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John groaned and tried to move, but pain throbbed in his back and abdomen, and he couldn’t seem to move his legs enough to stand up. His body trembled and he heard voices from the hall, and some kind of beeping alarm, but couldn’t pinpoint where it was coming from.
He placed his uninjured hand on the floor and pushed himself up, but the pain only increased and he fell back onto his side. His inhaled sharply through his nose, and felt something warm trickling down his hand.
Oh, the IV tube…shit
John looked at the ceiling and noticed it was blurring; he barely registered he was going to pass out, and when he did, blackness enveloping his vision completely, followed by rapid beeping from the machine beside him.
Sherlock rushed after the medical staff, and made it to John’s room just in time to see them lifting him off the floor and placing him back into bed.
Idiot! Why did I have leave just to pout?
He rushed in and hovered by the bed, itching to do something to help but unsure what to do.
“What happened?” he asked.
“It seems he fell out of bed, though we aren’t sure why he was getting up,” the nurse provided.
Sherlock looked down at John. His wrist was bleeding where the IV tube had come undone, and he was flushed and sweating; the fever must have increased. His eyes moved under his lids and he was attempting at lifting his arms up, but was too weak to do so. He squirmed underneath the people’s hands as they tucked him into bed, and then abruptly leaned up as if he wanted to sit. The nurse and doctor gently held him by the shoulders and pushed him down, but he mumbled incoherently and persistent.
“…Sh’lock….” John’s eyes were glazed and unfocused as he looked around the room.
Sherlock stepped forward. “I’m here, John.” He reached over the railing to take his hand, but then John leaned to the other side and heaved. He vomited onto the floor, and then whimpered, crossing his arm over his abdomen and grimacing.
“Let’s get an ultrasound,” the doctor ordered. “But if he has internal bleeding, we won’t be able to operate until his temperature lowers.”
Sherlock stared at him. “Why not?”
“The anesthesia could cause complications. If the bleeding becomes serious, then we will operate. For now, it may have to wait. The lower his fever is, the better.”
“But he’s in pain,” Sherlock protested.
“We can give him some morpheme. And we will know more once we take an ultrasound.”
A nurse redid John’s IV, and then injected him with something. John slowly relaxed in the bed, his eyes dropping close as he did so. The alarm on the monitor slowly subsided, and then his vitals were back to normal.
Sherlock went around to his chair and pulled it closer to the bed. He took John’s hand back into his own, and then looked up at the doctor, raising an eyebrow expectedly.
“We’ll keep a close eye on him. A nurse will check his abdomen to see if the sutures had come apart. If they did, we’ll have to go back in to surgery. His blood test should come soon, so we’ll know what kind of infection we’re dealing with. It’s likely sepsis, but the tests will be more accurate so then we can treat him correctly. I’m afraid it’s just sit and wait for a few hours.”
Sherlock sighed shakily and nodded. The doctor left, and then the nurse came in with the ultrasound. She was quick, and confirmed the doctor’s suspicious, and then she cleaned up the mess, and then finally left.
Alone again, Sherlock thought. He swallowed tightly and rubbed John’s hand soothingly. John shifted awake, but he looked more sick then he did just fifteen minutes ago.
“I’m here,” Sherlock whispered.
“Don’t blame you,” John mumbled. Sherlock inhaled deeply and nodded, although John’s eyes had closed again for a brief moment. He turned to Sherlock, narrowed his eyes, and offered a weak grin.
“Don’t be an idiot, John,” Sherlock said.
John bit his lip and looked away. “I just needed a bucket. I didn’t want to make a mess,” he mumbled.
Sherlock squeezed his hand, not surprised by John’s reasoning. John remained silent for a while, and Sherlock thought he had fallen asleep, and then he spoke again.
“The sutures came apart,” John whispered.
“I’ll need surgery again.”
“I wonder how that happened,” John mumbled. “But I have a fever.”
Sherlock nodded again, and waited, watching him closely as John spoke.
“It’s only going to get worse.”