Holmes peered after the retreating Doctor, waiting until the door closed behind him. When the latch had clicked he slipped out of his coat and scarf, dropping them to the carpet. He touched his left side tenderly, looking at the bloodied fingers he pulled away curiously. Between his lower ribs, at the edge of his body, was a burning ache where he had, indeed, taken a bullet.
The shirt was powder burned, crimson, and shredded so he peeled it off carefully, tossing it toward the rubbish bin. An involuntary hiss slipped through his teeth as the muscle movement jarred the exit wound. A through and through, no major organs hit. Possibly grazed a rib bone. He catalogued the truths of the gunshot. Contorting painfully he tried to see both sides. It caused him to do an awkward pirouette and he nearly stumbled.
"Sherlock I -" the words died in Watsons throat as he laughed at the twirling detective. The laugh abruptly stopped when he saw the shocked and pained look on Sherlock's face. The taller man straightened and turned his body away in a desperately futile attempt to hid the injury.
"You bloody idiot!" John glowered momentarily before dashing back to his room. He returned with his kit, already rummaging. "You really are something. You have no regard for anyone, including yourself. This needs attention. Now."
Reluctantly Holmes edged nearer the doc. He stood, bleeding and chilled, half naked in the kitchen area of the flat as John switched on a lamp, shoved a pile of lord knew what off a space on the table, and set his tools down. "Come here." John turned him, adjusting the lamp and the other man's body to get a better look. He sat in the kitchen chair, leaning forward, close enough for Sherlock to feel his agitation. "This needs cleaned and stitched."
He pulled a bottle of antiseptic and some clean gauze from his bag without looking and focused. The white fabric quickly soaked red and black with blood and powder burn. "He was close, the one that shot you." Sherlock murmured assent. In a clinical voice John went on. "Missed anything vital or you'd be bled out by now. No organ or major blood vessel involvement." He probed the bridge of flesh that covered the tunnel of the shot and Sherlock flinched back. John just kept working. "Hand me the little packet of suture."
It was handed over silently. The small white rectangle contained three feet of thin suture connected to a curved needle. They were used in clinic as well as on battle field as they were small, easy, and useful. John was grateful he'd thought to keep some. "I can inject you. lidocaine. It will dull the area, make the stitches hurt less." He looked up to see Holmes staring down at him.
"No, just do it." He spoke in a dull, almost bored tone.
"You're sure?" Disbelief laced the words.
When he gave an answering nod Holmes could have sworn he heard the doctor mutter, "bloody idiot" again under his breath. The pressure and tugging sensations began and he concentrated on watching John's small, deft movements. Before long two small white bandages adorned his side, covering the dual rows of thin black knots.
"Here now. Sit." John stood and nudged his way around the wounded man, maneuvering until they had swapped. He now stood taller, able to see the facial laceration. "Look up." The light was adjusted and John got to work cleaning the cheek. He was focused entirely on the gash and Sherlock studied him carefully. A quick cleanse and a small butterfly closure saw that mission checked off. Next the laser focus swung toward the head wound.
It felt strange to have John Watson standing in front of him, running his strong hand through his hair. An unusual sensation. At last the doctor stood back from his patient.
"Not much to do there I'm afraid. Lots of blood, as typical from a scalp cut, but nothing to see. You'll have to wash the blood out, and I'm sure it will sting. But you deserve it you damnable fool." The last sentence was venomous. "You may be one of the most brilliant minds of the world, but you have no sense of self preservation."
In moments he disposed of his used materials, and disappeared back into his room. Sherlock was left sitting in their kitchen, freshly mended, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, confused.