I do not own any of the characters.
Sherlock came home at nearly 3 a.m. I noticed that his clothes were torn and he looked like hell. He strode over to his armchair and plopped down. I was so shocked at his state that I couldn't find my voice to ask what happened. His eyes were glassy and he was bleeding profusely from his pant leg. I came out of my stupor and went in full doctor mode.
"What the hell happened."
"I was working on a case in the east end and there was a man with a knife and I, unfortunately, didn't see him until after he attacked."
"I just want to look at it."
"John I'm fine I just want to go to bed. I'll be fine after I sleep awhile."
"No you will sit right here and I will look at your leg and you will not complain. Got it?"
"Fine, John whatever."
I ran upstairs and got my medical bag and practically sprinted back to Sherlock. He was slumped father into the chair when I got there. I thought he may have passed out from blood loss, but when I go to him he was deathly pale and shivering with cold. I reached him and went to feel for fever when he weakly tried to swat away my hand saying that he was fine.
"Like hell you are," I responded. He attempted to glare at me but it only looked like he was waking up still wanting to go to sleep. Sherlock just slumped even further.
"Sherlock, can you hear me?" he didn't respond at first but a couple seconds later he nodded and slightly opened his eyes. I went to work fast. I tore open his pant leg further to see the wound. It was an angry red color around the edges and was already looking infected. He was losing the fight to stay awake; as soon as I touched the fabric that stuck to the cut he screamed and finally passed out from pain. Thankful that he had lost consciousness, I set to work cleaning to wound. I took the foot stool and raised his leg onto it. He grimaced in discomfort but never awoke. The cut was deep, ragged, and infected. He was going to need stitches and antibiotics. But being me, I knew he wouldn't go to the hospital so I just called Mycroft instead and had him bring everything I needed. I started an IV and set to work on the stitches. Sherlock woke up part way through me stitching him up; his eyes said it all; he was terrified. I had to abandon what I was doing and calm him down. He looked worse than when he came home earlier. I knew he was most likely still in shock; he was shivering and sweating, his eyes were glazed over, and he was extremely pale. After 10 minutes of calming him down he finally let go of me, he was exhausted he let himself slip back into oblivion. I went back to work on the stitching, the stitched I had already done were in a perfectly straight line, I only had maybe 5 more to go. After an hour of stitching I was done. He had 24 stitches running the length of his calf. I took out an alcohol pad and wiped the row of stitches, Sherlock made a sound of discomfort at the sting of the alcohol. I wrapped his calf in fresh white bandages and sat back to look at the sleeping detective.
"Sherlock, come on wake up you need to go lay down.'' A mumble of incoherent words was the reply I got. "Come on I know you don't want to get up, but you'll feel better if you sleep in your own bed not the sitting room chair."
"Fine, whatever leave me alone" said he.
After 20 minutes of convincing him it would be better in his own bed he got up with much of my help and shuffled into his room. I knew he would be safe now as he slept peacefully before me. I would never let him go anywhere without me, because I could keep him safe and this would never happen again with me there.