Pain Management 2

Thanangst suggested that I might write a second part of Pain Management, since I had already thought about it at that point I decided to give it a go now. I have plenty more in store for this and the first episode, but this was easy and my first go. Also... insomnia and... bad week – except for the episode, it might lighten my sorrows for days to come :)

Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss 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.

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Summary:

These are missing scenes from Season 4. As the first part of 'Pain Management' this one deals with mental and physical agony, guilt, distress and sorrow.

Spoiler alert! Don't read this work if you haven't seen any of season 4!

The chapters of this story will not appear in chronological order, it will be a collection of different moments from S4. I might rearrange them later but for now they just come in the order things hit me and I write them down.

So, this takes place right after John has taken the fire extinguisher and used it to open the door to Sherlock's hospital room.

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Leaving the Hospital

"What were you doing to him?" John roared, reaching for Smith and holding him in place.

In the hospital bed Sherlock was gasping for air and the moment of silence that followed John's question told him more than whatever words the detective might have spoken.

Sherlock's hand was slackly hanging over the railing of the hospital bed, a quite unsettling and vulnerable posture that struck John's very core.

Also, Sherlock was struggling to get himself together, which was never a good sign.

This had been a close call.

When Sherlock was finally moving, it was obviously how bad he felt and in how much discomfort he was.

Holding Smith tight felt quite good, to have the upper hand, to do something physical after the rich man had humiliated them repeatedly – to the right person this time.

"He's in distress, I'm helping him."

John didn't believe any of it, to his relief the guard, who had entered with him, wasn't either.

"Restrain him now, do it," John shoved the bastard towards Lestrade's man and he took over.

"Sherlock, what was he doing to you?"

"Suffocating me, overdosing me."

Sherlock's eyes closed, he was panting, and the former army doctor recognised the uncoordinated arm movement as a sign of distress and struggle.

The detective was in a bad way. Smith had really just tried to suffocate him and John had been almost too late... on top of that, the beating his friend had received from his own hands had taken his toll.

Before, when he had left the cane as a parting gift he had been blind to the injuries he had really caused his friend, had somehow managed to ignore them in his anger.

But now he saw the full extend, Sherlock's face was littered with bruises and surely hurting. John hadn't held back. He was ashamed of his momentary lapse of self restraint now. Additionally Sherlock's drug habit had also done quite severe damage.

And all this... all this because Sherlock wanted this to safe him after Mary had told him to throw himself in the line of fire to rely on John rescuing him as a way of saving his best and only friend.

John felt guilty and caught out about his own personality.

Mary had understood so much.

"On what?" John asked.

"Saline."

"Saline?"

"Yes, Saline," Sherlock grunted, trying to sit up with a grimace.

John stepped closer to check the IV bag's label while he closed the line.

"What do you mean, saline?"

"Well, obviously I got Nurse Cornish to switch the bags. She's a big fan, you know. Loves my blog," Sherlock panted.

John's gaze found his and the look in Sherlock's eyes was so haunted and lost it shocked him even more, the eyes were surrounded by deep shadows.

He had blocked Sherlock's tries to help him the normal way, as Mary had predicted.

Sherlock being in this state, gasping for breath and almost suffocated was his fault.

He still felt his knuckles throbbing from when he had punished Sherlock before, in the morgue.

Sherlock, who hadn't even tried to fight back.

Who had uttered he was entitled because Sherlock had killed his wife.

And John had agreed with him.

It hurt that he had been so stupid.

His anger had blinded him.

He was a bloody idiot.

The fact that he had allowed his anger to harm the most important thing that was left to him, his best friend was unforgivable.

John felt the burning of tears but this was not the moment.

Right now he needed to make sure Sherlock was safe.

"You're OK?"

Sherlock's gaze went up to meet John's and with a cold rush of horror the doctor noticed the haemorrhaging in his left eye, the result of the beating he had given his best friend. He hadn't seen it before, Sherlock had been unconscious.

Sherlock was everything else than okay.

He was a wreck.

And he had just allowed to almost be killed trying to safe John.

Again.

How had John ever doubted Sherlock's loyalty and friendship?

It was borderline self harm - no definite self harm.

"No, no, of course I'm not OK... Malnourished, double kidney failure, and frankly, I've been of my tits for weeks... What kind of doctor are you?"

To John's alarm the detective was swaying in his half sitting position, it made John cringe internally, he needed to check him out, as soon as possible.

Sherlock groaned and leaned back.

This was not funny at all.

John wanted to make sure he was alright, but of course, the detective wanted to discuss what had just happened, wanted to point out he had been right.

Probably he needed the process to prevent having a breakdown.

As did John.

He welcomed the distraction from the important things because frankly, all he wanted right now was scream.

They did talk about the events with the perpetrator, as it was Sherlock's habit.

Slowly, Sherlock sank deeper into cushions, his face still a grimace of agony.

"You cock!" John finally cursed when he understood Sherlock had more than three devices in store.

"Utter, utter cock," he added when he realised he had been the one who had actually brought it in with the cane.

"Heard you the first time."

Together they revealed the recording device in the cane, cornering Smith by the revelation.

John observed Sherlock was trying to be his easy self but his friend's body told him a lot about his level of pain.

Sherlock was writhing in discomfort, clinging to the railing, one leg raised up against it, the sheets in disarray, the hospital gown, too.

He was also desperately trying to shift his position to get more comfortable, according to his expression it was not helping.

"I'm that predictable?" John asked, quite horrified about what Sherlock thought he'd do. Then it dawned on him that he had actually done it.

In hindsight it struck him as quite mean, to leave the cane as a parting gift.

"No. I'm just a cock."

John lowered his head, speechless for a moment, about his own horrible behaviour and the fact how accurately Sherlock had used it.

Had used him to bring them back together.

Had recklessly used his own body to safe him.

Had almost died.

"Get him out!" John barked at the police man, who dragged a slightly bewildered Smith into the hall.

There were two big urges John experienced, to get Sherlock out of this bloody kill zone immediately and to scream in frustration until he had no voice left.

Instead, he fetched his phone and dialled Mycroft.

"Lie down," he shoved his chin in Sherlock direction to make it clear who was addressed.

Sherlock rolled exhausted eyes but obeyed.

As soon as the older Holmes had picked up John started to speak, not bothering about any greetings.

"I need Sherlock out of here, now!... And make Lestrade hurry up."

A brief conversation followed in which Mycroft briefly assured him a private ambulance would pick them up, soon.

While he spoke to Mycroft John switched on the examination lights over the bed and started to unhooked Sherlock from everything but the pulse-ox.

He wanted all the equipment provided by this facility gone to make sure the wounded man was safe and sound.

As soon as he had rang off and his hands were free he placed a reassuring hand on Sherlock's right shoulder to soothe him. Now that they were alone, Sherlock's game face had disappeared and since he had strength left to mask whatever was going on something else could resurface. He looked a bit like a deer in the headlights.

"Relax. I'll have a look at that."

Then he leaned down over his friend and gently pried his eyelid open wide.

Sherlock in fact did relax under his hands, although the touch was probably not pleasant.

The detective had relied on John being there in time to safe him and John had almost failed.

The realisation made John's own pulse sped up and he felt hot and close to panic.

Was that it?

Had Sherlock lost faith while he was suffocating?

Had he believed that he was truly dying and no one was coming?

What if he had been there two minutes later?

What if a traffic light had slowed him down?

John closed his eyes and gulped down the desperation, his knees were weak and he briefly considered sitting down.

How could Sherlock be so bloody stupid?

Mary's words came back to him.

Go and pick a fight with a bad guy, put yourself in harm's way. If he thinks you need him I swear... he will be there.

The fact that Sherlock trusted Mary more than he valued his own life made John gulp once more – this time to keep the nausea in check.

As soon as John let go of his friend's eyelid, Sherlock allowed his eyes to close.

He looked so very damaged in that bed, with the stubble and the weight loss.

In a desperate urge, John rested his hand on Sherlock's forehead and slowly stroked his hair back until his hand came to rest on top of the other man's head.

To his surprise Sherlock relaxed even more under his hand, even slightly leaned into the touch.

"Don't go to sleep. Focus on my voice. I know it's hard, but let me check you out. Any trouble breathing?"

A minute shake of the head under his hand answered him.

Determined to take care of his friend John reached for the intercom and ordered equipment he needed to check Sherlock's trachea and larynx for damage.

"He didn't touch my throat, just blocked my mouth and nose," Sherlock argued.

"Did you lose consciousness?"

When Sherlock didn't answer John was sure he had actually blacked out for a moment, which unsettled him even more.

Of course, by the time the nurse brought the instruments on a trolley, Sherlock had drifted off - or pretended to have. John couldn't blame him for his retreat.

Nurse Cornish helped John to position Sherlock's head, held him steady while he examined his friend and made sure there was no swelling and nothing else that might impede with Sherlock's respiration.

The procedure was quite uncomfortable, John was aware, and more than once he found his hand on Sherlock's forehead or his thumb stroking him while he was doing his work.

The detective seemed fine – at least when it came to his respiratory tract.

The popped vessel in Sherlock's eye would bear witness for some time though to what had happened to him. It was the most visible of his injuries but certainly not the most severe. He'd need to have him checked out by an eyes specialist later.

Then he continued to free Sherlock of everything this hospital had provided, well almost everything, the foley would have to stay in place until they were somewhere else, but John made the nurse bring a fresh gown and started to remove the plaster that held the IV port in place.

When a few moments later a pair of paramedics entered with a trolley John was utterly relieved. He couldn't relax while Sherlock was in here, not until they were in an environment either Mycroft or John himself could control entirely.

"I'll remove the IV port. I want a new one in, just to be sure. Sorry, Sherlock," he addressed the man in the bed.

A few minutes later he had inserted a new one from the bag of the paramedics into his friend's other hand. They also changed the gown and put new monitor patches to his chest.

When they lifted Sherlock over onto the stretcher John realised from Sherlock's not quite slack form that the detective was everything else than unconscious.

"We'll be out of here in a minute. It's all right now."

He gripped Sherlock's hands and squeezed them while the paramedics strapped him in.

"It's okay, mate. You'll be fine," John was again trying to comfort him, but briefly wondered who needed more soothing at the moment, him or Sherlock. Just that he didn't have a right to get any after what he had done to his best friend.

As if on cue Sherlock's distress resurfaced and he gulped desperately several times, which made John realise that his slackness before had only been masking his real state of mind.

Although his eyes remained closed John saw liquid in the slits of his eyes, just for a brief moment, then it was gone again.

The thought that Sherlock might have doubted John would come and had decided that then dying was a good alternative was popping up in his mind again.

Had he accepted that dying would be better than being despised by John?

The fact that he hadn't resisted the beating spoke volumes and made John very very ashamed of himself as well as overwhelmingly sad.

As soon as Sherlock was able to listen to him again John needed to make some things clear.

Like the fact that Sherlock did not kill his wife.

Or that he was sorry he hit him so hard.

The picture of Sherlock lying on the ground, trembling and in sore distress would stay with John for a very long time.

Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

When he turned he saw it was Mary's.

Her sad smile spoke volumes, too. Her expression said 'take care of him.'

This day had left John shaken. The case was way too close to home for his comfort.

He was a fool.

Mary squeezed his shoulder and he noted he was shivering from his own distress. He only hoped they would be alone and somewhere safe, soon, he wouldn't be able to keep his frustration in much longer.

Also, he would not leave his friend's bedside anytime soon.

And he'd make damn sure every medical thing going to Sherlock would have to pass his scrutiny.

When Greg entered John felt lightheaded with relief.

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A/N: More ahead after I had time to let this well done episode sink in, so brace for more.

I'd love to get some feedback.