Lessons in Friendship 4 - Enduring care

Standard disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

I have problems receiving comfort, care and touch in any kind, sometimes I wish I get another chance to learn how to receive and be able to be comforted by it the way Sherlock does here. Maybe that's why this was written.

Many thanks to my beta reader Graveofthefireflies!

This story was originally published and completed on September 24th, 2013.

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Chapter 1

Sherlock struggled to get into a sitting position and the distant pressure on his abdominal area suddenly turned into a dull pain.

He gasped with surprise and tried to understand what was happening around him.

"Sherlock, relax, everything's okay… Don't sit up," John gently urged.

"Can't…" Sherlock started but was out of breath before he could continue.

Chaos was surrounding him.

There were more people there than just John but he had problems recognising them and defining from where their sounds of movement came. In fact, he had problems focussing on anything… He didn't even know where he was.

Blurry.

Dark.

No smell, neither familiar nor foreign.

"It's alright. You're safe… lie back down," John urged.

Dizziness fogged his brain and Sherlock struggled to get up again.

Hadn't he just done that… fought to get up?

Someone slowly gripped his arm making him turn his head.

"He's only half conscious," a distant voice that should go with a face announced.

But it was hard to get this sluggish brain of his into working gear… The world felt like jelly, thick and distorted.

"I want to give him some painkillers so he won't move that much. I don't want to sedate him for now. I might need your help," John spoke in a low voice with somebody else than him.

"John?"He was panicking, he distantly realised… he didn't want any sedation… He hadn't experienced panic since Dartmoor. Without a conscious impulse, his hands were suddenly flailing through the air, looking for an escape route.

His eyes were open, he assessed, but everything was distorted so much he couldn't really see more than rough shapes and colours.

"Sherlock?… Squeeze my hand if you hear me," John ordered.

He squeezed a hand.

"Good," John announced in a low voice right next to him.

He was lying on… something soft?

Gladly, he wasn't in a hospital, that much he knew… No biting hospital smells.

His bed?

The surroundings vaguely smelled like his room, could be his bed then.

"J'hn…?" he muttered, alarmed how difficult it was to get this single word out.

"Yeah, it's me… you need to relax… It's okay. Your body is just playing bad tricks on you. I want you to calm down, then you'll be able to breathe better. You probably have some fractured ribs. Where do you hurt?"

"Stomach," he breathed, even before he had started to really concentrate on how his body felt, he did not really want to.

"Yeah, your abdomen is tense and I need to examine it. You might be hurting additionally because you haven't eaten solid food in days. Don't be alarmed I'll give you something to relax," John explained.

"No… don't…"

But someone had taken his arm and gently held it, he was so weak he couldn't escape. A sharp prick pierced the back of his hand. He tried to pull away but his fingers where held firm.

"Hang on… easy… It's alright… You just relax. You're home and safe… Don't fight it," John soothed.

He felt John doing something with his hand, felt sticky, then a hand was on his hairline, the thumb moving slowly up and down his forehead.

"Alright, port's in," John softly announced, "I want you on fluids and relaxants. If you move too much you might hurt yourself further. Don't even think to start arguing. I'll call an ambulance if you don't do as I say."

A cold tingling sensation sneaked up his left arm and he forced his eyes open to find out what was happening. He held his breath when he saw John's fuzzy figure sitting on the left side of his bed and preparing a syringe, his medical bag open on a nearby chair.

"No… can't," he stammered but it was of no use. John held his hand and inserted the content of the syringe in the IV line he had just started.

Dazed, Sherlock followed the line up to a bag which was hanging on a hook above his bed… He was indeed home at the flat…

Since when was there a hook in that wall?

Oh, someone had taken away the picture frame with his certificate.

The chemical taste of the injected liquid started to irritate his taste buds. He hated to taste IVs, happened every time.

"What'n it? Taste's bad."

"Something to help you relax. Sorry if it feels a bit cold," John explained.

Sherlock felt the blanket being moved away, the cold made him frown.

Someone started unbuttoning his shirt.

A wave of repulsion took his breath away.

He started to struggle for breath, something was hindering him… he was desperately trying to evade being touched.

His chest hurt.

"He's just looking at your belly, Sherlock, relax."

Mrs. Hudson… God, he was even more embarrassed. Had she been here long?

"No, don'touch me," he begged and tried to move away from the contact but a wave of pain pierced his stomach.

"Sherlock, dear… shhh… What's the problem?" Mrs. Hudson asked, puzzled.

John's warm hands moved on his chest while opening the buttons and flapping away his shirt front.

"Don't undress me… No," Sherlock's voice sounded distressed, he was aware of that, much too vulnerable. He did not want to sound like that, it was disgusting.

In the mental chaos of yellow orange disgust and shame a mental situation-pop-up opened in his mind, its bright scarlet red making him wince.

Oh, right he had started a situation-monitoring-routine of some kind… clearly the event he had tagged must have just happened… But he was too much out of it to be able to decipher that right now… Though he knew it was a bad idea to ignore those… that shade of red meant 'important'.

"What is it, Sherlock?" the landlady asked.

"I need to examine this… relax and let me have a look… I can't risk you to bleed internally unnoticed."

"No… leave me alone… Don't… No hospital," Sherlock stammered, while working hard to concentrate and find out about that tag.

He tried to roll into a foetal position and with clumsy hands, he held to his hurting chest.

Why was this such a problem?

He wanted to trust John. He had decided earlier to confide in John more with these matters.

Oh, that was what the pop-up was about… Great, understanding the pop-up's message before reading it…

Bad tag?

Compromised mind.

Yes, apparently he was too much out of it for this to work properly… So, where was the red line he had in hand before getting sidetracked with the pop-up?

Right, why was something so difficult here?

Mrs Hudson…?

His movement had stopped, he had not succeeded to move, neither rolling onto his side nor sitting up. He felt like bolted to the bed.

His bed had bolts?

Another touch at the new IV port and this time an odd, thick pressure raised up his arm.

He needed to trust John… he needed to get away. He didn't want to be touched… needed to prove John trust.

Great, inconsistent Standard Operation Procedures… two red threads leading in opposite directions.

He tried to rise, tried to sit up, this time paying more attention to make sure he'd succeed.

At first, he brought his arms down beside himself and tried to push upwards, but strong hands were there. One grabbing his shoulder, another hand pressed into the bow of his elbow, preventing him from pushing up any further.

He tried to shove them away, but he was debilitated and they knew how to outrun his power. They firmly held him in place, didn't let go. He heard himself grunt.

Not good, he was defenceless right now.

Then he remembered again that he had decided to let John help and this - he gulped - this was an occasion to do it.

This was going to be hard.

His urge was to escape and hide where no one would disturb him and see him in this pathetic state. But he wanted to regain John's trust and this situation was the perfect occasion to do that.

Why were his thoughts all mixed up and repeating themselves?... and in such disarray?

He looked for one of his mental red strings that usually guided the endless bundles of rushing thoughts… and found only elements of it, with loose ends.

Loose ends?

Had he ever had one of those threats that had two loose ends before?

This was… this was bad.

"Sherlock?… Do you know where you are?" John asked.

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A/N:

I am not a native speaker, sorry if my English is not good sometimes.