Chapter 2
John couldn't restrain a hiss, nor Sherlock the dark flush that stained his cheekbones, as the doctor removed his shirt to look at his back. The detective knew what sort of state he must be in, and he burned with pain and mortification.
John ran his fingers absently over an unmarred patch of white skin, reading the situation with healing fingers as the goosebumps sprang up under them at the contact.
"God, Sherlock."
"Not good?"
"More than a bit not good. Does this mess go further down?"
"To my knees, roughly."
"Right, mate. I'll go and get some towels and a pillow. We'll whack up the heating and get you lying on the floor. We can work on you bit by bit and keep the rest covered. Did you want to shower first?"
"Yes."
"Do you need help with that?"
"No"
"Er… there isn't any way showering will… destroy evidence?"
"No."
John felt miserable and cruel for asking, but Sherlock was usually so practical; even now John doubted if he would want to allow sentiment to undermine his case. He started the water running, turned up the radiator, and slipped out of the bathroom, telling Sherlock to call him when he was ready, and wincing as he heard an involuntary whimper as the spray hit his damaged back.
When he was summoned back in, Sherlock was perched on the edge of the bath shivering, clutching the towel around him, and looking as if he could barely stay upright, let alone find the energy to dry himself. Much of his skin was flushed bright pink from obviously almost scalding water, but his face was pale.
John, as gently as possible, set to work drying his flatmate, patting gently with the towel, allowing himself to be leant upon. He rubbed his hair dry with a little more vigour, prompting Sherlock to arch back against the massaging fingers on his scalp.
He then laid the towels out on the floor, and got Sherlock to lie out flat. The room was barely long enough, but there was just enough space if he lay diagonally. He ensured the spare towels protected his friend's already so-damaged modesty, and reached for the first aid kit.
They were a long time in the bathroom, as John cleaned those wounds that needed cleansing, steri-stripping three cuts that needed it, and stitched four more. Where possible, he avoided dressings, leaving the skin to breath and heal. He dabbed Savlon wherever the skin was broken, more for the cool soothing sensation it transiently provided than from any belief in its antiseptic action. His touch was deft and gentle. Healing hands flitted through Sherlock's mind.
"Do you need me to check…?"
"No. It's sore, but nothing dangerous. I can take care of any parts Action Man doesn't have myself."
"Fair enough." John found himself giggling unrestrainedly at the small resurgence of humour from his friend, and even getting a sickly one-beat chuckle in return. He handed his patient a clean white cotton t-shirt and light pyjama bottoms, both fairly new with no irksome bobbling of the fabric to irritate the raw surfaces.
He left Sherlock to tend to his remaining injuries. As he closed the bathroom door, the giggles turned to several half-sobs and huffed breaths. He scrubbed his hands through his hair and paced the flat, trying to regain that emotional equilibrium Sherlock might need.
The bathroom door opened, and a quiet, somehow diminished figure emerged, protectively hugging the wall as if afraid it would vanish and he would fall if he didn't stay close. Strange how young and vulnerable he could look with the transcendent ego stripped away. The expression he turned upon John now looked a little lost, as if something was missing, but he couldn't place it. Patching up his "non-Action Man" areas had obviously unsettled him again.
Briskly, John stepped forward.
"Right, bed for you, you're drooping worse than your poor cactus you keep trying to kill."
"Aspidistra."
"Bless you. Have you cleaned your teeth?"
"Oh. No." Sherlock looked mildly nonplussed that he could have forgotten so essential a part of his routine (the man was meticulous with his personal hygiene to the point of OCD at times). John bustled him back into the bathroom, placed a toothpasted brush into his hand, and lightly supported him one- handed as he scrubbed diligently, cleaning his own teeth and washing his face at the same time.
A tiny measure of assurance returned to Sherlock at re-establishing his usual routine, and the companionable shared tooth brushing.
"Did you want to bunk in with me?"
"Yes please… Sorry."
"Don't be an idiot, Sherlock. Come on, in here, under the covers, listen to mother. Now don't look as I'm getting changed."
As he slipped in beside the lanky form of his friend, he noticed the fastidious nostrils twitching slightly, and wondered whether he should have changed the sheets. Yet, at the small smile that wandered across the sharp features, and its widening as he breathed in more of the familiar smell, he realised that would have been counterproductive.
"Wake me if you need me. I'm not working tomorrow."
"Thank you." Spoken in a whisper, almost inaudible, as a forehead came to rest against John's shoulder, and fingers entwined with his own. John wasn't sure why suddenly he knew, with complete clarity, that Sherlock would be fine. He smiled at the dark ceiling.
"You're always welcome."
-oOo-
I'm really enjoying just playing around with these two. I have several ideas where this could go next, and am receptive to suggestions. Would love to fill in some prompts or requests if anyone has any. And please do read and review.
