fossilised | For John Watson

For God's sake, John.

[It explodes out of him in an irate growl.]

You're not a damn child, you're a doctor, and so you should know when you need to be in a hospital. Swallow your stupid pride, and stay here, or I swear to God this is the last help you'll get from me on this.

[That gives him pause. He does need Lestrade, as much as Lestrade needs Sherlock. But this isn't right. John snaps back.]

It's not about pride. [It's a little bit about pride.] It's about lying abed being useless while there are a couple of terrorists with bombs and poison out murdering people close to me. They got Harry, they nearly got Sherlock and Molly. They might be going after my CO. They're trying to get me arrested for bloody war crimes! I haven't got any money to do anything, not even pay for my own sister's burial, and I'm living off charity. [Quite a bit of pride might be tied up in this...]

I don't have time to get well. Everyone here might be in danger. Jake just gave me a ride and he got shot through the stomach. What the hell d'you think Caroline's gonna do to an entire hospital full of people? You couldn't stop her. Mycroft Holmes and the whole bloody government couldn't stop her!

[He's panicking. He's shouting and he's panicking and he can feel the sear of paranoia burning through everything. Lestrade couldn't be stopping him from getting out for a reason, could he? No. He's a friend, but what if...? He couldn't be bought. John thinks too much of him for that. But blackmailed? Could Jim have got to him some way?]

You're in danger. You shouldn't be helping me. Anyone who- You need to get out. I won't call you again. M is for Met... N for New Scotland Yard. P for Police. You're too many letters. [Too many chances to be targeted, hurt.]

[Lestrade is a bit taken aback, brow furrowing in concern as his anger drains away a bit. He knows that John has a bit of a hangup from his time in the army, some hints of paranoia, but this is the first time he's really seen it come out so strongly. Dealing with this isn't his strength.]

I'm the police, John, helping people even when it's dangerous is sort of what I do for a living. You can't do this just on your own, and you're no use to anyone if you keep pushing yourself to the point you collapse.

[Will logic work? Maybe.]

You have time to take a day or two, and then sort things through one at a time. Let us work on finding Matthews for now, and trust us to protect the people here. We're not as incompetent as Sherlock makes us out to be, you know?

Then why is Harry dead? Why is Sherlock gonna have intermittent seizures for the rest of his life? Why's Molly in another ward with a broken arm? Why's Jake got a hole in his stomach?

[He's sitting up and reaching for his clothes now, ignoring how the quick movements hurt, how his breath is coming much too short.]

I know-I know you're not incompetent, but Jim made it onto a military base. There are officers. He might have officers. He might be following things, planting evidence...

[Logic is taking a back seat for the time being.]

I am sorry about your sister, John.

[And he is, there's sympathy there behind it all, but he's not backing down from this.]

But maybe the rest of that wouldn't have happened if you and Sherlock weren't so bloody keen to go off on your own and keep us in the dark. It's like you think we're working against you, hospital staff too, and you know damn well that we're not.

[They are working against him. They're keeping him here. They're wasting time on him instead of being out there. They might be bought. They might be blackmailed. They might be victims waiting to happen. There's a voice screaming in his head, and this room is too small, the walls are too close. He needs to get out. He needs to get back to Sherlock--Sherlock's in danger. Molly's in danger. Sarah and Mrs. Hudson and James and Bill and Mike are all in danger.

He can picture each and every one of them dead, blown to bits, poisoned, strangled, shot. This is the battlefield. London is a warzone for anyone and everyone around him.

John squeezes his eyes shut and pauses to reach up and clutch his hair.]

I can't do this. I can't stay. I just keep seeing all of you- I can't. I'm sorry, I can't. I need to solve this. Catch Caroline. I need... I need to pay Clara back, you, Molly, Sherlock. I need to get work. Money. I need to make sure they don't get James. They might be after James.

[This is so far above his pay grade. He's not a psychiatrist, and he's not really sure how to deal with someone who's taken a head first dive into full on paranoia. So there's a moment when he considers going to find a doctor, before he just sits on the edge of the bed and rests his hand on John's shoulder.]

Alright, John. Alright.

[Poor lad.]

You're tired and you're stressed, that's why all of this is seeming too much. You know we're not working against you, and we want to help. I can help, I can keep those people safe, and you'll be much more capable of helping to do all the things you need to after a bit of rest.

Don't.

[Logically, Lestrade is just trying to comfort him, reason with him. John knows he needs to force himself to calm down to lockdown on the emotion running out of control. But right now it feels like pity, and that's intolerable.]

Please leave. Find Sherlock. Work with him.

[John will just... figure out something on his own. Once everyone is gone, he'll leave and figure it out. It wouldn't be the first time he's had to.]

Sherlock can get bent, he deliberately antagonised those doctors, and if I see him then I might punch him.

[He'll go and seek out the younger of the two men when he's sure that John isn't breaking down or about to dive out of the window.]

Maybe he's not in our custody, but Moriarty is out of the picture for now and we're on the trail of Matthews. Now is the time to get some rest and be ready for whatever comes next.

[He wants to shake his head, make Lestrade understand, but he's apparently made a more persistent friend than he expected in the detective. John tries to force himself to calm down, to think, to do something other than panic and let his thoughts continue to spiral away into conspiracy. He forces harder and things start to disconnect. Calm. Relax.

John's shoulders slump slightly, his affect fading as he lets his hand drop away from his hair. He needs to not feel things right now, and it's not the healthiest coping mechanism in his arsenal, but it's... something he needs. To Lestrade, it probably looks like John's mind has gone on a walkabout for a bit. It takes him a bit to actually respond, as well.]

Right. You're right. Sorry.

[Lestrade is right. It's easier to look at it rationally when he feels like he's floating halfway out of his body. It's easier to look at everything more rationally like this. The sense that he's pulling away is quietly horrifying, but he can't entirely wed that sensation to the experience at the moment. More like it's happening to someone else.]

[He's not so sure it should have been so easy and he doesn't know if he should trust this abrupt heel-turn or if John is just lying to him in order to get him out of the way.

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, but moves back towards the door.]

Right. Well-- good, don't mention it. I'll leave you to it, then, and I'll come back in the morning with more information.

[Please still be here.]

[For the moment he'll be here. Physically, anyway. John doesn't lay down again, but he does stay, staring ahead at the door blankly. It doesn't register for him that Lestrade's left until the door opens again for the doctor. How long has he been sitting here?

He's not sure, but his eyes search for the clock, ignoring the doctor for the time being. They're here to do... something. Skin cultures. They can get that with him sitting up. John eventually reaches toward his phone to check the time on that. He's not actually trying to be rude to the doctor who's stepped in, they just don't seem to be wholly there. Or he's not wholly there.

John's not nearly as argumentative as he had been with the nurse, at least.]

[It's already on his notes that he might be suffering from some sort of psychosis or paranoia with the way he's been ranting about people after him, or people with bombs, or-- well, all sorts. This new almost catatonia doesn't help him shake that impression and the doctor, after taking a skin culture gently from his back, goes off to consult with the psychiatric team to arrange an evaluation.

John is left alone.

Or, at least, he's left alone until around four in the morning, when all but the necessary lights for working have been dimmed and most of the other patients are asleep, when Molly pads into his room. She's wearing bunny rabbit patterned pyjamas with bunny slippers (which also have a design of oddly sharp teeth), and is holding her cast protectively to her chest.]

John?

[Quiet, tentative.]

Are you awake?

[At some point he lies down and drifts off to sleep. At the sound of a familiar voice, he rouses, though, and looks over at her. Bunnies. His brow furrows.]

You like cats.

[Why does she have bunnies? They're cute, but that detail sticks out to him as odd.]

Huh?

[She looks confused for a moment, before glancing down at her pyjamas and realising what he means. Or what she thinks he must mean.]

Oh, um-- Greg went out and bought me these from the Primark down the road because I didn't have anything with me. I think the slippers are meant to be Monty Python, that's why they have teeth.

[She shuffles a bit closer and takes a seat next to the bed.]

I heard you were admitted.

Just skin cultures. I'm fine. [He still can't help searching for everything wrong with this. She shouldn't be out of her ward in the middle of the night. Shouldn't she be hopped up on pain killers? He's not dreaming, is he? John sits up slowly, carefully. There's pain, but he's been in pain in his dreams before.]

What did Lestrade tell you? Has Sherlock been back?

[Lestrade had actually been ranting about John's paranoia in between going out and getting her some pyjamas, which is sort of why she's here. Not that she says as much, that'll just put his back up and end in an argument.

She knows people like John, she's watched him, he does better when he can be the strong one, the useful one. So she lets some of her own vulnerability shine through.]

I couldn't sleep.

[It's not an answer to his questions, more a timid sort of confession.]

I was scared he might come back, and my arm hurts, so-- I thought I'd feel safer if I came to sit with you. You don't mind, do you?

[Her fear helps to push aside John's own concerns. He blinks a few times, focus returning more fully.]

Yeah. Yeah, of course it's okay, Molls. You can lie down here if you'd like.

[He motions to the bed.]

I can stand watch.

[Because god knows he still doesn't know if he can trust all of the police.]

[There we go, there's a little of the sharpness she's used to. She offers him a tremulous sort of smile.]

No, it's okay, you can keep your bed, I'm okay in the chair. I feel better just knowing a friend is here.

[See? It's not so bad being in the hospital, right?]

I'm sorry if I woke you, though.

[It's terrible and he hates it. Sherlock's not here. Which means Sherlock might be getting kidnapped. Or murdered. But that push and pull of wanting the man and wanting to protect him is too much to mentally deal with. John reaches for his mobile at that thought and finds it's nearly drained for the battery. He shoots off a quick text to Sherlock as he talks to Molly.]

TO: SHERLOCK
FROM: JOHN
Still alive, you arse?

[It's the middle of the night, but Sherlock might still answer.]

It's fine. I don't need much sleep.

[He needs far more of it than he gets.]

I'll be out of here in the morning as soon as they come back with the skin cultures. When are they letting you go? I can stay close, see you to the Station, if you need me to.

[Molly going home for anything other than grabbing some clothes and basic supplies isn't an option in John's mind. She needs to be put in a safe house or something like it. Somewhere Jim and Caroline can't find her.]

I don't want to go to the station.

[Molly's jaw firms a bit, a mixture of nerves about being rejected and determination to get her way.]

I'd rather come back with you and Sherlock. I know I wasn't useful before, but I'll be more careful this time, and you both need someone to help look after you while this is going on.

[She glances down at John's phone as it beeps, heaving a sigh but falling silent.]

TO: JOHN
FROM: SHERLOCK

Obviously. You're late, hurry up.
SH.

Molly, you've been one of the most useful people throughout this entire thing. Sherlock would be dead without you, and I'd be... well. Probably running around London without shoes.

[He's refocusing on her, which makes things easier. So very much easier.]

Sherlock needs us to meet him. [His eyes flick to the time on his phone. It's the middle of the night. More like wee hours of the morning.] I can leave a number for them, have them phone me with the results.

[John's considering that. No. Maybe... he was going to go off on his own. Except that doesn't seem nearly as sensible as it had when he'd been panicking at Lestrade. John rubs his eyes.]

I'm gonna call the nurse, see if they have my results, yet. Want to hide... somewhere?

[He's not sure if he's allowed 4 AM visitors, really. Once Molly's hidden herself away somewhere, John punches the call button. When the nurse arrives, John does his best 'doctor needing an answer' firm tone.]

I'd like to know if the results of my skin biopsy are available. I have an appointment I need to be discharged for within the next hour.

[Not really, but...]

[Molly isn't too keen on having John discharged in the middle of the night, when Sherlock likely doesn't want him for anything more important than gloating about how he got discharged so quickly. But she knows there are some battles that can't be won, and so she hides away behind the curtains of the next bed, conveniently empty, and doesn't make any objections.]

Oh, honey.

[The nurse chuckles as if he's said something funny.]

All the technicians have gone home, there won't be any results and there won't be anyone to sign off on a release until morning. Get some sleep, your appointment will just have to be rescheduled.

[As if any but the emergency doctors would work overnight on the wards.]

[John unconsciously bristles at being spoken to like that. He keeps his cool for the moment, though. Getting what you want is easier when you're not waving your temper in someone's face. His lips quirk up in a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.]

I'm sure there are a few doctors in the emergency room who could sign off on a release in the next few minutes.

Edited 2018-03-01 15:01 (UTC)

They're emergency doctors for a reason, and they don't have time to look over any results to make sure they can sign off on a release.

[What if they're needed for an emergency? That's the whole point of them.]

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