"Nothing happens to me."
The words from a week prior rose to the surface of John's barely conscious mind. In a brief moment of unclarity, he thought he was lying unconscious in Afghanistan. A week ago that would have sent relief flooding through him, but that had been before he'd met Sherlock.
He was vaguely aware of a dry, earthy taste. The pungent smell of moist dirt rose from beneath him. Concentrating on his left hand, he managed to drag his fingers across the surface he was pressed against. The action was accompanied by a wet, squelching sound as his skin came into contact with a slick substance that made him grimace. The ground was neither dry or coarse like the sands of Afghanistan. Nor could he feel the piercing heat of the desert sun beating down on his back. There was a chill in the air that made John's skin prickle with goosebumps. A shiver coursed through his body, which caused a grunt to expel from his dry lips.
Now that he was starting to drift into consciousness, he was becoming more aware of pain, the synapses in his brain catching up with the network of nerves in his body. He couldn't decipher where the pain was originating from. His shoulder pulsed insistently, but he dismissed that particular pain as unimportant. His rotator cuff always bothered him. The group of muscles and tendons that linked his humerus to his scapulae were royally fucked. It didn't take much to irritate the puckered scar that he hid so carefully beneath his wool jumpers. He'd become so accustomed to the dull ache in his shoulder that he'd learned to push it to the back of his mind. It never went away or ceased to cause him hassle, but it had faded in its intensity over time.
More concerning was the sharp, hot stabbing sensation that spread partially across his chest and upper ribcage. That type of pain was consistent with fractured or broken ribs. His breathing was shallower than normal, as his lungs struggled to draw in and expel oxygen. He daren't attempt to sit up. Without medical attention there was no way of telling how much damage he'd attained. If the impact had been powerful enough to break his bones, there was a risk that he was bleeding internally too. However, if he didn't move there was an equal chance that he'd die of hypothermia.
John's eyelashes fluttered, eyeballs flitting beneath cumbersome lids. Clumps of dirt had dried to the thick curls of his lashes, which added to his struggle to open his eyes. He was determined to prise them apart. Without being able to see he couldn't decipher the extent of his injuries. Blinking rapidly, his hazel-grey irises came into contact with the sight of reddish, slopping wet clay.
Attempting to garner where he was, he carefully craned his neck to the side, the mud slick beneath his cheek. Clifftops stood tall above him, like natures answer to skyscrapers. The sharp barbs of grass plants jutted out, their dark shade of green a stark contrast to the dull rocks dotted across the cliff face.
"John," the reassuring baritone resonated from close by. Frustratingly, the man the voice belonged to was not in John's line of sight. Nonetheless that didn't stop the pang of relief he felt.
Until now he'd been so wrapped up in assessing his own condition, he hadn't realised how concerned he'd been for the welfare of his flatmate. The absence of said flatmate was felt even more deeply now that the man had spoken.
"Sherlock?" He was surprised by the roughness is his voice, like his words were made of gravel, scraping against the inside of his throat. He spluttered after he spoke, as more mud seeped into his mouth. The sudden movement sent a ripple of of agony across his torso. He had to bite down hard on his lower lip to stifle a yell.
"As a doctor you should know better than to move. You could have sustained neck and spinal injuries." Sherlock sounded as though he'd fared better than John. His voice was strong and steady, maintaining its usual clipped and know-it-all tone. The way Sherlock spoke simultaneously irritated and filled John with a warmth that made him feel safe. It was like an anchor, holding him steadfast. Despite the overwhelming urge to give in to the pain in his chest and pass out again, that voice managed to keep him alert.
"You hurt?"
"I'm fine."
"Define fine." As a doctor John didn't accept neutral answers when it came to the well-being of his patients. Fine had various variables. Fine was not acceptable.
"I obtained a few minor injuries." The answer was said in the same way an actor would recite his lines. It was too rehearsed, as though Sherlock had thought out his answer before John had even asked the question.
"How minor?" Sherlock Holmes did not fit in the same realm as ordinary people. John didn't want to consider what classed as minor in the detectives' dictionary.
"I'm not the one with the punctured lung."
Well, fuck. John cursed inwardly as the conclusion that he'd been trying to avoid until now was voiced. He wanted to protest and state that Sherlock couldn't possibly tell that his lung was punctured. He would have done, weren't it for the fact the younger man was one of the most astute individuals he'd ever met.
Within a second of stepping into to St Barts Sherlock had deduced his army background in his stance, and his sisters alcoholism in his mobile phone. If Sherlock said he had a punctured lung, he was almost certainly correct. That meant that John was in far worse condition than he'd initially anticipated. If he didn't receive medical attention soon he would begin to deteriorate.
"John, you need to calm down. It'll be OK."
A large, sturdy hand came to rest on the small of John's back. He could feel Sherlock's slender, fingers stroking the material of his leather jacket. The gradual slide of fingertips moving down the curve of his spine was soothingly gentle. It wasn't the kind of touch John would have associated with the closed off and unreachable Sherlock Holmes. The panic that had been been inflating like a balloon inside him shrank. The rhythmic sensation made his worries seem far, far away. He wanted to arch his back and push further into the touch, but the thought was dismissed, as any further movement and the pain that came with it didn't appeal.
"I think," a small, breathless giggle escaped him."We left OK a long way behind us."
"I text Lestrade. The ambulance will be here soon."
"Hmmpf, yeah, fucking great." John's eyes slid shut as he tried to concentrate on not passing out from pain.
He can't remember a time where he was so tired. He can barely hold onto a singular thought, as a fatigued haze gripped him. The appeal of slipping away from the pain and the exhaustion is tempting, but he doesn't want to leave Sherlock alone.
"This is my fault."
Somewhere on the edge of being awake and unconscious, John grunted in disagreement.
"It is," Sherlock went on to say. John detected a definite waver in the inflection of Sherlock's voice. Oh my god, John thinks, he sounds so vulnerable. In that moment he wished that they could switch places; that he could be the one doing the comforting. If he had the strength he would sit up and reach his arms around Sherlock and he'd pull him into a reassuring embrace. "I was selfish when I asked you to be my flatmate."
No, no, no. John repeated, a fierce mantra inside his head. He was the selfish one for accepting. John wanted to absorb every drop of Sherlock, he'd been fascinated by his quick wit and ability to deduce whole worlds in the smallest things. He'd wanted it all.
"No, Sh'lock, ish not." John grit out between short, ragged breaths.
As his lungs expanded and deflated he could feel them brushing against his injured ribs, accompanied by sharp acute pain that confirmed Sherlock's diagnosis. With each inhale his chest seemed to tighten and squeeze around his heart. The beating organ was pumping blood abnormally fast, compensating for the lack of oxygen he was receiving. When the pain was nearing unbearable new levels he coughed instinctively. The sounds was wet and gurgled, reminding John of a bubbling brook. A moist sensation flooded onto his dehydrated lips. The distinctive metallic taste that came with it made him want to vomit.
"Dinner," Sherlock interrupted John's nausea momentarily.
He sounded quieter than before. Even through his own difficulties, the change was enough to worry John. He wished that he could voice his concerns, but between spluttering on blood he can't speak.
"When we get out of this," He went on to explain, but John wasn't sure that explained anything at all. The hand that had been rubbing circles on his back slipped down, squelching in the wet clay. It still felt warm where his touch had been.
Sirens blared from somewhere up above the clifftops, offering a beacon of hope. There was familiar vocalisation that contained urgency. Sally Donovan, the same woman who'd tried to warn John away from Sherlock, was now barking out orders.
"They're down there, sir!"
John knew it was unlikely that he was going to be able to hold out for much longer. He'd treated enough pneumothorax cases to know how serious his condition was. If he didn't receive treatment soon his lung could collapse entirely. In the worst case scenario he would go into cardiac arrest and die.
The mud squelched as heavy footsteps approached them. It was Lestrade that reached them first. "Bloody hell, what a mess! Sherlock, mate, can you hear me?"
"Is he…" Sally again, sounding unusually concerned, considering she despised the detective.
"No, there's a pulse."
Straining to listen to the conversation, John felt his stomach lurch with a sudden sense of dread. There was something terribly wrong. He should have listened to his gut instinct when he'd though Sherlock was lying about the state of his condition. He was a doctor, for fuck sake. He should have pushed past his own difficulties and done more.
"What about John?"
The warmth of a hand radiated near his bloodied lips. As air ghosted against it, Lestrade stated. "Poor sod is breathing, but only just."
"I warned him. I said, didn't I? The man's a lunatic!"
"Don't start, Donovan. Now isn't the time for your petty grievances."
"Sorry, sir." Sally apologised, then a moment later she said. "Do you think he'll pull through this?"
"Hell, if I know. If anyone could, he could, but that head wound…Jesus."
Head wound.
John's temple pulsed with this new information. Cold terror passed over him as he tried to process the words. He knew from experience that even head wounds that appeared minor could cause major complications. He longed for Sherlock to wake up and reassure him that he was fine, but his deep baritone didn't break the silence.
Paramedics arrived at the scene and immediately set to work on John.
"Suction."
He felt a long tube force entry down his throat. The blood that had collated in his airway was sucked through the intrusive object, creating a sickening sloshing noise. When it was removed from his throat he can breathe without coughing or spluttering.
After assessing his condition further, they gently manoeuvred him onto a stretcher, so he was now laid on his back. Despite how careful the paramedics had been the involuntary cry that left him was automatic, the shout of protest a borderline sob.
"It's OK, we've got you, love." A woman spoke to him, words calm and firm. The familiarity of an oxygen mask slid over his mouth and nose. "Give it a moment, you'll be able to breathe easier."
A moment passed and his breathing did ease slightly. The ragged breaths changed into groans of relief as artificial oxygen entered his system. The tension that had built up in his muscles ebbed away as he didn't have to focus on the simple act of trying to take in air.
"Feel better?" John managed a minuscule movement of his head. Although the fight to keep himself alive was leaving him, the localised pain was still too excruciating to do anything else. "Good. Think you can open your eyes for me a little?"
It was a struggle but he just about managed it. The first sight he was greeted with was the standard green paramedic uniform, the colour reminding John of evergreen pine trees. The woman dressed in the uniform didn't look much older than him, her long brown hair tied up in a high pony tail, kind eyes studying him.
"That's good, you're doing so well. How bad is the pain? Don't speak, hold up your fingers."
Frankly, John doesn't have enough fingers to describe it. He flexed his right hand and made the motion of 'five' twice. It'll do. If the paramedic is concerned about the level of pain he was experiencing, she doesn't let it show on her face. She reached inside her medical supplies box and filled a syringe with morphine. She tapped the syringe and a squirt of liquid spurted from the point of the needle. Then he felt, rather than saw, the needle pressing through his skin, the opiate entering his blood stream. The sensation made him grimace. Morphine, although arguably king of all painkillers, hurt when injected. It stung like a bitch.
In a few moments he felt the change. His chest still ached and felt sore but the sharp pains he'd been experiencing all but faded. The harsh jagged edges that had filled his world were now smooth. The morphine had left him feeling woozy, his vision now so bleary he can hardly make out anything intelligible. He blinked, fighting against the wave of confusion, but all he can see of the paramedic now was a flash of green and pink.
"Sh'lock…friend…hnng?" The incoherent question is muffled beneath the mask.
"He's in safe hands."
John was lifted onto the back of the ambulance and placed on a gurney. When he tilted his head to the side he saw the outline of another flat, padded table. The paramedics lifted a listless shape onto it. The shape is pink, and brown, smattered with a large amount of crimson. Sherlock, his slow brain supplies, but that's all he can think before the morphine takes hold of him completely.