Prompt 28: Resurrection Fern
Title: Resurrection Fern
Author: arwen_kenobi
Rating: G
'Verse: BBC Sherlock
Word Count: 1995
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Harry Watson
Summary: John is not dead nor is he really playing at it. His body is reacting to the injury the best it knows how to give him time to come back. Sherlock just needs to provide the correct stimulus. Sequel to The Space Between and Brave New World
Author's Notes: For prompt 28 of watsons_woes July Writing Prompts. This one was: Pick an herb, flower, or other plant, and make it a key part of your entry today.
The first time an orderly shouts at him since John's admission is when Sherlock brings the violin in. There was no objection to him playing proper music but when, in a fit of frustration, he resorted to the screeching and wailing that he usually used to drive Mycroft out of the flat. He maintains to the staff, and to a rather amused Harry Watson, that he was trying to get John to yell at him to stop it. The Glasgow tests did indicate that he was responsive to pain after all. To remind himself of that he digs his nails into John's palm and watches as the hand tries to pull away.
John's been here ten days now. It has been three days since the swelling in his head, and the proximity to an older head injury, have allowed the doctors to operate. John has been improving. The response to pain is a good thing and John was taken off the ventilator yesterday morning. Sherlock had stepped out to find some tea and Harry had said that John had actually tried to pull the thing out. They'd both waited for him to wake up after that. He hasn't moved since unless he's in pain and that has been much more sluggish in comparison to what Harry says she saw.
They tell him that this is all good and he knows that it's true. But still it's not enough. No one can tell him what will happen to John once he wakes up. Sherlock's seen the scans and the X-rays and he can't make more sense out of them than the doctors can. What he does do is stare at that little part of John's skull and brain that was apparently the cause of his father's abuse and not an unfortunate rugby accident and curses Henry Watson to the deepest, hottest, and darkest part of hell.
Harry is trying to wrestle more time away from work but is having trouble. It's the first job she's managed to keep for more than a month since she'd gone back to the bottle after Clara had left. She can't risk what fledging state her sobriety is in and Sherlock knows how that feels and knows that John will understand. "If you have to go back and come in when you can he'll understand. He wouldn't want you to leave work because of him."
"You've left work."
Sherlock doesn't bother pointing out that it's different with them. Plus he has the benefit of the fact that he can offer help from an armchair if he must. He's sure there will be another file or two ready for him to look at when he gets back to John's room. Him and Harry are taking a walk through the grounds - Harry because she needs a change of scenery and Sherlock because he's not allowed to watch brain scans. Not after the last time.
Sherlock stops and pauses at an oak tree covered in a green plant. Mostly up the one side and crawling up onto the lowest branch. "Resurrection fern."
"Living up to its name," Harry agrees. "This was all brown a day or two ago. The rain has done its job." She laughs, suddenly, to herself. "When I moved out John gave me a resurrection plant. Said there couldn't be a way for me to kill it off." She shrugs. "I did, though. I think the dry husk lived in my house in a bowl of water for months before I finally gave up on it."
Sherlock thinks about the other patients. The patients in the ward upstairs. The people who are visited religiously, then sporadically, then barely. Not that they are capable of knowing the difference. Sherlock is overjoyed that John is not destined for the ward upstairs, not anymore, but he remembers the fear. Still fears that the tide might turn.
Harry wanders off ahead. "Coming along?" Sherlock shakes his head and instead ponders the resurrection fern. What gave them their name was the fact they could survive extreme drought. It will curl up and seem to die but, if a little water is added, they will uncurl and regain their colour. They are alive again, if they were ever truly dead at all.
John is not dead nor is he really playing at it. His body is reacting to the injury the best it knows how to give him time to come back. The longer that a patient is in a coma the less likely they are to come out of it, yes, but what are odds like this to men like them. Sherlock just needs to provide the correct stimulus. The violin and his voice and touch alone aren't enough so, perhaps, Sherlock needs to make use of another of John's senses.
=====================================================================================
The hospital has a policy about flowers and how strong their scent can be. John may have a private room and his nearest neighbour may be a good distance down the hall but policy is policy. Sherlock knows full well that his sense of smell is not that of the normal person so he conscripts Harry to help him when Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson come to visit. Harry raises an eyebrow in a manner that makes Sherlock have to turn away but she agrees. It is even her who comes up with the idea to grab some armfuls of golden rod as well. "John's allergic," she explains. "He'll know these are here. He'll sneeze himself awake."
Sherlock elects for a few simpler things that he knows John would have no objection too. John's not one to keep plants or express all that much interest in gardening, though he has decides that if Sherlock is going to keep bees he's going to have to come up with an outdoor hobby if only to keep an eye on him. He has alluded that that hobby would end up being gardening. Sherlock avoids most typical fare for flowers. What ends up adorning John's room are gatherings of heather, rosemary, thyme, and sage - which just makes Harry start humming "Scarborough Fair" to John in another effort to annoy him into wakefulness. Sherlock does get jealous when he rolls his head away from Harry when she starts to sing. The brain scans and the nurse that Harry drags in raise his Glasgow number up a little bit and declares that it is all good signs.
When Harry goes back to her hotel for the night, and once again refuses accommodation in Baker Street, she whispers something in John's ear that brings a little bit of smile to his face. "Take his hand," she orders Sherlock, softly. When he does the hand squeezes his. When he looks up at Harry she smiles knowingly. "I'll see you both in the morning." She pats her brother's hand and then brushes a kiss across his forehead.
"Are you awake?" Sherlock asks. "Squeeze my hand again if you are."
There's no response. The resurrection plant that Harry had bought as a joke is slowly curling in on itself. Water needs to be changed, Sherlock supposes. The golden rod sitting in the open window have done nothing to John. Even when Harry had waggled a bit of the flower in front of his nose for a good five minutes before a nurse told her to stop.
"You'll wake up in your own time, I know," Sherlock sighs. "You know I'm not going throw water on you or drag you out without knowing anything."
John has always valued a good night's sleep, especially when a case is on and at least one person needs to be fully functional. "My patience is wearing thin though, so is everyone else's. It's not funny anymore, John."
He knows precisely how petulant he sounds but does not apologize. He sits quietly for thirty minutes and then resumes asking for John to wake up again. "You're so close, I know you are. I'm right here. Follow my voice, John. Follow my voice..."
=====================================================================================
His nose itches.
His head is swimming, his ears are filled with Sherlock's (and Harry's, and Lestrade's but mostly Sherlock's) voice, but he is here. He think he is. He's been following Sherlock's voice for what feels like centuries but probably isn't anywhere near that long. He's heard and felt enough odd things in the black but this is the first time that he has actually felt his nose. That's just too weird to be made up.
It takes a bit of doing but he manages to crack an eye open. The room looks like a garden. There's some golden rod by the door, which explains why John's nose itches, along with bundles of heather, rosemary, thyme, and some other plants. He hears Harry's voice again singing "Scarborough Fair" and he shifts his head away from his left, where Harry seems to normally be sitting, and gets a good look at Sherlock.
Sherlock is passed out in an armchair. He's lying across the thing like it's a couch and what looks like a case file is lying open across his chest. He is still holding John's hand. It must be uncomfortably but John knows that he wouldn't be anywhere else right now. The case file says it all.
The eye flutters closed again with a wave of pain. The drugs are wearing off. His hand clenches in Sherlock's and then man jumps into action. He hears the smack of skin on a pump and John can feel himself relax. "Easy John," Sherlock is saying to him. "I've got it."
John squeezes his hand back and he can feel Sherlock turn to ice in his grasp. "John?"
He keeps pressure tight on Sherlock's hand as he tries to open his eyes again. It, again, takes some doing but Sherlock gently talks him through it. When he opens his eyes Sherlock is sitting cross legged, the arm chair pulled up as far as he can get it, with their joined hands covered by Sherlock's other one. He's resting the bundle of hands in front of his months so John can feel him speak as much as hear him.
"There you are." Sherlock is delighted but cautious. John has no doubt what Sherlock's been worried about. A man opening his eyes doesn't tell you anything about the state of his mind after all and, bless Sherlock's heart, the poor man sitting in front of him is in no frame of mind to deduce anything.
It's not as hard as opening his eyes was, John is not looking forward to the physiotherapy that is certainly in his future, but he manages to tell Sherlock all he needs to know. "H-Here I....am." He shifts their hands Sherlock's way. "Y-You're Sh-Sher-Sherlock Holmes." He shifts them back his way. " 'M John W-Watson." He shuts his eyes and gives himself a minute. He feels lips brush across his forehead and then just as gently across his lips. He hums contentedly. "Room smells."
"Voice wasn't enough," Sherlock relates. "Touch wasn't enough either. Decided smell was the last sense I could attack."
" s'all good," John slurs. He doesn't bother opening his eyes again. He'll choose words over sight. It's not what Sherlock needs right now. Or what he does. "Think I got...most of it." He sniffs with the wind through the open window. "Allergies..."
"Harry's idea. Well, my idea with the plants. There's resurrection fern in the garden I'd like to show you later."
He feels like resurrection fern, uncurling after so long without water. Pity he's going to drift off again in a second. It's going to be like this for a few days yet and part of him wants to warn Sherlock about that. Sherlock squeezes his hand again. "I'm not leaving you," he promises again. "Go to sleep. We'll both still be here in the morning."
John hums in agreement and lets himself go. The smell of the heather and the thyme follow him down.
Author: arwen_kenobi
Rating: G
'Verse: BBC Sherlock
Word Count: 1995
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Harry Watson
Summary: John is not dead nor is he really playing at it. His body is reacting to the injury the best it knows how to give him time to come back. Sherlock just needs to provide the correct stimulus. Sequel to The Space Between and Brave New World
Author's Notes: For prompt 28 of watsons_woes July Writing Prompts. This one was: Pick an herb, flower, or other plant, and make it a key part of your entry today.
The first time an orderly shouts at him since John's admission is when Sherlock brings the violin in. There was no objection to him playing proper music but when, in a fit of frustration, he resorted to the screeching and wailing that he usually used to drive Mycroft out of the flat. He maintains to the staff, and to a rather amused Harry Watson, that he was trying to get John to yell at him to stop it. The Glasgow tests did indicate that he was responsive to pain after all. To remind himself of that he digs his nails into John's palm and watches as the hand tries to pull away.
John's been here ten days now. It has been three days since the swelling in his head, and the proximity to an older head injury, have allowed the doctors to operate. John has been improving. The response to pain is a good thing and John was taken off the ventilator yesterday morning. Sherlock had stepped out to find some tea and Harry had said that John had actually tried to pull the thing out. They'd both waited for him to wake up after that. He hasn't moved since unless he's in pain and that has been much more sluggish in comparison to what Harry says she saw.
They tell him that this is all good and he knows that it's true. But still it's not enough. No one can tell him what will happen to John once he wakes up. Sherlock's seen the scans and the X-rays and he can't make more sense out of them than the doctors can. What he does do is stare at that little part of John's skull and brain that was apparently the cause of his father's abuse and not an unfortunate rugby accident and curses Henry Watson to the deepest, hottest, and darkest part of hell.
Harry is trying to wrestle more time away from work but is having trouble. It's the first job she's managed to keep for more than a month since she'd gone back to the bottle after Clara had left. She can't risk what fledging state her sobriety is in and Sherlock knows how that feels and knows that John will understand. "If you have to go back and come in when you can he'll understand. He wouldn't want you to leave work because of him."
"You've left work."
Sherlock doesn't bother pointing out that it's different with them. Plus he has the benefit of the fact that he can offer help from an armchair if he must. He's sure there will be another file or two ready for him to look at when he gets back to John's room. Him and Harry are taking a walk through the grounds - Harry because she needs a change of scenery and Sherlock because he's not allowed to watch brain scans. Not after the last time.
Sherlock stops and pauses at an oak tree covered in a green plant. Mostly up the one side and crawling up onto the lowest branch. "Resurrection fern."
"Living up to its name," Harry agrees. "This was all brown a day or two ago. The rain has done its job." She laughs, suddenly, to herself. "When I moved out John gave me a resurrection plant. Said there couldn't be a way for me to kill it off." She shrugs. "I did, though. I think the dry husk lived in my house in a bowl of water for months before I finally gave up on it."
Sherlock thinks about the other patients. The patients in the ward upstairs. The people who are visited religiously, then sporadically, then barely. Not that they are capable of knowing the difference. Sherlock is overjoyed that John is not destined for the ward upstairs, not anymore, but he remembers the fear. Still fears that the tide might turn.
Harry wanders off ahead. "Coming along?" Sherlock shakes his head and instead ponders the resurrection fern. What gave them their name was the fact they could survive extreme drought. It will curl up and seem to die but, if a little water is added, they will uncurl and regain their colour. They are alive again, if they were ever truly dead at all.
John is not dead nor is he really playing at it. His body is reacting to the injury the best it knows how to give him time to come back. The longer that a patient is in a coma the less likely they are to come out of it, yes, but what are odds like this to men like them. Sherlock just needs to provide the correct stimulus. The violin and his voice and touch alone aren't enough so, perhaps, Sherlock needs to make use of another of John's senses.
=====================================================================================
The hospital has a policy about flowers and how strong their scent can be. John may have a private room and his nearest neighbour may be a good distance down the hall but policy is policy. Sherlock knows full well that his sense of smell is not that of the normal person so he conscripts Harry to help him when Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson come to visit. Harry raises an eyebrow in a manner that makes Sherlock have to turn away but she agrees. It is even her who comes up with the idea to grab some armfuls of golden rod as well. "John's allergic," she explains. "He'll know these are here. He'll sneeze himself awake."
Sherlock elects for a few simpler things that he knows John would have no objection too. John's not one to keep plants or express all that much interest in gardening, though he has decides that if Sherlock is going to keep bees he's going to have to come up with an outdoor hobby if only to keep an eye on him. He has alluded that that hobby would end up being gardening. Sherlock avoids most typical fare for flowers. What ends up adorning John's room are gatherings of heather, rosemary, thyme, and sage - which just makes Harry start humming "Scarborough Fair" to John in another effort to annoy him into wakefulness. Sherlock does get jealous when he rolls his head away from Harry when she starts to sing. The brain scans and the nurse that Harry drags in raise his Glasgow number up a little bit and declares that it is all good signs.
When Harry goes back to her hotel for the night, and once again refuses accommodation in Baker Street, she whispers something in John's ear that brings a little bit of smile to his face. "Take his hand," she orders Sherlock, softly. When he does the hand squeezes his. When he looks up at Harry she smiles knowingly. "I'll see you both in the morning." She pats her brother's hand and then brushes a kiss across his forehead.
"Are you awake?" Sherlock asks. "Squeeze my hand again if you are."
There's no response. The resurrection plant that Harry had bought as a joke is slowly curling in on itself. Water needs to be changed, Sherlock supposes. The golden rod sitting in the open window have done nothing to John. Even when Harry had waggled a bit of the flower in front of his nose for a good five minutes before a nurse told her to stop.
"You'll wake up in your own time, I know," Sherlock sighs. "You know I'm not going throw water on you or drag you out without knowing anything."
John has always valued a good night's sleep, especially when a case is on and at least one person needs to be fully functional. "My patience is wearing thin though, so is everyone else's. It's not funny anymore, John."
He knows precisely how petulant he sounds but does not apologize. He sits quietly for thirty minutes and then resumes asking for John to wake up again. "You're so close, I know you are. I'm right here. Follow my voice, John. Follow my voice..."
=====================================================================================
His nose itches.
His head is swimming, his ears are filled with Sherlock's (and Harry's, and Lestrade's but mostly Sherlock's) voice, but he is here. He think he is. He's been following Sherlock's voice for what feels like centuries but probably isn't anywhere near that long. He's heard and felt enough odd things in the black but this is the first time that he has actually felt his nose. That's just too weird to be made up.
It takes a bit of doing but he manages to crack an eye open. The room looks like a garden. There's some golden rod by the door, which explains why John's nose itches, along with bundles of heather, rosemary, thyme, and some other plants. He hears Harry's voice again singing "Scarborough Fair" and he shifts his head away from his left, where Harry seems to normally be sitting, and gets a good look at Sherlock.
Sherlock is passed out in an armchair. He's lying across the thing like it's a couch and what looks like a case file is lying open across his chest. He is still holding John's hand. It must be uncomfortably but John knows that he wouldn't be anywhere else right now. The case file says it all.
The eye flutters closed again with a wave of pain. The drugs are wearing off. His hand clenches in Sherlock's and then man jumps into action. He hears the smack of skin on a pump and John can feel himself relax. "Easy John," Sherlock is saying to him. "I've got it."
John squeezes his hand back and he can feel Sherlock turn to ice in his grasp. "John?"
He keeps pressure tight on Sherlock's hand as he tries to open his eyes again. It, again, takes some doing but Sherlock gently talks him through it. When he opens his eyes Sherlock is sitting cross legged, the arm chair pulled up as far as he can get it, with their joined hands covered by Sherlock's other one. He's resting the bundle of hands in front of his months so John can feel him speak as much as hear him.
"There you are." Sherlock is delighted but cautious. John has no doubt what Sherlock's been worried about. A man opening his eyes doesn't tell you anything about the state of his mind after all and, bless Sherlock's heart, the poor man sitting in front of him is in no frame of mind to deduce anything.
It's not as hard as opening his eyes was, John is not looking forward to the physiotherapy that is certainly in his future, but he manages to tell Sherlock all he needs to know. "H-Here I....am." He shifts their hands Sherlock's way. "Y-You're Sh-Sher-Sherlock Holmes." He shifts them back his way. " 'M John W-Watson." He shuts his eyes and gives himself a minute. He feels lips brush across his forehead and then just as gently across his lips. He hums contentedly. "Room smells."
"Voice wasn't enough," Sherlock relates. "Touch wasn't enough either. Decided smell was the last sense I could attack."
" s'all good," John slurs. He doesn't bother opening his eyes again. He'll choose words over sight. It's not what Sherlock needs right now. Or what he does. "Think I got...most of it." He sniffs with the wind through the open window. "Allergies..."
"Harry's idea. Well, my idea with the plants. There's resurrection fern in the garden I'd like to show you later."
He feels like resurrection fern, uncurling after so long without water. Pity he's going to drift off again in a second. It's going to be like this for a few days yet and part of him wants to warn Sherlock about that. Sherlock squeezes his hand again. "I'm not leaving you," he promises again. "Go to sleep. We'll both still be here in the morning."
John hums in agreement and lets himself go. The smell of the heather and the thyme follow him down.