And Vigil Keep (1/1)
Title: And Vigil Keep
Rating: PG-13
Spoiler Warning: minor ones for The Great Game (1x03)
Summary: It’s never quiet in a hospital.
Disclaimer: Other than being a fan, I have nothing to do with Sherlock. I’m not even British…
Author’s Notes: As always, my gratitude to my wonderful friends, cheerleaders, and beta-readers bluewillowtree and dkwrkm. This time around, greenie1980 and lizzlie generously volunteered to Brit-pick for a complete stranger. My appreciation also goes to to stfg and my little sister, both of whom received long, somewhat panicked, emails from me about all things medical. Any mistakes you may see are mine and mine alone.
This was written for the 2011 girlsavesboyfic
In.
It’s never quiet in a hospital.
Out.
John’s private room isn’t quiet, but it’s silent in all the ways that matter.
In.
Sarah knows that it’s her fatigue, but there is something mesmerizing in watching him breathe. She finds herself matching his slow breathing patterns, half on edge for the ventilator’s alarm. It’s been less than three days. In some ways, it feels like forever.
Her feet ache. Ever since - She’s kept herself busy. The surgery is short one doctor on maternity leave and three more on holiday, so it’s been all too easy to throw herself into charts and patients and people with normal worries and fears. She’s gone to work, gone home, tried to sleep, and repeated that cycle without really thinking. Sarah is stuck in limbo, and she is afraid of what her reaction will be when the fear and shock wear off.
Out.
She glances at the array of monitors and equipment by his bedside, seeing the information on the displays but not processing the data beyond “stable.” As John’s flatmate says, she sees but doesn’t observe. ‘Sod off,’ she tells the annoying, posh voice in her head. The last thing she needs after a long day is to deal with an overgrown child of five, even if it’s just an imaginary one in her head.
She doesn’t let herself acknowledge the twin accompaniment of anger and guilt: anger that, once again, Sherlock has dragged John into a dangerous situation; guilt that she’s angry with a man who is also in critical condition himself. If she lets herself feel, she’ll be useless tonight and tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that. She can’t. She doesn’t have time to fall apart.
In.
It’s been almost three days, and while the news could be worse, it could be better. Second and third degree burns. Broken bones. A collapsed lung. Internal bleeding. Moderate concussion. John will recover. It will be a long process, but he will survive his injuries. No thanks to his flatmate.
Trust Sherlock Holmes to chase the only mad bomber in London into a wired building. Trust John Watson to follow him without question.
No, that’s not completely fair to either man. John has his fair share of less than stellar qualities, but he calls, he always calls if a case interferes with their plans.
Three nights ago, he didn’t call, and that’s how she knew for sure something was wrong, even before she called the detective inspector John knows. While the authorities have plenty of questions about how either man ended up buried under tons of concrete rubble, the only ones she wants answers to are simple: what happened and will it happen again?
She doesn’t know how to characterize her connection with John. Anyone in their sane minds would have (politely) run screaming from the disastrous end of their first date. But not her. No, she has taken leave of the good sense her family expects of her and continues to associate with John as colleague and friend.
Out.
They have managed a few more dates-mostly working-lunches when they are least likely to be interrupted-that have been far more low-key than their ill-fated excursion to the circus.
She likes him. His general good humour, competence (when he isn’t falling asleep on the job), and charming personality are frankly appealing. There is also a wildness in him, a recklessness that should send her running for the hills, not standing her ground. Her life was fulfilling and stable long before she met John. She is not looking for excitement and danger. That is not (she hopes) the reason she is drawn to him. That’s not who she is. If she were an adrenaline junkie, she wouldn’t have taken a position with her surgery. Sarah wonders if she thinks that she can fix him, as if she could slap bandages on a haemorrhage and it would all be fine. John has issues he needs to sort out, whether he knows it or not, and there is only so much that she can do to help him.
She knows that he needs to be dealing with more than sniffles and broken bones. For goodness’ sake, he was a surgeon, in a war zone. He is a man who works, perhaps, best under pressure. He would be better off at an A&E than a surgery like hers. However, he first has to readjust, and somehow, she sees herself as part of that process. Sherlock might provide John with excitement and danger in his transition to civilian life, but she tries to be a connection to stability and normalcy (kidnap and assault on the first date notwithstanding) to draw him out of his military past.
Sarah has no doubts that regardless of how well adjusted to civilian life he becomes, John will always crave the adrenaline rush, and his loyalty will tie him to Sherlock. A matched pair, the two of them. She doesn’t yet know where she will stand in relation to the two men. If she is honest with herself, she’s not entirely sure she should be anything more to John than friend and colleague. Yet here she is, picking up the pieces.
In.
Sarah pulls herself to her feet and makes her way to the en suite lavatory. She is going to fall asleep if she doesn’t walk around a bit. She closes the door behind her. It doesn’t shut all the way, but she doesn’t care. This moment is as much a psychological break as it is a physical one.
She doesn’t look at her reflection in the mirror over the sink as she turns the faucet on. Sarah already knows that she looks exhausted. She splashes cold water on her face.
Another ten, fifteen minutes, and then she will go home and sleep.
Out.
In a minute, she will go back to his bedside and wait to see if there is any change. There won’t be, but she can hope.
In.
Sarah braces her hands on the sink, closes her eyes and lets herself breathe for the first time since a baby-faced Detective Inspector knocked on her door in the wee hours of the morning with the news. She forces herself to keep her breaths steady.
‘It’s going to be okay,’ she tells herself. ‘John is going to recover and be fine. Dr Watson isn’t going to be available for locum work in the foreseeable future, but John is alive and it’s going to be okay. It will all be fine.’ If she repeats it to herself enough times, it will be true. It’s an old trick of her father’s, and doesn’t always work to calm her down. This time, it does.
The tension drains from her neck and shoulders as her thoughts settle down into silence. She indulges in that peaceful moment, letting herself focus on nothing but her slow breathing. She doesn’t know how much time has passed when she opens her eyes. She reaches for a clean towel. Halfway through patting her face dry, Sarah freezes.
Something is wrong. She sees the worry lines form on her reflection in the mirror. Something isn’t right.
It’s too quiet. Someone has turned off his monitors, and most importantly, his ventilator. Even though John is only on assisted breathing mode, the machine filling in when his O2 sats are too low, he still needs the support. No responsible nurse would turn off the ventilator without explicit instructions from the attending doctor. She knows Lloyd Acheson by reputation, and has met him once as a colleague; he has never mentioned extubation prior to stable O2 sats, and John’s are anything but stable.
Sarah concentrates on the silence and hears the faint rustle of cloth in the other room. Only one person then, so it’s not a team of nurses, and it’s much too soon for anyone to make rounds again.
Cautiously, Sarah opens the loo door as quietly as she can and peeks into the larger room. A nurse with non-descript features has a syringe inserted into John’s IV line. Sarah has seen his chart; he’s not due for meds of any kind until midnight.
The nurse fiddles with the syringe, but Sarah doesn’t see any vials in her hands. With sickening suspicion, she knows the other woman is injecting air into the line. Scrubs or not, the woman is not a nurse.
The monitors are off, and the room door is closed. Even if the nurse call button is still functioning-and Sarah doubts it is-it won’t summon help in time. If she screams, will anyone hear? She already knows the answer. She has no choice.
Sarah yanks the door open and demands, “What are you doing?”
Startled, the assassin fumbles with the IV line before she drops the syringe.
Sarah takes two strides into the room. On the bedside table is an old-fashioned ceramic pitcher. It’s the only weapon at hand.
The sterile hospital light glints off the switchblade in the other woman’s hand as she closes the distance between them. Sarah has seen her share of knife wounds. The doctor knows she is a dead woman unless if she is very, very lucky.
There.
She dodges the lunge. The knife slashes her arm. The porcelain pitcher is as heavy as she remembers. She swings its hefty weight at the assassin’s face. The woman’s head snaps back at the blow. Sarah circles around behind the reeling woman, aims, and swings again. She can’t afford to be merciful.
If attacked in the right ways, the human body is delicate, fragile. A doctor learns how to protect, treat and heal those structures, but that same knowledge can be put to a very different use. Never underestimate the lengths one human being will go to in order to protect another. Sherlock Holmes is slowly learning this lesson; he’ll learn it again today from a woman he’s been prepared to dismiss as boring, because there is nothing boring about the human condition.
Sarah’s makeshift weapon slams into the back of the woman’s neck with a muted snap. She doesn’t care if she’s broken the cervical vertebrae. She aims lower on the spine, hoping to bruise the kidneys, or at least immobilize the assassin.
The door bursts open. Dark-suited men and women pour into the room, weapons drawn. Behind them is Acheson and his team of nurses. There are people in the corridor in frantic conversations. Somewhere, someone is sobbing in high-pitched terror. A small woman in a blood-splattered lab coat is escorted past the door.
Sarah stares at the suited security officers. The pitcher smashes on the floor. She brushes past the questions and darts to John’s bedside. ‘How long since this started?’ Sarah doesn’t know and she doesn’t care. She can’t afford to be distracted.
The room is flooded with too many people. Sarah ignores all of them in favour of her patient. She pushes her emotions back and down, throwing herself into her training. She can’t afford to fall apart right now.
“Possible poisoning or air embolism,” she says to the entering medical team, gently shifting John’s-her patient’s-body to his left side. “Get a sample of his blood down to the labs.”
“We’ve got him,” says one of the nurses as her colleagues flick on the monitors. The ventilator begins its familiar hiss and Sarah let herself be pulled away from the hospital bed. Acheson is an experienced trauma surgeon. John will be fine.
“Ms Sawyer-” The nameless assistant of Sherlock’s brother steps in the room. She is, for once, without her usual Blackberry; nonetheless, she seems untouched by the surrounding hurricane of activity. Sarah turns her attention to the other woman, but a flash of blue catches her eye.
Security officers have surrounded and disarmed the assassin. It is clear they intend to move her unconscious form without precautions. There is only one attending nurse, but she recognizes the older woman as Acheson’s chief nurse. The doctor in Sarah speaks up before they can do anything further.
“Don’t move her,” she says sharply, taking a step forward.
One of the officers puts a hand on Sarah’s shoulder, gently restraining her from getting closer to her attacker. The man says in warning, “Ms Sawyer-”
“What can you tell me?” The nurse doesn’t look away from the prone woman on the floor, but Sarah understands the question is addressed to her, professional to professional. She takes refuge in the offer to be more than an observer.
“Caucasian female in her early to mid-30s,” she replies, feeling oddly detached from the chaos in the room, “facial contusions, possible concussion, likely fracture of the C3 or C4 vertebrae, possible renal trauma.” It’s a list of injuries. She doesn’t let herself realize that it’s a list of injuries she’s inflicted on another human being. Not now. Not yet.
The chief nurse nods and begins issuing orders to her subordinates. With a firm tug on her arm, the suited agent redirects Sarah’s attention away from her would-be murderer.
“Ms Sawyer? Could you please come with me?”
For all the politeness in the personal assistant’s question, she isn’t given much choice in the matter. Two unfamiliar officers escort Sarah out of the private room and away from the chaotic scene. She knows what will happen next and steels herself to get through the next few hours with as much composure she can muster. She can get through this. After all, she has already survived the hardest part.
After the hubbub has died down-her patient stabilized, her injuries treated, her statement given-Sarah sinks back into her chair at John’s bedside. She covers his cool hand with her shaking fingers.
In.
She holds his hand and watches him breathe.
Out.
Hospitals are never quiet.
Rating: PG-13
Spoiler Warning: minor ones for The Great Game (1x03)
Summary: It’s never quiet in a hospital.
Disclaimer: Other than being a fan, I have nothing to do with Sherlock. I’m not even British…
Author’s Notes: As always, my gratitude to my wonderful friends, cheerleaders, and beta-readers bluewillowtree and dkwrkm. This time around, greenie1980 and lizzlie generously volunteered to Brit-pick for a complete stranger. My appreciation also goes to to stfg and my little sister, both of whom received long, somewhat panicked, emails from me about all things medical. Any mistakes you may see are mine and mine alone.
This was written for the 2011 girlsavesboyfic
In.
It’s never quiet in a hospital.
Out.
John’s private room isn’t quiet, but it’s silent in all the ways that matter.
In.
Sarah knows that it’s her fatigue, but there is something mesmerizing in watching him breathe. She finds herself matching his slow breathing patterns, half on edge for the ventilator’s alarm. It’s been less than three days. In some ways, it feels like forever.
Her feet ache. Ever since - She’s kept herself busy. The surgery is short one doctor on maternity leave and three more on holiday, so it’s been all too easy to throw herself into charts and patients and people with normal worries and fears. She’s gone to work, gone home, tried to sleep, and repeated that cycle without really thinking. Sarah is stuck in limbo, and she is afraid of what her reaction will be when the fear and shock wear off.
Out.
She glances at the array of monitors and equipment by his bedside, seeing the information on the displays but not processing the data beyond “stable.” As John’s flatmate says, she sees but doesn’t observe. ‘Sod off,’ she tells the annoying, posh voice in her head. The last thing she needs after a long day is to deal with an overgrown child of five, even if it’s just an imaginary one in her head.
She doesn’t let herself acknowledge the twin accompaniment of anger and guilt: anger that, once again, Sherlock has dragged John into a dangerous situation; guilt that she’s angry with a man who is also in critical condition himself. If she lets herself feel, she’ll be useless tonight and tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that. She can’t. She doesn’t have time to fall apart.
In.
It’s been almost three days, and while the news could be worse, it could be better. Second and third degree burns. Broken bones. A collapsed lung. Internal bleeding. Moderate concussion. John will recover. It will be a long process, but he will survive his injuries. No thanks to his flatmate.
Trust Sherlock Holmes to chase the only mad bomber in London into a wired building. Trust John Watson to follow him without question.
No, that’s not completely fair to either man. John has his fair share of less than stellar qualities, but he calls, he always calls if a case interferes with their plans.
Three nights ago, he didn’t call, and that’s how she knew for sure something was wrong, even before she called the detective inspector John knows. While the authorities have plenty of questions about how either man ended up buried under tons of concrete rubble, the only ones she wants answers to are simple: what happened and will it happen again?
She doesn’t know how to characterize her connection with John. Anyone in their sane minds would have (politely) run screaming from the disastrous end of their first date. But not her. No, she has taken leave of the good sense her family expects of her and continues to associate with John as colleague and friend.
Out.
They have managed a few more dates-mostly working-lunches when they are least likely to be interrupted-that have been far more low-key than their ill-fated excursion to the circus.
She likes him. His general good humour, competence (when he isn’t falling asleep on the job), and charming personality are frankly appealing. There is also a wildness in him, a recklessness that should send her running for the hills, not standing her ground. Her life was fulfilling and stable long before she met John. She is not looking for excitement and danger. That is not (she hopes) the reason she is drawn to him. That’s not who she is. If she were an adrenaline junkie, she wouldn’t have taken a position with her surgery. Sarah wonders if she thinks that she can fix him, as if she could slap bandages on a haemorrhage and it would all be fine. John has issues he needs to sort out, whether he knows it or not, and there is only so much that she can do to help him.
She knows that he needs to be dealing with more than sniffles and broken bones. For goodness’ sake, he was a surgeon, in a war zone. He is a man who works, perhaps, best under pressure. He would be better off at an A&E than a surgery like hers. However, he first has to readjust, and somehow, she sees herself as part of that process. Sherlock might provide John with excitement and danger in his transition to civilian life, but she tries to be a connection to stability and normalcy (kidnap and assault on the first date notwithstanding) to draw him out of his military past.
Sarah has no doubts that regardless of how well adjusted to civilian life he becomes, John will always crave the adrenaline rush, and his loyalty will tie him to Sherlock. A matched pair, the two of them. She doesn’t yet know where she will stand in relation to the two men. If she is honest with herself, she’s not entirely sure she should be anything more to John than friend and colleague. Yet here she is, picking up the pieces.
In.
Sarah pulls herself to her feet and makes her way to the en suite lavatory. She is going to fall asleep if she doesn’t walk around a bit. She closes the door behind her. It doesn’t shut all the way, but she doesn’t care. This moment is as much a psychological break as it is a physical one.
She doesn’t look at her reflection in the mirror over the sink as she turns the faucet on. Sarah already knows that she looks exhausted. She splashes cold water on her face.
Another ten, fifteen minutes, and then she will go home and sleep.
Out.
In a minute, she will go back to his bedside and wait to see if there is any change. There won’t be, but she can hope.
In.
Sarah braces her hands on the sink, closes her eyes and lets herself breathe for the first time since a baby-faced Detective Inspector knocked on her door in the wee hours of the morning with the news. She forces herself to keep her breaths steady.
‘It’s going to be okay,’ she tells herself. ‘John is going to recover and be fine. Dr Watson isn’t going to be available for locum work in the foreseeable future, but John is alive and it’s going to be okay. It will all be fine.’ If she repeats it to herself enough times, it will be true. It’s an old trick of her father’s, and doesn’t always work to calm her down. This time, it does.
The tension drains from her neck and shoulders as her thoughts settle down into silence. She indulges in that peaceful moment, letting herself focus on nothing but her slow breathing. She doesn’t know how much time has passed when she opens her eyes. She reaches for a clean towel. Halfway through patting her face dry, Sarah freezes.
Something is wrong. She sees the worry lines form on her reflection in the mirror. Something isn’t right.
It’s too quiet. Someone has turned off his monitors, and most importantly, his ventilator. Even though John is only on assisted breathing mode, the machine filling in when his O2 sats are too low, he still needs the support. No responsible nurse would turn off the ventilator without explicit instructions from the attending doctor. She knows Lloyd Acheson by reputation, and has met him once as a colleague; he has never mentioned extubation prior to stable O2 sats, and John’s are anything but stable.
Sarah concentrates on the silence and hears the faint rustle of cloth in the other room. Only one person then, so it’s not a team of nurses, and it’s much too soon for anyone to make rounds again.
Cautiously, Sarah opens the loo door as quietly as she can and peeks into the larger room. A nurse with non-descript features has a syringe inserted into John’s IV line. Sarah has seen his chart; he’s not due for meds of any kind until midnight.
The nurse fiddles with the syringe, but Sarah doesn’t see any vials in her hands. With sickening suspicion, she knows the other woman is injecting air into the line. Scrubs or not, the woman is not a nurse.
The monitors are off, and the room door is closed. Even if the nurse call button is still functioning-and Sarah doubts it is-it won’t summon help in time. If she screams, will anyone hear? She already knows the answer. She has no choice.
Sarah yanks the door open and demands, “What are you doing?”
Startled, the assassin fumbles with the IV line before she drops the syringe.
Sarah takes two strides into the room. On the bedside table is an old-fashioned ceramic pitcher. It’s the only weapon at hand.
The sterile hospital light glints off the switchblade in the other woman’s hand as she closes the distance between them. Sarah has seen her share of knife wounds. The doctor knows she is a dead woman unless if she is very, very lucky.
There.
She dodges the lunge. The knife slashes her arm. The porcelain pitcher is as heavy as she remembers. She swings its hefty weight at the assassin’s face. The woman’s head snaps back at the blow. Sarah circles around behind the reeling woman, aims, and swings again. She can’t afford to be merciful.
If attacked in the right ways, the human body is delicate, fragile. A doctor learns how to protect, treat and heal those structures, but that same knowledge can be put to a very different use. Never underestimate the lengths one human being will go to in order to protect another. Sherlock Holmes is slowly learning this lesson; he’ll learn it again today from a woman he’s been prepared to dismiss as boring, because there is nothing boring about the human condition.
Sarah’s makeshift weapon slams into the back of the woman’s neck with a muted snap. She doesn’t care if she’s broken the cervical vertebrae. She aims lower on the spine, hoping to bruise the kidneys, or at least immobilize the assassin.
The door bursts open. Dark-suited men and women pour into the room, weapons drawn. Behind them is Acheson and his team of nurses. There are people in the corridor in frantic conversations. Somewhere, someone is sobbing in high-pitched terror. A small woman in a blood-splattered lab coat is escorted past the door.
Sarah stares at the suited security officers. The pitcher smashes on the floor. She brushes past the questions and darts to John’s bedside. ‘How long since this started?’ Sarah doesn’t know and she doesn’t care. She can’t afford to be distracted.
The room is flooded with too many people. Sarah ignores all of them in favour of her patient. She pushes her emotions back and down, throwing herself into her training. She can’t afford to fall apart right now.
“Possible poisoning or air embolism,” she says to the entering medical team, gently shifting John’s-her patient’s-body to his left side. “Get a sample of his blood down to the labs.”
“We’ve got him,” says one of the nurses as her colleagues flick on the monitors. The ventilator begins its familiar hiss and Sarah let herself be pulled away from the hospital bed. Acheson is an experienced trauma surgeon. John will be fine.
“Ms Sawyer-” The nameless assistant of Sherlock’s brother steps in the room. She is, for once, without her usual Blackberry; nonetheless, she seems untouched by the surrounding hurricane of activity. Sarah turns her attention to the other woman, but a flash of blue catches her eye.
Security officers have surrounded and disarmed the assassin. It is clear they intend to move her unconscious form without precautions. There is only one attending nurse, but she recognizes the older woman as Acheson’s chief nurse. The doctor in Sarah speaks up before they can do anything further.
“Don’t move her,” she says sharply, taking a step forward.
One of the officers puts a hand on Sarah’s shoulder, gently restraining her from getting closer to her attacker. The man says in warning, “Ms Sawyer-”
“What can you tell me?” The nurse doesn’t look away from the prone woman on the floor, but Sarah understands the question is addressed to her, professional to professional. She takes refuge in the offer to be more than an observer.
“Caucasian female in her early to mid-30s,” she replies, feeling oddly detached from the chaos in the room, “facial contusions, possible concussion, likely fracture of the C3 or C4 vertebrae, possible renal trauma.” It’s a list of injuries. She doesn’t let herself realize that it’s a list of injuries she’s inflicted on another human being. Not now. Not yet.
The chief nurse nods and begins issuing orders to her subordinates. With a firm tug on her arm, the suited agent redirects Sarah’s attention away from her would-be murderer.
“Ms Sawyer? Could you please come with me?”
For all the politeness in the personal assistant’s question, she isn’t given much choice in the matter. Two unfamiliar officers escort Sarah out of the private room and away from the chaotic scene. She knows what will happen next and steels herself to get through the next few hours with as much composure she can muster. She can get through this. After all, she has already survived the hardest part.
After the hubbub has died down-her patient stabilized, her injuries treated, her statement given-Sarah sinks back into her chair at John’s bedside. She covers his cool hand with her shaking fingers.
In.
She holds his hand and watches him breathe.
Out.
Hospitals are never quiet.