Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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.

Chapter Text

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

"Yeah… home."

What was happening?

He blinked and realised he was in his bed.

He had figured that out before already, hadn't he?

Before, he had been beaten… outside… by two men.

Memory slowly came back to him.

He had been on a case and followed the suspect, but someone had ambushed him in a dark alley. He had been thrashed.

When they had let him be, he had taken a cab home and John had opened the door, which was where his memory stopped.

"Relax… You're okay!… Easy!" John's soothing hand on his chest, guiding him down back into a supine position.

He was panting, another person bent over him.

Mrs Hudson…? What was she doing here?

"What's the problem?" she asked.

"M'udson, could you leave 's'lone?" Sherlock begged.

He could try to let John care for him, it would be hard, but he was not able to endure to have another witness to that.

"Why, dear? I want to help?" she sounded a bit disappointed to not be entrusted with this.

"Mrs Hudson, I don't think he is in his clear mind right now, and I also think he doesn't want to be seen like this. Do him the favour and please understand, it's not you he's sending away, he'd send anybody away. I'll call for you if you can help."

She turned away, gladly with only a worried expression on her face.

"You just relax there, mate. Let me handle everything for now… just let it happen," John smiled encouragingly and bared the detective's chest and belly with casual professionalism.

A heavy feeling weighted his body down, forced him to settle down, too.

He wanted John's trust and he had to work for it.

Bite the bullet -right now.

"I'm gonna touch you now, tell me if it gets too bad."

When John started to press and probe his belly with warm and firm hands he had to take some deep breaths to fight the urge to shove him away again and then wondered why he was feeling so stiff.

He sucked in air when John pressed a sore spot right on his ribs.

"Er… You have at least two fractured ribs. I'm pretty sure there's no internal bleeding, but I'll monitor you closely to be sure. I'm gonna put some ointment on your side, just go with it... You hurt yourself by being all tensed up, you know. Try to relax," John informed him.

Seconds later he felt a soft and cold pressure start just above his belly button. John's hands moved around and carefully applied whatever that stuff was.

It smelled like… painkillers or something.

The touch was unnerving but kind of hypnotising. Sherlock felt his body start to relax.

He let his eyes close and tried to sort his wobbly thoughts, but couldn't concentrate and felt himself drift towards sleep after a few moments.

He was only half-conscious when John reached his solar plexus and he tried to roll away from the touch when something in his mind exploded without any reason he could grasp.

He gasped in surprise.

"What is it?… Sherlock? Easy… Tell me what the problem is!" John sounded far away and Sherlock was not able to understand what he was talking about.

He tried to fight the darkness that threatened to drown him. Distantly, he felt the touch change and recognised it was on his brow now.

"There is… orange hot'ingling… solar plexus?" Sherlock managed to mumble.

"Sherlock? Could you explain that?" John sounded a bit alarmed.

"Need t'trust you… let you do…" Sherlock pressed out, trying to make the doctor understand.

"I'm gonna examine you some more now, lie still," John informed again.

Sherlock sucked in air once more when John pressed a sore spot near his stomach.

"You have some bruising over your stomach, any nausea?"

Sherlock managed to shake his head.

Was there?

He realised he had answered 'No' before even having listened to his body.

It was what he usually did, deny all perceptions his transport bombarded him with - because it was not relevant and because to bother other people with his body's needs or problems was rude. In addition, it was making himself assailable and appearing weak.

But this was John and he was not just asking to be polite, he needed to know. Also, he was not eager to listen to his body, expecting that in the moment he'd start to, he'd be hit by more pain.

Usually, he shoved this kind of input into the furthest away corner of his mind, repressing pain and discomfort the moment it occurred. He had been acquired to hide his transport's sensations, discomfort or ailments from a very young age.

And he was ashamed to talk about it. 

"'bit," he corrected himself.

John raised an eyebrow.

"You were hit on the head, I need to clean and bandage it," John unpacked several items which he put on the chair next to him and started to clean the wound.

Sherlock endured it, not the pain but the touch. The fact he had given away control to someone else was maybe even harder to tolerate.

Enduring the touch wasn't as hard as he had expected. It had been some time ago, that he had learned that John's touch was not as dreadful as everybody else's. In fact, it was neutral.
Neutral was good, it wasn't straining.

Most of the time he was unnerved when somebody entered his personal space and his impulse to back off kicked in. This space he defined as his skin plus forty centimetres of air, sixty centimetres around his head. Lilac distaste bloomed when somebody moved anything into it without him wanting to, persons were the worst.
But with John it was different, right now the doctor had his hands on his face and he was leaning close to see better.

Sherlock would have preferred he'd keep a bit more distance because he could feel him breathing and that was just a bit too much input on his skin, but it was not negative, it was neutral.

Trust him, he wants to help… just let him do this.

.

"Sherlock?… You're okay?" John stopped his movements and stared at Sherlock's closed eyes, the controlled breathing through his nose seemed off somehow.

The doctor was worried, he still wasn't sure treating Sherlock at home was a good idea. The detective was a mess.

It had taken him totally by surprise when he had opened the front door and Sherlock practically fell into the hallway. John barely managed to keep him from seriously hitting his head.

It had been some work to bring Sherlock up the stairs, only the help of Mrs Hudson made it possible. The detective was covered in bruises and there was at least one laceration that would need stitches. But Sherlock had been agitated and out of his mind in a way that it was impossible to treat him.

Accordingly, John had administered a sedative that should have taken effect by now.

He was worried because Sherlock wasn't himself.

Then he suddenly stopped resisting at all! Which was odd.

But he had explained, hadn't he?

As soon as he was fully aware he had hinted he wanted to let John help.

John had missed it before, but now he realised the connection to a conversation he had with Sherlock a few months earlier.* John had been annoyed when he had had a flashback and Sherlock kept bugging him about that.

He had tried to explain that trust was not a single sided thing, not only present on one side of a friendship, and he had said he needed Sherlock to trust him in return, otherwise his trust would probably retreat and never climb over a superficial level. 

Was Sherlock really tolerating this because he wanted to show his trust?

The doctor raised an eyebrow.

Why-would-I-need-you-Sherlock opening up to him?… To present him with confidence?

"Sherlock?"

The detective was still way too tense and worked up, John wondered how often he had told him to relax already.

Must have been at least twenty times.

But Sherlock just didn't do it, or maybe he couldn't. Maybe his adrenaline was still pumping from the attack, though it should have stopped by now.

What else might be a stressor?

John decided he wanted to try to make Sherlock feel save and wondered how his flatmate defined that term or if he had ever felt like that. With his job he was expecting worst-case-scenarios at all times. A bit like John remembered from the war.

Always alert, never let your guard down.

Sherlock seemed to have internalised that principle to a degree that he could not switch it off any longer.

"'m fine," Sherlock mumbled.

"Okay, almost finished… I want to make sure you can rest comfortable," John went to get some stuff. Time for a psychological experiment that might have the side effect that Sherlock wouldn't move too much.

.

Sherlock wondered what John had in mind now. He felt that his thoughts were getting slower by the minute.

He was obviously very tired… exhausted… and… drugged?!

It felt odd to give the ball to someone else.

Passiveness…

The concept made him slightly nervous.

Loss of control - like a shiny frozen lake in the dark, a dangerous and slippery area.

He knew he was a control freak. Passiveness meant: being bored fast. Being bored was dangerous. Always keep the mind busy.

John came back with two loosely rolled blankets and knelt on the right side of the bed.

"Just go with this, let me do the work."

He was held by his shoulder and his hip and carefully rolled half onto his side, something soft was pushed behind his back, on the whole length of his body. John's practised hands then turned him on his other side and the procedure repeated.

After he was rolled back into a supine position, his knees where lifted and a large cushion was placed under them.

Tight softness surrounded him on all sides now, as if he was in a large U-shaped pillow that was holding him.

It felt good. White… cleansed… cocooned.

"Whatare you doin'?" Sherlock felt himself start to drift.

John looked at him with a slightly fond expression.

"Sleep, Sherlock… This is meant to make you comfortable, to ease the pressure on your injuries."

His hands were lifted gently and positioned outstretched on the improvised padding, palm up but careful not to disturb the IV-port.

John stroked the inside of his right hand's palm with his own left thenar… with quite a bit of pressure.

He had never felt tended to like this before, also, he had expected it to feel different.

It was like a warm azure blue tingling, a positive feeling.

But he felt also dizzy, high… and...  cared for.

This, he had never felt before.

It felt so… very safe.

He slipped into a guarded soft sleep.