WARINGS: Domestic abuse, attempted suicide, mentions of rape, quite dark on some levels but it gets happier, might be a bit OOC unintentionally, first time writing something like this.
That part in ESC when I said it was the only Sherlock fanfiction I was going to write? Yeah I lied. This is literally just an idea, a WIP of sorts. It will be completed, definitely.
Alcoholics were what John Watson hated more than the teenage drug addicts. Alcoholics made John want to throw the clipboard in the bin and walk away from his job, especially when they slurred 'I don't need help, you old bastard!' and 'my flat is only a cab ride away'. Maybe it was because he was a grumpy bastard or maybe it was because he had firsthand experience with alcoholism due to his sister being a serious alcoholic and never fully recovering.
He hated his job. Why he worked at an A&E unit, he had no clue. It was good pay for good hours, there were lifts for the days when his leg was playing up and he got free healthcare, mainly because he actually is a doctor so he can diagnose himself.
John looked over at the clock tiredly and sighed, three hours until he finished his shift, then he could go back to his empty flat and go to bed. Not that he got much sleep, nightmares and all.
"John?" Molly smiled, "you've been staring at that paperwork for half an hour. Everything ok?"
John looked down at the two words he'd written on the prescription for a patient. "Uh, yeah, yeah, everything's fine. Just tired, you know late shifts."
Molly smiled again and nodded, "yes, they are a bit annoying aren't they. They all seem to panic over nothing, I mean there are the more serious injuries, don't get me wrong I love helping everyone but sometimes it can be a bit much." She rambled. John just stared at her as she did. Molly was a nice girl, in her 20s, soft eyes, kind face. She was pretty; John didn't understand why she didn't have a partner yet.
"You're staring at me." Molly said uncomfortably as John came back from his thoughts.
"Oh, right, sorry, I was listening." He laughed, embarrassed. "I just got a bit thoughtful, that's all."
Molly smiled, again, and John smiled back. She never did stop smiling. "Well...I better get back to Mrs. Beak." Molly avoided eye contact as she carried on through the office compartments of the A&E unit.
John looked back down at the paperwork and began writing again. He signed his signature and shoved the blasted prescription into an envelope. Damn the alcoholics.
He stood from his desk, heading towards the manager's desk and dropping the envelope onto the desk. Before he could walk away, he heard someone call out to him. "John?"
John rolled his eyes and turned around, "Yes Sarah?"
Sarah was the head of the unit. She was smart, attractive and funny. She wasn't nice. "Fancy grabbing a coffee after work?"
"Uh, thank you, but, uh, sorry I can't. I've got stuff..." John trailed off, talking about some sort of file that needed to be reviewed. It was utter bullshit, but anything needed to be in use to avoid dating Sarah again. It wasn't so much that she was mean to John or even about John, she was just very...not nice about other people.
How not nice? She yelled at a lesbian couple kissing loudly next to him and Sarah at a restaurant. Then she proceeded to shout about how unnatural it all was, in the middle of dinner, with John protesting.
Ever since then, John had been avoiding her. She was clueless about his avoiding and he knew he'd have to answer to her some day, but as he fast walked down the corridor, it could wait until another day.
John went back to his empty office and looked back at the clock. Two and a half hours to go. He practically fell into his chair when there was a knock at the door. "C –" He cleared his throat, "Come in."
A nurse poked her head around the door, "There are three patients out here; everyone else is packed with drunks."
"All right, I'll be out in a second." John mumbled rising from his chair once again. The nurse opened the door fully for him as he walked out towards the waiting room. It was empty for a Saturday night, but John wasn't complaining.
There were three people sitting separately from each other, two men and one woman who looked very peaky. One man was slouched in the white plastic and the other wasn't alone, he was leaning forward in his chair holding his side protectively. There was an older, much taller man sitting next to him, looking around the waiting room impatiently. John frowned; he looked down at his clipboard and read out the name. "Sherlock Holmes?" He called. The man leaning forward looked up and stood, the other one rolled his eyes and yawned, "Finally." He muttered. He stood too, stomping towards John and towering over him, "listen mate, how long is this going to take?"
John looked at his appearance; he was very tall. He had dark eyes with blonde hair, he had an old and stained rugby shirt on and wore faded blue jeans. Although he looked intimidating, he was slightly attractive. His attitude, however, wasn't. The slim person behind him, still holding his side, was tall also. He was pale and had a mop of dark curly hair on his head, he wore a dark purple shirt which was un-tucked from his casual dark jeans and if John was honest, he looked slightly rough. Although he was hunched due to obvious pain in his side, John could see he had a confident stance about him. He interested John. He looked back at the brute standing in front of him.
"Depends on the injury," John glared at him, "mate."
The brute sighed and looked towards the slim male, smacking him on the shoulder roughly, ruffling his dark purple shirt even more than before. "I'll be waitin' in the car, babe."
John saw the flinch when the brute leaned in for a kiss. He saw the rejection and he saw the taller male storm off towards the exit angrily. John watched him go and then looked back at this 'Sherlock Holmes' figure.
"Right then, come in." John smiled opening the door to his office. Sherlock Holmes walked past him without saying a word.
"Two and half hours. Just two and a half hours." John muttered to himself closing the door and turning to the other male who was now sitting down. "Ok, so what seems to be the problem, Mr. Holmes?"
"Two cracked ribs, one broken and maybe a minor concussion." Sherlock said. His voice was deep, slightly hoarse but it flowed so smoothly. John felt jolt in his chest.
"A medical man, are you?" John smiled.
"No." Was all he got as a reply. He raised an eyebrow and regarded Sherlock Holmes; he was very handsome. His vastly coloured eyes seemed to be calculating John, looking him up and down then staring him dead in the eye. John looked away, feeling ridiculously shy.
"All right, so I'll take your word for it. I'll give you some painkillers for your ribs but I'm afraid there's nothing I can do apart from tell you to keep off your feet as much as you can and try not to sleep for tonight. An ice pack would also be useful for your head. Can I see your injuries?" John asked.
There was a moment of silence when Sherlock narrowed his eyes accusingly at John, then after a few moments, he looked at the floor and nodded. It was difficult to determine what Sherlock was feeling but John knew something was very wrong. He led Sherlock over to the examining bed and watched how his face contorted into pain when he sat down.
"Where abouts on your head did you hit?" John asked pulling on a pair of latex gloves.
"Back. Just above my neck." Sherlock murmured. He hissed in pain as John stroked over the swollen spot. John saw blood on his white gloves as he moved the thick curls out of the way, he frowned and realized Sherlock's hair was slightly wet at the back due to the blood and the back of his shirt collar was darkly coloured; bloodied.
"You're going to need stitches, Mr. Holmes." John glanced at Sherlock as he walked back round the bed to get a cotton patch and a bandage. "In the meantime, lay down for me and I'll take a look at your ribs."
Sherlock did as he was told silently. John saw the pain on his face as he laid down and forced his arm to stay by his side.
John lifted his shirt and saw the dark purple bruises over his ribs and frowned again. He ran his fingers gently over the bruises, "how did you get these injuries?" He asked without realizing.
"I fell." Sherlock said almost too quickly.
"You fell?" John asked disbelievingly and Sherlock nodded stiffly. "Must have been quite a fall to crack two ribs and break one."
"You're a doctor not a detective." Sherlock remarked angrily. John rolled his eyes and sighed,
"You're right; it's none of my business." He admitted, moving back so Sherlock could sit up. "Now let me stitch your head up so your brain doesn't fall out."
"That's impossible." Sherlock muttered sitting up slowly.
John was concerned. Sherlock was right; he was a stranger and had no right to ask Sherlock personal questions, but that didn't mean he couldn't be concerned about a patient's home life. John had seen Sherlock's partner - well, he assumed he was his partner – he was a brute. The way Sherlock had pulled away from the kiss, the way he flinched said enough. John could see what was really going on, and it wasn't any of his business, but he felt so helpless.
This Sherlock Holmes was handsome. John wanted to know more about him; he wanted to have a normal conversation with him and get to know him.
"Right, there we go." John stepped back and admired his work on the stitching. He continued to cover and bandage the wound carefully, feeling the soft locks of hair run through his fingers.
"Are you finished yet?" Sherlock asked impatiently. John chuckled,
"Yes, yes I'm finished." He went to pat Sherlock on the back but felt him flinch at the contact. He cleared his throat as the taller man stood up slowly. "Like I said, keep off your feet as much as possible until those ribs heal. I'll give you prescr-"
"Yes, I heard you the first time."
John paused. "Right. Well, good." He walked over to his desk and quickly filled out a prescription, handed it to Sherlock and opened the door for him. But just before Sherlock left, John spoke. "It may not be any of my business, but I'm here if you need anything."
Sherlock looked at him, his pale eyes searching John's own. He looked slightly confused; John assumed it was the concussion and watched him turn back and walk towards the exit.
Something ached in John's chest; something he hadn't felt in years.
Little insight on Doctor John Watson.
Hope you enjoyed, more to come! ~ Sherlock's P.O.V in the chapter ~
