence but loving in his touch as he ensured the tubes that graced Sherlock's legs were not disturbed as he pulled the blankets taught and neat before covering Sherlock to his hips. The younger Holmes' sobs calmed considerably, emanating as nothing more than deep, rumbling shudders in his tummy as Mycroft found the controls to lift the head of Sherlock's bed enough to sit him up whilst keeping his aching back supported.

As the bed glided smoothly into a sitting position, Mycroft hung the controls back on their convenient hook and lowered himself into the chair that had been John's bed the night before. Swallowing against his raw throat, Sherlock rubbed his wrist into his nose to clear it of his anguish and rested his head firm against the mattress, turning it to face Mycroft. "I just wanted to sit up." Mycroft remained silent, one leg crossed over the other and his hands steepled in an imitation of one of Sherlock's favoured positions, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair. "I feel pathetic." Sherlock shuddered on a tearless sob, "I just wanted to sit up," he tutted, rolling his head straight to stare at the wall ahead.

"Where is Doctor Watson?" Mycroft's voice was neither cold nor overly sentimental. This, Sherlock determined in an instant, was going to be Mycroft's way; keep calm and carry on, fix brother when brother sobs then pretended as though sobbing brother hadn't occurred.

"I don't know," Sherlock's jaw jutted stiffly.

Mycroft smirked from the right side of his mouth and lowered his hands, his elbows slipping out as he clasped his fingers in his lap, "Sent him away, then?"

"He's surplus."

"Surplus, really?" Mycroft resisted another smirk.

"No," Sherlock sighed, lulling his head back to look at his brother, his eyes wide and his cheeks glowing red like a teething toddler. He looked impossibly small, even compared to yesterday; so very small and very scared. "Of course not, I just snapped."

"He knows better than to argue with you, though; he's learning. Maybe one day he'll actually learn that with you, dear brother, that no actually means yes." Mycroft reached up with one hand, scratching the side of his nose.

"No," Sherlock challenged, "I say what I mean – I told him to go, to leave me alone and he did."

"And now you feel abandoned. You tried, the moment he left, to do something you know you are incapable of." Mycroft's voice was full of provocation and Sherlock glared at him. "Your legs are broken, brother, not your mouth. Answer me back, tell me to go." He challenged.

"No." Sherlock sighed angrily, "No, I don't – I don't want to be on my own, I don't like being here."

"And yet," Mycroft sighed nasally, "You sent away the one person who is willing to be here throughout everything, all out of temper. Dear me, Sherlock. Dear me," His usual manner with Sherlock was restored in a simple scathing look from Sherlock's icy eyes. "Have you spoken with a Doctor today?" Mycroft asked, he was aware that the hour was still early – barely even nine am – but it was a topic of conversation to ebb the silence.

Sherlock shook his head and sniffed up.

"Have you lost the ability to speak correctly in the same manner as your legs?" Mycroft realised he sounded callous to the outside, but to Sherlock he was simply honest. The boys had grown up this way; if it was true, it shouldn't hurt.

"No, Mycroft," Sherlock sighed, "The doctor was not been around to talk to me today, though I'm sure he'd talk at me then talk with John rather than actually treat me like an adult." Sherlock gave a deep sigh, toying with his hands in his lap. "Don't tell John," he said, without looking across at Mycroft.

"About what?" the older man's brows lifted up his hands arched again beneath his chin.

Blinking once and very slowly, Sherlock licked his lips. "Thank you."

My medical knowledge is limited but I want to thank Rasmus and Hannah for their help in supplying me with candid and well-explained info on all I've needed for this story. Whilst this chapter has been proof-read, there could still be one or two errors and I accept them as my own.


Date: 2015-12-18; view: 546


<== previous page | next page ==>
Thanks for reading! | Thanks for reading!
doclecture.net - lectures - 2014-2024 year. Copyright infringement or personal data (0.013 sec.)