LUCID DREAMING // AU // HAZEL + HAZEL

Hazel slept fitfully.

The entire night felt wrong. The room was too cold, but her covers we’re making her sweat. Beads of perspiration dotted her pale skin, and she struggled to breathe through the BiPAP mask strapped securely to her face.

Hot liquid flowed through her veins, the red-hot canals of blood reacting poorly to the experimental drug her mother had administered before tucking her daughter into bed. Despite the shakes that racked her body and the burning sensation through her veins,  Hazel didn’t once stir and wake. Her mind and subconscious was stuck inside an obscure and feverish dreamland:

The room was white, and pure shade, stripped from all existing color, not like the dirty shade of sterile pale grey that hospitals were so famous for. It was a bit on a small side, the room, however the fact that it was entirely empty apart from two plush armchairs set up near the center of the room gave the illusion of nonexistent vastness.

While she appeared to be alone in the room, Hazel could almost feel a presence with her, hiding perhaps just of sight. Tentatively crossing the room, Hazel peered anxiously around the room.

“Hello?”

• hazelthegrenade started following you
• berrystarryrachel started following you
• ask—pewdiepie started following you
• iceeyedcillianmurphy started following you
• littlemissamericaxox started following you

Hazel and Alaska ||

“Are all guys sexist or something?”

“Seriously…”

The Fault in Our Veins

She stared at the ceiling, trying to focus on one point.  The simple act had been getting more and more difficult by the second.

She remembered how she had come to London.  It had started two years back.  The teacher had been spewing words written for them already and she had been writing down notes like he demanded them to do so.  She continued writing but the words seemed to repeat over and over and over.  She shook her head and carried on.  

The symptoms came slow and then suddenly, all at once.  She spent nights huddled over, spilling out her guts.  She had woken up with the feeling of a knife in her head, and when her family noticed this to be recurring, they had sent her straight to a specialist.  They found her the best in the country, specifically a professor at Cambridge.  Doctor Hamilton had tested her over and over, making her feel like a lab rat.  She hated it.  

No one seemed to understand how difficult it was for her.  The symptoms were more physical, but her observational skills weakened.  Her vision had taken a hit, including the slow but sure development of a blind spot.  She just wanted it gone.

Glioblastoma multiforme.  Butterfly tumor.  Funny how an insect with a lovely name described a tumor.

Initially, the removal of the tumor had been going well.  It appeared as if it had been removed fully and the symptoms subsided.

A few months later, it came back full force, stronger than it ever was before, and grew even faster.  The symptoms were more violent, and it became clearer and clearer that there was hardly anything that could be done.  She was referred by Doctor Hamilton to someone else.  She was to be moved to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital in London and have an experimental procedure.  It was her only hope.

She shared the room with someone else, a Hazel Lancaster.  Sherlock felt that she and Hazel got along fine.  Not necessarily the best of friends, but enough to converse casually.  She liked that Hazel was honest.  There wasn’t a point in denying anything.

Not now.

“I hate this.” She said after she gave up on trying to fix on one point, “We’re in a huge city and we’re contained in a ruddy hospital.” She frowned, “The food isn’t even decent.”