sherlockbbc_fic | Prompting Part XXXVI

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Prompting Part XXXVI

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Sherlock doesn't eat much, but then John notices that Sherlock has stopped eating altogether. As a doctor, John recognises all signs of an eating disorder, so he knows he has to be careful about it. On the one hand, Sherlock insists that he doesn't need help and maybe gets angry, on the other hand he's afraid of getting into a mental facility (maybe it has already happened before).

Sherlock gets thinner and weaker and they both know it's becoming life-threatening. Sherlock knows he needs to eat, but he just can't. He begs John not to let him be locked up in a mental facility.

Since Sherlock can't eat on his own, John suggests another way. And then, with Sherlock's reluctant consent, John starts feeding him via a nasogastric tube, comforting him during the whole process and afterwards, since it's all really hard for Sherlock.

Seconded!

YES

*Moving fill over here from LJ*

Disclaimer: I'm not a doctor, and have thankfully never needed to use a feeding tube before, so apologies for any inaccuracies. And though I have an EDNOS (I protest and therefore refuse to use "OSFED"), every ED is different, and I don't at all mean to offend anyone by my portrayal of it here.

Can be read as Johnlock or just really epic bromance with added pet names.

Sherlock watched tensely as John laid out a selection of medical equipment on the nightstand, fists clenched tightly around the sheets beneath him, muscles taut with a mixture of nerves and dread. Stethoscope, lubricant, syringe, pump—each contributed to the maelstrom of anxiety that churned in the pit of his stomach. But it wasn’t until John tore open the packaging for the NG tube that he flinched away, barely suppressing his desire to flee the room entirely.

Graciously, John didn’t say anything about his involuntary slip up, instead moving to perch at the side of the bed. Slowly, he brought a hand up to rest on Sherlock’s bony knee, thumb rubbing against the pyjama bottoms in soothing circles. “Look at me please,” he ordered kindly, waiting until the younger man met his gaze before leaning in, face set with a solemn expression. “I know this is scary for you, maybe even terrifying. And I know it won’t be easy, I’m not going to lie and try to convince you otherwise. But we need to do this, because as hard as it will be, your body needs help right now. And this is going to give it that help, whether it feels like that or not.” His thumb slowed to a stop, pressing heavily against Sherlock’s knee, anchoring him. “I promise, I would never, ever do anything that would hurt you. Can you trust me on that much?”

Sherlock pulled his legs closer to his chest as he allowed John’s words to cover him like a particularly warm and downy duvet. Trying to bring back some sense of normality, he forced his lips to quirk. “Says the man who once punched me in the face and then proceeded to throttle me in a back alley.”

John gave a soft chuckle. “You punched first you git. Not to mention, quite literally asked for it.” His eyes regained their serious glimmer. “This isn’t going to hurt you; it’s going to help you, even if it doesn’t feel like it right now.” He tilted forward, bringing his forehead to rest lightly against Sherlock’s. “I would never, ever hurt you,” he whispered, holding their contact for a long moment before moving back. “You ready love?”

Whatever peace Sherlock had gotten from John’s encouragement seemed to disintegrate immediately. His breathing, which he had managed to control up to this point, began to quicken rapidly, and in the space of a few seconds he had reached a near hyperventilation. “I don’t think I can do this,” he said through sudden nausea. “John, I can’t do this. Please, I can’t—I can’t—”

“All right,” John broke in quickly, grasping both of Sherlock’s sinewy, fragile, fucking breakable (oh Jesus fuck Sherlock, I’m so sorry I ever let it get this far love) wrists in a careful embrace. “It’s all right,” he murmured, bringing the palm of each slender hand up to his lips and pressing a gentle kiss into both. “I swear to you, it’s going to be all right. I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere. We’re going to do this together, you and me. You’re going to let me take over now, let me make the hard choices, and trust me when I say that I’m going to take care of you. Can you do that for me?”

“John,” he gasped desperately, heels digging hard into the bed, “I don’t—”

“Lie back sweetheart,” John interrupted once more before Sherlock could work himself into a more hysterical state. He released Sherlock’s wrists in favour of propping whatever pillows he could grab up against the headboard, gently but firmly maneuvering his friend into a recline. He kept his left hand pressed against Sherlock’s chest in light restraint, the knobs of his sternum all too evident, buoying with each rapid inhale and exhale. The fingers of his right went up to brush through the raven curls.

“Close your eyes,” John requested quietly. When he wasn’t obeyed, he ran a comforting finger along the ridge of Sherlock’s brow. “Come on love, close your eyes.”

Lungs still frantically panting air, Sherlock willed himself to listen to John’s commands, forcing his eyes to fall shut despite the petrifying vulnerability that came with the sudden blindness.

“That’s it,” John encouraged. “You’re doing so well love. We’re going to take a deep breath in now, okay? There you are. Let’s try again. Nice and deep, let your lungs expand all the way. Good, bit better that time. Let’s do it again now, I want you to hold it for three seconds this time. Two, one. There we go. In again. You’re perfectly safe here; I’m right with you, not going anywhere. Inhale and hold it, you’re doing an fantastic job. The room’s warm—and out, good—and it still smells of the tea we had in here this morning. I bet the bed and pillows are pretty soft too, aren’t they? Why don’t you try and loosen your muscles, and then you can relax back against them a bit more, yeah? In again, there’s a lad.”

Sherlock’s breathing began to slow into some semblance of normal as John continued his placid coaching, but the newfound calm was quickly overtaken by embarrassment, blood pooling into his cheeks as he realized just how pitiably little control he had over his own body. Even now, his breathing remained slightly erratic, despite the searing concentration to tame it. The great detective, brought to his knees because of a panic attack over the idea of nourishment. Humiliating.

Noticing the blush, John stroked a wide, placating arc across his ribcage. “It’s all fine, absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about. Sometimes our bodies react in ways we’d really rather they didn’t. That doesn’t make you weak, and it certainly doesn’t change my opinion of you.”

Sherlock had already opened his eyes and was shaking his head before John had finished talking. “We shouldn’t have to be here in the first place,” he argued, spitting the words with venom. “If I was normal, if I wasn’t such a freak—”

“Sherlock Holmes, I don’t want to ever hear you call yourself that again!” John’s voice was a near shout, and he forced himself to calm down, taking his own deep breath before continuing in a more subdued, if no less fervent, tone. “There’s no more reason to be ashamed of this than if we were here because you had ALS or gastroparesis.” He brought both his hands up to cup Sherlock’s face, staring intently into the gray orbs. “You didn’t choose to have an eating disorder. This is not your fault, this doesn’t make you a freak, and I hope we’re very clear on both those points because I don’t ever want to have to repeat myself.”

“It’s not the same,” Sherlock insisted bitterly. “My mind is my most important asset John, and yet it’s also my biggest flaw; it’s pathetic in every way you look at it.”

John allowed his hands to drift up towards Sherlock’s hair, cradling his head as if it were the most precious treasure in the world. “It’s not a lack of flaws that make you great Sherlock, it’s the fact that you’re able to do so much in spite of those flaws that make your mind what it is. If you believe nothing else that I say to you, please believe me on that.”

Sherlock pursed his lips together in a thin line, but didn’t try to argue the point any further; it would have fallen on deaf ears, and it seemed a wiser choice to save that energy for more promising battles. Instead, he gave one short, lackluster nod, moving his gaze away before John could go on declaring any other unreasonable promises.

“All right then,” John stated with finality, releasing his hold on Sherlock and sitting back. After a long moment of silence, both men gathering their wits, he once more began to pet Sherlock’s hair as soothingly as possible. “I think,” he said gently, “that maybe it’s time we try this again.”

Immediately, Sherlock’s entire body tensed into a rigid plank, teeth grinding together and resonating inside his skull, the air once again seemingly knocked from his body as if someone had punched him in the gut. In a desperate bid to avoid hyperventilating a second time, he held his breath, wishing, not for the first time, that he was in fact the machine that so many claimed he was, with an off switch or emergency shutdown that could be programmed for such times as these. Then again, if he were a machine, such times as these wouldn’t even be a factor.

“I’d like to give you a sedative,” John said without apology, gingerly twisting a stray curl. “Just something to help you relax a bit. Will you let me do that?”

An abrupt wave of anger came over Sherlock—anger at the situation they were in, the inevitabilities that were crashing down on him—and he shoved John, the only target available at the moment, away. “I’m not your patient, Dr. Watson,” he spat, edging towards the far side of the mattress. “Nor am I some naive cretin who’s going to be lulled into a false sense of security based on how much you talk down to me, as if I…as if…” The flare of rage that had come in an instant drained out of him just as quickly, leaving him limp and feeling as though he had been wrung out.

“No,” John agreed steadily. “You’re not my patient. But you are the most important person in my life, and I’ll be damned to hell and fucked over like a march hare if I sit here and let you suffer without trying to do something to help make it all a bit easier.” He sighed, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. “This is what we do, remember? I carry the gun, you run ten steps ahead knowing that I’ve got your back. This isn’t any different. Please, just let me help. If not for yourself, then for me.”

Sherlock dug his nails into the sheets, drooping in defeat. “Okay,” he said hoarsely, turning his head away. The room went silent as John hesitated, the worrying lack of Sherlock’s normally capricious and contradictory attitude giving him pause. But slowly, he began to shuffle towards the end of the bed, where his doctor’s bag had been innocuously placed on the floor, pulling it up beside him.

“I’m going to give you an injection of diazepam,” he stated softly, rooting through the medical paraphernalia. Sherlock clenched his eyes shut at the sound of latex gloves whinging against skin, a faint tearing—no doubt the paper sheath of a needle and syringe—soon following. He started slightly at the sudden warm touch at his wrist, but slackened as John began to roll up the sleeve of his dressing gown. “Bit cold now,” he murmured, swiping a path of disinfectant across Sherlock’s inner elbow. A tourniquet was next, cinching resolutely around his bicep.

John’s gloved hand wrapped around his own, forming it into a loose fist; he gave a reassuring squeeze before letting go.

Sherlock listened to the delicate chinks as needle hit vial, drawing up the drug. A few seconds later, a series of muted taps flicked out an uneven pattern against his arm, trailing up and down until John seemed to settle on a prominent enough vein. “I’m no nurse, but I think my needlework’s decent enough not to jab you too badly here,” he teased in warning. “Small pinch. There we are.”

Sherlock looked back at John as a cool trickle entered his bloodstream, the sensation dissolving as the drug heated rapidly to body temperature. He stared blankly as John released the tourniquet and pulled away, swiftly covering the tiny puncture wound with a cotton ball. “I don’t know whether I should be disturbed by the fact that we have a sharps box in our flat, or just happy that I don’t have to take this into work with me,” he joked cheerfully, one handedly capping the needle and tossing it onto the nightstand for later disposal. The room went still as John held the cotton, a long minute passing until he decided that the pressure had been applied for long enough. “You might feel a bit shaky, and you might experience some nausea or drowsiness,” he informed Sherlock as he unwrapped a band aid, taping it over the fresh drop of blood with as much concentration as he might have performing open heart surgery. “Perfectly normal, but I want you to tell me right away if you do, okay?”

Sherlock gloomily muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like ‘I’ll have something to look forward to then,’ and the words ‘mother hen,’ ‘cluck,’ and ‘mollycoddling,’ may or may not have been thrown in there as well.

“What was that?”

He gave an irritated huff. “Fine.”

John’s amusement at his friend’s put upon manner faded as he glanced back towards the nightstand, stripping of his gloves. The feeding tube lay innocently beside the discarded syringe, a strange paradox of deliverance and foreboding, and without thinking he went to rub a pacifying line up Sherlock’s thigh.

“I don’t mean to push you,” John started, keeping his voice as nonthreatening as possible, “but the sooner we start, the sooner we’re going to get this over with.” Sherlock stiffened. “Dragging it out will only make it worse,” he reasoned sympathetically.

Sherlock wavered, unspeaking and unmoving, and John was about to press further when he gave a single, reluctant nod of consent. “Just do it then,” he whispered, forcing his mouth to form the words, a slight slur to them as the drug began to take effect. And a moment later, repeating John’s words to himself in a despondent attempt at self-comfort that made John’s heart ache, “Just get it over with.”

A/N: It's about two in the morning here, so I'm sorry for any glaring mistakes, as well as any poor writing caused by sleep deprivation. And apologies again for any medical inaccuracies; my main research sources were the top few links in Google searches. Pray suspend your disbelief and chalk it up to artistic license. As always, thanks for reading.

Feeling like the villain in this scenario, John compelled his lips to quirk into some semblance of a smile. “Let’s get you lying down all the way,” he said, curling a supporting arm around his friend’s back as he readjusted the pillows behind him. Lethargically, Sherlock allowed John to manipulate his body until he was slouched horizontally across the bed, long limbs haphazardly sprawled, head resting heavily on the mattress.

John settled back into his spot at his friend’s side. “I’m going to spray your throat with a bit of lidocaine, which will help numb it in addition to the gel I gave you earlier. That should make placing the tube a more comfortable for you,” he informed Sherlock, who was staring at the ceiling with a blank expression, not looking interested in the least with any part of the procedure.

Taking it as consent, John unsealed a tongue depressor and popped the cap off the anaesthetic’s waiting bottle. “Can you open your mouth for me?” he asked lowly, placing his thumb to Sherlock’s bottom lip in voiceless urge. Sherlock ignored him for a drawn out pause, but ultimately submitted to John’s demands, unenthusiastically letting the doctor gently press his jaw apart and hold his tongue down with the wooden blade. “Couple quick puffs now,” he cautioned, following through without unnecessary delay and thoroughly coating the back of the detective’s throat.

As he pulled away, Sherlock broke into a series of gravelly coughs.

Giving him time to adjust, John unhurriedly reached for a fresh pair of gloves from the box that he had stolen from the loo’s first aid kit—one of an alarming many they had on hand in the flat. While putting them on, he began to notice Sherlock’s eyes drifting shut, only to snap back open with fervour several times, and he lightly called Sherlock’s name. “Is the Valium working then?” he asked when he had Sherlock’s attention. “Starting to feel a bit groggy maybe?”

“Mm.”

“Try not to fight it sweetheart,” he suggested calmly as Sherlock’s eyes again started gradually, unwillingly droop. “Just let the medicine do its job.”

“Yes,” he blearily acquiesced, feeling as though his brain had been dowsed in a tranquil haze, finally letting his eyes fully close. John was there, after all, and John didn’t look worried, and if John didn’t look worried then why should he be? John would take care of all the annoying, boring details, just as he always did, and Sherlock could concentrate on the more important things, like…like… His mind drew a lovely, careless blank.

Didn’t matter. John would take care of everything.

Distantly, in what felt like an infinity of time and space away, he noted the weightless touch of two fingers to his carotid.

John would take care of him.

Having reassured himself that Sherlock’s pulse was pumping at a relatively strong, steady rhythm, John grabbed a Sharpie and the nasogastric tube from the small table. He held the tube up to Sherlock’s peaceful face and carefully measured out the proper length, scoring it off diligently and setting the marker to the side.

“You still with me mate?” he asked as he tapped Sherlock’s cheek faintly. It took a minute, but eventually his not-patient managed to drag his eyes open and gaze unfocusedly up at him. “Hello there,” John smiled, reaching for the packet of Xylocaine jelly. “I know you probably want to go to sleep right now, one of those pesky common side effects of diazepam I had mentioned before, but I need you to stay awake,” he requested, absentmindedly slicking the first few inches of the tube with lubricant. “Just for a few minutes, and then you can sleep as long as you like.”

Sherlock blinked, looking disoriented. “John?”

“Right here love.”

Sherlock frowned at the tube. “That’s going inside me?” he mumbled questioningly, sounding slightly concerned at the idea but not altogether overly bothered.

“Do you remember our talk about this earlier?” John inquired, pausing in his preparations to make sure that Sherlock was processing what he was saying. “We went through what was going to happen, and I explained everything that I’d need to do.” He gave another quick tap to Sherlock’s cheek when his apathetic stare began to wander, drawing his interest back to John. “Sherlock, you listening to me?”

“Mm,” he agreed absently.

“Sherlock, sweetheart, this is important. Do you understand what I’m going to be doing?”

“Obviously,” he said, none of his usual haughtiness imprinted in the word. “’m not so ignorant as to not understand basic medical procedures.” The words would have been more impressive if they hadn’t been drearily slurring over one another.

John sighed in mild exasperation, though at his core he could admit to being slightly relieved to hear the self-important, condescending words. A Sherlock without them was a very worrying Sherlock indeed.

“Humour me here.”

Sherlock glared with impatience, the Valium taking most of the heat out of it. “About half an hour ago you made me snort and swallow that horrible, horrible lidocaine gel, and now in addition have sprayed my throat. ’s awful John, I can’t feel a thing. Not to mention you’ve made me too high to function. How’m I supposed to think like this? And to top it all off you’re going to shove a tube down my oesophagus and force feed me. ’s repulsive.”

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the dramatic, drugged display. “Believe it or not, not being able to feel anything was kind of what we were aiming for; it’s certainly better than the alternative. And you’re not supposed to be thinking, you’re supposed to be trying to relax. You know, for when I shove a tube down your throat and all, as you like to put it. Though I plan to do it with a tad more finesse than that. Speaking of which, now that you’re numbed up, it seems as good a time as any to get started, what do you say?”

It was an odd sensation, Sherlock thought, wanting to feel trepidation, fright, but being forced into such a state of peaceful indifference that wouldn’t allow such things to fully form. That didn’t mean they were entirely absent though; there was still a flaming ember of them, alight in the back of his mind, burning painfully into his skull beneath the overwhelming and unrelenting serenity.

It took him a moment to realize that the rasping, low pitched wail was coming from him.

“Oh Sherlock,” John said brokenly, hand going to rest on his far hip, arm hovering protectively over his body like some magnificent, consecrated guardian come to shield him. “What are we going to do with you?”

“Don’t put it in me,” he begged, muddled, the drug’s calming grip preventing him from going into another full blown panic attack, but the fears so ingrained in him that it wasn’t able to block them entirely. “John please. The food…I can’t—don’t put the food in me, please. Please. It’ll kill me.”

Each word was another blow to John’s psyche, making him wonder if it wasn’t impossible to permanently bruise one’s soul. “Sherlock, I swear to you, the food isn’t going to hurt you. You know that love. Logically, you know that. And logically, you know that if we don’t get some kind of sustenance into you, soon, there’s only one possible outcome, and there’s no way in seven hells that I’m ever going to let that happen.” He took a steadying breath, internally reminding himself that he was, indeed, doing this for Sherlock’s own good, however brutal it was to know that he was simultaneously the cause of Sherlock’s heart wrenching distress. It was an excruciating situation all around, and he determinedly tried to push aside the faltering best friend in him, cornering instead the unyielding army captain.

He took another fortifying breath. “If I brought you some food right now, would you eat it?”

Sherlock’s pitiful silence was answer enough.

More gently, “Could you eat it?”

“It’ll kill me,” he insisted feebly. “John, please.”

I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry I have to do this. He straightened his spine resolutely. “I’m sorry Sherlock, I know this is the very last thing you want to do, but your physical health has to come before your mental. That’s non-negotiable; I’m not going to sit idly by and watch you waste away. You need help, you know you do, and I’m going to see that you get it.” He slumped slightly, tightly grasping at the sharp curve of Sherlock’s hip. “It’s going to be okay Sherlock. I promise. We’re going to be fine.”

Sherlock anxiously clawed at the bedding, though the diazepam refused to let him contract his muscles in any considerable amount. “I don’t want it in me,” he entreated.

John slowly traced his fingers along the jutting edge of his pelvic bone. “I know love. I know that. But we have to at the very least start making some progress if you want to keep this between the two of us.”

“Don’t section me,” Sherlock said immediately, the plea having been made so many times in the past that it had become an instinctive, knee jerk response.

“We’ve talked about this before,” John placated, “I’m not going to bring anyone else in unless you either change your mind and want outside help, or we run out of every, every other available option. But that means that we need to take some steps in the right direction.”

“Don’t section me,” Sherlock repeated wearily.

“Let’s not worry about that just yet, okay? For now let’s just focus on getting the tube in place.” John patted his hip, leaning back. “We’re going to do this together, one step at a time, and it’ll be over before you know it. We can cross the other bridges as they come.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Sherlock confessed, nearly inaudible, offering the secret as if it were the most valuable possession he owned, meant to be heard by John and John alone.

The doctor smiled encouragingly. “You don’t need to. All you need to do right now is trust me to take over for a while. Just like you’ve been doing. I have—” he paused, unsure, unexpectedly finding the English language ridiculously inadequate for the depth of what he wanted to express. “I have you,” he settled on finally.

Sherlock inhaled deeply, letting his chest expand to full capacity, concentrating on quieting his mind, still lurching ahead at punishing speeds despite the diazepam’s best efforts to subdue it. ‘I have you,’ John had said. If he had nothing else, there would always be that. John Watson, you keep me right. “I trust you,” he divulged, as much a divulgence as was ever going to be heard from him.

He frowned.

The drugs must have been making him sentimental.

John’s expression warmed. “Good lad,” he said fondly, once again hauling his black bag onto his lap. “We’ll start out easy,” he appeased. Finding what he was looking for, he dropped the bag back to the floor, adjusting the otoscope in his hands and switching on its tiny, bright light. “I’m just going to take a quick peek at your nostrils so we can decide which side will be best.”

Sherlock hummed in resignation.

“Tilt your head back?” John directed, cupping a guiding hand around Sherlock’s neck, the latex of his gloves smooth against the pale skin. Sherlock conceded to the examination with undisguised annoyance, barely tolerating it as John assessed first his right, then left nostrils. His niche was as the observer, the one who scrutinized corpses and studied slides beneath the lenses of a microscope; he wasn’t made for playing the role of specimen as well.

“I think we’ll go with the right,” John eventually declared, pulling back but not releasing his secure hold of Sherlock’s neck. Instead, he used his position to slant the detective forward, purposefully meeting his gaze. “I won’t pretend that this is going to be comfortable; it might even be a little painful at certain points, though I’m going to do my absolute best to prevent that. But I want you to try and stay as relaxed as possible. You’ve been doing marvellously so far; if you can keep it up a while longer, I promise that it’s going to make things easier for you.”

John waited until Sherlock gave a grudging nod before freeing his neck. “We’re going to take this nice and slow,” he assuaged, moving an emesis basin into easy reach, though he hoped that it would prove useless, and draping his stethoscope around his broad shoulders. Picking up the prepared tube, he gave a final glance over the bedside table, making sure he had everything that he’d need, and shuffled a bit closer to Sherlock. “Ready?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, but began to take very deliberate, timed breaths, consciously going limp. John lay a hand across his forehead, as if he were gauging his temperature, and brought the lubricated end of the tube up to his face. “Going to start putting it in now,” he alerted when he was a few short millimetres away.

“Vatican cameos!” Sherlock exclaimed out of nowhere, causing John to stop short, freezing where he was. Taking advantage of his surprise, Sherlock hastily escaped from under the doctor’s palm where it had rested on his temple, scuffling back, getting as far away from the outwardly harmless piece of hollow rubber as the bed would allow. Only when he was a safe distance away did he seem to become aware of his actions. “’m sorry,” he moaned suddenly, clutching his hair and yanking so hard that there seemed a very plausible chance he might take out a few decent sized clumps.

Alarmed, John reached out and attempted to make him let go. “Sherlock, stop that! It’s fine, I swear it’s fine. We can work it out, but first I need you to tell me what’s wrong.” When Sherlock didn’t answer, John briskly rubbed his upper arm. “Come on mate, what happened there?”

“Panicked,” he said succinctly, chest heaving. “Just give me a minute. Just a minute.”

“Of course,” John agreed instantly, prying at the death grip. “If you let go of your hair, I’ll give you two.”

His fingers slackened upon hearing the appeal. “’m sorry,” he mumbled again.

“You don’t need to apologize,” John assured, tube still hanging midair, wilting lifelessly. “Not to me. If you need a minute to calm down, then we’ll take it. There’s no one here you have to impress.” He touched Sherlock’s thigh tentatively. “Why do you come back over here, hm?” Ashamedly avoiding his gaze this time, Sherlock shifted closer, reluctantly letting go of his curls and replacing his hands at his sides. “There we are,” John said tenderly. “Let’s try and relax again; let the Valium help you, that’s what it’s for.”

“’m sorry,” he garbled one last time. “’m calm now. Just do it.”

John pursed his lips. “Sherlock—”

“Please. I just need for this to be over.”

He wavered, but in the end gave a decisive nod. “All right,” he assented, moving his hand back to Sherlock’s brow and brushing down across the strikingly coloured eyes, giving him no choice but to close them. “You don’t need to see what I’m doing,” he explained. “The only thing you need to do is concentrate on relaxing. I’ve gotten everything else taken care of.”

Making sure that Sherlock was going to keep his eyes shut—John had a sneaking suspicion that half of his anxiety was due to the visualization of the cold, sterile equipment alone, a daunting spectacle when one knew it was set out with the purpose of being used on them—he resumed where they had left off. “This is going to feel a little strange,” he forewarned, giving Sherlock a few seconds to process his words before beginning to carefully thread the tube into his nasal passage.

<3... Perfect. Patient and caring John. ))

Thank you! Don't we all wish for a John in our lives? <3

Ok I know you said to suspend disbelief for glaring inaccuracies, but right off the bat you have Sherlock lying down and that is a big "if this was real life, it would be lethal" mistake that I can't just let go without comment.

Lying down would misalign the tube and increase pressure and gravity on to the tube, making it for a difficult passage into the oesophagus. The patient would choke on it and the coughing/gagging would cause damage to the sinuses and could cause reactive swelling enough to asphyxiate the patient, and with the NG tube in the way, the only option would then be to trach if they needed help breathing.

Sorry, I know it ruins things, but... I couldn't let it go D:

Oh, wow, you couldn't let it go, really? Not the author here, but I'm pretty sure that, if there's something, anything, you dislike about a prompt or a fill, you scroll past it. Don't like? Don't read. Pretty simple, especially considering that you've been warned from the start about possible inaccuracies. So what else do you want? The author doesn't owe you anything.
I hope the author won't feel discouraged to continue writing this story, for those of us who don't cavil at everything and don't demand accuracy, remembering that fiction is fiction and it doesn't have to be perfectly accurate. There are much, much, worse things in fiction, such as films, for example, where people get injected with adrenaline in their hearts, which would be the biggest medical fail in real life, or everything "medical" that has ever happened in S3 of Sherlock, even though they could've easily afforded a consultant.
I'm a medical worker, btw, and I have no problem enjoying this fanfic very much. And if I did have such a problem, it would've been my problem that shouldn't become everyone else's just because I suddenly imagined that people in this community owe me something. This isn't a place for critics, in case you didn't know.

Author here. Just wanted to say thank you so much for coming to my defense. I'm sure the other anon didn't mean anything nasty by their comment (I can absolutely understand being frustrated when things aren't portrayed in fiction as they are in RL), but it's nice to have recognized that kinkmemes aren't really the best place to find the most factual stories. I hope that I've made the fill at least somewhat accurate, but I apologize to anyone with medical knowledge, like yourself, if I've littered it with mistakes and made everything completely unbelievable. (I'm doing my best with the two hours of writing time I have between work and school!)

I'm glad you've been able to look past errors and enjoy the story though. I'm not too discouraged; I won't let one bad review ruin it for anyone else who might want to read more, especially since I'm finding it blissfully therapeutic for coping with my own food issues, so I'll keep plugging away. :)

Thanks again for your kindness.

Author here. I'm sorry if you don't think my fill's accurate, but again, I'm only as good as the research I can find, and some of the pages I used as references (I posted a couple below, if you're interested) stated that a lying down insertion was certainly a viable one. If the authors of those seemingly reliable, scientific, medical tutorial articles are wrong, there's not much hope for one lone anon writing for a kinkmeme, of all things.

Considering that it's a fanfic for Sherlock, a show that consistently has fairly obvious medical inaccuracies (the one that comes first to mind being the belt stabbings in TSOT, but there were plenty of others as well), I wasn't too worried about being spot on about everything. Not to mention that, in BBC's canon, the idea of Sherlock having anorexia is pretty ridiculous; my portrayal of him alone is already going to be off because of that, so I'd assumed that if you could look past any OOCness? (I'm just going to say that's a real word, because I don't know how else to put it), you'd also be able to look past the smaller mistakes that really don't affect the story much.

I appreciate your opinion, but short of going to consult a doctor, there's not much else I can do. Sorry you've not enjoyed it. :/

http://www.healthline.com/health/nasogastric-intubation-and-feeding#Overview1
http://www.survivinggrays.com/how-to-insert-a-nasogastric-tube/

The anon from above (the one who's a medical worker). Please don't worry. You haven't written anything wrong. While my speciality has nothing to do with anything like this, in my med school I've seen nurses taught to perform different procedures in many different circumstances and in less than ideal positions of a patient. There are simple methods to make sure the NG tube is where it should be.
John knows what he does.

Re: Fill: Part 2

(Anonymous) - 2015-07-09 21:16 (UTC) - Expand

Seriously? The author explicitly stated that there was a chance of mistakes, and yet you still felt the need to pick apart the story that they've no doubt worked hard at and mock them for it? It's fiction, get over yourself. If you want accuracy and are so all-knowing, then write your own fill, don't trash someone else's. Or better yet, just don't read something you don't want to read. Novel, no?

To the author: this story's amazing, and I really really hope that you haven't been put off of writing it.

I know it’s been 3 years since this comment was posted, but I just had to say to the OP that whoever said this is wrong. I know that for a fact, because when I had to get an NG tube for my own ED, the only way they could get it in was with me lying down.

Medical info aside, this is a wonderful story that I really hope you will continue.

Re: Fill: Part 2

(Anonymous) - 2018-01-13 18:50 (UTC) - Expand

OP here.

This is so beautiful! Thank you so much for writing this story.
John and Sherlock are so close in this. It's like they live in their own world where they share everything, good and bad, and plenty of things no one else can know. I just love the way John is carrying that world on his strong shoulders at the moment, as a doctor and an army captain he is, not to mention a caring friend. Am I being overly poetic? :)

Can't wait to read more of this story!

I'm glad you've appreciated it. And thank you for the lovely prompt! I'm enjoying writing it. (Caring!John + Broken/MentallyUnstable!Sherlock = the air I breathe)

I won't make any promises I can't keep, but I'll try to get the next part out as soon as I can. I'm living the high life as a broke, minimum-wage-earning student, so time's a commodity, but I'll do what I can.

As always John is Sherlock's rock. Lucky Sherlock!

Keep up your great work please! :-))

-

What of the unsatisfied 'couldn't-let-it-go' commenter and their rant, apart from their comment being rude and unnecessary, apparently they aren't even aware that some people cannot be moved at all let alone positioned properly just because it's more convenient for a carer/medical personnel. There are health conditions, such as some traumas, that make moving a person extremely dangerous. And the commenter suggests that there's no way to intubate and possibly perform other medical manipulations on people like that. Lol. If medicine was as simple as they suggest we'd be so doomed in our age of medical progress.

Thanks luv :)

And thanks for you support regarding the previous commenter. I realized while I was writing this that lying down isn't the ideal position for this procedure, but (as will be seen in the next part) Sherlock's going to struggle, and if John's going to be trying to one handedly hold him still, on his own, while putting in a tube, having him sit up and bend his head forward isn't really an option, you know? Less than ideal conditions and all. Anyway, I appreciate all you wonderful people who have backed me.

A/N: (1) I don't think it's anything too bad, but a few parts of this might be a bit triggery for some, so please keep that in mind as you read. (2) Apologies again for any inaccuracies. For anyone who caught the earlier drama, I hope it becomes a little clearer as to why I'm having Sherlock lying down for this, as John would have had a fairly harder time of placing the tube if he were in the preferable (high-Fowler's) position. (3) My headcanon is that Sherlock reminds John of his full name whenever he's annoyed with him, and that John responds in kind. Make of that what you will.

No guarantees of when I'll have the next part out, but I'll do the best I can. Thank you for reading and for all your delightful reviews; they make my day.

Almost instantaneously, Sherlock gave a distressed whine.

“I know sweetheart,” John murmured, stroking his thumb in a soothing caress along his temple, using the palm of his hand to subtly restrain Sherlock’s head against the pillow. “I know. Just hang in there. You’re doing so well. So, so well. The beginning is always the hardest; once we reach your throat it’ll get easier, I promise. Keep breathing love, there we go.” John kept up the placid litany as he advanced the tube one agonising centimetre at a time.

“’s too big. It’ll choke me John! ’s suffocating me!”

“It’s not,” John said calmingly, panging with sympathy but not allowing himself to hesitate. “I know it feels that way, but it’s not going to choke you, I swear. Take some deep breaths, you’re going to be fine.”

“Jn—”

“Shh, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” Reaching the nasopharynx, John cautiously guided the tube forward, praying that he wouldn’t meet any resistance in the infamous curve; this was going to be traumatic enough for Sherlock as it was, and John desperately hoped to avoid adding to the toll. “You’re doing fantastic, just keep your eyes closed and focus on your breathing, just as you’ve been doing. You don’t need to think about anything else, all right? Try and relax, I’ve got you.”

When the tube began to curl around his soft palate, Sherlock gagged and attempted to pull away from the intrusion, giving an irrepressible whimper when he found himself unable to move, head held firmly in place. “Please,” he exhaled, scrabbling blindly at the front of John’s jumper, scratching at the wool as if it were the last sturdy precipice in a crumbling world. “Burns. Please John. Please.”

“I know,” John softly echoed, but nevertheless brought his legs up onto the bed, lightly pressing his shin across Sherlock’s waist and fixing him fully in place. He resolutely told himself, not for the first time, that if he gave Sherlock what he needed to be happy now, in the short term, it would have devastating consequences to his health in the long. But understanding that did nothing to make the entire procedure any less viciously abhorrent; no matter how well meant, he felt dirty, pinning Sherlock him down and with only dubious consent invading his body with a foreign object.

I feel like a rapist, he realized, repulsion flooding into his gut and making him want to be sick. At least there’s the kidney dish, he humourlessly jested to himself, though as soon as the thought came he internally cursed, dismissing it angrily. Stop it. Just stop it. You can’t think about this right now, not when Sherlock needs you. If you don’t do this he’s going to die you selfish bastard, he’s going to die a little more every day, right in front of you, and when you lose the only person in your entire ruddy life who ever truly mattered, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself. He’s not stable enough to decide what does or doesn’t go into his body anymore, and you’re the only one he trusts to do it for him; don’t fucking throw that away because it makes you feel guilty. Don’t you fucking dare stop.

“Please stop,” Sherlock frantically implored.

“I’m so sorry love,” John whispered, bracing himself and forging ahead, refusing to budge as Sherlock writhed beneath him, eyes clenched, feebly trying to get away from John’s restraining limbs. It was a lost cause; sedated, already panting from the exertion, muscles deteriorated and weak by months of starvation, he was no match against John, who faithfully maintained an army-ingrained circuit of push ups, bridges, and crunches every day before breakfast. When he realized that his struggling was a wholly vain effort, he fell still, exhausted and overwhelmed.

If the tiny mewl that escaped him didn’t utterly destroy John, the salty water that had unwillingly begun to swell from beneath his lids, clumping his lashes and leaving two twin streaks down his cheekbones, would have. “All right darling,” he hushed, wondering if a knife had been miraculously plunged into his gut unnoticed. “You’re all right.”

When he made it to the laryngopharynx without trouble he gave a silent sigh of relief, pausing to give Sherlock a quick, much deserved break. “That’s the hardest part over then,” he comforted, tugging the edge of his sleeve down and using it to gingerly dry Sherlock’s face.

“I don’t think I can do this,” he slurred, a cold sweat breaking out beneath John’s palm. “I can’t do this.”

“Yes you can,” John consoled, warily loosening his hold at Sherlock’s temple. When Sherlock didn’t try to move away, he slackened, sweeping at the younger man’s messy fringe. “You’ve done beautifully so far. We’re halfway there, and the worst part’s behind us,” he promised. “I’m going to be right here the entire time; you don’t need to do anything on your own.”

A defeated sob burst from his throat, muffled behind closed lips, before he rapidly cut it off. He went to turn his head away before John hastily caught him. “Easy love, easy. Let’s try and keep still a few more minutes, just until we can get the tube in all the way, yeah?”

Sherlock’s eyes scrunched tighter.

Easy, John had said, and it seemed like the word was mocking him where it hung in the air. None of this would ever be easy.

“Take it out,” he begged, shakily gripping John’s cable knit. “Get it out of me, please. Please John.”

“I’ve got some ice here,” John said distractingly, reaching for a teacup that was wet with condensation. The cubes (from the not-for-experiments, uncontaminated by frozen mystery liquids, thoroughly cleaned and sanitized before use anyway, moulded tray) that filled it were semi melted by this point, but would work all the same. “If you’re up to it, I’m going to give you some to suck on; that should help make things a little smoother going down.” He touched Sherlock’s gaunt cheek as if it were sculpted from millennia old porcelain. “Do you think you can try that?”

“Mnph.”

“Come on love,” John patiently coaxed. “The cold’ll feel good on your throat, hm? Just let it melt in your mouth and swallow as you’re able. Will you do that for me?”

It took a long moment of waiting, silence rigid like a bow string at risk of snapping, but John was finally rewarded with a minute, nearly imperceptible nod. “Good form,” he extolled in gratitude. Picking one of the larger chunks from the chilled puddle inside the cup, he brought it to Sherlock’s cracked lips, waiting patiently until they reluctantly parted, just enough for John to slip the ice onto his tongue. “That’s it,” he encouraged, pressing his hand back to Sherlock’s cool, damp forehead. “Just try to relax; we’re almost done.”

Gently, John began to nudge the tube forward once more, easing it down his oesophagus another fraction with each of Sherlock’s tiny, directing swallows. “You’re doing so well,” he urged, tone dulcet and pleasant, bringing another piece of ice to Sherlock’s mouth. “Absolutely brilliant. Not much longer and it’ll be over.” The familiar, repetitive words seemed to paint over the room, whitewashing the walls with John—aftershave and earl grey and small hands stitching his gashes in the loo while drunk on the victory of another solved case and disgustingly romanticized blog posts and the lovely, lovely, deafening sound of gunshots ringing in his ears—leaving him with the same tingling sensation as when his name was replaced with ‘sweetheart’ or ‘love’, when suddenly he became immortal to every danger in all the world, because to be cherished by John Watson was to be immortal, drowning out the terror and pain and substituting instead a warm palm at his brow and the mooring weight of a leg draped over his torso, enveloping him like an armour.

His lips abruptly cooled, more ice pushed through, startling him, and he gagged over it as the tube scraped down his throat another inch, flames left in its wake.

He wished that John would pet his hair again. He didn’t say that though.

“You’re all right sweetheart, just a little more to go.”

Sweetheart.

Sweetheart sweetheart sweetheart.

It was an odd feeling, being loved by someone else a thousand times more than he could ever hope to love himself.

“There you are,” John said, closing in on the dark line he had marked on the tube, not realizing that his shoulders had been drawn tight from the onset until they sloped in blessed reprieve. “Cracking. That’s you set then,” he stated softly, watching Sherlock blink, eyes bloodshot and unfocussed.

“’s over?”

“Tube’s all the way in, yeah. I only need to double check the placement, but I don’t think we’ll have any issues with that. I’m going to pull your shirt up for a second, okay?”

Sherlock hummed noncommittally, unbothered as John tugged the charcoal pyjama top to his chest in a few lithe movements. The professional façade that the doctor had been aiming for faltered dangerously at the sight of protruding ribs and concaved abdomen, skin taut across prominent hipbones and randomly dyed with angry splotches of dusky hazel and mossy green and gloomy yellow. It didn’t look real; it looked like a piece of new age art, grotesque and disturbing and disconcertingly ethereal, a haunting apparition skirting the edge of death.

It shouldn’t have been so shocking. Although Sherlock had blatantly refused to let his flatmate examine him, despite the numerous attempts of an increasingly anxious John trying to convince him that he needed to have a physician look him over, John had still caught brief glimpses of nudity that were unavoidable when living in close quarters with another person. But those fleeting, distanced flashes had done nothing to prepare him for this, the sight of Sherlock, his brilliant lunatic of a best friend Sherlock, laid out beneath him like a sacrifice spread across an altar, emaciated and battered and oh God how did I let this happen?

When John remained frozen in place, Sherlock shifted uneasily, unused to feeling self-conscious. “Problem?”

John was motionless another moment, but finally cleared his throat, hands trembling ever so slightly as he reached for the syringe, pulling back on the plunger and sucking air into it with far greater concentration than was strictly necessary. “I’m just going to have a listen,” he said shakily, dragging the stethoscope from his neck and warming the metal diaphragm, “and we’ll do a quick pH test while we’re at it.”

Sherlock looked vaguely peeved. “Tedious.”

That got an amused huff from John. “Yeah, a bit, but you’ll only have to bear with me another minute. You’ll make it.”

Sherlock glowered, but it lacked his usual bravado, and John was an old hand at recalcitrant consulting detectives. “Glad you’re being so mature about it,” he joshed, putting his stethoscope on and connecting the syringe to the NG’s port. Reluctantly, he looked back to the skeletal form, flesh sunken like that of a corpse on an autopsy table.

Don’t even think that, he furiously berated himself. Don’t ever fucking think that again.

Not letting himself cringe (He’s just another patient. Not the entire bloody reason that you get up each morning and didn’t eat a bullet years ago. Just another patient, that’s it.), he put the chestpiece over the wan epigastrium, entrapping it in a rib-shaped crevice. “Right then,” he apprised, compressing the plunger and listening intently for a whoosh of air into the stomach. Hearing it, he smiled faintly, taking a moment longer than was needed to absorb the sound of Sherlock’s organs gurgling away beneath him, blood pumping evenly, the distant echo of his heart drumming evenly, oxygen swishing into expanding lungs, committing the evidence of a living body to his mind and tattooing it there for future reassurance. “Good,” he confirmed, feeling his face heat when he met Sherlock’s gaze, the other man raising a sardonic brow.

“You said I only had to endure this intolerable procedure another minute. Best keep moving, Doctor.” It wasn’t fair in the least that, after being sedated and having a tube strung through him, Sherlock still managed to be more articulately composed than John.

“It was an estimate,” he replied, trying not to let his embarrassment show any more than it already had. A tall order, under the inspection of the most observant man this side of the hemisphere. Both sides, possibly, though his ego was large enough without adding any extra fuel.

Graciously, Sherlock didn’t say anything in response, instead choosing to act extremely put upon in silence while John aspirated a few millilitres of stomach contents. “Colour’s good,” he approved, giving Sherlock time to sulk as he tested the pH, giving another short, pleased grin when the strip stained to the correct category. “Brilliant. Going to flush the tube and then we’ll be done. We can even take a rest for you to have a proper strop, if you think it’ll make you nicer to be around in the long run.”

Sherlock scowled. “I do not strop.”

“Yeah,” John countered easily, glancing up from where he was drawing sterile water into a fresh syringe. “You do.”

Sherlock’s scowl deepened. “Your middle name is Hamish.”

John ducked his head to hide his suppressed laughter, fiddling again with the tube’s port and attaching the syringe, feeling light hearted, if only fleetingly, for the first time in what seemed like weeks. “No need to be rude Will.” He had missed this, the petty banter and welcomed teasing; there seemed to be less and less of it these days, exchanged instead with worried glances and hours spent reading nutrition labels of the food in the cupboards before putting it back untouched and pleas to eat something, anything, I’ll run out and get you whatever you want, just name it and rare nights outside a locked bathroom door—kitchen ransacked, empty containers for crisps and biscuits and sweets all littering the floor, shower and sink both running but still not loud enough, John left crying in front of the flimsy barrier, stroking the wood as if Sherlock would be able to feel it on his skin, helplessly begging to be let in—and journals that Sherlock thought John didn’t know about, meticulously recording calorie input and energy expenditure and volume of bodily secretions and morning weight to the second decimal and BMI and evening weight in both kilograms and pounds.

“John?”

He blinked owlishly at the empty, detached syringe in his hands, and set it on the table with precise movements. Compelled his lips to arc as he looked back to Sherlock. “Sorry love,” he apologized dimly, carefully replacing Sherlock’s shirt, covering first ribs, then hollowed belly, then hipbones. In an almost maternal gesture, he folded the lapels of the royal blue dressing gown in, very deliberately smoothing the silky fabric down where it shrouded the thin form; Sherlock was always cold these days.

Sherlock watched him dazedly.

“Lost in my thoughts, I suppose.”

Awww, poor boys.. D:

OP here.

This is totally brilliant! And I love their banter.

Hopefully, the feeding part is not going to be as much of an ordeal for the two of them as the tube insertion, but with Sherlock's disorder...

OP again.

I loved the banter, but I also loved the angst very much, especially john's thoughts on Sherlock's disorder and how the both of them have been struggling with it.

wow! brilliant!

I hope you update soon! I love this!

Good to see John doing what needs to be done, he doesn't give up on Sherlock even though he's tempted because Sherlock is scared of what's going on.

Absolutely loving this fill thus far, as much as it breaks my heart into itty bitty pieces. I respect the complete gravitas with which you write out John and Sherlock's interactions, and I look forward to reading more! ♥

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