sherlockbbc_fic | Prompting Part XXXVI

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Prompting Part XXXVI

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Useful resources for Sherlock and LiveJournal.
Sherlock screencaps.

Update to prompting guidelines.

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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.

Thank you (again) for your encouragement (and patience). :)

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.

“ but I just had to say to the OP”

Sorry, I meant author

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.

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