“Yes…Hello, this is Carla Sanchez, I’m a receptionist from the ICU at St. Bart’s Hospital. We have you listed as Victor Trevor’s emergency contact..?
We’re calling to see if you had time to speak to his doctor quickly. It’s a bit urgent. Just a moment—”
“—this is Dr. Lin Xie, I’m his primary physician. Sorry, I’m in a bit of rush, but we wanted to call you while you were available. Victor’s visual responses have been deteriorating and a CT scan this afternoon revealed an area of his brain filling with fluid pressing up against a major part of the visual cortex. We’re going to need to drain it before it affects him mentally.
The procedure is called a lumbar tap - or a lumbar drain. It’s relatively common, but not often performed on coma patients. We’d like to check with you before we go ahead.”
For once, Sherlock did not let his phone ring out. He picked it up on the third ring, a hasty thumb swipe and an almost too quick “Holmes” as a greeting.
He listened to everything the doctor’s told him, not interrupting them as they explained their procedure. They wanted his permission, he realised after a moment.
“Do what you must, yes.” He sounded almost like he was giving an order, trying to distance himself again and again.
“I will be there within the hour to see him when he comes out… Yes, that will be fine. yes… Very well. I will see you soon. Thank you.” He hung up, already moving to collect all his necessities. There was no hesitation this time, no conflict. He was making his way to Bart’s, and this time he would stay and see.
He’d known a day after Victor’s admission to the hospital. The paper hadn’t been what tipped him, but instead his brother for once. The elder Holmes monitored all the hospitals for such untraceable names, just in case it were his dear brother who had wound up in such a situation.
Sherlock was torn. He was ripped in half on the inside, unable to make a choice while his own opinions warred within him like an angry maelstrom of grief and detachment.
Victor was in hospital. Victor was hurt. Victor Victor Victor.
He shouldn’t care. He should have cut the other man off, cut him like one would cut away a digit should it be home to a festering wound. A clean break a clean cut. One that would heal and be almost seamless.
That hadn’t been possible.
Caring wasn’t an advantage.
His brother’s words constantly rang in his mind these days, constantly reminded him of his weakness and his failures, of the humanity he tried so desperately to shed. All the walls he’d built, the careful little fort he’d concealed himself in was self protection, to prevent anyone getting in, getting close, him getting hurt. Mycroft taught him, Mycroft told him.
All lives end.
What if this one was to end? Would Sherlock be able to reconcile with himself this time? Let another person drift from his lift as an echo of a better time?
Two hours later, he’d been at St Bart’s hospital. He’d asked about the man who’d been admitted with gun wounds. The John Doe. Said they lived together. The receptionist made an assumption and he didn’t correct her.
It wasn’t visiting hours, she told him.
He made up a lie, making good use of the presumption she’d made. A story of being out of town, unable to come before, unable to go home without seeing him.
Quick directions, quicker steps, and he was there.
The room was cold, it was so cold and so dark and painfully sterile. He was rigid with discomfort, imagining the chill that seeped in his bones. His shoulder ached, the memory of the last time he’d been in such an awful place, out of his mind on pain killers, being treated for the wounds that would never truly heal. But, here he stood for the man he wished he could ignore. Here he stood, despite his own ghosts.
Victor was laid in the bed, covered by a thin and starched stiff cotton sheet, his modesty kept by the awful blue and white gowns all patients were given. He looked paler than Sherlock remember, gaunt and tired. He was older by only a few months, but now that could easily be a few years. The detective took quiet steps closer to the bed, to the ominous beeping machines that recorded Victor’s vitals and monitored the solutions that were seeping into his system. He made no noise, just simply stared at his friend as still as a statue.
There were no notes to read, but he needed to know the damage; the physical, at least. He carefully peeled back the white cotton sheet, torn about removing the flimsy gown. It wasn’t Victor’s modesty he wished to protect, but more Sherlock didn’t know if he wanted to see what had happened.
In the end he couldn’t do it, but instead chose to delicately trace his hand down Victor’s front and sides,his touch fleeting and gentle, like a distant memory, feeling for the anomaly that would show the wound sites that were bandaged and padded. He found three, and his mouth had gone dry by the time he’d tugged the sheet back over the man.
He didn’t speak. There was nothing to say, but he didn’t want the other to know he’d been, to know that there had been a stranger in his room while he was so vulnerable. Instead, the consulting detective took a seat, content to just regard the man that he knew he couldn’t cut loose, to the wound that would fester and fester until it became too late, until it wasn’t a digit or a limb being removed by everything. Until he was stripped bare.
He let time slip and ebb away, let nurses come and console what they thought was the distraught lover and offer hope. He would live, they said. He’d pull through, they said. He just had to wake up, they said.
Do you want a drink? A bed? You can stay if you want, we won’t say anything. He shook his head to the offers, thanked them in a voice that was hoarse from misuse and they left him too it. He hoped Victor hadn’t heard that voice, though perhaps if he had he’d never attribute it back to him.
All hearts are broken.
Unbidden, the detective rose and returned to the receptionist’s desk. He wanted to know if he could be put as next of kin. She said of course, took his number, promised to keep him updated. Sherlock thanked her, lingering for a moment longer as if he would return to Victor’s side at vigil, but thought better of it. He left, promising to return later to the concerned and thoughtful receptionist. She bid him a good night and wished him the best.
First of all, I’m not tagging this as OOC because I need as many people as possible to see it, so I’m flaunting your tumblr saviours.
Long story short;
To pass one of my modules this year, I need to compose a research study on a topic of my choice. I chose text based discourse (that’s just talking online/text).
I need volunteers (as many as possible please!) to basically do a 5 or less minute questionnaire for me.
The only personal question I ask is your age group, which is important given the nature of my topic. I don’t need a name or anything that can be identified as you personally.The questions literally ask about acronyms and text talk. That’s pretty much it.
Absolutely anyone can take part, be you a close friend, random stranger, simply stalker etc etc. I just need to have a decent body of data to work with.
If you’re willing to take part, please submit me an ask.
I’ll reply with the questionnaire/send you it over skype. If you could fill it out and SUBMIT it back to me on here or on skype, I’d be eternally grateful.
(Send asks to Greg please, not this account. This one just has the most followers.)
Shame, because you’re going to have to. Not too long, though. I don’t want you forgetting me.
[He frowns, finally giving the other his complete attention]
Then why come now?
1. Offtopic. I bought a mug that looks quite similar (a little identical) to John’s in A Study in Pink. Just sayin’. My future flat mate is currently “Mycroft” in my phone and we’re texting as Sherly and Myc. I however will buy big comfy jumpers ofr next year when we live together
2. I’m struggling with Sherlock again. I’m still in the mood to use him, but I’m lazy and whatnot, so I don’t know if it’s me or the muse. Either way, I’m thinking he’s going to be inactive again.
3. Cian is on a long term hibernate because I’ve forgotten his email.
(Bold is the only important thing really.)
Nothing that can’t wait, Holmes.
We’ll talk when you’re not so…tetchy.
[He glances up, regarding the stranger for the first time; a quick cursory glance, nothing more.]
I’m not prepared to wait.
First impressions really aren’t your strong point, are they?
I’m busy and you’re intruding. So no, really. What do you want?
