Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock BBC or any of its characters. Obviously.
Any grammatical/spelling error is my fault and I shall rectify that as soon as I beta this Fic in greater detail. Apologies for any mistakes!
I'll Burn the Arm Out of You
"Alright there, Sherlock?"
Said detective in question is now slouched on the couch, leaning awkwardly on one side in a desperate bid to relieve some pressure and pain from his right shoulder.
His right sprained shoulder.
A 'spoil of war', a nasty memento of sorts from his previous case when the desperate suspect had grabbed his arm, twisting it backwards as the scruffy-looking man attempted to hold him hostage.
"Mmm..."
The pained grunt itself spoke volumes about the miserable state Sherlock is in. At first, the detective had whinged about John's fussing, protesting that an injury such as his 'is too minor to warrant anything more than a glance', apparently.
Not complaining so much now, are we, John thinks, fond exasperation and growing worry for his friend tugging at his heart.
He ventures a foray into the battlefield of scattered experiments and foodstuff that is the kitchen, rifling through the contents of the fridge for an ice pack. He winds up with a pack of frozen vegetables instead but that will have to do until he can go shopping for a better alternative. He pokes around for a bit more but is disappointed to find nothing more than a few stale crackers and almost-expired jam jars (with a few other body parts he'd be more than happy to not think about).
Looks like a trip down to Tesco's is in order.
He shuffles back into the living room, shoving the pack of frozen vegetables into Sherlock's left hand. He pointedly stares at Sherlock's sprained shoulder, ignoring the baleful look sent his way. He does, however, have to stifle a giggle at Sherlock's bemused, disgusted expression at the cold pack of vegetables.
"Keep the ice pack on your shoulder; don't take it off until I'm back. I'll just drop by Tesco's and maybe the pharmacy nearby for some painkillers," John instructs him, rolling his eyes at Sherlock's disbelieving snort at the words 'ice pack'.
Apparently, Sherlock Holmes has a rather deep-set vendetta against frozen peas.
John doesn't like how Sherlock is fiddling far too much with the ice pack – goddamnit, fine, he'll call it what it is, the pack of bloody vegetables – and (more for the sake of his own sanity) asks Mrs Hudson to keep an eye on the thirty-something year-old child *ahem* consulting detective.
It won't take long. He'll just pop out and pop back in, oh, ten minutes or so?
He hopes Sherlock does not get up to any shenanigans while he is away.
Mrs Hudson fusses over him, bustling about in the kitchen to make him some tea, after which she keeps herself busy with fluffing the cushions, bringing him blankets and the likes.
"Oh, you poor, poor darling," she cooes, sympathy and concern in her eyes.
Sherlock almost rolls his eyes at that, but manages to keep his scathing remarks to himself. He gives his landlady what he thinks should be a reassuring smile as he shifts uncomfortably on the couch, careful not to jostle his shoulder.
Evidently, he has no idea what his facial muscles are doing. It seems to have come across more as a grimace, judging from Mrs Hudson's increasingly alarmed and worried expression.
He feels a cold sense of foreboding when her eyes light up, an idea seemingly having struck her.
He groans, ready to wave off whatever strange-tasting medicine or age-old therapy the elderly landlady might have in mind. Pardon him, but he really isn't exactly trusting of old ladies and their traditional medicinal therapies.
But Mrs Hudson is already hustling off back to her flat, muttering about how they are going to make his shoulder all better because that is what she uses for sprains and muscle aches.
He sighs into the couch, a picture of utter resignation and misery. He stays that way for the next seven minutes or so, listening to the sounds of his landlady rummaging about her flat, ice pack lying forgotten on the floor.
He isn't sure he wants to know what exactly 'they' are.
If only John were here to talk some sense into their landlady. It isn't that he doesn't appreciate Mrs Hudson's good intentions. He just doesn't really like anyone other than a certain sandy-haired doctor fussing over him. Besides, he really doesn't want to ingest some weird-tasting, homemade remedy or even worse, having needles stuck into his shoulder (acupuncture, he'd heard from somewhere).
"Ah, here we are," Sherlock lifts his head from its squashed up position against the couch at Mrs Hudson's chipper voice.
He glances suspiciously at the box held innocuously in her hands.
His expression turns even more dubious as she takes out what looks like a white medicinal patch.
"There really is no need for that, Mrs Hudson," he barks somewhat nervously as she peels off the wrapping, his eyes following the motion of her hands with something like dread.
"Nonsense, Sherlock," replies the elderly landlady in question, a reassuring smile on her face, medicinal patch unwrapped in her hands, "This is no trouble at all. You're obviously in pain from your sprained shoulder. Oh, I know absolutely how horrible sprains and aches are, my bloody hip giving me all that trouble and all."
Rambling on about how, after her friend had bought these from abroad and introduced these to her, she had been using them ever since, she gently places the patch over Sherlock's sprained shoulder, ignoring his protests and mistaking his panic for embarrassment and hasty gratitude.
Sherlock barely manages to keep from screwing his eyes shut as he tenses ever so minutely.
However, after a few moments in which nothing happens, he relaxes, slouching into the couch with a careful wince.
"There, all better now," Mrs Hudson says with a bright smile as she rearranges the rest of the medicinal patches in the box, moving to leave the flat, "Just yell if you need me, I'll be baking some of those chocolate chip cookies you like down at my flat. But just this once, because you've sprained your shoulder, love."
She pokes her head in moments later with a customary "Remember, I'm not your housekeeper" before going on her merry way.
Sherlock settles back into the couch, prodding slightly at the patch on his shoulder. So far so good. Nothing burning or nauseating or any side effects of that sort.
But then again, as they say, nothing good stays good for very long.
He must remember to trust his instincts about old ladies and medicinal patches the next time. That is, if he survives this encounter.
John frowns slightly at the mouthwatering smell of baking cookies wafting from what can only be Mrs Hudson's flat. He presumes that she must be baking cookies, most likely of the chocolate chip variety that Sherlock seems to have a soft spot for.
He sighs. Hopefully Sherlock hasn't set anything on fire. Mrs Hudson is supposed to be supervising him instead of baking in her flat, after all.
Ah, well. He can't blame her. He supposes she is just trying ways to calm/soothe/lessen the pain for Sherlock.
Hopefully, the silence from the flat he shares with Sherlock means the man is actually resting for once.
Wishful thinking, it would seem.
An anguished wail sounds from their flat.
He is up and running in a moment, faster than he ever has in his life, storming into the flat he shares with the world's only consulting detective not because he is curious to know where it came from, but because it sounds too damn much like Sherlock for his liking.
"Sherlock?" he demands, worry and anxiety making his tone come across harsh.
He frowns slightly when he spots the pack of frozen peas thawing out in a puddle on the floor.
He carelessly deposits the bags of shopping on the floor, rushing over to the curled up figure on the couch.
"Sherlock?" he asks again, tone softening slightly.
He watches with some alarm as the close-to-writhing man on the couch stares up at him with glistening, pleading eyes, left hand pawing and tearing at his sprained shoulder.
His medical instincts kick in immediately.
"No, no, Sherlock, keep your hand away from your shoulder," John instructs gently but firmly, prying Sherlock's hand from its death grip on his injured shoulder, "You're going to make it worse."
His level of alarm skyrockets when his flat mate lets out a soft, keening wail, "But John, it hurts. It burns!"
John pushes down the panic struggling to rise up in his chest. An infection? Surely not...?
He finally manages to pull his flat mate's hand from his shoulder. He keeps Sherlock's hand gently encircled in his, running a thumb over his knuckles soothingly.
He stares at the clean white patch plastered on his flat mate's shoulder, its edges creased and folding upward from numerous attempts to tug it off.
"Sherlock, where did you get this?" John feels a laugh beginning to form at the back of his throat but quashes it down quickly, "This is a medicine patch for sprains, muscle sores and aches that's not really commonly used around here. I'd say it's more commonplace in traditional Chinese medical therapy."
Sherlock shoots him a half-hearted glare, lips pressed tightly in pain as he says through gritted teeth, "Mrs Hudson."
However, the mirth John feels at the absurdity of the situation leaves him quickly when he sees the obvious amount of pain his flat mate is in.
"Not working for you then, is it?" John asks, reaching down to pull off the patch.
"Brilliant deduction, John," wince, sharp intake of breath as the patch is pulled mercilessly from his skin, "It's having the opposite effect instead of helping with my shoulder, I'd say."
Sherlock's breath leaves him in a whoosh as John finally peels the patch from his shoulder.
John discards the scrunched up patch in the bin, turning round to inspect Sherlock's shoulder.
Sherlock huffs lightly, tugging up his dressing gown to cover his shoulder but stops with a sigh (and a slight cringe) as John pries the material from his skin.
A large patch of angry red now mars Sherlock's expanse of snowy white skin.
Sherlock tenses slightly as John runs a hand gently over it.
On a whim, John leans down, blowing lightly over the red mark. He quirks a smile at the pair of startled blue-grey-green eyes that gaze up to meet his.
"Better?" he hears himself asking.
"Better," Sherlock agrees, iridescent gaze clouded with pain and something like confusion.
John leans over, dropping a dry kiss on his head of dark curls before going off to put the ice packs from the abandoned shopping bags into the refrigerator.
"Yoohoo!"
Mrs Hudson comes up to their flat later on, a plate of freshly-baked chocolate cookies for Sherlock in hand.
She sees Sherlock slumped on the couch, eyes closed and keeling over one side of the seat.
Smiling fondly, she sets the plate of cookies on the table and heads off to the kitchen where John is making tea, judging from the sound of tinkling teacups and boiling kettles.
"That poor little darling," she says, "How's his shoulder? I gave him one of those medicinal patches for muscle aches and sores I often use myself after you went out. I hope it helps."
At this, John clears his throat a tad uncomfortably.
"Ah, well, about those patches..." he trails off slightly before continuing somewhat apologetically, "I'm afraid it's kind of a waste because I had to peel it off. Sherlock found it a bit too... Harsh for him. Er, hang on..."
He hurriedly snags a couple of painkiller pills and a glass of water as an agonised whine floats from the living room.
The kettle is left to boil as Mrs Hudson follows John out of the kitchen to where Sherlock is perching on the couch, half-conscious.
"Sherlock? Sherlock, come on, wake up for a while and take these pills. It'll make you feel better and then you can go back to sleep," John gently shakes the dozing man awake, pushing the pills into Sherlock's left hand.
Half-lidded eyes flutter open blearily as a shaky hand fumbles to pop the pills into his mouth.
"There, that's good. Now swallow it down with some water," John instructs in an encouraging voice as he presses the edge of the glass to Sherlock's lips.
Mrs Hudson hovers anxiously in the background as Sherlock finishes swallowing the pills, throwing his head back against the couch with a pained moan, dressing gown dipping down accidentally to reveal the expanse of his injured shoulder.
"Oh my," Mrs Hudson claps a hand to her mouth, shock evident on her face at the sight of the angry red mark on Sherlock's shoulder.
It clicks together for her that it must have been his sensitive skin's response to the unforgiving blaze induced by the medicinal patch.
A stream of apologies and 'what-else-can-I-do-to's is already flowing out of her mouth but John stops her with a half-smile and a resolute shake of his head.
The shrill whine of the kettle emits from the kitchen and John all but leaps up from his half-crouch next to Sherlock.
"It's fine, I'll make a cuppa for you and Sherlock. You stay here and take care of the poor dear. You're doing a much better job than I was, after all," Mrs Hudson clucks, eyes twinkling slightly as she hurries off to the kitchen to silence the noisy, attention-seeking kettle.
When she emerges with two steaming cups of tea, she finds the two lodgers curled up on the couch.
The sandy-haired doctor is pressed up against the side of the couch with Sherlock leaning against him, head buried against the crook of John's neck. His messy curls tickle the good doctor's nose as one pale hand rests lightly on John's right thigh.
As she sets the two cups of tea on the side table, John offers her a grateful smile and risks a whispered "thank you".
In that same low conspiratorial-whisper tone, she asks if they need anything else, to which the doctor shakes his head minutely.
With a small nod and a smile that crinkles the edges of her eyes, she sweeps out of the room. She pauses slightly in the doorway, casting a glance back at the couple – ahem, the two lodgers.
The good doctor, bless him, shifts slightly in an attempt to make for his cup of tea but does so carefully in order not to jostle his sleeping friend. However, Sherlock starts to stir nevertheless, half-lidded eyes lacking their customary sharpness.
She stifles a giggle when John lets out an exasperated huff, reaching for Sherlock's cup of tea instead, ignoring his flat mate's groggy protests at being jostled. He lifts the cup of tea to Sherlock's lips with a stern order of "Open your mouth and drink this, Sherlock".
Deciding that she has invaded their privacy enough (and caused enough damaged to poor Sherlock's alabaster skin), she retreats back to her flat, leaving John to doctor the injured detective.
After all, it seems John is already doing a rather fine job of mother-henning. Sherlock, detesting any human contact (with the exception of John's) that he does, won't appreciate her fussing although he will probably try to tolerate it. Even if he doesn't admit it, his actions does show that John's continued presence has been good for him.
She hums slightly as she goes about cleaning the rest of her kitchen, clearing the area of baking materials.
If another batch of chocolate chip cookies magically appear in the boys' (her boys, she'd like to think) the day after and if the box of medicinal patches is never seen within range of one Sherlock Holmes again, well, we all know who has gone to all the trouble of making it happen.