The Man in the Coma

I don't remember much of what happened. I think it started with a smell in the air. It was something different, and even as a doctor, I couldn't even anticipate what happened next. Just ten minutes after first inhaling, I think I blacked out. The doctors in the current hospital, the ones I hear every day but cannot speak to, tell Harry that I immediately fell into a coma. I was the worst and newest form of a selective gas attack victim they ever seen. They don't know who had done it, nor why, but at least they're keeping me alive.

I think it's been two and a half, no, three weeks. Three weeks of blackness. Three weeks of being able to hear everyone but not respond to them in any way. Nothing. This is worse than the war. This isolation is absolutely brutal and terrifying.

Sometimes I drift in and out, especially when it's silent and there's nothing happening. I've adapted to and ignored the sound of the machine monitoring my heartbeat, the sound of the ventilator pumping my lungs, and the drip of the IV liquid running through my veins. It's all sounds that I hear. I feel no sensations.

Nothing.

Have I been reduced to this?

Even though I can't see anything, I try and picture memories, things to keep me busy. The only problem is that my ideas, my thoughts, and my memories are scattered and it doesn't help that the days go by really slowly. I take all the information I hear and process that, too, and try not to forget anything; it seems like after a while, I forget things that should come easy to me – voices, basic personal info, the works. I wonder if I'll forget everything I thought about if I wake up. But waking up was wishful thinking. I don't really care if I forget everything, just so long as I wake up.

In the first few days of my hospitalization they informed my family. Harry was the only one that came. Since Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade aren't kin, they didn't really find out until the second week when they transferred me to a different hospital – one that specializes in coma patients. Lestrade found out when the doctor's decided that my gassing was criminal intent and pursued a criminal investigation. Lestrade brought in the squad to 221b and that's how Mrs. Hudson found out – she thought I was on a long, impromptu holiday. Mycroft visited once, and it was just really odd.

Mrs. Hudson visits when she can. She tells me everything that happens. I don't know if she knows that I can fully understand her. Mrs. Hudson said that the day I was gassed, she was at the market. By the time she came back, the gas would have diffused, which I was thankful for. When she retold this story, I kept wondering who had found my unconscious body on the ground. I'd go over what she said, maybe thinking I missed something she said or I had just forgotten, but she wasn't there to find me. She wasn't home, Sherlock was dead, and it was unlikely that my gasser was one to feel remorse and call for an ambulance. Whoever found me, I'm grateful for them because I'd otherwise be dead by now. Though, I wouldn't suppose that would be a bad thing. I've spent months suffering after Sherlock's death, and now being in this coma has put most the bad feelings – like sadness, grief, and anger – on hold.

With this lack of feelings, thinking about death wasn't so difficult. If they had to pull the plug, I think I'd be fine with it. I don't want to stay in this blackness indefinitely especially since it looks like my condition is worsening, but the problem is that the doctors will never hear my opinion on the matter.

"In here," one of the doctors outside the door spoke.

The sound of three pairs of footsteps told me they meant business and they weren't family or friends. I wish my eyes would open.

"Thank you," a familiar voice caught my attention – it was Lestrade.

I wanted to ask him what was going on, but I know that nothing would come out of my mouth. Somebody was opening a container of sorts.

"The nose first, I'll do the rest," one man spoke.

I couldn't feel what they were doing. I assumed they were taking samples. Not knowing what was happening was disconcerting.

"The clothes are at the station, right?" one of the man asked Lestrade.

"The one's he was gassed in? Yes," Lestrade responded.

After about twenty minutes, the two men left with their samples but Lestrade stayed behind.

"We'll find out who did this to you, John," Lestrade rubbed his forehead. "If only Sherlock were here, maybe he'd be able to tell us who did it."

Lestrade walked out after looking at my still body for a few more minutes. I wished I could see what Lestrade looked like. I could tell that he sounded tired, but without seeing I couldn't confirm it.

All the things that the men did I added to my memory. If they thought that they could find traces of the gas, perhaps they could find the killer and maybe find the correct treatment. It had to be a killer – no one else would just randomly gas me. Although I was out of commission from the army, I had a few enemies, and indirectly made more working with Sherlock. The gas had to be something specially made, difficult to attain, and possibly expensive. The only person I could think of who would possibly do this would be Moriarty, but he was dead. Nevertheless, nothing really made any sense.

I think Molly came to visit on the same day, though I have no idea why. We weren't close at all. We spoke a few times when Sherlock and I had cases, but that was it.

"Hello, John," she spoke in her mousey voice. "Hope you're doing … well. I mean, for a coma patient. Um, nevermind."

Even though she had no idea whether or not I could hear her, she was still awkward as ever – same old Molly.

She stayed silent after that but checked the clipboard with my information on it. Why was she doing that? Molly soon left.

"We have a name," Lestrade was back.

Had four weeks actually passed by since his last visit? If Sherlock was on this case, he'd solve it by now.

"Sebastian Moran, known contract killer" Lestrade was reading the report – the sound of pages flipping caught my attention. "Know him?"

Sometimes I appreciate Lestrade for 'including me' in his conversations, even if I can't respond. With my silence, he took that as a no.

"Guess not, eh?" Lestrade chuckled lightly – that response confused me. Why would Lestrade laugh at the man who nearly killed me and put me in this bloody coma?

"Found deceased in his flat," Lestrade flipped the page. "Says he died from the same gas you were gassed with. Also says that he was in possession of this lethal gas. So he must have either committed suicide, accidentally opened up the vial, or someone killed him."

I thought that all three sounded ridiculous. The first sounded incredibly unlikely. The second sounded stupid – an assassin wouldn't just do that. The third … the person who killed him could be a friend or foe to me, either way there was only one thing I was waiting for Lestrade to say.

"No trace of an antidote or medical treatment found at the flat. This gas, black market stuff, would have come with something to reverse side effects, but none was found," Lestrade sighed. "Sorry, John. We're looking on the black market, but they aren't fond of us police types."

Hopeless.

I think three weeks went by when I heard someone charging through the door. It was Harry. She spewed obscenities at the doctors. I strained to make out what they were saying.

"I am not signing this. He will make it. He is a soldier," she yelled.

"I'm sorry, but this is a persistent coma, and without the correct form of medication, we can't bring him back. His vital signs aren't improving," the doctor explained slowly.

"But there's brain activity!"

"It's also lessening."

Please, let me go, Harry.

The doctor was right, though. I wasn't thinking much anymore. I was forgetting more information. It was taking me longer to figure out people's voices.

"Just a few more weeks. The DI is looking," she persisted.

The doctor must have relented because everyone's footsteps retreated.

Another three weeks passed.

I am dying.

I can feel it.

My heartbeat is fading.

It's a chore to think.

But who's this at the door?

It's the middle of the night, maybe early morning.

Definitely not visiting hours.

From this person's footsteps and shoes it's definitely not a doctor or nurse.

Wooden, flat soled shoes mean civilian.

Man?

He's taking something out of his pocket. A container? Something in the container?

A syringe.

He's leaning over me. I know I can't see it, but I can sense it. What is he doing? Is this someone tying up Sebastian Moran's loose end? Is he going to kill me?

If he is going to kill me, please, do it quickly.

"Hello, John," the man spoke.

I recognize the voice. Lestrade? No.

Mycroft? That's a laugh.

Who?

"This'll only take a second. It probably won't hurt. Huge needle though."

Wait a minute.

"Your neck might be sore after this, sorry about that."

No.

"This better damn well work."

It can't be.

"Took me long enough to get it."

How …

"Had to kill a man for you."

Sher…

"So I guess that means we're even."

My eyes fluttered open to the sound of a man speaking to a woman at the door. I craned my incredibly sore neck to get a better look and it was Harry and a doctor. Why was I in a hospital? What happened to me?

"Oh my God, John," Harry immediately saw me staring and nearly ran to my bedside with tears in her eyes. "Thank God. I can't believe I nearly signed off to put you off life support."

"What happened?" I looked around the room at the amount of flowers decorating the window side and cards wishing for my good health.

"You don't remember?" Harry looked at me with a surprised look on her face. "You were in a coma for nearly four months."

"What?" I was stunned. "How?"

"A man named Sebastian Moran tried to kill you with some lethal gas. He was a part of Moriarty's criminal ring," Harry responded. "Or so Lestrade tells me. He's been working on your case since the beginning."

"I …," I wasn't sure how to respond to that. "I don't remember anything. I was in my flat and next thing you know I'm here with four months of my life gone."

The doctor immediately interjected and told Harry that they needed to do some checkups since I was now awake. I caught my reflection in the mirror as they spoke and stared at the gaunt and pallid figure that took its place. I almost died. Bloody hell. I lifted my hand to scratch my neck and saw for myself how much weight I lost.

It took a few weeks for me to get back to normal life. Physiotherapy classes help. Having medical knowledge allowed me to ask how my situation was during my coma and what the medications and treatments they tried – which all apparently failed. He said that it was a miracle I regained consciousness. I don't believe in miracles, though. I think the proof was in whatever they injected in my neck. It left a big enough hole.

Thanks for reading!