A Rough Day on The Case
Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had just finished an insane case. The mystery of the heartless old wench had concluded to be disastrous when they confronted the surgeon who had stolen the woman's heart. He had done so because he enjoyed having autopsy trophies. His downfall had been Molly Hooper, who had done a final inspection at the morgue to find an empty chest.
When they confronted the crazed surgeon, he threw scalpels and other various items of medical equipment at the detective and his companion. They seemed to both be unharmed by the frenzy of dangerous tools, until they got home and John noticed pools of red in Sherlock's side of the cab. He hastily followed Sherlock up the stairs, knowing the injury wasn't pretty. By the time he had reached the flat, Sherlock had already succeeded in locking himself in the bathroom.
"Sherlock, I know you're hurt. Let me in." John said, trying the doorknob.
"Go away John, I'll be fine. I'm going to cauterize the wound with my blowtorch!" John could hear the sound of the blowtorch through the door.
John sighed with impatience. "Sherlock, open the door or Mrs. Hudson will be very pissed with you in a moment!" He prepared his stance to break the door down, but before he could he heard the lock click. He opened the door to see Sherlock sitting on the toilet lid, moving the blowtorch back and forth above a long gash on his forearm.
John nodded his head slightly and licked his lips with annoyance. "You realize it's going to get madly infected like that. Not to mention it'll leave a nasty scar." Sherlock rolled his eyes and grumbled. Putting the blowtorch out, he set it on the sink counter.
"We'll go with your method then." Sherlock said tartly. John took the blowtorch out of the bathroom and put it back in the kitchen. He then went back to the bathroom and found some bandage wraps and first aid materials.
"You have managed to stop the bleeding quite well, though it wouldn't be able to heal properly if you wouldn't have stopped."
Sherlock sighed. "Well fix it then, John. You're a doctor, not my mother." John rolled his eyes and turned the empty wastebasket upside down, using it as a makeshift stool. He examined Sherlock's wound; a long deep gash about five inches long running straight from the left side of his left wrist to the edge of the right side of his forearm.
"Sherlock, what have you gotten yourself into now?" John mumbled under his breath with a sigh. He took the cleansing alcohol and haphazardly poured it on the gash. Sherlock cursed in pain, shooting John a volatile glare. He breathed heavily through his nose, his arm shaking from the pain.
"Get me. My morphine." He said icily.
"Not until I'm done here." John said. He found a disinfecting salve, which he carefully rubbed over the wound. He then took the bandage wraps and encased Sherlock's whole arm, securing them with the small metal hooks.
Sherlock looked at his arm in satisfaction and what seemed to be admiration for John's handiwork. He looked at John stonily. "My morphine. Get it. Now."
"Alright, King Sherlock, right on it." John said, leisurely walking out of the bathroom. Sherlock turned his arm around, poking and pulling at the bandages. "Don't mess with it," John said upon re entering the room. "I swear, this is the reason I didn't go into children's pediatrics."
John gave Sherlock his morphine, and the moment it entered his bloodstream Sherlock let out a long sigh of relief. "John," he said. "Did I ever tell you that you're a horrible doctor?"