InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "kel mo dee in the hizouse"

John Watson internationally smuggles tea (imhisblogger) wrote in wariscoming,
@ 2013-11-22 22:57:00

Entry tags:

john watson

Who:John Watson and Khaaaaaaaaaaaannnnnn
What:John enjoys his hospital drugs a bit too much and thinks Khan is Sherlock again.
When:Tonight
Where:Hospital!
Warnings:idk~

Every beep of the machine he was hooked to was a reminder that his best friend was dead. A constant reminder. Every breath he took, every move he made, like that horrible song was just another reminder of Sherlock Holmes. He wasn't sure what to take from it. Did it make him less or more important as a person? Did it make him anything noteworthy at all? He didn't know and he was angry. No, that was also incorrect. He was just tired. Emotionally flattened. There was nothing left, no light that touched his eyes or wrinkle to his lips. Nothing but exhaustion. Mentally and physically just exhaustion.

He had barely moved when Martha showed. He knew it was her, he knew Simon had been there also-various faces he recognized, none of which he registered any form of speech from him. His vital signs were stable, so clearly that wasn't the problem. He just didn't react beyond the appropriate movements necessary to get through various doctor testings and show he wasn't entirely a vegetable. He could see stars outside the window but he didn't know what time it was. He'd stopped paying attention after a while. He was hurt but not even pain seemed to case a reaction from him. He didn't complain, or ask for anything. He just existed. He was alive, but that was all.

The hospital drugs kept things like dreams and nightmares at bay. There was nothing but blackness, and he wasn't entirely sure he should have been comforted by it, but in the smallest sense he was. He could close his eyes and not see Moriarty's face for once in his life. Or Sherlock, or Molly. None of them existed in his drugged little world. It was empty and he was alone, probably for the first time in his life thoughts of Sherlock didn't haunt him.

His eyes remained open, but he didn't give any indication he was awake.

(Read comments) - (Post a new comment)

respondedinkind
2013-11-24 09:17 am UTC (link)

He shouldn't have been there.

It was the only thought running through his head as he made his way through the doors of the hospital. Security was so lax here. Unless you were going through a very important area, you pretty much could just come and go as you pleased. The world would change in the not too distant future. He'd been asleep those years, but he had become well acquainted with Earth's history. Even if this one wasn't his, he still imagined much would be the same.

So despite his own realization that he shouldn't be there, no one else seemed to realize this and no one asked him to leave. Maybe he should have. But he didn't. He found the room number the young blonde had given Sherlock and stood outside it, anxiously. He'd simply look in, see if John was resting. Yes, that would be the wise thing to do. Make sure he was getting enough sleep and proper care and it would be fine. Really.

He entered the room slowly, hesitantly, probably more hesitantly than Khan had ever done anything in his life. He was a confident man, a strong and dedicated leader during his time, and a vicious savage once Starfleet had woken him. The meek manner in which he entered a hospital room would have been foreign to anyone who'd known him in either of his previous lives. But he did, and the sight he saw concerned him.

A part of him wanted to find a nurse and begin yelling about the proper care of their patient. But on a closer look, he realized they were doing all that they could. The man-one he could not call a friend, not after what he'd done-had an IV dripping fluids into him, he was getting nutrition and apparently a level of pain management as well. Which concerned him, but the things the demon had said certainly implied he'd intended to inflict a level of pain.

John lay very still and Khan simply stood in the doorway and watched for a bit. He wasn't sure what else to do, really. He could say hello, but pointing out his entrance would likely get him kicked out and he felt he needed to be around. This had been the one thing he couldn't protect the man from. No matter how hard he'd tried. All because he'd been afraid that if he got too involved, John would tell him not to.

And Khan Singh had never been afraid before.

(Reply to this) (Thread)

imhisblogger
2013-11-24 10:25 am UTC (link)

He was still very much cut and bruised, and generally in miserable shape. But Martha and Simon had done a great deal of work on the injuries they were able it seemed to attempt to give him a better level of comfort. Just things like that took a while to heal, he was only human. Despite how much lately he'd wanted to deny it. Being human only got him hurt, and finally he'd been hurt one to many times by to many people. He wanted to keep moving on with his life, hell he tried and then he found himself in a basement being tortured again for it. What was the point?

Everyone else was allowed to cope. Why did his nightmares keep coming back to haunt him? He knew he was supposed to be dead once over, maybe several technically but once at least. Was that it? Was it punishment from cheating Death? He didn't know anymore but he was tired. So emotionally tired and dead to the world he didn't notice the door open. Or if he did, he didn't react.

The bright lights on the ceiling were hard on his eyes, and that eventually was the thing that caused him to catch a glance of an all too familiar presence. Sherlock's ghost revisited. For a while John could only stare at him. As if trying to decide whether or not the image was real or not. But words finally fell from his lips none the less "I can't do this anymore Sherlock..I.." And words failed again, he didn't trust his voice. It was hoarse from machinery that had been only recently removed.

God he'd finally gone mad. Talking to ghosts out loud, seeing Sherlock everywhere. He looked stubbornly back up at the ceiling lights and flinched at the movement.

(Reply to this) (Parent) (Thread)

respondedinkind
2013-11-24 10:39 am UTC (link)

He felt an odd, unfamiliar tugging in his chest that he imagined was probably sympathy. Perhaps remorse. But he hadn't meant to cause this. A part of him wanted to allow John to believe the charade. Maybe it would make him feel better, in the end. To think he had his Sherlock back, at least for the moment.

But he couldn't. He'd promised he'd come clean when he'd decided to help heal the little girl, and he'd done so. Now everyone knew, including Captain Pathetic, and he couldn't go back on that. Besides, the man had suffered enough. It would be unfair to make him think he was going mad all over again.

"I'm afraid Sherlock isn't here," he said slowly, in his cool and collected voice. Which, unfortunately for John, still wasn't all that different from Sherlock's. In fairness, he'd been able to keep up the charade for so long because he and the detective shared quite a few qualities other than just their faces.

He stepped a bit further into the room, allowing the man in the bed to see him in a clearer light. The differences were there for those who knew either of them well. Which only left John. He knew Sherlock well, and was likely the only one who did. And him... Well. No one knew Khan well. No one in the last three hundred years for him.

(Reply to this) (Parent) (Thread)

imhisblogger
2013-11-24 10:57 am UTC (link)

"Yeah." That was the problem. Sherlock wasn't there. Sherlock was supposed to be. They were supposed to have a second chance like everyone else. He'd watched him fall once in London, and twice now in Kansas. His brain still couldn't seem to separate Khan and Sherlock, he counted his betrayal as the third time he watched his best friend die.

All he'd wanted was a life of his own. One free of nightmares both waking and R.E.M. but Kansas didn't allow it. Kansas wouldn't let him get back on his feet and he didn't know what to do anymore, or how to react. So he simply stared up at the lights, avoiding eye contact with Khan. Blanket around him more scratchy than comforting against the injuries, he shifted some. His entire body was sore and he wanted to leave. He didn't have the energy.

Moriarty would brag that he won, John knew that but he didn't really care in that moment. Moriarty was deader than dead. That was the only real comfort he'd gained out of the ordeal. The knife guaranteed Moriarty would not be able to return, that was the only thing giving him even the slightest peace.

Though the rest of his face had tightened some in attempt to look more stern, the sadness was obvious in his eyes and unwavering. Even with overhead light there was just nothing left. No spark.

"I want to go home." He didn't specify which home either.

(Reply to this) (Parent) (Thread)

respondedinkind
2013-11-28 04:05 am UTC (link)

Khan didn't know how to respond to that. 'Home' was a difficult word for him. It had been a very long time since he could call somewhere home. It was one of the things he hated about James Kirk. The man seemed to settle into San Francisco like he'd been born there. Khan had lived the majority of his life in England and still couldn't make himself call it home. Especially not in the 2200s.

The hardest part was, he wasn't sure which home John meant. The Inn he'd been living in when Moriarty had taken him? The complex? Or his original home, the flat he'd shared with the man who'd shared Khan's face? It shouldn't have been this difficult to decide.

"You're being cared for here," Khan countered instead, his voice firm and decisive. "You need the care they're providing." Though in all honesty, Khan was cynical of 21st century medical care anyway. And at that moment, he was more concerned for John Watson's mental health than anything else. The man looked almost catatonic. Were he not actually replying, he'd be more concerned.

It wasn't fair. The world kept kicking this man around. And Khan had been one of the ones to do so. Guilt was a rare emotion for him, but he was feeling it at that moment. "At least he's gone. That has to help." He was struggling for answers to questions that weren't even being asked.

(Reply to this) (Parent) (Thread)

imhisblogger
2013-12-01 02:47 am UTC (link)

"Doctor. Can do it myself." He said with a small frown. He refused food though finally he was technically able to eat solids now a week later. His stomach couldn't handle hospital food. He refused most visitors, though he didn't want to be cruel he just didn't want to be babied. He'd done that once already, and he didn't do enough for himself. He was almost sure that's where he went wrong. Before he met Sherlock, he was alone. He was able to stand on his own two feet. He needed to get back to that, but it wasn't the easiest. He didn't want to be that person. That one with no one to care for, but for his sanity maybe he had to be for a while. Maybe he had to care for himself or he might as well have let Moriarty end him.

He couldn't let every set back destroy him again, heart and soul. He knew his friends would worry, but he was not a weak man anymore. He'd lost Sherlock more times now than anyone should have to lose their best friend and he needed to let it harden him or slip away forever. He wasn't sure which he wanted to do, but for some reason he was still alive. He hadn't just died upon being brought into the hospital, so it was for some reason he lived. And maybe only for curiosity's sake he continued to function so he might figure out why one day.

Dull eyes watched Khan when he came around. "Yeah." He responded quietly. That was his only saving grace right now. That was the thing he was clinging to, and it was pathetic. Still John wasn't sure what else to cling to, everything had this way of slipping out of his hands lately. He was entirely miserable and it showed on his face no matter how much he tried to hide it. He could still remember the day Sherlock called him and told him he'd have to find a new subject to write about. He had hardly written anything since.

His passion for it was just smothered and he didn't know how to fix it. Writing used to bring him joy, doctoring used to bring him a sense of accomplishment, but lately all he'd felt was empty. He was going through the motions of life and now he was paying for it.

He began to reach over with his hand to carefully and correctly remove the equipment he was attached to. He wanted out of the hospital and couldn't take another minute of it, the walls felt as though they were starting to close in. He worked quickly, only drawing the slightest bit of blood from his wrist in the process and wincing just a little. Struggling with things because of the sedation he was under, but finally he freed himself and began to attempt to stand. He nearly fell. Reaching a shaking arm out to catch himself, he took a painful step forward again to push himself up and toward the door.

(Reply to this) (Parent)

(Read comments) -