(no subject)
Title: Trust Issues (4/9)
Series: BBC Sherlock
Word count: 1,696
Category: Angst, friendship (but you can certainly don your slash goggles if you wish)
Rating: G
Warning: None
Summary: A professional opinion and a visit to the surgery.
Beta: verityburns, who is made of awesome
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
John sat in the chill of the specialist’s waiting room, Sherlock’s medical records perched on his lap. Now that his condition was no longer a secret, it seemed the detective had swung in entirely the opposite direction: instead of wanting John to know nothing, he wanted him to know everything.
After the admission that not telling him what was going on had been an attempt to hold the reality of his situation at bay, John had performed a quick examination. Nothing special. Just heart rate, pupil dilation, blood pressure, and reflexes. With the exception of the heart rate, which was slightly elevated - and John attributed this to Sherlock’s agitation in the wake of the seizure -- everything appeared normal. Nonetheless, he had insisted Sherlock lie down, even if he wouldn’t go to sleep. The fact that the younger man didn’t fight him (beyond throwing out some half-hearted protestations that he was fine) gave John some indication of how rattled he must truly be. Now that John knew the truth, it was as though all the anxiety Sherlock had tamped down over the preceding weeks - through, as it turned out, an MRI and a CT scan and about half a dozen doctor’s visits - was finally bubbling to the surface.
A short, terse phone conversation, only snippets of which John had overhead drifting out from Sherlock’s bedroom, resulted in a courier arriving at 221B within the hour, Sherlock’s medical files in hand. Mycroft was nothing if not prompt, John considered.
Sherlock had been lying quietly in his room, though John heard him shift periodically and knew he was not sleeping. No sooner had the door shut behind the courier, however, than Sherlock appeared outside his bedroom door. John silently pointed a finger back in the direction of the room’s interior and, scowling, Sherlock complied. “I’m not sleeping,” he called out, sulkily, “And my head does not hurt.”
“And if that’s still the case in 30 minutes, you can come out,” John responded, carrying the thick sheath of papers into the sitting room. He set the folder on his chair, made himself a cup of tea, and settled in to read.
Thirty minutes later found John still in his chair, reading and scribbling notes as Sherlock paced before him, stopping now and again to flex his right hand, as if doing so might prevent it from betraying him again.
Finally, John muttered, “Are you planning on replacing the rug?”
“What?” Sherlock responded, puzzled.
“You’re wearing a trough in the damn thing, Sherlock. Look, isn’t there a body part you can experiment on or something? I can’t concentrate with you going back and forth like that.”
Sherlock plopped down into his own chair. “Haven’t you got enough data yet?” Sherlock asked, almost petulantly. “Walk me through it.”
“Surely your doctors have gone over this with you.”
“I want you to go over it with me, John. I want your opinion.”
“Okay,” John sighed and straightened the papers on his lap, pulling his notes to the fore. “You have what’s called a low-grade astrocytoma in the left hemisphere of your frontal lobe. Specifically, a grade 2. The left hemisphere controls voluntary motor movements on the right side of the body in all right-handed people and some left-handed people. You are right-handed, so…”
“The tremors are happening on my right side. Go on.”
“Tumours in this area of the brain can affect behavior, speech, writing, and…” John paused, “intellectual functioning.” He refused to sugar coat this. Sherlock needed to understand how important it was that he agree to the surgery. He needed to understand that if the tumour continued to grow, then the small chance that the procedure might do some harm along with the good would be moot. The tumour would rob him of his faculties and, eventually, it might be too large or entwined with his brain’s blood supply to effectively remove.
He ploughed on, “It can also affect smell, which I see you’ve experienced some loss of, and it would, obviously, also be causing the ringing in your ears.” He decided to skip the fact that Mycroft had already informed him of these symptoms.
“On the up side…”
“There’s an up side?” Sherlock interrupted, his tone sardonic.
“Yes, actually, there is,” John replied evenly. “Low-grade astrocytomas are generally well contained and they’re slow growing. Even better, they rarely metasticize. But -- and I want you to listen to me very carefully, Sherlock - they do grow and they can take up a lot of room. That head of yours may be quite unnaturally large, but eventually, even you will run out of space. When you do, all of the things you fear about having this surgery will begin to happen. Loss of cognitive ability, serious memory impairment, coordination problems. And if this little astrocytoma has opted to spread out in a messy fashion, not even surgery is likely to help you.”
He held Sherlock’s gaze, willing the stubborn, brilliant man across from him to fully comprehend him, not just on a cognitive level but on the gut level necessary to convince him of what needed to happen.
“What is your professional recommendation, John?” Sherlock asked, finally.
“I think I’ve made that pretty clear.”
“Perhaps. But I want to hear you say it out loud.”
John drew in a deep breath. “It is my professional opinion, speaking as a general practitioner and not a brain surgeon, you understand…
“Of course.”
“… that you should have the operation. The risks of impairment are there, true. But they are minimal and, without surgery, I believe that impairment would happen anyway. Possibly later rather than sooner, but eventually, it would happen.”
The two men sat across from each other, eyes fixed upon the other. John really wasn’t sure what to expect. Was he about to have a battle on his hands or would Sherlock see reason?
“If you think that surgery is my best option, John, then I will have the surgery.” And with that, Sherlock rose from his chair and headed toward his room.
John, momentarily stunned, suddenly remembered to check his watch. “Take your pill,” he said. “They’re on the kitchen counter.”
Sherlock detoured into the kitchen without hesitation. “Yes, Doctor,” he intoned, a hint of amusement colouring his voice.
John pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. This was going to be a ride, he thought, sinking back into the cushions of his chair to the sound of a rattling pill bottle and the whoosh of the sink tap.
Now, two days later… What day was it? Wednesday? John had to stop and think. Yes, two days later, he was seated in the doctor’s office waiting for Sherlock to emerge from the examination room. He hadn’t planned on accompanying Sherlock. Sherlock hadn’t planned on it, either. But Mycroft was taking no chances. Either John tagged along on the office visit, the elder Holmes had threatened, or he would.
And so John sat and fidgeted. He’d already re-read several parts of Sherlock’s files. He knew them as well as the specialist by this point he’d wager. The receptionist, a young woman with bleached hair and overplucked brows, looked at him sympathetically, “I’m sure it won’t be much longer, sir,” she said.
John nodded in response and smiled, but said nothing.
The woman’s comment proved prescient, however, as a moment later, John recognized the long, swift stride of his friend coming down the hallway just around the corner from him. There was another set of footsteps as well and John stood up, tucking the medical records neatly under his arm in time to greet Sherlock and a small, trim man of approximately 60.
The older man immediately put out his hand and John instinctively took it. “Doctor Watson,” he said, stating John’s name as a declarative rather than a question. “A pleasure to meet you. I’m Doctor Macmillan. I’ll be performing Mr. Holmes’ surgery.”
The grasp was firm and strong, and even though he knew logically that the man’s handshake was no indication of his skill as a surgeon, John was nonetheless reassured.
“I’ve been informed by Mr. Holmes’ brother that you are to receive copies of all of his records. If you’ll be kind enough to wait a moment, I will have Judith make copies of today’s appointment notes for you. Please feel free to call the office if you have any questions.” John was dumbfounded and not a little embarrassed. He could only imagine how odd this must seem to the man. To say that a surgeon at his level of practice might understandably balk at such a request would be an understatement. He was surprised the man was handling Mycroft’s edict with such equanimity.
“I will see you on Saturday, gentlemen,” Doctor Macmillan said and walked toward the blonde woman behind the desk. He spoke with her briefly, handed over a folder, and then headed back toward the hallway from which he and Sherlock had emerged a few moments before, turning to raise his hand briefly in parting.
“That was…”
“Boring?” Sherlock offered.
“I was going to go with unusual,” John replied.
“Hmmm. Suit yourself.”
A few minutes later, Judith approached and handed John several sheets of paper neatly folded in thirds. “Have a nice day,” she said and smiled.
Sherlock ignored her and walked away. “Yes,” John said, remembering at least how to be polite, despite his lingering surprise, “Yes, you as well.”
Something about what Doctor Macmillian had said was bothering him but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Finally, as Sherlock hailed a cab outside the surgery, it hit him.
“Saturday? You’re having the surgery on Saturday? No one performs surgeries on Saturday.”
Sherlock smirked. “Mycroft gave him a choice. He could cut me open on Saturday or make his tee time on the golf course.”
“And?” John said, knowing that was not the whole of it.
“And lose his medical license.” Sherlock responded, disappearing into the cab that had pulled up alongside them.
John shook his head, marveling at the audacity of Mycroft Holmes, and followed Sherlock into the vehicle.
Series: BBC Sherlock
Word count: 1,696
Category: Angst, friendship (but you can certainly don your slash goggles if you wish)
Rating: G
Warning: None
Summary: A professional opinion and a visit to the surgery.
Beta: verityburns, who is made of awesome
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
John sat in the chill of the specialist’s waiting room, Sherlock’s medical records perched on his lap. Now that his condition was no longer a secret, it seemed the detective had swung in entirely the opposite direction: instead of wanting John to know nothing, he wanted him to know everything.
After the admission that not telling him what was going on had been an attempt to hold the reality of his situation at bay, John had performed a quick examination. Nothing special. Just heart rate, pupil dilation, blood pressure, and reflexes. With the exception of the heart rate, which was slightly elevated - and John attributed this to Sherlock’s agitation in the wake of the seizure -- everything appeared normal. Nonetheless, he had insisted Sherlock lie down, even if he wouldn’t go to sleep. The fact that the younger man didn’t fight him (beyond throwing out some half-hearted protestations that he was fine) gave John some indication of how rattled he must truly be. Now that John knew the truth, it was as though all the anxiety Sherlock had tamped down over the preceding weeks - through, as it turned out, an MRI and a CT scan and about half a dozen doctor’s visits - was finally bubbling to the surface.
A short, terse phone conversation, only snippets of which John had overhead drifting out from Sherlock’s bedroom, resulted in a courier arriving at 221B within the hour, Sherlock’s medical files in hand. Mycroft was nothing if not prompt, John considered.
Sherlock had been lying quietly in his room, though John heard him shift periodically and knew he was not sleeping. No sooner had the door shut behind the courier, however, than Sherlock appeared outside his bedroom door. John silently pointed a finger back in the direction of the room’s interior and, scowling, Sherlock complied. “I’m not sleeping,” he called out, sulkily, “And my head does not hurt.”
“And if that’s still the case in 30 minutes, you can come out,” John responded, carrying the thick sheath of papers into the sitting room. He set the folder on his chair, made himself a cup of tea, and settled in to read.
Thirty minutes later found John still in his chair, reading and scribbling notes as Sherlock paced before him, stopping now and again to flex his right hand, as if doing so might prevent it from betraying him again.
Finally, John muttered, “Are you planning on replacing the rug?”
“What?” Sherlock responded, puzzled.
“You’re wearing a trough in the damn thing, Sherlock. Look, isn’t there a body part you can experiment on or something? I can’t concentrate with you going back and forth like that.”
Sherlock plopped down into his own chair. “Haven’t you got enough data yet?” Sherlock asked, almost petulantly. “Walk me through it.”
“Surely your doctors have gone over this with you.”
“I want you to go over it with me, John. I want your opinion.”
“Okay,” John sighed and straightened the papers on his lap, pulling his notes to the fore. “You have what’s called a low-grade astrocytoma in the left hemisphere of your frontal lobe. Specifically, a grade 2. The left hemisphere controls voluntary motor movements on the right side of the body in all right-handed people and some left-handed people. You are right-handed, so…”
“The tremors are happening on my right side. Go on.”
“Tumours in this area of the brain can affect behavior, speech, writing, and…” John paused, “intellectual functioning.” He refused to sugar coat this. Sherlock needed to understand how important it was that he agree to the surgery. He needed to understand that if the tumour continued to grow, then the small chance that the procedure might do some harm along with the good would be moot. The tumour would rob him of his faculties and, eventually, it might be too large or entwined with his brain’s blood supply to effectively remove.
He ploughed on, “It can also affect smell, which I see you’ve experienced some loss of, and it would, obviously, also be causing the ringing in your ears.” He decided to skip the fact that Mycroft had already informed him of these symptoms.
“On the up side…”
“There’s an up side?” Sherlock interrupted, his tone sardonic.
“Yes, actually, there is,” John replied evenly. “Low-grade astrocytomas are generally well contained and they’re slow growing. Even better, they rarely metasticize. But -- and I want you to listen to me very carefully, Sherlock - they do grow and they can take up a lot of room. That head of yours may be quite unnaturally large, but eventually, even you will run out of space. When you do, all of the things you fear about having this surgery will begin to happen. Loss of cognitive ability, serious memory impairment, coordination problems. And if this little astrocytoma has opted to spread out in a messy fashion, not even surgery is likely to help you.”
He held Sherlock’s gaze, willing the stubborn, brilliant man across from him to fully comprehend him, not just on a cognitive level but on the gut level necessary to convince him of what needed to happen.
“What is your professional recommendation, John?” Sherlock asked, finally.
“I think I’ve made that pretty clear.”
“Perhaps. But I want to hear you say it out loud.”
John drew in a deep breath. “It is my professional opinion, speaking as a general practitioner and not a brain surgeon, you understand…
“Of course.”
“… that you should have the operation. The risks of impairment are there, true. But they are minimal and, without surgery, I believe that impairment would happen anyway. Possibly later rather than sooner, but eventually, it would happen.”
The two men sat across from each other, eyes fixed upon the other. John really wasn’t sure what to expect. Was he about to have a battle on his hands or would Sherlock see reason?
“If you think that surgery is my best option, John, then I will have the surgery.” And with that, Sherlock rose from his chair and headed toward his room.
John, momentarily stunned, suddenly remembered to check his watch. “Take your pill,” he said. “They’re on the kitchen counter.”
Sherlock detoured into the kitchen without hesitation. “Yes, Doctor,” he intoned, a hint of amusement colouring his voice.
John pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. This was going to be a ride, he thought, sinking back into the cushions of his chair to the sound of a rattling pill bottle and the whoosh of the sink tap.
Now, two days later… What day was it? Wednesday? John had to stop and think. Yes, two days later, he was seated in the doctor’s office waiting for Sherlock to emerge from the examination room. He hadn’t planned on accompanying Sherlock. Sherlock hadn’t planned on it, either. But Mycroft was taking no chances. Either John tagged along on the office visit, the elder Holmes had threatened, or he would.
And so John sat and fidgeted. He’d already re-read several parts of Sherlock’s files. He knew them as well as the specialist by this point he’d wager. The receptionist, a young woman with bleached hair and overplucked brows, looked at him sympathetically, “I’m sure it won’t be much longer, sir,” she said.
John nodded in response and smiled, but said nothing.
The woman’s comment proved prescient, however, as a moment later, John recognized the long, swift stride of his friend coming down the hallway just around the corner from him. There was another set of footsteps as well and John stood up, tucking the medical records neatly under his arm in time to greet Sherlock and a small, trim man of approximately 60.
The older man immediately put out his hand and John instinctively took it. “Doctor Watson,” he said, stating John’s name as a declarative rather than a question. “A pleasure to meet you. I’m Doctor Macmillan. I’ll be performing Mr. Holmes’ surgery.”
The grasp was firm and strong, and even though he knew logically that the man’s handshake was no indication of his skill as a surgeon, John was nonetheless reassured.
“I’ve been informed by Mr. Holmes’ brother that you are to receive copies of all of his records. If you’ll be kind enough to wait a moment, I will have Judith make copies of today’s appointment notes for you. Please feel free to call the office if you have any questions.” John was dumbfounded and not a little embarrassed. He could only imagine how odd this must seem to the man. To say that a surgeon at his level of practice might understandably balk at such a request would be an understatement. He was surprised the man was handling Mycroft’s edict with such equanimity.
“I will see you on Saturday, gentlemen,” Doctor Macmillan said and walked toward the blonde woman behind the desk. He spoke with her briefly, handed over a folder, and then headed back toward the hallway from which he and Sherlock had emerged a few moments before, turning to raise his hand briefly in parting.
“That was…”
“Boring?” Sherlock offered.
“I was going to go with unusual,” John replied.
“Hmmm. Suit yourself.”
A few minutes later, Judith approached and handed John several sheets of paper neatly folded in thirds. “Have a nice day,” she said and smiled.
Sherlock ignored her and walked away. “Yes,” John said, remembering at least how to be polite, despite his lingering surprise, “Yes, you as well.”
Something about what Doctor Macmillian had said was bothering him but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Finally, as Sherlock hailed a cab outside the surgery, it hit him.
“Saturday? You’re having the surgery on Saturday? No one performs surgeries on Saturday.”
Sherlock smirked. “Mycroft gave him a choice. He could cut me open on Saturday or make his tee time on the golf course.”
“And?” John said, knowing that was not the whole of it.
“And lose his medical license.” Sherlock responded, disappearing into the cab that had pulled up alongside them.
John shook his head, marveling at the audacity of Mycroft Holmes, and followed Sherlock into the vehicle.