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Each time John says this, Sherlock's insides knot up with fear and dread. Because it indicates John is still a mess and is almost always followed by an increase in distress. One of the nurses mentioned last time she was in the room, that if the meds they are using to attempt to calm John down don't work, they might have to consider restraints. For his safety, she says. And because he is using so much of his energy fighting and resisting - depleting his body's reserve to heal, to recover, to rest. The nurse explains that some people do actually calm down once there are less options to them. Sherlock knows without a doubt that restraints will do nothing for John except tick him off.

So he argues that he'll keep John safe, that tying him down won't be necessary. And so far, he's been successful, with some help from the rest of the staff at times. But the task at hand is exhausting - for both of them. Keeping John untied is Sherlock's full time job at the moment, and the vigilance required takes almost all of his attention.

Sherlock stands on John's uninjured side attempting to contain the hand and arm that is frantic, clawing and pushing. Fingers grab and twist Sherlock's sleeve, strong despite all that John is suffering, having truly no clue in his restless agitation, what he wants. He pulls Sherlock's hand toward him, then pushes him away; he tries to sit up, to get out of the bed. In his weakened, confused state, that would be disastrous and end most assuredly with John on the floor, potentially injuring himself even more.

Over the past days, Sherlock has tried speaking all sorts of things to John. Initially he'd tried the brutally honest truth, speaking kindly and calmly as he tried to reorient him - stay in bed John, you've been injured, you have a fever, you're in the hospital, there's an infection, please just lie back and try to rest - but when that didn't work, he tried to weasel his way inside John's delusion - where are you trying to go, what's the matter, who's hurting you, what happened, wait until dark and I'll help you escape. One of the nurses overheard that and frowned quite visibly, trying to decide if she needed to intervene on the both of them. So he backtracked a little, explaining to John he needs to stay. Plus, John is in no shape to go AWOL, so he doesn't say it again - and certainly not in front of any care providers. So far, nothing helps and Sherlock feels more and more lost. John is unreachable, Sherlock is out of ideas.

Thankfully, he does settle, and the restlessness is not constant. So for the time being, they keep to the plan.

++

John's pack is overloaded, so heavy, strapped to his shoulders, the blazing Afghan sun beating down on him. He's been separated from his unit and someone is pursuing him, someone that is dangerous and means to harm him. To harm him again. He can feel the sweat trickling down his neck, his temples, the small of his back. His heart pounds in his chest, his mouth is dry, his tank is empty.

And then there's the injury, that he doesn't remember exactly, but clearly his shoulder is in bad shape. He doesn't remember getting shot - and yet somehow he does - and the details defy explanation. Heat waves and pain are strongest there, heat from inside radiating in the joint, the bullet probably still inside, blood congealing and oozing, and he is so weak. When he gets his face near to his injured shoulder, there is a familiar scent of blood, of bandages, and more ominously, he can smell a brewing bacterial infection. 

He's desperate to get back to his men, his unit. Certainly if he was shot, some of his mates are also in danger, and they need his help. His body betrays him, he can't even seem to put one foot in front of the other, his fingers don't work, and every so often, the person chasing him manages to get close, to take his arm, to hold him down, to yammer at him with nonsensical words. Now and again, he's fairly certain he's dying. Perhaps, if he get another chance, he'll strike out with enough force to take them both down.

Whatever ends the misery, might just be worth it.

The fire inside seems to ratchet up another few degrees. This? This level of hell? Not sustainable, so if he's going out anyway, it's going to be in a bloody blaze of glory.

++

Sherlock, seated right next to the bed, watches John. He is close enough to see the terrible distress John remains in. Even when his body is quiet, he has alterations in breathing - irregular, too fast. Behind his eyelids which are somehow pale and flushed at the same time, his eyes move, catecholamine surges so he can see the enemy, his entire body activated, fight or flight, all of him stuck in survival mode. The overnight physician has been in a few times, rounding carefully and quietly in the ICU, checking on them - standing quietly near Sherlock as he keeps vigil. The best he can do, Sherlock notes, is shrug his shoulders and whisper platitudes - "one day at a time" "let's wait and see if this resolves" "give him a few hours, sepsis can do this," or "he's young and strong, he'll be okay." It's aggravating that no one seems to have anything to offer. He tamps down on the irritation but on the inside, he is seething.

He's close enough to intervene yet again when John flings a leg over the siderail (which seems to happen a few times an hour) or when he tries to sit up, which is less often most likely due to the bulky immobiliser they've affixed to John's shoulder.

They've done a few things to alleviate the delirium. Or, attempt to. There are fluid boluses after fluid boluses, as John's fever churns up his intravascular volume, there is still profound diaphoresis. They've changed the sweaty sheets a few times. The urinary catheter, placed to keep a closer eye on his output, should prevent the restlessness that can be due to the need to urinate. Although John is covered, now and again the sheets slip, showing John's thigh with a sticker and a plastic clamp to prevent the catheter from tugging, pulling, or kinking off - and it certainly would have done that by now, given how frequently John shifts, slides, twists his body in the bed. Antipyretic meds have been given in one of John's IVs. His blood pressure, just given the infection, is low enough to require an infusion of something to raise it. They've been constant with varying other meds too, antibiotics, mild sedatives and analgesia - cautiously just given his neuro state and lower blood pressure situation, not wanting too strong a narcotic or too hefty a dose. His body, sometimes afterwards, does seem to settle. But it doesn't last.

++

Although John's legs don't feel like they're moving, he obviously is trying to flee. He is desperate to escape, and frustratingly, unacceptably ineffective. As he turns away seeking a different vector, as he tries to put some distance between this ... this evil, this being who means him harm, it fails. He fails. His arm, caught by the hand of his attacker, is held fast. And as such, he panics. His head swings back, eyes open, to see his destiny. His enemy. Looking at him, square on in the face, is someone in very close range. Very very close. He doesn't recognise the person. But then he sort of does, but it is vague.

Somehow, though, he is familiar. He is stopping him, thwarting him, in his way. Someone he knows but can't name. The danger, at least in John's addled thinking, is close at hand, very personal, and a very real threat.

++

Sherlock senses something is different. John's eyes blink hard and seem to come into focus. And for a fleeting second, barely a nanosecond, Sherlock is almost relieved to see John look at him and see him. Before he even has a moment to say anything, though, John frowns and something about his gaze is off. For a moment, his pupils narrow in some sort of identification, and that quickly, it is gone and he is desperately trying to throw himself toward freedom. A knee bends and momentum begins to take him away from Sherlock. What John's foggy mind fails to account for is that one of his arms is beleaguered with equipment and two IV sites. Let alone, his far shoulder is completely immobilised with a sling, hook and loop tabs that hold his arm against his side, his wrist and lower arm bound across his waist.

Sherlock is quickly on his feet, one hand behind John's elbow, the other reaching for John's wayward leg.

"John, hang on. Not yet. Just ... lie back." His words attempt to be kind in tone and phrase, but almost immediately, John freezes. 

And snarls, "You get your bloody hands off me!" There is another unclear blink, John staring, hate in his eyes and his face. "Don't you fucking touch me!"

It seems to be a little personal, the way John has looked at him, the pronouns in John's fury. Was this John speaking to him, and meaning these words? For the first time since this nightmare began, Sherlock begins to question whether John will be able to make it back from this. This far gone, he wonders, is this survivable?

++

Afghanistan, John knows, is a deadly place. That many of the soldiers who fight for freedom give their ultimate, noble sacrifice. They all know the risks when they enlist. And if that is his destiny today, well, he's okay with that. Because he has a job to do, and his men need him, and if he's in harms way, well ... so be it.

I'm on my way! John's voice in his head doesn't actually take wing, but it doesn't matter because John is indeed going to get there - at any cost. He wears the uniform not only with pride, but with the knowledge that he is not merely a healer, but a soldier, doing his job, serving his country.

But an arm stops him, an interloper, a stranger who means him harm - because it must be, who on earth could be here that he would know, who is in his way -  who is obviously, clearly, plainly an enemy. There to hobble his efforts, also at any costs.

For a moment, John feels every bit of the Afghan sand, of canvas huts, the smell of the hot desert breeze blowing into base, and wonders how much blood loss he's suffered, at how close to death he might be. But summoning a last ditch bit of energy, he tries to wrestle free his arm, and hopes this cretin, this interloper understands his directive, spoken in furious English. "You get your bloody hands off me! Don't you fucking touch me!"

++

The bedside monitor there in the ICU alarms, multiple systems sending off alerts, too high (temperature, heart rate, and respirations) and too low (oxygen levels and blood pressure), which brings a nurse to John's side. "Hey," she says softly, as she comes to evaluate John's response to this tall, aloof, rather dedicated visitor who has been sitting with John since his admission a few days before. "You're okay John. In the hospital. You were injured."

Unfortunately, though, John isn't listening. And if he is, Sherlock thinks with a wry snort, he isn't understanding anything. None of the words have really impacted any of John's behaviours, haven't calmed him down, haven't brought about any verbal interaction. Exhausted, though, from barely any rest himself, Sherlock steps back, lets the nurse see what she can do, to herd the feral cat of John Watson somewhere safer, more pleasant, or at least to a calmer mentation. Or perhaps, there will be more medication.

It is discouraging to say the least - devastating, actually - that Sherlock himself is unable to reach John. If anyone should be able to help him, it should be him, his closest friend, his flatmate, his ... He lets that thought go, moves to the foot of the bed to gently wrangle John's flung leg back onto the mattress.

There is another torrent of John's speech, less sweary than the last round, and he remains insistent that he needs to get up, to go somewhere, that he's got things to do. Acting a little more worn out, John murmurs a few times at her, nothing terribly helpful, and eventually lies back against the pillow. He is breathing rapidly, his lips pursed as he tries to catch his breath.

"That's it. Slow down. You having pain?" To that question, Sherlock stares hard at John, who is stunned, looking at her with alarm, his expression fearful as he gazes at the nurse, but he doesn't answer with words. "I'm sure your shoulder hurts," she offers gently, smoothing the dressing, anchoring tape back against his skin, where it has loosened (again) because he is sweaty (again. Or still). "Let's try this ice pack, okay?"

She barely settles the papery ice bag against the bandage when he lets out a howl. His response is completely out of proportion to her gentle touch, and Sherlock has to look away. The nausea that has been somewhat of a companion to him, comes to more of a rolling boil, and he nearly feels the need to flee the room.

There is no escape for either of them. Sherlock will stay as long as they both have breath. He wants to snipe that at John, that he's got a lot more breathing to do, but right now, he just can't. Wherever John Watson is right now, he knows, it is not pleasant. And nearly as unpleasant to watch, helpless, from his vantage point. Or perhaps worse, because Sherlock is aware - and John Watson is not.

++

John can almost hear his men, hear the sounds of the surgery, people moving about, medical equipment, the sound of monitors beeping, cardiac alarms and IV pumps, and he can feel his skin tingle as he knows he's going to need to work hard to get there.

But just as he is almost ready to round the corner, there is a hand on his arm, and somehow on his leg, preventing him from doing any of the blasted things he's trained for, what he's called to do, what he's so very good at.

When he looks at whomever is holding him, he is nearly nose to nose with someone - a regal stranger, familiar but obviously can't be anyone he knows. But he is in his way, and he is furious. Shrugging - or attempting to - at the hand that is restraining him, he has already issued an order, a captain's order, to no avail.

Somehow, he senses that he's been placed in a bed, that he is likely going to be strapped down and tortured. There is new pressure on his shoulder, his injury, and it escalates to a whole new level of agony. Some of it is delirium, but to John, it is all very real.

And so he retreats inside his own mind and body. Inside, where infection storms every cell, where his blood is infected, the wound, everything.

Perhaps he can find refuge in this place of solace, a temporary refuge. A mind palace.

The phrase mind palace gives him minute pause, but he isn't processing and there is no association. His thoughts turn toward a room, comfortable furniture, fireplace, burgundy and gold wallpaper. There is some yellow paint, a bit of taxidermy on the wall, and the slightest sense that there might be peace in that room. But it is hollow and empty, the sense of being left behind, the terribly thought that he is alone. And powerless. And nearly done.

++

A physician comes to the room soon after John's body seems to settle. His vital signs, displayed in colours on the bedside monitor, aren't that reassuring but no one is panicking or bringing the crash cart to the room, so Sherlock decides he can engage with the doctor when he's finished examining John.

There is a penlight, a checking of reflexes - pupillary, deep tendon, pain stimuli (and Sherlock nearly can't stop himself from shoving the doctor away from John when the sternal rub emits a faint moan of despair. Really, was that completely necessary?), and an unanswered request for John to follow a simple command. The doc steps to the heart monitor to see the history of the vital signs before checking to see how much oxygen is flowing through the nasal cannula, pinches lightly the skin on the back of John's hand, and taps at the urine collection bag hanging beneath the bedframe. A nurse returns to the room holding a new IV bag and tubing, tells the doc she's hanging the vasopressin that had been ordered. Both of them look over at the monitor, where John's last blood pressure is flashing too low, 83/47, and Sherlock knows from previous updates that this is despite the blood pressure medicine that has been infusing, in increased doses, for the last few days. 

"I'm Dr. Crouthamel. Steven. I think we spoke earlier." Sherlock vaguely recalls that he was one of the many updates from admission, when things were even more overwhelming. "Okay to speak here?" he asks Sherlock, and Sherlock nods in agreement, knowing that John isn't likely to be disturbed by conversation he isn't understanding anyway. "We're concerned. He's not showing signs of responding to any of the treatments yet. The fluids and blood pressure medications are helping some, but not enough. His kidney function is deteriorating," and at this part of the explanation, Sherlock recalls that they've been sending labs fairly frequently, "but it's a good sign he's making a little urine." Sherlock is a little surprised by that, although he hadn't been paying attention to the many, many bags they've hung, and how little they've needed to empty the catheter. "We're adding a second blood pressure med now, a very potent vasoconstrictor." He waits on that descriptor, for Sherlock to indicate he comprehends the terms. "We're going to do a few more things today. An arterial line to monitor blood pressure in real time, continuously. It will go in the radial artery. And he needs central access, just for safety of these meds. They're not suited, long term, to run peripherally." He gestures at John's uninjured arm, where there are several IV sites there. The blood pressure cuff has been on John's leg for a day or so already, just given the limited access they have.

"All right."

"While we're at it, we'll slide a small tube in John's nose for nutrition. Tube feeding." He explains, concisely, that there have been some older studies indicating enteral feedings during septic shock is contraindicated, but John has been a few days without it and the lack of nutrition at this point, is definitely not helpful. "We'll send off some more blood cultures, just to confirm that nothing new is growing. The antibiotics he's receiving are broad spectrum, and quite strong, so conceptually, they should be helping. It can still take some time, but I'm just a little puzzled. I'll be asking one of our infectious disease physicians to come see him, confirm that the plan is correct." The nurse returns with an armful of equipment, a central line insertion kit and more tubing, this one with a pressure bag at the top, and a handful of other supplies. Sherlock can see sterile gloves, barriers, and a coiled, white small tube with a stylet in a package. "Some of this is a sterile procedure, so we'll have you step out for a bit," he explains.

He hesitates, the road in front of him not exactly what he’s been hoping for. The doc adds, “Once we have better blood pressure control, we can try another med to help with this, so he can rest more. It’s all about what’s safe for John.”

The nurse is at Sherlock's side, and she speaks gently. "I know you've been here all along. But you can take a break for a little. I'll be here with him the whole time. He's my only patient now, so." Her fingers lightly touch Sherlock's elbow, a gesture meant to be supportive. "And it's okay if you want to run home for a bit, we'll be, oh I don't know, minimum an hour with all this." She indicates the supplies. "Fine if you want to hang close, in the waiting room too. But this might be a good opportunity. John has a daughter, I think you told me?"

Frowning, not liking any of this update, these plans, Sherlock nods slowly. "Rosie. She's seven."

++

Days previously, on the other end of the mobile, Rosie's question is innocently, sweetly appropriate. "He'll be okay, right?"

Sherlock is over by the window in John's ICU room, where John is laying in a bed, mostly calm at the moment. His eyes are closed, his arms quiet, his legs elevated on a pillow to keep his heels off the mattress. There is an ice pack on his newly operated shoulder. 'Irrigation and debridement' they told him. 'A wash out.' He's only been in the room a few hours now, still sedated from being in surgery. In this state, his face is relaxed, his breathing slow and almost puffing in quality. He's wearing oxygen and an IV is infusing nearly wide open into his arm.

"Yes. He just needs antibiotics and rest." 

"Can I come visit?"

"Unfortunately, the minimum age to visit in ICU is fourteen."

"Okay. Can I talk to him, then?"

"Sleeping, sweetheart. So not yet. I'll see if he's up to a phone call a little later. Maybe tomorrow, even." There is some noise from the bed, as John shifts his head around on the pillow, restless as the anaesthesia clears. "I'll tell him we spoke, though. He'll be glad to hear you're fine."

"Ok. When are you coming home?"

"I'm not sure." He wants to share with Rosie how serious this is but knows just as obviously that of course he cannot. "But I'm ok and you're okay and your papa is resting. So we wait."

Rosie makes some noise of agreement and truly does seem to be fine with what he's told her.

Aiming for a casual question, he continues, "Can I talk with Mrs. Hudson again please?" For a moment, Sherlock hopes John overheard that, the polite word, the way he's been encouraged to be a good role model for Rosie, with the somewhat ridiculous use of the words please, thank you, and other polite inanities that Sherlock finds cumbersome and inefficient. "I'll talk to you again soon."

"Okay," Rosie agrees, then, muffled, her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone, she calls out, "Nana!"

Mrs. Hudson is not nearly so accepting as Rosie and has questions. "What happened again? You said he got hurt?"

"Yes. Long story, but an escaped convict with a knife." He leaves out the words dirty and contaminated. "He got in the way." He also leaves out the fact that John, in a moment of sheer idiocy had flung himself between the down-swinging knife and Sherlock's upper chest. "Just a clean out, some antibiotics."

There is a pause, and Sherlock can almost feel the unrest coming through the line. "You're not telling me everything." After all this time, she sees. And sees.

Of course she does, Sherlock laments inwardly. There's no one around to see Sherlock roll his eyes, but he does it anyway. Quickly weighing the pros and cons of continued deception, Sherlock throws Mrs. Hudson a bone. "Well, they're keeping him in ICU tonight, just until we're sure there's no infection." Mrs. Hudson's silence is a little heavy, so Sherlock also admits, "He lost some blood, so they'll check his counts a little later." He tries hard not to recall the crimson stain, the spread of blood underneath John, telltale signs of a brachial artery laceration. Realising he's already disclosed more than he wanted, he shuts his mouth and even clenches his teeth so that he won't fill in the prompting sighs of their landlady, Rosie's honourary grandmother, their friend.

Their smart friend, Sherlock is reminded, when Mrs. Hudson nearly hisses, "You keep me posted. Anytime, day or night, you understand me young man?"

"Yes."

"You know I'm here for you. The three of you." Her voice is thick with emotion, and Sherlock manages to bid her a soft goodbye before the same happens to him.

++

Since then, Sherlock tries to get away with not giving too many updates to Mrs. Hudson, because she wants too much information and isn't satisfied with the small details. Sherlock recruits Molly and one of Rosie's closest friends (that he's tried not to get to know but John found them reasonable; even pleasant), to help manage her so that he can remain in the hospital with John. The updates have grown short and vague, "He's just a little restless, running a fever, the doctors are watching him." He has, a few times, claimed a nearly depleted mobile battery, and one time a staticky connection on the mobile with people other than Rosie, who is harder but he's not a monster, after all, and gives Rosie a longer update that truly doesn't say anything much. More conversations than not, he can ask Rosie about her day, or her latest book, or her birthday coming up, that is distracting for Rosie and a relief for him.

++

Reluctantly, he sees the wisdom or dashing home while they're with John, especially since he can't be in the room anyway. It's the middle of the day, and thankfully Rosie is at school, so there's nothing to delay him in his focused tasks and then returning as promptly as he can to John's side again, where he belongs. He barely slows before dashing into the shower, then jumps back into clothes, and packs a few more items for them both before heading back over to the hospital. He's barely through the door when a text arrives from Mrs. Hudson.

I heard the shower, see signs that you were home, you could have at least said hello.

I suppose you had your reasons.

Please wish John the best from me.

You can be quite sure that I'll be speaking to John about your lack of updates. You're not the best at keeping in touch.

Sherlock knows better than to fully ignore Mrs. Hudson (just given that one time she reached out directly to Mycroft, heaven forbid - he is not ready to deal with him), so sends off a quick text of his own.

Apologies. Only had a few minutes. Just arriving back now. I'll tell John of course. SH

He knows he will need Mrs. Hudson's assistance for a little yet, so he opts to add a glimmer of hope without being overly committed.

If John's up to it a little later, maybe we might try to call you this evening. SH

++

The curtain is drawn across the doorway of John's room, so Sherlock taps lightly on the doorframe as he enters. The sight draws him up short. 

For a moment, he wonders if he's wandered into the wrong room by mistake - even as he is acutely, painfully aware he has not. This is John's room, and, unfortunately, it's John at the epicenter. But things have obviously not gone well while he's been out of the building.