Chapter Text
Lestrade was true to his word, though he got John back to the hospital in time for rounds he also forced the man to take a shower, eat two slices of toast and drink a cup of tea before allowing him to leave Baker Street. Mrs Hudson had also packed the doctor up with food and insisted he eat later and told him she’d know if he didn’t.
The inspector felt the doctors nervous energy on their way in, and by the time they arrived at the ICU room the blogger was practically shaking. Lestrade promised to hang around for a few hours prior to heading into the office, he still had a pile of paperwork to deal with but at least he could email and run things from his phone somewhat.
Sherlock was exactly as they had left him. Eyes gently closed in a slumber. John pulled the file from the bottom of his bed. He cast his own eyes over the monitors happy with the numbers before studying the notes from the nurses overnight. By the seems of it the detective had remained stable during the time he had been away but John notes one period at around 3am when the detectives heart rate and blood pressure had spiked and saturation’s dipped. He would be sure to ask about this.
It was over another hour before the doctors and nurses made their way into the room. There had been two new admissions into the ICU department overnight, keeping the team busy.
The clinician took the lead with the handover. “This is Mr Holmes, he’s a 38 year old male who over two days ago ingested tetrodotoxin which is a powerful neurotoxin. The main effects being paralysis of the respiratory muscles causing apnoea. Thankfully Mr Holmes was in good company here with his friend Doctor Watson.” The Doctor motioned to John and he stood up.
“The good doctor here kept his friend well ventilated throughout and thankfully did not ingest any for himself. Mr Holmes suffered severe convulsions and several gran mal seizures but these were largely controlled with lorazepam. Unfortunately he seems to have suffered some aspiration pneumonia and a nasty laceration to the tongue, likely from both the seizures and sialorrhea which both are known effects of the toxin. He was induced into a coma for 24 hours but took over 12 hours to wake once sedation was withdrawn and was highly disoriented and combative. He was woken a second time and was apparently much calmer, however has not responded verbally as of yet.”
“EEG?” a young doctor asked eagerly.
“It was performed and there was normal brain activity detected. Mr Watson here had an emergency MRI performed last night, but no abnormalities were seen intracranially or C spine. His GCS remains at 10 for the time being.”
“He had a spike in readings overnight.” John pointed at the relevant paperwork.
“Yes the nurse mentioned it to me. It was when they were rolling him during the night. He cried out but there were no comprehensive words said, just reflexive to pain stimulus I suspect.”
The blogger ground his teeth a little. Annoyed by the flippant disregard for the only response his friend had made in the last 12 hours.
“Today’s plan for Mr Holmes is continued monitoring. We need to perform another full neurological examination today. We need to establish if he has a swallow reflex, we may need to consider the placement of a nasogastric tube should we be unable to provide nutrition orally.”
John wanted to be sick. This was not supposed to be happening. His friend was meant to wake up and tell him he was being dull and that he wanted home right now. He was not supposed to wake and need more support. He watched as the doctors finished their general conversation and moved on to the next room along.
“John?” Lestrade stepped forward, almost feeling the tension in the bloggers body.
“I need to give him a full physical exam, they’re missing something.” He replied abruptly.
“Are you sure that’s necessary mate? I mean Sherlocks had an entire emergency team work on him and now the ICU nurses and doctors. Surely he’s had enough poking and prodding.”
John bowed his head and resignation, but after a pause spoke, “something isn’t right Greg, I need to give him a once over. Will you help me?”
Lestrade looked perplexed. “How could I possibly help?” with no medical training the inspector looked near panicked with a slight hint of embarrassment mixed in. Seeing Sherlock hospitalised was one thing, helping John physically check him over was another.
The doctors mouth quirked up one side in slight amusement, “to move him for me if needed and hold things, don’t panic.”
“Well, I’m glad that’s cleared things up.” Greg laughed, “I thought, well, you know…” he cleared his throat and placed his phone into his pocket. “what do you need me to do?”
“Nothing right now.” John rummaged in his bag, retrieving a stethoscope began to examine his best friend.
Lestrade sat patiently and watched the man at work, remembering just how much of an amazing doctor John really was. Many a night the inspector had seen John in his element, providing first aid and in some cases life saving care on both civilians, colleagues, Sherlock and several times himself. The odd injury was a given, it was part of the job, but it felt like this had increased 10 fold since the detective had joined them, and it hadn’t gone unnoticed amongst the seniors either.
The doctor listened to the detective’s chest intently, so long so that the inspector wondered exactly what information his was gaining from the noise in his ears. He moved the bell around the man’s chest, his back. He finished up on his heart whilst simultaneously checking Sherlock’s pulse on his neck his wrist and then after this reaching down to check a pulse on both of his feet.
By now Sherlock’s eyes had cracked open, but they stared directly ahead with no recognition for what John was doing whatsoever.
The doctor pulled a pen torch out, gently shining it into and out or each eye.
“Sherlock.” He said firmly. “Can you blink for me?”
No response.
“Sherlock, can you open your mouth?”
Nothing.
“I know you’re in there somewhere.” John sighed. “But where are you?”
The doctor gently prized an eyelid down to check his friends’ conjunctival colour, he then set about to feeling around his flat mate’s head, checking for lumps and bumps and bruises. Despite a clear MRI and CT, he wanted to double check.
He gently felt down his friend’s neck and down his shoulders.
That’s when a small moan escaped the detectives slightly parted dry lips and John’s posture changed.
“Sherlock?”
The doctor peered at the monitors to find that his friend’s pulse had risen significantly, he pressed the machine to take a blood pressure reading, waiting patiently for it to complete. It too, was higher than the previous.
“What’s happening John?” Lestrade asked intently aware of John’s concern.
“Pain.” Was all the doctor replied with before slowly feeling his friend’s neck, one shoulder, then….
A more convincing vocal response this time as John felt around the detective’s left shoulder, and the man’s entire body jolted as he gently probed it.
“Shit.”
“What?”
“I think its dislocated.” John bit his lip. “How could I have missed this.”
The walls shook violently, so much so that Sherlock was shaken from his feet. He landed haphazardly on the cold floor. It was evident enough now that his coat was gone and he was wearing the thinnest shirt possible, his teeth began to chatter from the chill.
“You know he’s only helping you, right?” Molly again.
Through blurred vision the detective looked up to her. Her hair was messy and unkempt, and she almost looked years older than earlier. Her arms were folded in annoyance.
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but nothing came forth, his throat was raw and throbbed with white hot pain.
“Do you think he’ll ever speak again?” This time it was Anderson. Dressed in his full suit for forensic work, gloves and masks included. “I mean, a mute detective is quite a feat but I’m sure he could pull it off.”
Sherlocks brows furrowed deeply. He pulled his hands into fists and growled. Yet still silence ensued.
The building shook again, this time mortar cracking from the walls, large pieces crumbling and falling around him, mixing with the already broken shards of glass. He lowered himself further to frozen floor, strapping his hands protectively over his head and rolling inwardly.
"You really have created quite a mess in here, are you not ready to return yet brother?”
The detective wanted to scream, he wanted them to all leave him be, stop taunting him, berating him. He pulled a fist back and slammed it into the floor. This seemed to do nothing but make the entire place quake further.
A white-hot noise pierced his ears and he fell forwards, darkness engulfing his vision. His whole body rippled with agony, when will this pain end?
John paced back and forth like a caged beast outside Sherlocks room. There was a small gathering of there as they had been shooed out by the radiographer inside taking xrays of the detectives shoulder. Greg stood on the opposite wall, more than a little edgy about John’s behaviour. He knew telling the man to calm was the least he needed right now but the doctor was going to have another ‘episode’ like back in the emergency department if he was not careful.
As if on que a text pinged up on the screen of his phone. ‘It will be taken care of’ was all it read. Lestrade smiled sadly before following the team back into Sherlocks room.
He was last in and most of the staff were gathered around a small computer screen assessing the images which had just been taken, if anything John was even angrier.
“How could I have missed this?” John was near shouting, “How could they have missed this?” he pointed.
“John, I think you’ll agree Sherlock is doing us no favours by giving us very little to go on here, don’t beat yourself up about it. What matters is we’ve found it now and it can be treated.”
“Shoulders out of place for too long can cause lasting long-term damage, he may never fully recover.”
Lestrade wanted to say he may yet not fully recover from the poisoning but this thought only threatened to crumble his own emotional wall he seemed to have built. Sherlock would recover, he said to himself. He couldn’t not, could he?
Before the inspector could speak he noted John was by the screen taking a closer look at the radiographs which had been taken. The imaging technician spoke briefly.
“It looks like a simple anterior luxation of the joint.” She pointed to the screen and flicked it to another view. “I will send this to orthopaedics but I suspect it will be a simple closed reduction providing the muscles haven’t contracted too much.” She began clicking on pages of the computer, clearly sending the images off here and there before clearing the machine away.
“Is that a good thing?” Greg had little understanding of what had just been spoken.
“It means if we’re lucky we can get the shoulder back in without the need for surgery.” John ground out, clearly struggling to hold his nerve. “But if it’s been too long or he’s injured the joint badly or more than a couple of times before, the muscles, ligaments and tendons around the joint can sometimes cause issues.”
Lestrade took a long a deep inhale before trying to remain calm. “Let’s take five eh?” he asked gently.
John shot him an angry glare.
“The specialists won’t be down immediately, let’s get some fresh air at least, maybe a coffee. I need to head back to the office soon for a little bit, but I will be back later.”
After what seemed like a forever pause the doctor relented somewhat, finally saying “Got any fags?”
Lestrade side eyed him before replying. “I might do.”
They both then silently and mutually retreated toward the exit, both in need of a nicotine fix. Minutes later they were in the courtyard close to the main entrance and Greg pulled out a small box of cigarettes.
“You don’t smoke.” He said, pulling one out and placing it between his lips.
“No I don’t.” John mused, taking one from the box and mirroring the inspector’s own actions before perching on the edge of a nearby bench.
“Actually, let me us grab a coffee,” Greg placed his cigarette behind his ear offering the lighter up to the doctor. He darted back to the building.
Momentarily later he returned, and John had near finished his smoke.
“Steady on mate.” Lestrade nodded to the burning stick, “don’t you start chain smoking those things.”
John held up the small item, inspecting its glowing end with interest and lifting an eyebrow. “I never knew the obsession with smoking.” He took a lungful in, gently allowing it to exhale. “I guess I understand more now.”
“We all need something to deal with the misery of existing on this good green earth.”
John’s eyebrow raised higher, “what made you such a philosophical prick all of a sudden?” He chuckled.
Lestrade handed over the cardboard cup of steaming coffee with a smirk, and the blogger placed it down to allow it to cool at least a little prior to guzzling it down.
“Seen too much horror John.” He placed the fag in his mouth and lit it. “People leave the force often enough from it, tired of the mirid of abuse, long hours or picking up body parts off the motorway.”
John snorted. “At least you have parts to pick up, try telling a mother her son was blown up in a mine but there are no remains for her to grieve over.”
“Touché”
Both were silenced then from pondering the images of horror both had dealt with in life.
“He’ll be alright.” Lestrade finally broke the silence, taking a long sip of his flat white.
“Will he?” John didn’t look up. He ground the finished cigarette into the pavement with his shoe, perhaps a little more than necessary. “He was poisoned with a neurotoxin, starved of oxygen for several minute, suffered multiple seizures, has pneumonia, been comatose for days and now mute.” He shook his head, pulling the coffee up to his lips, “now he’s got a fucking dislocated shoulder to be put back in.”
“He’s Sherlock,” was all Lestrade could reply, “nothing stops that idiot in his tracks.”
“So far.” John screwed his nose up at the drink. “Is this decaf?”
“Yeah.” The inspector gulped back his own warm liquid. “I don’t think excess caffeine was going to do you any good right now.”
“Don’t tell me what I do and don’t need.” A wave of anger rose then fell in the bloggers voice.
“Alright.” Greg sighed. “Next time get your own bloody drink.”
“Sorry.” John held his head, “I didn’t mean to speak so angrily. I just…” he paused. “I’m worried about him I guess.” He admitted finally.
“Aren’t we all.” Lestrade gently patted the shorter man on the back. “He might be an utter cock sometimes, but we all need Sherlock Holmes in our lives.”
“Agreed.” The doctor took another mouthful of coffee reluctantly.
There was another long silence between them as they simultaneously drank, nothing but the sound of the nearby city and bustle of people could be heard. The sky had greyed over considerably in the few minutes they sat there, threatening incoming rain. Britain’s favourite go to weather, grey skies and drizzle.
John grimaced as he down the final drabs of his coffee. “Really Greg, next time just get me caffeinated or nothing, this is bloody awful.” He stood slightly unsteadily and placed the cup int the bin a couple of steps away. He gulped. “What was in it, arsenic?”
The inspector stilled, before finishing his own drink.
“Greg?” John looked perplexed before a moment of realisation crossed his face. “What the fuck was in the coffee?”
Greg looked up sadly, “I don’t know.” Was all he said, “but whatever it is, is for your own good.”
“Mycroft needs to keep his big nose out of my business before I break it.” The doctors voice angered again, and he pulled a tight fist in his hand. “One minute he’s congratulating me on saving his little brother’s life, the next minute he wants me out the picture. Which is it?” he swayed slightly before taking off towards the main entrance.
“John!”
Lestrade dumped his own rubbish in the bin before rushing to catch up.
“John please calm down. This is why we’re worried about you. If you can’t calm down you’re going to give yourself a bloody stroke or something.”
“Fuck off!” he bellowed. Stumbling on and into the building.
Despite the bloggers uncoordinated feet, the inspector actually near struggled to keep up with his pace as he took to the stairs up to the second floor.
“John..”
“You don’t know me Greg.” The doctor interjected. “You don’t know what I am capable of.”
“I know all too well your capable of John Watson. A bullet through the chest of a serial killer cabbie through the small open window in a separate building told me enough.”
“He killed three people.” John stopped on the landing for a second, catching his breath before opening the door to the hospital corridor.
“What about the young robber who you reprimanded with the help of your bullets?”
“Don’t fucking push me!” John swung around, grabbing the inspector shirt in his fist, “you don’t want to try my patience Greg.”
The doctor’s eyes glazed slightly then and he stared listlessly ahead, his grip relaxing considerable before he swayed violently.
“Seriously, what was in the coffee?” he asked, his voice now much quieter. “Shit…” he stumbled somewhat but the inspector held him steady.
“Honestly, I actually don’t know.” Lestrade replied. “Something to calm you down.”
“Sedate me more like.” John slurred out, his knees shook visibly, and the inspector guided him sideways into a nearby handy wheelchair. The doctor didn’t fight him this time, allowing his body to relax into the seat.
“I can find out for you.” Greg was now feeling a small swell of guilt, “I’m sorry.”
John flapped his hand up weakly, trying his best to focus his eyes but failing. “Probably some benzo’s or something, what bloody difference does it make now.” His voice was already slowing from the drug.
“I’m sorry. I promise I didn’t think you’d be this out of it.”
John didn’t reply, he let out a long drawn exhale, his chin hit his chest before his eyes slid closed and he let the sedative take him into oblivion.