Recovery

Chapter IV - Chaconne

      Mrs. Hudson stayed home with Rosie as expected. She was already up when Sherlock dropped Rosie off downstairs at six in the morning. She nearly shoved Sherlock out of the flat so she and Rosie could have some "much needed quality godmother-goddaughter time," whatever that meant.
      Molly dropped by around nine with coffee; black with two sugars. She spent an hour with Sherlock before she headed off to work. She told him of this man who died of a carrot allergy on the London Eye. (It wasn't nearly as riveting as she thought it was.)
      After that, Sherlock was left alone for a couple of hours. He mostly sat and thought; perched up in a tiny hospital chair, not making a single sound. Every once and a while he'd jot something down or send a text, mostly creating future experiments.
      Eventually the doctors came in around noon. The whole lot of them. Sherlock doesn't remember any of their names, he had deleted them the second they were made known.
"Good morning, Mr. Holmes. How are you holding up?" a male doctor extends his hand and Sherlock shakes it.
      Dr... Walen?
"Fine, thank you. How is he?" Sherlock nods his head in the direction of John, who is completely still, frozen except for the rise and fall of his chest.
      "Well, considering the extent of his injury, he's recovering quite well. As of early this morning his swelling has gone down forty-five percent. We expect another forty percent by tomorrow, best case scenario, this evening. When the swelling has gone down eighty- seven to ninety percent we will begin to slowly wean him off the morphine and other anesthetics. Then, by the time he wakes up, if there are no intervening circumstances, there will only be around ten to fifteen percent cranial swelling left. At that point, we can administer medication to help speed the healing process up. Overall, Mr. Watson's recovery is going very well, if we stick to the plan he could be awake in a matter of days. He may have to stay for precautionary purposes a few days more. You must know how extremely lucky you are."
      "Yes, yes, very lucky. What about post-leave side effects?"
      The female doctor clears her throat, calling attention to herself.
      "With everything Dr. Wallace has told you,—"
Ah, Wallace.
      "— Mr. Watson should have the normal initial side effects. Whether or not those continue as time passes, or if he develops new ones, is completely dependent on how his body responds to the trauma, and if he follows his post-surgery and hospital release regimen."
      "Yes, I know that. I'll make sure he follows his 'regimen,' what are the side effects specifically, is what I meant." It takes everything in Sherlock not to roll his eyes.
"Would you like me to list them all?"
"Yes, I believe that would be very helpful in the long run."
The female doctor begins again, sliding her pen down what seems to be a list.
"His side effects could include immobility, confusion, delirium, reduced muscle tone and de-conditioning, dizziness, nausea, vomiting, headaches, and nightmares."
      "Nightmares?"
      "Yes, the brain will most likely experience residual trauma mentally. Mr. Watson could quite possibly experience a few nightmares."
      Great. That's just perfect.
      One more thing for Sherlock to add to his list of things to worry about.' John, plus nightmares, does not equal compatibility.
      "Will he be given any medication for those side effects?"
      Dr. Wallace jumps back in,
      "Yes, of course. We are going to prescribe a number of medications upon his release, and we'll explain when and how he should take them to the both of you."
      Sherlock starts to feel a little dizzy. Is it exhaustion? No he slept. Hungriness? Possibly. Nerves? Could be, but it's never the case. He sits down in his chair next to John's bed, gripping the arm rest. The doctors seem to get the memo.
      "Dr. Andrews—"
      'Andrews', so that's her name.
      "—and I will be be back later in the evening. He really is a miracle patient you know, and I don't believe in miracles. Good day, Mr. Holmes."
      Miracle patient.
      Sherlock's eyes flit up to John. He looks so peaceful, his face so placid. Sherlock knows every line of John's face, every hollow and every turn. Expressionless now, but a cabaret of emotions anywhere else. This isn't fair.
      Sherlock feels lightheaded again. He needs a distraction. Reaching into his shirt pocket, Sherlock pulls out his phone and texts Lestrade, 'Hospital. Cases. Lunch. Now. -SH'
      As he's putting his phone away, he stops and retracts his hand, turning on his phone to send another text. 'Please. ,' it reads.
Within minutes, Lestrade has sent back a text. 'On my way.'
      It's the waiting portion that Sherlock hates. When Sherlock is left alone with John, his feelings begin to bubble to the surface. All the pain and remorse. How could he ever make up for that? How could he ever apologize?
      If only John could hear him, really hear him. Everything he's meant to say but never has. Sherlock reaches up and lays his hand next to John's. The two hands don't make contact, but Sherlock keeps his hand there, only feeling the phantom pull between each finger. His mouth begins to form words, but instead Sherlock gets up and grabs his violin and begins to play Bach.
      He floats around the room while playing the melody. John always liked this one, at least Sherlock thought he did. Every time Sherlock played this piece John would always say something along the lines of, 'That was nice, who is that?' He never seemed to remember it was the same song.
      Sherlock finishes the tune with his eyes on John; a silent dedication.
     Sherlock plays a few more songs and Lestrade arrives just as Sherlock is putting away his violin.
      "I wouldn't think you'd be allowed to play in here," Lestrade enters with a huff.
      "They have stupid rules which I of course ignore."
      Lestrade makes an agreeing noise and dumps a bag on the small table already scattered with an assortment of Sherlock's things.
      "Sandwiches. And before you complain, you can just take what you don't like off of yours," Lestrade smirks as he hands Sherlock a wrapped sandwich.
      "You say that to me as if I were a child," Sherlock snips back, grabbing the food from Lestrade.
      "Yeah well sometimes you act like it."
      Chuckles from both men ensue. It's the first time Sherlock's genuinely smiled in a while. A genuine smile where he's not being deceived or is doing the deceiving, a real smile between two friends.
      Lestrade catches his breath and asks while pulling out a stack of folders from his bag,
      "Mind if I run a few things by you?"
      "Oh, please do. I could use the distraction."
      Lestrade's face goes solemn. He looks Sherlock dead in the eye. Sherlock butts in before Lestrade can say anything.
     "Don't you dare start to console me like everyone else. It won't fix the anything. And if you're wondering if I'm clean? As a whistle. Did I cover everything?"
     Lestrade gives a grim, half smile, one side of his mouth raises.
      "My initial list, yeah. Mind telling me what exactly needs fixing?"
      "Are you daft? John is lying in a hospital bed after almost being shot to death! Do you think he's going to have even the faintest desire to see me when he wakes up? I could have prevented it! But no! I was high as a kite and couldn't figure out a stupid, bloody note! After everything I went through to get him to speak to me again? All that's worthless now!"
      Sherlock is breathing heavily. His fingers are clenched tightly into fists at his sides. Lestrade looks shocked at the outburst.
      "Sherlock, that's not what's going on, you only got back into the drugs to—"
      "Can we just get started on the cases?" Sherlock says emotionless, eyes aimed at the floor.
      Lestrade appears disappointed out of the corner of Sherlock's eye. Everyone is in Sherlock these days.
      "Yeah, sure. Let me just... Here. This one's a death in the middle of an art gallery," he hands a case file to Sherlock, "Teresa Smith, twenty-seven years old. Collapsed dead at three-thirty-seven last Tuesday. Had no previous health issues. Doctors have ruled it as a heart attack. Foreign substances were found in her blood stream, don't know how it got there though."
Sherlock flips through the folder, eyes skimming up and down the pages, analyzing evidence.
"Foreign substances?"