Restoration - (2/?)
Oct. 5th, 2016 04:33 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.
All previous chapters here
The hairline fracture to his pelvis is so small that it takes a specialist and a second scan to confirm it. Sherlock is put on bed rest for a week, his pain managed by epidurals and non narcotic drugs. It isn't enough, but you can't risk anything else. You hold him, distract him when it gets to be too much. Sometimes you just let him scream at you - and reassure him later when he begs your forgiveness. You help the physical therapists treat his jaw and guide him through exercises for his broken arm. You help the nurses bathe him, use a bed pan and give him sitz baths to ease the pain. You stand beside him when he practices walking again, ready to catch him if he falls, the physical therapist guiding from the other side of the walker as he shuffles painfully around the room.
When he is able, he gives you detailed descriptions of the men who attacked him. You give them to Mycroft. Coupled with the DNA from the rape kit, you are confident he has all he needs to track them down. Especially considering Sherlock's descriptions were characteristically full of details about former prison sentences, likely origins of scars and meanings of tattoos, and the deduction that one of the four men has a sister who owns two cats. You don't know whether you are more proud or horrified to find that he was so alert while he was being beaten so savagely.
You almost panic when you arrive one day to find his bed empty. Before you can call someone – summon an alarm – you hear voices coming from the bathroom.
He is slumped on the closed toilet, his eyes closed. A nurse – Julie, you recall – is taking his pulse and steadying him with a soft hand on his back.
“Everything all right,” you ask quietly, not wanting to startle him.
“Just catching our breath,” Julie says when Sherlock remains quiet.
You squat beside him and cradle his face between your palms, coaxing him to look at you. The pain and weariness in his gaze tells you more than mere words could. He may be getting better and stronger, but he has good days and bad days. This is not a good day. “Julie, could you get the wheelchair?” You are too focused on Sherlock to spare her much of a glance, but she understands. You see a spark of gratitude in his eyes as she removes the walker he used to get from the bed to the toilet and reappears less than a minute later with the wheelchair, situating it in the same spot and engaging the locks.
“Ready,” you ask him.
He takes a deep, trembling breath and nods, reaching for your shoulders.
You stand, guiding him up with you, wincing as he chokes back a whimper and clutches the back of your jumper with his undamaged hand.
“Slowly,” you murmur in his ear. “I’ve got you.”
You help him the few small, shuffling steps to the chair, bearing much of his weight as you ease him into the padded seat.
“Give me a number,” you prompt as you flip the footrests down and guide his legs onto them. “How bad?”
“Eight,” he says softly between panting breaths.
You look at Julie and she nods. You both know that an “eight” for Sherlock is an “eleven” for anyone else. “I’ll get the doctor,” she says before quietly slipping out.
“Let’s get you back to bed, yeah?” You pat his knee and force a smile.
He is quiet on the way back into his room, but you don’t think anything of it until you go to engage the brakes on the wheelchair again and spot a tear sliding down his cheek. You hesitate only a moment, uncertain if acknowledging this moment of vulnerability would be more humiliating than helpful, before gently wiping it away and cradling his face.
“I can’t...” He says the words as if they are being torn from him against his will. Another tear spills over your fingers and you suspect he is referring to more than just his ability to get back into bed.
“Shh, it’s all right.” You kiss his forehead softly and gather him in a loose embrace, your cheek crushing the curls at his temple, trying to lend him your strength – even if you don’t feel particularly strong. You whisper reassurances until he stops trembling and his breathing steadies.
“Here.” You guide his arms around your neck and position your own beneath his knees and behind his back. “Hold on.”
It is less than five steps to the hospital bed. You know you won’t drop him.
He is barely able to swallow a whimper as you set him down – perhaps more heavily than you’d have liked. “Sorry,” you mutter. “So sorry.” You gently detangle yourself from him despite his slurred protests and hurry back to the loo to grab a flannel, wetting it with cool water.
By the time the doctor arrives to administer the epidural he is calm and you have washed away the evidence of his moment of weakness. He clutches your hands as the catheters are inserted (both in his spine and his bladder as he won’t feel the urge to urinate when his lower back is numbed).
Julie helps you get him comfortable – as much as is possible – before she leaves you alone.
“Try to get some sleep,” you whisper, soothing his brow with your thumb, your entire upper body practically on the bed with him as you lean close.
He squeezes your other hand. “Thank you,” he mumbles.
You smile, kiss his healing knuckles, and watch as he drifts into an uneasy sleep.
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.
All previous chapters here
The hairline fracture to his pelvis is so small that it takes a specialist and a second scan to confirm it. Sherlock is put on bed rest for a week, his pain managed by epidurals and non narcotic drugs. It isn't enough, but you can't risk anything else. You hold him, distract him when it gets to be too much. Sometimes you just let him scream at you - and reassure him later when he begs your forgiveness. You help the physical therapists treat his jaw and guide him through exercises for his broken arm. You help the nurses bathe him, use a bed pan and give him sitz baths to ease the pain. You stand beside him when he practices walking again, ready to catch him if he falls, the physical therapist guiding from the other side of the walker as he shuffles painfully around the room.
When he is able, he gives you detailed descriptions of the men who attacked him. You give them to Mycroft. Coupled with the DNA from the rape kit, you are confident he has all he needs to track them down. Especially considering Sherlock's descriptions were characteristically full of details about former prison sentences, likely origins of scars and meanings of tattoos, and the deduction that one of the four men has a sister who owns two cats. You don't know whether you are more proud or horrified to find that he was so alert while he was being beaten so savagely.
You almost panic when you arrive one day to find his bed empty. Before you can call someone – summon an alarm – you hear voices coming from the bathroom.
He is slumped on the closed toilet, his eyes closed. A nurse – Julie, you recall – is taking his pulse and steadying him with a soft hand on his back.
“Everything all right,” you ask quietly, not wanting to startle him.
“Just catching our breath,” Julie says when Sherlock remains quiet.
You squat beside him and cradle his face between your palms, coaxing him to look at you. The pain and weariness in his gaze tells you more than mere words could. He may be getting better and stronger, but he has good days and bad days. This is not a good day. “Julie, could you get the wheelchair?” You are too focused on Sherlock to spare her much of a glance, but she understands. You see a spark of gratitude in his eyes as she removes the walker he used to get from the bed to the toilet and reappears less than a minute later with the wheelchair, situating it in the same spot and engaging the locks.
“Ready,” you ask him.
He takes a deep, trembling breath and nods, reaching for your shoulders.
You stand, guiding him up with you, wincing as he chokes back a whimper and clutches the back of your jumper with his undamaged hand.
“Slowly,” you murmur in his ear. “I’ve got you.”
You help him the few small, shuffling steps to the chair, bearing much of his weight as you ease him into the padded seat.
“Give me a number,” you prompt as you flip the footrests down and guide his legs onto them. “How bad?”
“Eight,” he says softly between panting breaths.
You look at Julie and she nods. You both know that an “eight” for Sherlock is an “eleven” for anyone else. “I’ll get the doctor,” she says before quietly slipping out.
“Let’s get you back to bed, yeah?” You pat his knee and force a smile.
He is quiet on the way back into his room, but you don’t think anything of it until you go to engage the brakes on the wheelchair again and spot a tear sliding down his cheek. You hesitate only a moment, uncertain if acknowledging this moment of vulnerability would be more humiliating than helpful, before gently wiping it away and cradling his face.
“I can’t...” He says the words as if they are being torn from him against his will. Another tear spills over your fingers and you suspect he is referring to more than just his ability to get back into bed.
“Shh, it’s all right.” You kiss his forehead softly and gather him in a loose embrace, your cheek crushing the curls at his temple, trying to lend him your strength – even if you don’t feel particularly strong. You whisper reassurances until he stops trembling and his breathing steadies.
“Here.” You guide his arms around your neck and position your own beneath his knees and behind his back. “Hold on.”
It is less than five steps to the hospital bed. You know you won’t drop him.
He is barely able to swallow a whimper as you set him down – perhaps more heavily than you’d have liked. “Sorry,” you mutter. “So sorry.” You gently detangle yourself from him despite his slurred protests and hurry back to the loo to grab a flannel, wetting it with cool water.
By the time the doctor arrives to administer the epidural he is calm and you have washed away the evidence of his moment of weakness. He clutches your hands as the catheters are inserted (both in his spine and his bladder as he won’t feel the urge to urinate when his lower back is numbed).
Julie helps you get him comfortable – as much as is possible – before she leaves you alone.
“Try to get some sleep,” you whisper, soothing his brow with your thumb, your entire upper body practically on the bed with him as you lean close.
He squeezes your other hand. “Thank you,” he mumbles.
You smile, kiss his healing knuckles, and watch as he drifts into an uneasy sleep.
