Dangerous Mould II
The first two days in the clinic Sherlock had even suffered some more minor seizures, each time leaving him extremely exhausted and scaring John out of his mind. The doctor knew that it was not unusual for that to happen to survivors of severe nerve gas poisoning; nevertheless, he was always reminded of the cardiac arrests Sherlock had gone through, and his own fear of losing him.
The times John was awake as wide as the amount of drugs in his body allowed, he kept wondering what clinic it was they were hospitalized in, and where it was.
The room Sherlock and John had been put into could almost be described as cosy, clearly not resembling an ordinary hospital room. The light was still dimmed because of their persistent sensitivity to it; the curtains of the large windows were mostly drawn, yet being transparent enough to let some light through them, so that the frame of the mullioned window cast a shadow against the curtains. The walls were painted in a warm cream tone, the Queen smiling at them illustriously from a huge oil-painting on the opposite wall of their beds, its luxuriantly decorated, old-fashioned frame making a clear contrast to the modern appearance of the rest of the room.
The room's furniture was made of a fine light-coloured wood, instead of the easy-to-sterilize items usually found in a hospital ward. Near the window there were two comfortable-looking leather armchairs and a round table with a bowl of fruit placed in its centre. Everything seemed to be practical and yet of the finest quality and design. Posh, that's what it could best be described as. Even the medical equipment in the room, standard though it was,reinforced this impression. It was all high-tech, and John was sure that it was of the most modern technology.
Attached to the room there was a bathroom as luxurious as the patients' room itself. Although John wasn't the kind of man who attached importance to such niceties as a full gloss bathroom with the towels matching the colours of the tiles, one could get used to having a shower that was as big as their whole bathroom in Baker Street. Unfortunately, John couldn't enjoy it as much as he would have loved to as both his dizziness and the annoying drip stand prevented that.
John had got up from his bed a couple of times to catch a glimpse of what was outside. From what he could see, they were in a kind of mansion that was located in either a very large park or somewhere lonely in the countryside. There was nothing but the green-brownish shade of the winter grass and leafless trees as far as the eye could see. John felt the urge to explore the building and go outside for a walk to figure out where they were, but his legs still wouldn't allow – as probably Mycroft's people wouldn't as well. For the time being he had to be contented with what he could find out from his bed.
On the rare occasions that she was in the room without Dr Smith present, usually to bring the meals, the ex-army doctor had tried to engage Nurse Sunny in a conversation about the place, but she didn't enter it, remaining amiable yet aloof. John was convinced that Sunny wasn't actually her real name any more than 'Dr Smith's' was his - precautions of the British Government as personified by Mycroft, he assumed.
John had a feeling that Sherlock knew more about the place, since he himself hadn't made any enquiries at all, which was very much unlike him. Most of the time Sherlock didn't speak much anyway, just slept a lot. Every now and then John heard him moan, sometimes even whimper in his sleep. As peculiar and frightening as it was to hear the Consulting Detective whimpering like a child, it was also soothing to know that he was alive and more or less over the worst.
From time to time, when Sherlock had been awake enough that he was actually able to speak, John had tried to question him about the location among other things, but all that the Consulting Detective would reveal was that it was most likely they were in a government hospital, places that were kept secret and under the best surveillance. So, either he knew where they were or at least it didn't bother him. On the one hand, that information put John a little at ease again as far as Sherlock's and his safety were concerned, on the other hand he really would have preferred to know where he was – if not given a name of the place than at least figures of longitude and latitude. That much he had always known, even in Afghanistan. After all, not knowing where you were did not help remove the fear that you may have been abducted.
John was furious that he hadn't been told anything about his flatmate's medical record. He had tried to talk to Dr Smith about Sherlock's Diazepam treatment, but he wouldn't tell John anything- "Confidential," was his only explanation. John had tried to figure it out by the drugs Sherlock was administered, but he couldn't find any clue. He wasn't sure about the reasons for the secretiveness; he was a doctor, occasionally even Sherlock's doctor!
Two days ago, however, he had once again got hold of Nurse Sunny, who, after some further compliments and flirting, accidentally confirmed that Sherlock couldn't be treated with Diazepam. The ex-army doctor had tricked her into that mistake. Just as John had thought, it was too risky, since it would instantly trigger addiction in a patient with former drug abuse. Also, the risks for the cardiovascular system were too high. Even for patients without any drug records, Diazepam held a risk of potential addiction. Again, John wondered how they would treat the inevitable depression Sherlock was about to go into.