Cemetery Road - Chapter 12
Title: Cemetery Road
Author:
revwestwood
Rating: Teen (Mild Violence, Medical Situations)
Status: WIP
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson
Spoilers: Through "The Reichenbach Fall"
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Just having a bit of fun.
Summary: "You think that their dying is the worst thing that could happen. Then they stay dead."
Sherlock returns to 221B to take out the last strands of Moriarty's web with John's help, but Sherlock underestimates just how far that web stretched. This time, Sherlock won't fall alone.
Author's Notes: Thanks to my friends who encouraged this whole process. I. owe. you.
Chapter 12
A tense silence encases the tiny waiting room as the hours pass. A plump nurse approaching retirement age comes in at one point, gently suggesting the trio head home for some rest. She promises to phone them as soon as John is permitted visitors. Sherlock shoots her his most withering glare and she shrugs, unfazed, returning a few minutes later with three small blankets.
Sherlock withdraws into himself again, staring at the floor. Mycroft becomes immersed in his BlackBerry, occasionally leaving the room to make or take a phone call. Lestrade eventually stops trying to draw either of them into conversation, crossing his arms over his chest and putting his head back to rest his eyes. Within moments he begins snoring softly.
It is after dawn when the plump nurse returns, keeping her voice low so as not to disturb Lestrade. “The doctors say he can have a brief visit,” she says. Sherlock and Mycroft both rise. “Just one person for now, I’m afraid. We need to keep the atmosphere calm for him, understand?” Her tone is both tender and commanding.
Mycroft nods and sits back down as Sherlock leaves with the nurse. He is about to return to his BlackBerry when Lestrade’s snore catches in his throat and he shifts against the coarse material of the sofa cushions. Mycroft regards him for a moment and then efficiently unfolds a blanket, draping it over the sleeping inspector before retaking the seat opposite him.
Sherlock follows the nurse through a series of double doors before she stops outside of room 33F. The door is covered with laminated signs. “Caution: Oxygen in Use” with a cartoon drawing of a cigarette igniting an explosion. “Caution: Patient PPO” with cartoon drawings of various food and beverages crossed out to indicate their forbidden nature. “Caution: Sterile Environment. Protective Gear Required” with a cartoon of a face mask and gloves.
The nurse points to a shelf just beside the door. “Dr. Watson is especially at risk for infection now. Anyone who enters the room must wear these.”
She pulls a pair of gloves from a box and indicates that Sherlock should do the same. She offers to help him with the disposable gown and Sherlock doesn’t object, merely turns around so she can tie up the back. She puts on a face mask and nods to the box. Sherlock awkwardly secures one behind his ears and nods back at the nurse to show her he is ready.
“I want to let you know what you will see when we get in there,” the nurse says, placing herself between the door and Sherlock. Sherlock tries to stifle an irritated sigh.
The nurse ignores that and continues, “Dr. Watson’s been placed in a medically induced coma. It’s the safest way to promote the healing he needs right now. You’ll see he has an IV in each arm, a chest tube, and he has been intubated.” Sherlock’s eyes widen at that. “A ventilator is helping him breathe. As long as he requires intubation he’ll be kept in the coma. It’s more comfortable for him that way.”
“But he will wake up?” Sherlock asks, voice slightly muffled through the mask.
“It’s impossible to say,” the nurse says sympathetically. “But he’s already pulled through this far. He seems strong.”
“He’s the strongest man I know,” says Sherlock without a hint of sentimentality.
The nurse gives him a small, reassuring smile, cheeks rising beneath her mask. “Ready?” she asks. Sherlock looks at the door, closes his eyes briefly, and nods again.
John looks impossibly small in the nest of tubes and wires. IV poles stand on either side of his bed, whole blood dripping into one arm and a clear liquid into the other. Two more bags are suspended from the middle of the bed: one to catch the fluid being drawn out of his chest by the thoracostomy tube, and the other for urine. Thick tape holds the tube coming from his mouth in place. The ventilator beside the bed labors steadily and noisily, nearly drowning out the myriad of beeps and blips coming from the heart monitor and the IV machines.
John’s eyes have been taped shut, and it is this detail that nearly pushes Sherlock into a frenzied rage of tearing the invading tubes and wires from him and killing with his bare hands anyone who dares to touch John again.
The nurse, checking John’s vitals and machine readouts while making notations in a chart, notices Sherlock’s breath growing ragged beneath his mask. She stops and stands next to him for a moment. She looks from Sherlock to John.
“He can still hear you, you know,” she says.
“What?”
“John can hear you. You should talk to him.”
Sherlock swallows hard. “The studies to which I assume you are referring suggesting that patients can hear and comprehend speech while in a comatose state rely on anecdotal evidence and are, therefore, flawed.” He swallows again. “Inconclusive at best.”
“Maybe,” the nurse agrees and walks to the door.
“But maybe he can hear you,” she says. “I’ll be back soon.”
Alone in the room, Sherlock skirts the bed cautiously, moving to the side opposite the noisy ventilator. There is a hard plastic chair in the corner and Sherlock pulls it closer to John’s bed, sinking into it slowly.
He watches John for several long minutes, willing there to be some movement, some sign that John is aware of his presence. There is only the artificially slow, steady rise and fall of John’s chest as the ventilator forces air into his lungs and out again.
“John,” Sherlock tries but it comes out as a thready whisper. He looks at his own tightly folded hands beneath his chin and clears his throat. He looks back up. “John,” he says again, and his voice is clearer, louder.
A deep breath.
“John, I think it’s only right you should know that I had Mycroft marry us.”
A pause.
“So, as your husband, I can override your idiotic advance directives. I will be making all of your health care and legal decisions from now on.”
A pause.
“I expect you’ll be very cross about this. So, you had best wake up and tell me off.”
Another pause. Sherlock looks at his hands again.
“Please, John.”
Sherlock unlaces his fingers and moves his left hand toward John, suddenly needing to feel for himself that his flesh is warm and living. His hand hovers over John’s, unsure how to touch him. The back of his hand is swollen and bruising from the surgical IV sites. Fat wads of gauze and tape cover two of the inserted needles. Sherlock settles for placing his hand beside John’s, their fingertips touching.
“Sometimes I think your life is a series of idiotic choices, John. Volunteering to go to war. Taking me as a flatmate. Becoming my friend. Everything you do seems to put you in death’s path.” Sherlock’s voice catches slightly. “Why do you have to be so noble? It doesn’t make any sense.”
Sherlock adjusts his hand, moving the pads of his fingertips to rest lightly on John’s fingernails.
“You should know that I’m sorry. For everything. I did what I had to do to keep you safe, causing you considerable pain in the process, and still... This can’t all have been for nothing. It can’t.”
Sherlock looks upward, tongue pressed between his teeth beneath his mask. “Please forgive me.”
He looks back to John’s face, obscured with tape and tubes. “Please forgive me, John, because I need you to stay. I don’t think I can do this without you. And even if I could find a way to manage alone, I don’t want to. Not again. Not anymore. So, I’m asking you to stay, John. Please. I’m asking even though being with me is undeniably dangerous. And I’m asking knowing that you will do it. You will stay. You always do as I ask.” He gives a sad chuckle. “You’re too loyal for your own good.”
Deciding it is finally safe to do so, Sherlock allows the tears to come, sliding down his cheeks and soaking into the seam of his face mask.
After allowing himself several minutes of this, he softly taps John’s fingertips with his own. “Good. I’m glad that’s settled.”
Sherlock turns his hand over and gently slides it, palm up, beneath John’s hand.
There.
Between their cupped palms there is the warmth he has been looking for.
Sherlock’s throat is too tight for more speaking. Instead, he looks at their hands and wills his breaths to be slow and deep, matching John’s.
Author:
revwestwood
Rating: Teen (Mild Violence, Medical Situations)
Status: WIP
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson
Spoilers: Through "The Reichenbach Fall"
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Just having a bit of fun.
Summary: "You think that their dying is the worst thing that could happen. Then they stay dead."
Sherlock returns to 221B to take out the last strands of Moriarty's web with John's help, but Sherlock underestimates just how far that web stretched. This time, Sherlock won't fall alone.
Author's Notes: Thanks to my friends who encouraged this whole process. I. owe. you.
Chapter 12
A tense silence encases the tiny waiting room as the hours pass. A plump nurse approaching retirement age comes in at one point, gently suggesting the trio head home for some rest. She promises to phone them as soon as John is permitted visitors. Sherlock shoots her his most withering glare and she shrugs, unfazed, returning a few minutes later with three small blankets.
Sherlock withdraws into himself again, staring at the floor. Mycroft becomes immersed in his BlackBerry, occasionally leaving the room to make or take a phone call. Lestrade eventually stops trying to draw either of them into conversation, crossing his arms over his chest and putting his head back to rest his eyes. Within moments he begins snoring softly.
It is after dawn when the plump nurse returns, keeping her voice low so as not to disturb Lestrade. “The doctors say he can have a brief visit,” she says. Sherlock and Mycroft both rise. “Just one person for now, I’m afraid. We need to keep the atmosphere calm for him, understand?” Her tone is both tender and commanding.
Mycroft nods and sits back down as Sherlock leaves with the nurse. He is about to return to his BlackBerry when Lestrade’s snore catches in his throat and he shifts against the coarse material of the sofa cushions. Mycroft regards him for a moment and then efficiently unfolds a blanket, draping it over the sleeping inspector before retaking the seat opposite him.
Sherlock follows the nurse through a series of double doors before she stops outside of room 33F. The door is covered with laminated signs. “Caution: Oxygen in Use” with a cartoon drawing of a cigarette igniting an explosion. “Caution: Patient PPO” with cartoon drawings of various food and beverages crossed out to indicate their forbidden nature. “Caution: Sterile Environment. Protective Gear Required” with a cartoon of a face mask and gloves.
The nurse points to a shelf just beside the door. “Dr. Watson is especially at risk for infection now. Anyone who enters the room must wear these.”
She pulls a pair of gloves from a box and indicates that Sherlock should do the same. She offers to help him with the disposable gown and Sherlock doesn’t object, merely turns around so she can tie up the back. She puts on a face mask and nods to the box. Sherlock awkwardly secures one behind his ears and nods back at the nurse to show her he is ready.
“I want to let you know what you will see when we get in there,” the nurse says, placing herself between the door and Sherlock. Sherlock tries to stifle an irritated sigh.
The nurse ignores that and continues, “Dr. Watson’s been placed in a medically induced coma. It’s the safest way to promote the healing he needs right now. You’ll see he has an IV in each arm, a chest tube, and he has been intubated.” Sherlock’s eyes widen at that. “A ventilator is helping him breathe. As long as he requires intubation he’ll be kept in the coma. It’s more comfortable for him that way.”
“But he will wake up?” Sherlock asks, voice slightly muffled through the mask.
“It’s impossible to say,” the nurse says sympathetically. “But he’s already pulled through this far. He seems strong.”
“He’s the strongest man I know,” says Sherlock without a hint of sentimentality.
The nurse gives him a small, reassuring smile, cheeks rising beneath her mask. “Ready?” she asks. Sherlock looks at the door, closes his eyes briefly, and nods again.
John looks impossibly small in the nest of tubes and wires. IV poles stand on either side of his bed, whole blood dripping into one arm and a clear liquid into the other. Two more bags are suspended from the middle of the bed: one to catch the fluid being drawn out of his chest by the thoracostomy tube, and the other for urine. Thick tape holds the tube coming from his mouth in place. The ventilator beside the bed labors steadily and noisily, nearly drowning out the myriad of beeps and blips coming from the heart monitor and the IV machines.
John’s eyes have been taped shut, and it is this detail that nearly pushes Sherlock into a frenzied rage of tearing the invading tubes and wires from him and killing with his bare hands anyone who dares to touch John again.
The nurse, checking John’s vitals and machine readouts while making notations in a chart, notices Sherlock’s breath growing ragged beneath his mask. She stops and stands next to him for a moment. She looks from Sherlock to John.
“He can still hear you, you know,” she says.
“What?”
“John can hear you. You should talk to him.”
Sherlock swallows hard. “The studies to which I assume you are referring suggesting that patients can hear and comprehend speech while in a comatose state rely on anecdotal evidence and are, therefore, flawed.” He swallows again. “Inconclusive at best.”
“Maybe,” the nurse agrees and walks to the door.
“But maybe he can hear you,” she says. “I’ll be back soon.”
Alone in the room, Sherlock skirts the bed cautiously, moving to the side opposite the noisy ventilator. There is a hard plastic chair in the corner and Sherlock pulls it closer to John’s bed, sinking into it slowly.
He watches John for several long minutes, willing there to be some movement, some sign that John is aware of his presence. There is only the artificially slow, steady rise and fall of John’s chest as the ventilator forces air into his lungs and out again.
“John,” Sherlock tries but it comes out as a thready whisper. He looks at his own tightly folded hands beneath his chin and clears his throat. He looks back up. “John,” he says again, and his voice is clearer, louder.
A deep breath.
“John, I think it’s only right you should know that I had Mycroft marry us.”
A pause.
“So, as your husband, I can override your idiotic advance directives. I will be making all of your health care and legal decisions from now on.”
A pause.
“I expect you’ll be very cross about this. So, you had best wake up and tell me off.”
Another pause. Sherlock looks at his hands again.
“Please, John.”
Sherlock unlaces his fingers and moves his left hand toward John, suddenly needing to feel for himself that his flesh is warm and living. His hand hovers over John’s, unsure how to touch him. The back of his hand is swollen and bruising from the surgical IV sites. Fat wads of gauze and tape cover two of the inserted needles. Sherlock settles for placing his hand beside John’s, their fingertips touching.
“Sometimes I think your life is a series of idiotic choices, John. Volunteering to go to war. Taking me as a flatmate. Becoming my friend. Everything you do seems to put you in death’s path.” Sherlock’s voice catches slightly. “Why do you have to be so noble? It doesn’t make any sense.”
Sherlock adjusts his hand, moving the pads of his fingertips to rest lightly on John’s fingernails.
“You should know that I’m sorry. For everything. I did what I had to do to keep you safe, causing you considerable pain in the process, and still... This can’t all have been for nothing. It can’t.”
Sherlock looks upward, tongue pressed between his teeth beneath his mask. “Please forgive me.”
He looks back to John’s face, obscured with tape and tubes. “Please forgive me, John, because I need you to stay. I don’t think I can do this without you. And even if I could find a way to manage alone, I don’t want to. Not again. Not anymore. So, I’m asking you to stay, John. Please. I’m asking even though being with me is undeniably dangerous. And I’m asking knowing that you will do it. You will stay. You always do as I ask.” He gives a sad chuckle. “You’re too loyal for your own good.”
Deciding it is finally safe to do so, Sherlock allows the tears to come, sliding down his cheeks and soaking into the seam of his face mask.
After allowing himself several minutes of this, he softly taps John’s fingertips with his own. “Good. I’m glad that’s settled.”
Sherlock turns his hand over and gently slides it, palm up, beneath John’s hand.
There.
Between their cupped palms there is the warmth he has been looking for.
Sherlock’s throat is too tight for more speaking. Instead, he looks at their hands and wills his breaths to be slow and deep, matching John’s.