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Breathing's Just A Rhythm

Chapter 2

Summary:

What starts out as a routine stop on Dr. John Watson's rounds turns out to be anything but when he meets a young man with a very worrying injury.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Dr. John Watson paused for a moment to collect himself in the hallway before he entered the room of the next stop on his mid-morning rounds. He checked his clipboard again just to be sure, but he knew already what patient was in this room, and with a guilty feeling that made him nearly sick he knew that he was not looking forward to this encounter. The young man had been rushed into the A&E late last night with severe blood loss from a jagged cut on his wrist and a moderate concussion from where he had fallen onto floor after losing consciousness. He had been found unconscious in a pool of his own blood by some of the students who lived below him that had become alarmed after hearing a large crash from his flat. When one of the more worried ones had gone up to check on him, she was greeted by silence, a locked door, and a slow seep of blood from underneath the door frame. The poor thing had nearly fainted herself, but thankfully had managed to keep herself together enough to call 999 and have the paramedics break down his door. By the time they arrived and stabilized him he had lost a truly dangerous amount of blood, so much so that he had been nearly at death’s door by the time had reached the hospital.

No one knew what had happened for sure, of course. With no witnesses at the scene it was impossible to know the true cause of the man’s injuries until he came to, but Dr. Watson had been able to guess the moment he had seen the description of the wound on the man’s arm. It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together when a young man was rushed to the emergency room with a jagged cut across his wrist caused by a dull kitchen knife. He had seen more cases like this than he cared to remember, and every one had proven to be more heart-breaking than the last. There was nothing worse than watching your patients self-destruct before your eyes while you stood by as a helpless bystander, wishing desperately to help them and utterly unable to do anything of value. Maybe it made him a terrible doctor, but John was not keen on having it happen again.

He sighed gently and gave himself a quick mental shake before pushing the door open. Pull yourself together, Watson. He’s just another patient, and he needs your help. You can do this. The door swung open quietly, revealing a clean, if slightly cramped room brightly lit by the morning sun streaming cheerily in through the blinds. There was only the one occupant at the moment, the other patient having been discharged earlier that morning under surprisingly happy circumstances. The woman had not been John’s patient, but his colleague Dr. Blair had been thrilled at her speedy recovery and happy endings like those were to be treasured when faced with so much pain and sorrow. John could only pray that the same would occur for the man sleeping under heavy sedation in the bed next to the window, but he had his doubts. That was a horrible thing for a doctor to think, of course. But there were only so many times you could get your hopes up in vain without becoming the tiniest bit jaded.

He looked terrible, even considering the circumstances. He was a small man to begin with, but John could tell from one glace that he was horrendously undernourished and underweight as a consequence. His face was pale and drawn, cheekbones standing out sharply underneath an unruly mop of startlingly red curls that only served to emphasize how wan he truly was. While it was true that the blood loss explained away much of his lack of color, it was clear that this had not been a healthy man even before the injury that landed him in the hospital with tubes coming out of his arms. The wound in question had been neatly bandaged by the nurses in the A&E, leaving his left wrist and forearm swaddled in white gauze, but there was already a hint of red bleeding through the fabric in a telltale line across his wrist. John sighed and shook his head gently as he went over to retrieve the patient’s chart, making a mental note to change the bandage as soon as he could. It was technically something that the nurses typically did, but he was here already and the overworked nurses had enough on their hands. He could take five minutes to make sure this poor man had a clean bandage.

A quick glance-over of the man’s chart revealed his name to be Martin Crieff, a twenty-four year old with no previous medical issues or history of mental problems to serve as warning signs for this sort of problem. Just as John had suspected, he was drastically underweight even for a man of his small stature, but that was nothing that regular meals couldn’t fix. It was worrying to see though, especially considering the circumstances. John prayed silently that there was a reasonable explanation for why Martin was so underweight, although to be quite honest there weren’t many reasons for Martin to be so thin that would satisfy him. He could only hope that it wasn’t an indicator of another very serious problem, one that could possibly explain why an otherwise healthy young man had taken a knife to his own wrist.

After checking Martin’s chart one last time, John gently put the clipboard back in its place at the foot of the bed and walked quietly over to Martin’s side. The man was still under fairly heavy sedation, but the substantial amount of blood he had lost while waiting for the paramedics to arrive meant that his body badly needed to rest and recover from the trauma. The poor fellow could use a good sleep anyway, even without the blood loss, John thought to himself as he observed the unhealthy pallor of his cheeks and the circles under his eyes so deep they appeared to be bruises standing out livid on pale skin. What on earth has he been doing to himself? With a final shake of his head he began to gently unwind the bloody bandage, his disquiet only deepening when he saw the state of the wound beneath.

Even after being cleaned and treated with great care by the nurses in the A&E, the cut was still horrifying to look at. It transected nearly his entire wrist, the skin torn brutally by the dull edge of the knife he had used. Blood oozed sluggishly out around the stitches to soak the bandage and trickle onto the skin around the cut, staining white skin with dark, angry crimson. There was no longer any question in John’s mind what had caused this wound. He had seen far too many like it, and there was no mistaking the distinctive false start cut that came from a shaking hand and the jagged, uneven line across the veins in the wrist made by a person both determined and afraid. It was deep cut despite the obvious hesitation and uncertainty behind the action, and John could only be thankful that Martin had made the common mistake of cutting laterally instead of horizontally. If this cut had run along the veins instead of across it, he certainly would have bled out long before the paramedics would have been able to save him. As it was he had lost a significant amount of blood and harmed himself rather severely, but he would survive. It was the mental damage that worried John now. Blood could be replaced, cuts could heal, scars would even fade in time. The mental wounds that had caused them however, those were the ones that were far trickier to deal with and the ones that made patients return to John once they should have been better.

As if on a cue, Martin began to stir fitfully as John was finishing up changing the dressing on his wound. John blinked, startled. With the amount of pain medication and sedation this man was under he shouldn’t be waking up for a good long while, yet here he was coming around long before anyone had expected him to. Huh, must be tougher than he looks. Martin seemed determined to prove that sentiment correct by waking up as fast as humanly possible, making John immensely glad that he had stayed long enough to ensure that the man did not wake up alone. His family was on their way, of course, but they would not be here for a while yet and John firmly believed that no one should have to wake up in a hospital room by themselves.

It was several minutes before Martin began to show more signs of life, but John was willing to wait. He kept a close eye on the man’s vital signs, ensuring that he did not stress himself more than his damaged body could handle and standing by just in case something should go wrong. But thankfully nothing did go wrong as Martin continued to stir fretfully, fighting his way out the sedation and back into consciousness. Finally, with a slight whimper and a wince against the brightness of the room, Martin opened his eyes and looked around with bleary confusion. John gave him a moment to adjust to the bright sunlight and blink through the many sedatives in his system before he moved slowly to gain the man’s attention. But even the gentle movement caused Martin to start slightly and gasp in pain at the sudden movement. His eyes were wide and frightened, confusion and panic written large all over his face.

John spoke quietly in his most reassuring Doctor Voice, trying to calm the poor man down. “Hello there Martin, it’s good to see you awake. You gave us all quite a fright there.”

His words seemed to have little effect however, as Martin was still looking around in the room in terror. “What?” he asked thickly around the sedation. “Who are you? Where am I?”

“I’m Doctor John Watson, and you’re in hospital” John answered, maintaining the professional calm he had built through years of handling sick and frightened patients. “You lost a lot of blood before they were able to get into your flat, which is why you feel so groggy and disoriented right now. It’s perfectly normal though, and you’ll be feeling more yourself in a day or two.”

Martin looked down in sudden amazement, only just now noticing the bandage around his wrist and arm. He stared as he if could not comprehend what he was seeing, as though the possibility of having that bandage there was something that had never before occurred to him. “But, but I thought…” His voice trailed off uncertainly, and he looked up at John pleadingly. “This isn’t what I wanted” he said softly, and he sounded so much like a lost and frightened child that it broke John’s heart.

“Martin, I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I know you’re confused and frightened right now, and I know nothing seems to make any sense. But it will get better with time, if you let it.” Martin looked back down at his arm, silent. “Now don’t worry about being here alone for too much longer, your family is on their way and will be here soon  -” Before he could finish though, Martin interrupted him desperately.

 “No!” he shouted, his voice cracking. John jumped slightly at the sudden outburst and looked at him with concern. “Please, they can’t know. They can’t know what I did, what happened. It’ll just prove them right, that I failed, that I’m a failure, please. Please you can’t tell them.” He was babbling frantically, looking at John with wide pleading eyes that sparkled with anxious tears.

 John shook his head, concerned. “Martin, don’t you think you should tell them? They’re your family, they need to know what happened” he said, full of worry. He had no idea why Martin was so afraid of his family or why he was so desperate to keep the truth from them, but it wasn’t right to tell them a lie. He would of course protect Martin’s privacy if he needed to, but it did not feel right that Martin should be so terrified of his own family finding out the truth.

The tears began to spill down Martin’s face as he stared at John with desperation. “Please, I’m begging you. My whole life they’ve told me what a disappointment I’ve been, I can’t stand to have them see they’re right. Please” he asked, his voice nothing but a whisper now.

John hesitated. If Martin really didn’t want his parents to know about the nature of his injury, John would be forced to keep silent to protect his confidentiality. That level of trust was critical, an essential part of the doctor/patient relationship and one of the only things that made many patients trust him in the first place. But this was a difficult situation, one that made John doubt the need for privacy for the first time. Martin had tried to kill himself, and now he wanted to hide it from his family. More than anything this young man needed help, needed people who would support him and love him and show him that life was worth living. Was it right to lie to his family and potentially keep Martin from getting the help he needed? But even as he opened his mouth to try to convince Martin to change his mind, the door of the room burst open with a bang that made them both jump. An older man strode in confidently, filling up the room with his larger-than-life presence and overbearing authority. A smaller woman came in after him meekly following in his footsteps, and one look at her told John that these must be Martin’s parents. He clearly took after his mother in stature and personality, with even the fiery red of his hair reflected in the softer copper tones of her hair that was starting to fade into grey. Martin shrank into the pillows at the sight of them, somehow managing to become even smaller and more unassuming than before.

“Martin!” his father boomed, completely ignoring the fact that the loudness of his voice caused his son to wince in pain. “What the hell is going on? What happened?”

Martin looked down at his hands, picking at the bandage on his arm anxiously as his face flushed a deep red. “Hi dad. Hi mum.” He greeted them quietly, so quietly that his whisper could barely be heard even in the quiet of the tiny room.

“Are you alright darling?” his mother asked anxiously, coming over to take his uninjured hand gently. Martin looked up quickly to smile at her, a gesture that was both genuine and gone in an instant.

“Yeah mum, I’m alright. The doctor says I’ll be fine in a bit” he answered softly, earning a small smile and a gentle squeeze on the hand from his mother. His father did not seem as happy about this news however, brushing over his words brusquely.

“What did you do this time, Martin? How did you possibly manage to land yourself in hospital like this?”

Martin flushed red and stuttered nervously “I…there was an accident. I was at home, in my flat I mean, and, well, I slipped and –“ But before he could continue with his halting words, his father interrupted him again, incredulous this time.

“You slipped? God, this is why you should never have moved into that horrid attic Martin. You can’t take care of yourself even when you’re at home, much less when you’re living by yourself!” Martin seemed to shrink more and more with every word, folding in on himself in a fruitless attempt to disappear into his pillows. His father hardly seemed to notice however, continuing gruffly “I know you want to be independent and continue on with that bloody stupid dream of becoming a pilot, but you can’t do it any more Martin. You’re throwing your life and your money away, and now you’ve gone and almost killed yourself because of it.” Martin winced visibly at those words, tears springing up in his eyes once more.

“I’m sorry, dad. I…I don’t know what happened…” he trailed off, sounding once more like a frightened child terrified of retribution.

John suddenly found that he had had quite enough of this. He had only known Martin for ten minutes, and Mr. Crieff even less than that, but in that time he had seen more than enough to cause his protective hackles to rise. Something about seeing this frail and terrified young man tremble in the face of his gruff and overbearing father who had not even bothered to ask how he was feeling made him angry, angrier than he had any right to be for a man he hardly knew. But he could see now why Martin had begged him to lie to his parents, why he had been desperate for them not to see how he had “failed”. Because Mr. Crieff would surely see this as failure, John knew. He had met enough men like Mr. Crieff in his lifetime to foresee exactly how the conversation would happen, and knew there was only one possible outcome. And that outcome was not good for Martin.

John cleared his throat and interjected quietly “Excuse me, Mr. Crieff? My name is Dr. Watson, and I’m the one taking care of your son.” He held out his hand, startling Martin’s father as if he had just noticed that John was there. He took John’s hand warily, shaking it with a slight frown. “As I’m sure you’ll be glad to know, Martin will in fact make a full recovery. He did sustain a substantial amount of blood loss, but after a few days in hospital and a good amount of rest, I’m confident that he will be perfectly fine.” John kept his voice as neutral and pleasant as he could manage, but he could not find it in himself to avoid glaring slightly as he shook Mr. Crieff’s hand.

Mr. Crieff had the good grace to look at least a little flustered, but he shook it off quickly and went straight back to brusque and businesslike. “Oh yes, that’s good. Very good. But what happened? No one will tell me a bloody thing besides the fact that my son is hurt, but they won’t tell me why or how! What the hell is going on?”

Before he even knew what he was saying, John found himself saying smoothly “Like your son said, there was an accident. It’s hard to tell, but the paramedics believe he slipped while he was preparing dinner and cut himself with a kitchen knife. The blood loss caused him to lose consciousness and collapse, which is how he sustained a rather severe concussion that left him unconscious until just a few minutes ago.”

Martin was staring at him in astonishment, eyes wide and mouth open in shock. He looked as though he could not believe what John had just said, like he was afraid that he was dreaming or hallucinating this entire conversation. John gave him a reassuring smile, willing him to play along.

“Um, yeah. Like I said, it was an accident. You know me, always clumsy.” His smile was strained and one of the least convincing things that John had ever seen, but his father did not seem to notice.

“Well, we’ll need to talk about your living situation when you’ve gotten a bit better. We can’t have something like this happening again.” He hesitated, then reached out a tentative hand to pat Martin awkwardly on the head. “I’m glad you’re alright, son.” His voice was rough, but he smiled with genuine tenderness.

“Thanks, dad.”

John shifted, feeling suddenly like an unwelcome intruder in a private family moment. “I’m glad that could be cleared up. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have other patients to see on my rounds. Martin, I’ll be back to check in on you later today to make sure things are going smoothly.”

He gave Martin a knowing look, letting him know that this conversation was certainly not over. Martin swallowed heavily, then nodded in return before turning back to his parents. John walked out of the room quickly, his head spinning with the sudden and unthinking decision he just made.

What the hell did I just get myself into?

Notes:

My knowledge of the British medical system is unfortunately, painfully limited, so if any readers spot a glaring error or inaccuracy feel free to let me know so I can fix it.