Sherlock hardly notices when John carries him into 221A and lays him down on Mrs Hudson's table. The wood in his leg sends pain shooting through him every time he moves. It burns its way through his body, searing along veins which haven't carried human blood in a long time and making him feel vaguely nauseous, as if he hasn't fed in days. (He fed earlier in the night, because John made him do it. Deep down, he is glad.)
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees John go to his knee and brace it firmly. He tenses himself, fingernails digging into the edges of the table, teeth biting into his lower lip so he doesn't scream as Mrs Hudson wraps her nimble hands around the stake and pulls. The back of his head bashes the table anyway, pain screeching through his body. He breathes harshly against the agony – though he is long-past needing to anymore – a force of habit left over from his human years.
He doesn't realise that the whimpering noises are coming from him until John is at his head, gently stroking back his curls and pressing chapped lips to his forehead, quietly, calmly reassuring him, distracting him from Mrs Hudson's murmured spells as she irrigates the wound, and binds it with foul-smelling herbs and bandages.