Restoration - (1/?)
Sep. 24th, 2016 05:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
diandrahollmanTitle: Restoration
Author: Diandra Hollman
E-Mail: diandrahollman@gmail.com
Website: http://diandrahollman.tripod.com
Rating: Hard R
Keywords: Hurt/Comfort, John/Sherlock, rape recovery, emotional hurt/comfort, PTSD, hurt Sherlock
Spoilers: No
Disclaimer: Not my characters
Summary: "You get the call in the dead of night. early enough for you to not be quite deeply asleep yet, but late enough to be distressing. Because nobody calls at such an hour unless something has gone horribly wrong."
Author's Notes: This deals with the aftermath of sexual assault. The actual assault is never "shown", but will be partially described by the victim. I have never been a victim of such violence, so I won't pretend I understand what this is like, but I will endeavor to do right by all the people who have survived something like this.
Restoration
By Diandra Hollman
You get the call in the dead of night. early enough for you to not be quite deeply asleep yet, but late enough to be distressing. Because nobody calls at such an hour unless something has gone horribly wrong.
"John," Mycroft says by way of hasty greeting. "I need you to come to St. Bartholomew's as soon as possible. I am sending a car."
Your first horrifying thought is that Sherlock is dead. But as you swim up through residual layers of sleep you realize that Mycroft would not summon you with such urgency if it were too late. "God, what happened? Is he all right?"
Mycroft hesitates long enough to make it clear that he isn't. "He asked for you."
You pause in your frantic scramble for some clothes to put on. He asked for you. Therefore he is alive and conscious and able to communicate. Yet the tightness in Mycroft's voice and the fact that he even agreed to summon you tells you he is far from "all right".
"I'll be right there."
**************
It is two a.m. by the time you reach the hospital, but you have so much adrenaline humming through your veins that you are wide awake. You keep kicking yourself for not being concerned when he didn't come home last night, for not trying to call, even though there are no indications that he tried to call you either. Did something happen to his phone?
You are directed to a private room and you realize that Mycroft has made sure everyone at intake knows who you are and allows you entry. You don't ask any of them for more information. They wouldn't know anything anyway. You are therefore unprepared for the sight that greets you on the other side of the door.
His face is almost unrecognizable beneath the swelling and bruises. His entire lower right arm is encased in a splint. You cannot see much of the rest of his body as it is covered by a hospital gown, but you can guess it is just as damaged as the parts that are visible. Worst of all, a nurse is attaching padded stirrups to the end of the bed while a doctor lines up tools and evidence collection bags for something you had hoped never to see again after your time in A&E.
Rape kit.
"Doctor Watson."
Mycroft is standing beside the bed, his hand on Sherlock's left shoulder. He doesn't say anything else. Simply gestures for you to approach. You see him squeeze Sherlock's shoulder reassuringly before moving aside so you can take his place.
This close you can get a better idea of how extensive the damage is. For a moment, you find yourself cataloging the injuries and piecing together details of the attack just like he would. The attacker - attackers... there had to be more than one - was right handed because the worst of the damage is on the left side. Defensive wounds on both hands show he fought back, which might also explain his broken right arm. One of the bruises on his throat is in the distinct shape of a human hand. The eye that isn't swollen shut rolls in your direction and he gurgles an approximation of your name through puffy lips, his jaw barely unclenching. His good left hand reaches for you and you take it, mindful of the cuts and scrapes along the knuckles.
"I'm here," you say numbly. You run the fingers of your other hand tentatively along the curve of his jaw, feeling sick as he whimpers. It isn't broken, but it may be dislocated. You swallow any questions you may have had. He may be able to answer, but you don't want to be the cause of any additional pain he would likely endure from the effort. "I'm here," you say again, helplessly.
“Mr. Holmes,” the doctor says in a deliberately low, soothing tone. “Can you lift your legs for me?” She helps guide his legs into the supports one at a time, but it’s obvious she is doing the majority of the work. His breath catches a couple times and he makes a low whining sound he probably isn’t even aware of. You hear her slip on some gloves, but you refuse to take your eyes from his face. You can’t look.
“I’m going to start the internal exam now,” the doctor warns in the same comforting tone. “I’ll try to be gentle. Tell me if you need me to stop.”
He grips your hand tighter and makes a choking noise you recognize as an attempt to swallow the pain.
“Breathe, Sherlock,” you whisper. “Look at me.”
You notice the glassiness of his one good eye as he struggles to focus it on you and wonder how you didn’t see it before. “What are you giving him for the pain,” you ask the closest nurse, barely looking up.
Two things happen at once. The nurse shakes her head and says something about waiting for a blood test to confirm. At the same time, Sherlock sluggishly taps the back of your hand in the unmistakable rhythm of Morse code. C13H16CINO.
“Ketamine,” you murmur at almost the same moment as the surprised nurse.
‘Needle,’ Sherlock adds as the nurse talks about drug interactions and local anesthetics. ‘4. Poison. Snake. Sis-‘ He grips your hand suddenly, choking on a moan.
“Sorry,” the doctor says gently. “Little pinch.”
You still his fingers with your other hand before they can continue their frantic beat. “Later,” you murmur. “You can tell me later, yeah?”
You look away from him for a few moments as another nurse hands the collected evidence to Mycroft. It’s not until that moment that you realize there is a distinct lack of police officers present. Obviously either or both of the Holmes brothers has decided to keep the incident need-to-know. You catch Mycroft’s eye and share a look of mutual understanding. You will both do whatever it takes to protect Sherlock – from public attention as well as the men who hurt him. He trusts you to handle the former. You can trust him with the latter. You nod, both an agreement and a promise, and he leaves, sparing one last pained look at his brother. You doubt you will see him again until after he has tracked down all of the men the rape kit identifies and ensured every one of them faces whatever form of justice he sees fit.
"Okay," the doctor announces when she has finished her examination. "We're just going to put a couple stitches here and then we'll be finished."
Stitches. Jesus.
You steel yourself and concentrate back on his face, giving him a sad, watery attempt at a reassuring smile. "It's all right now. Just breathe."
'Breathing is boring,' you hear his voice groan in the back of your mind. You wonder, as you look at him now, so dazed and stripped of his defenses, not even rolling his eyes at your ridiculously inadequate attempts at comfort, if you'll ever get that Sherlock back. You shake your head to dispel the thought. No. He's stronger than that.
"Hurts," he slurs suddenly and your chest aches in sympathy.
"I know. I'm sorry. I think the ketamine is wearing off." This last part is directed at the nurse, who responds by checking Sherlock's vitals again.
"Right," the doctor announces, putting down her instruments and standing up. "You can put your legs down now."
Again, she has to help Sherlock do this, lifting his shaking limbs from the stirrups one by one. But this time she has barely lifted the second leg when a broken wail bursts from his throat. He flails, mindless in his pain, and you and the nurses rush to keep him still before he hurts himself further.
The doctor holds perfectly still through his thrashing before carefully lowering his leg and gently feeling his abdomen and pelvic bones. He yelps and convulses as she touches a spot near his groin. You reach to soothe him, mutter some horrible reassurances that you know he can't possibly be insensate enough to believe.
He looks at you and says your name and he sounds so *lost*. Somehow this is worse than all the men - boys, really - you treated on the battlefield. You're not sure if that's because it's Sherlock or because he is a civilian and this attack is so random and senseless.
"Let's have another look at the x-ray," the doctor tells the head nurse. "Where are we on blood work?"
"He's an addict," you blurt before the nurse can respond. "He has a high tolerance for drugs, but he can't..." You swallow, your mouth feeling impossibly dry, and look down at Sherlock, whose eyes have taken on that vacant look again. "Epidural. Can you give him an epidural?"
The doctor nods and gives orders to the nurse.
Sherlock has begun muttering under his breath. You can't make sense of the words except for the occasional repetition of your name. You lean close, burying your face in matted, bloodied curls, and continue your efforts to calm him, even though you suspect he has already retreated deep into the safety of his mind palace.
"I'm here. You're safe. I'm here," you whisper in his ear.
If only you could fool yourself into thinking that was enough.
TBC
Author: Diandra Hollman
E-Mail: diandrahollman@gmail.com
Website: http://diandrahollman.tripod.com
Rating: Hard R
Keywords: Hurt/Comfort, John/Sherlock, rape recovery, emotional hurt/comfort, PTSD, hurt Sherlock
Spoilers: No
Disclaimer: Not my characters
Summary: "You get the call in the dead of night. early enough for you to not be quite deeply asleep yet, but late enough to be distressing. Because nobody calls at such an hour unless something has gone horribly wrong."
Author's Notes: This deals with the aftermath of sexual assault. The actual assault is never "shown", but will be partially described by the victim. I have never been a victim of such violence, so I won't pretend I understand what this is like, but I will endeavor to do right by all the people who have survived something like this.
Restoration
By Diandra Hollman
You get the call in the dead of night. early enough for you to not be quite deeply asleep yet, but late enough to be distressing. Because nobody calls at such an hour unless something has gone horribly wrong.
"John," Mycroft says by way of hasty greeting. "I need you to come to St. Bartholomew's as soon as possible. I am sending a car."
Your first horrifying thought is that Sherlock is dead. But as you swim up through residual layers of sleep you realize that Mycroft would not summon you with such urgency if it were too late. "God, what happened? Is he all right?"
Mycroft hesitates long enough to make it clear that he isn't. "He asked for you."
You pause in your frantic scramble for some clothes to put on. He asked for you. Therefore he is alive and conscious and able to communicate. Yet the tightness in Mycroft's voice and the fact that he even agreed to summon you tells you he is far from "all right".
"I'll be right there."
**************
It is two a.m. by the time you reach the hospital, but you have so much adrenaline humming through your veins that you are wide awake. You keep kicking yourself for not being concerned when he didn't come home last night, for not trying to call, even though there are no indications that he tried to call you either. Did something happen to his phone?
You are directed to a private room and you realize that Mycroft has made sure everyone at intake knows who you are and allows you entry. You don't ask any of them for more information. They wouldn't know anything anyway. You are therefore unprepared for the sight that greets you on the other side of the door.
His face is almost unrecognizable beneath the swelling and bruises. His entire lower right arm is encased in a splint. You cannot see much of the rest of his body as it is covered by a hospital gown, but you can guess it is just as damaged as the parts that are visible. Worst of all, a nurse is attaching padded stirrups to the end of the bed while a doctor lines up tools and evidence collection bags for something you had hoped never to see again after your time in A&E.
Rape kit.
"Doctor Watson."
Mycroft is standing beside the bed, his hand on Sherlock's left shoulder. He doesn't say anything else. Simply gestures for you to approach. You see him squeeze Sherlock's shoulder reassuringly before moving aside so you can take his place.
This close you can get a better idea of how extensive the damage is. For a moment, you find yourself cataloging the injuries and piecing together details of the attack just like he would. The attacker - attackers... there had to be more than one - was right handed because the worst of the damage is on the left side. Defensive wounds on both hands show he fought back, which might also explain his broken right arm. One of the bruises on his throat is in the distinct shape of a human hand. The eye that isn't swollen shut rolls in your direction and he gurgles an approximation of your name through puffy lips, his jaw barely unclenching. His good left hand reaches for you and you take it, mindful of the cuts and scrapes along the knuckles.
"I'm here," you say numbly. You run the fingers of your other hand tentatively along the curve of his jaw, feeling sick as he whimpers. It isn't broken, but it may be dislocated. You swallow any questions you may have had. He may be able to answer, but you don't want to be the cause of any additional pain he would likely endure from the effort. "I'm here," you say again, helplessly.
“Mr. Holmes,” the doctor says in a deliberately low, soothing tone. “Can you lift your legs for me?” She helps guide his legs into the supports one at a time, but it’s obvious she is doing the majority of the work. His breath catches a couple times and he makes a low whining sound he probably isn’t even aware of. You hear her slip on some gloves, but you refuse to take your eyes from his face. You can’t look.
“I’m going to start the internal exam now,” the doctor warns in the same comforting tone. “I’ll try to be gentle. Tell me if you need me to stop.”
He grips your hand tighter and makes a choking noise you recognize as an attempt to swallow the pain.
“Breathe, Sherlock,” you whisper. “Look at me.”
You notice the glassiness of his one good eye as he struggles to focus it on you and wonder how you didn’t see it before. “What are you giving him for the pain,” you ask the closest nurse, barely looking up.
Two things happen at once. The nurse shakes her head and says something about waiting for a blood test to confirm. At the same time, Sherlock sluggishly taps the back of your hand in the unmistakable rhythm of Morse code. C13H16CINO.
“Ketamine,” you murmur at almost the same moment as the surprised nurse.
‘Needle,’ Sherlock adds as the nurse talks about drug interactions and local anesthetics. ‘4. Poison. Snake. Sis-‘ He grips your hand suddenly, choking on a moan.
“Sorry,” the doctor says gently. “Little pinch.”
You still his fingers with your other hand before they can continue their frantic beat. “Later,” you murmur. “You can tell me later, yeah?”
You look away from him for a few moments as another nurse hands the collected evidence to Mycroft. It’s not until that moment that you realize there is a distinct lack of police officers present. Obviously either or both of the Holmes brothers has decided to keep the incident need-to-know. You catch Mycroft’s eye and share a look of mutual understanding. You will both do whatever it takes to protect Sherlock – from public attention as well as the men who hurt him. He trusts you to handle the former. You can trust him with the latter. You nod, both an agreement and a promise, and he leaves, sparing one last pained look at his brother. You doubt you will see him again until after he has tracked down all of the men the rape kit identifies and ensured every one of them faces whatever form of justice he sees fit.
"Okay," the doctor announces when she has finished her examination. "We're just going to put a couple stitches here and then we'll be finished."
Stitches. Jesus.
You steel yourself and concentrate back on his face, giving him a sad, watery attempt at a reassuring smile. "It's all right now. Just breathe."
'Breathing is boring,' you hear his voice groan in the back of your mind. You wonder, as you look at him now, so dazed and stripped of his defenses, not even rolling his eyes at your ridiculously inadequate attempts at comfort, if you'll ever get that Sherlock back. You shake your head to dispel the thought. No. He's stronger than that.
"Hurts," he slurs suddenly and your chest aches in sympathy.
"I know. I'm sorry. I think the ketamine is wearing off." This last part is directed at the nurse, who responds by checking Sherlock's vitals again.
"Right," the doctor announces, putting down her instruments and standing up. "You can put your legs down now."
Again, she has to help Sherlock do this, lifting his shaking limbs from the stirrups one by one. But this time she has barely lifted the second leg when a broken wail bursts from his throat. He flails, mindless in his pain, and you and the nurses rush to keep him still before he hurts himself further.
The doctor holds perfectly still through his thrashing before carefully lowering his leg and gently feeling his abdomen and pelvic bones. He yelps and convulses as she touches a spot near his groin. You reach to soothe him, mutter some horrible reassurances that you know he can't possibly be insensate enough to believe.
He looks at you and says your name and he sounds so *lost*. Somehow this is worse than all the men - boys, really - you treated on the battlefield. You're not sure if that's because it's Sherlock or because he is a civilian and this attack is so random and senseless.
"Let's have another look at the x-ray," the doctor tells the head nurse. "Where are we on blood work?"
"He's an addict," you blurt before the nurse can respond. "He has a high tolerance for drugs, but he can't..." You swallow, your mouth feeling impossibly dry, and look down at Sherlock, whose eyes have taken on that vacant look again. "Epidural. Can you give him an epidural?"
The doctor nods and gives orders to the nurse.
Sherlock has begun muttering under his breath. You can't make sense of the words except for the occasional repetition of your name. You lean close, burying your face in matted, bloodied curls, and continue your efforts to calm him, even though you suspect he has already retreated deep into the safety of his mind palace.
"I'm here. You're safe. I'm here," you whisper in his ear.
If only you could fool yourself into thinking that was enough.
TBC
