Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
Hey everyone! Again, I am blown away by your generosity in reviews and reads! It totally makes me want to write as much as possible. I've been chipping away at this chapter since Monday but late nights can only go so late, I'm afraid. But here it is … you can expect another chapter soon, though! This weekend. At any rate, I hope you enjoy reading me torture poor Sherlock!
"You know that I have to clean this, right?"
John and Sherlock were now in Sherlock's room. Sherlock was lying on his bed, his right arm extended over a towel. John was wearing a head lamp and gloves, examining the cut more thoroughly.
Sherlock raised his other hand to shield his eyes as John's lamp shone in his eyes.
"Must you wear that? You look ridiculous."
"Yes. I need light to see what I'm doing, unless you prefer I stitch you up in the dark."
"What was wrong with the living room, or even the bathroom?"
"Trust me, when I start stitching, you're going to want to be lying down. This is going to hurt, Sherlock. A lot."
"I don't care. I want you to do it." Sherlock's voice was firm and John sighed, leaning down to look at the cut again.
"Like I said, I need to clean it."
"What are you going to use? I've been using hydrogen peroxide."
"Well, obviously that's not working very well, is it?" John replied. "Since we can't get you on antibiotics to help control the infection once the pus has drained, the wound needs to be cleaned out as best as possible."
"What are you going to use?" Sherlock asked again.
"Rubbing alcohol."
"I thought you were supposed to use saline solution."
John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, biting his tongue from saying something very nasty. Rather than get Sherlock mad at him – he couldn't very well leave and he wasn't about to spend the night looking in on someone was angry with him – John took a deep breath before answering.
"Normally, I would but I can't take any chances on not killing the infection. I'll use rubbing alcohol first and then I'll rinse it out with saline. You know, they could do this at the hospital and it would be much less painful, not to mention safer."
"No."
John sighed. He hadn't just been talking about Sherlock's pain, although his pain was going to be much more physical. John had also been talking about his pain – this was not going to be easy on either of them. In the field, John had seen some of the strongest men weep like infants when it came to treatment without pain medication. John shuddered at the memory, realizing he did not want to be responsible for putting Sherlock through that.
"I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere." John said, stripping off his gloves.
"Couldn't if I wanted to." Sherlock muttered under his breath, his eyes slipping closed. Although he would never admit it, he felt rather stupid at this point. If he had just told John about the cut in the first place, he wouldn't be here feeling so sick and about to go through what he knew would be a tremendous amount of pain.
John returned to the bedroom, arms laden with supplies.
"Here." John said, thrusting the thermometer towards Sherlock. "I want to see how far the infection's gotten."
Sherlock accepted the device and slipped it into his mouth, watching John prepare with interest. Sherlock lifted his arm as John laid another couple of towels on Sherlock's bed. On the nightstand he set the rubbing alcohol and a stack of washcloths. John second trip yielded the desk lamp from the living room. He plugged it in and aimed its bright beam onto Sherlock's wound. He left a third time and returned with, on a tray, a basin of warm water, a cup of cool water, the bottle of aspirin, and the turkey baster. The thermometer beeped and John pulled it out of Sherlock's mouth.
"What are you doing with that?" Sherlock asked, a bit of criticism in his voice. John ignored him, setting the thermometer on the night stand.
"John?" Sherlock asked again.
"What?" John looked up from reading the bottle of aspirin. He followed Sherlock's gaze to the turkey baster.
"I don't have any eyedroppers in my kit."
"I have plenty in the kitchen."
"Yes," John said, shaking three pills into his hand. "But they've been heaven-knows-where. At least I know this one is clean and it will work just fine. Here, take these."
Sherlock eyed the pills.
"Sherlock, trust me. Take them." John forced them into Sherlock's hand and handed him the glass of water. Sherlock took a sip before handing the glass back. John did a survey of his layout and realized he had forgotten the gauze. He went to the bathroom and returned with the medical kit, from which he removed a stack of gauze pads.
"Are you ready?" John asked, feeling very nervous suddenly.
"Yes." Sherlock said. John, slipping on a clean pair of gloves, took something from the nightstand that Sherlock had failed to notice.
"Take this." John handed Sherlock the little blue stress ball. Sherlock looked at it.
"It's for the pain."
"It's a psychological trick. It won't work."
"Just hold it. If not for you, for me, okay?"
"Fine." Sherlock said with an eyebrow raised. "Whenever you're ready, Doctor."
John took a deep, rather shaky, breath.
"Alright." John said as he filled the turkey baster with rubbing alcohol. He held the enlarged dropper over Sherlock's wound.
"You're sure you don't want to go to hospital?"
"John."
"Okay, okay. Sorry. Here we go."
John gently squeezed the end of the turkey baster and watched the shiny drops of rubbing alcohol drip into the wound. John heard Sherlock sharply inhale as the liquid made contact. A quick glance showed the detective biting his lip.
"Okay?"
"Fine. Keep going."
John didn't respond and squeezed again. The liquid came out in a steadier stream, small puddles beginning to form in the wound. Sherlock's muscles had tensed considerably and when John looked up again, Sherlock's eyes were closed and a glance at his hand showed the ball being clenched tightly. John gave the baster one last squeeze before setting it down on the table, being sure to keep the tip from touching the surface.
"Okay, I'm going to try and drain it out a bit." John said, taking one of the strips of gauze. He gently pressed it to the oozing wound and Sherlock drew in a sharp breath.
"Sorry." John said as he lifted the gauze, pleased to see it was draining some of the pus, before folding it over and pressing down again. This time, Sherlock let out a noise somewhere between a moan and a cry. John closed his eyes, willing this all to be over. He didn't want to continue but he knew he had to.
"Do you need a break? We can go slowly, if you want."
Sherlock was biting the inside of his cheek again and without opening his eyes, shook his head.
"Alright, then. I'm going to use more alcohol."
Without waiting for suspense to build, John gave the cut another good dousing with the rubbing alcohol. Sherlock's knuckles were white from clutching the ball so hard. John didn't announce his next step – more gauze. Instead, he focused on getting the job done quickly.
John worked as fast as possible but it was still a good forty-five minutes of rinsing and draining before he felt comfortable moving onto saline.
"You can relax a bit," John said, standing up straight, his spine cracking – his back wasn't used to medicinal demands anymore. Sherlock, by this point, was virtually the same colour as his pillowcase and there were sweat beads forming at his hairline. His breathing was now very rapid. At John's words, Sherlock opened his eyes.
"Are you done?"
"For now." John said, wetting a clean washcloth in the glass of cool water.
"I need to make saline solution, so it'll be a bit before I can continue." John blotted at Sherlock's forehead and then did around his neck. Surprisingly, Sherlock did not push him away.
"Do you wish you had gone to the hospital now?" John asked and Sherlock glared at him.
"It's not professional to say 'I told you so', Doctor." Sherlock answered, putting emphasis on the last word.
"You're right, I'm sorry." John said, going over Sherlock's forehead again. "I'll be right back."
John left and Sherlock could hear the tap in the bathroom running. John returned with a washcloth that was completely dampened. He laid it on the wound.
"Leave that there. I'm going to start boiling some water for the saline."
John left and returned a few moments later with a glass of juice.
"You should drink." he said, holding out the glass. Sherlock turned his face away.
"No, thank you."
"It wasn't a question. Drink." John thrust the glass at the detective, who rolled his eyes but accepted the cup. He finished it and handed it back to John before closing his eyes.
"How do you feel?"
"How do you think I feel?"
"Stupid, I hope." John said, crossing his arms again. "I can't believe you went an entire week without telling me."
"You didn't notice."
"That's not my fault. You should have told me, Sherlock."
"But I didn't." Sherlock opened his eyes a crack. "And now I'm paying for it so we're even."
John softened slightly.
"Try and go to sleep." he said. "I'll wake you when the saline is done."
Sherlock mumbled something along the lines of "okay" and John turned off the light before closing the door. He went into the kitchen and sat down to watch water boil.
I had a bit of a hard time determining a course of treatment – there's a lot of debate over the use of alcohol anymore, as it does a lot of damage to living cells. However, it was chose mostly because it hurts … and I'm rather mean and think Sherlock deserves to be in pain after doing something so stupid.
Also, a question (which I've posed to a few of you in PM's) … do you think Sherlock, when the pain gets greater (i.e. stitches without anaesthetic) that Sherlock would be a vocalizer (swearing, moaning, yelling, ect.), a passer-outer, or silent processer?
Reviews are always welcome and appreciated!