John arrived home earlier than Sherlock would have expected. When he heard the key in the door he was honestly surprised, something which he didn't experience very often. Then came the hesitant limping step of someone in pain and Sherlock knew something had gone very wrong at John's reunion. If John was limping he was either very upset or injured, neither of which was a good thing.
Sherlock opened the door and took in the sight of John struggling up the stairs. Except it wasn't John any longer, it was Bilbo, after the end of the battle, complete with a head wound and a tormented look in his eyes, hair standing on end and matted with blood, the costume was finally complete.
Over an hour sitting still in the car had done John's injuries no favours and he now hurt terribly, his left wrist and right knee particularly were giving him problems and it was painful enough to breathe that John knew he really needed a chest x-ray. He rather suspected that once he made it there he would be all night in A&E, if only he could get out of this damn costume. First however he was going to need to sit down for a minute because if he didn't he was almost certainly going to be sick again. He had upset Jane by making her stop the car twice on the way back so that he could be sick at the side of the road. So much for the nice seven course meal. Jane had been very worried but John had placated her by saying that it was just the shock of the evenings events getting to him, his head didn't hurt too badly and his vision was absolutely fine. These were of course blatant lies but Jane didn't need to know that his head throbbed with every minute bump of the car and that while there certainly weren't several of Jane when he looked at her she didn't have very distinct edges either.
'What happened?' Sherlock asked as John limped past him and collapsed in his chair.
'Would you believe me if I said I was attacked by orcs.' John asked with a hint of irony in his voice. 'Orc officers, bloody stupid, ignorant officer orcs.' John mumbled, more to himself than to Sherlock.
Sherlock ventured into the kitchen and returned to his flatmate carrying a first aid kit and a camera. He started snapping photos of John from every angle and John just watched him do it in bewilderment. 'In case you want to press charges. Stand up.' Sherlock explains without John even having to ask. John blinks at him but struggles to his feet standing by the fire and allowing Sherlock to snap the camera at him as he leans against the mantelpiece.
When Sherlock finally stops taking pictures John gratefully slumps back into the chair with a pained hiss. 'You know Sherlock…' John's face contorts unattractively but he makes no noise, just hesitates in his speech for a few seconds '…if I actually wanted to press charges I would need pictures of the bruises not of me wearing a silly costume.' He continued.
Putting aside the camera Sherlock kneels before John. He ignores John's comment, he is not about to admit that in fact the image of John as he was right now was too good not to be documented. He knew John was hurt and he didn't like that, of course he didn't, but in so many ways John wasn't John right now, he was The Hobbit and the part of Sherlock that still occasionally allowed himself
Oin all at the same time to the little Halfling, nursing him back to health. Except of course there was enough left of sensible Sherlock to know that he was being ridiculous and that it wasn't Bilbo, it was John sitting before him, and one did not simply scoop John up, not unless one wanted a black eye.
'Now John, tell me where you're hurt and how badly. You've hit your head, it's been bleeding, you've got blood all over your coat, are you concussed?' Sherlock asked trying for a sensible approach.
'Yes…' John answered hesitantly touching his head gingerly 'I've been sick, might be because Moran punched my stomach or because I've got bruised ribs but it hurts too, really hurts.' John mumbles.
'Which does, head, stomach or ribs?' Sherlock inquires.
'All of them, Arm and knee are worse though, I don't think my knee is broken but I can't be sure about the arm, might have to have it x-rayed.' John mumbled and Sherlock stares at him in surprise.
'John, if you think someone broke your arm why are you here and not in and emergency room?' Sherlock asked softly as he gently pried John's hand away from his chest to have a look.
'I couldn't, not looking like this. Can you imagine the headlines. Just the three orcs turning up will make a stir, can you imagine what an injured hobbit in full costume would do for the local paper, particularly arriving from Sandhurst?' John asked quietly and then hissed as Sherlock pulled his sleeve up to look at his wrist. It was terribly swollen and turning blue on the outside. He had put ice on it just after the fight but it had not been enough. He could move his fingers a little which was positive but doing so was pure torture which meant it might still be broken. Still it might be at least partly because of the blow to his shoulder. He honestly couldn't tell.
'I need to shower and change, then I can go to A&E.' John explained and Sherlock nodded.
'I'll run you a bath, something tells me you're in no shape to stand in the shower trying to wash.' Sherlock offered disappearing off to the bathroom. He was not exactly happy to remove the costume that so perfectly fitted John but John was so obviously in pain that he felt a need to help his friend.
Filling the bath with warm water he was contemplating the benefits and drawbacks of adding bath salt to the water when he heard a loud thump and John swearing vigorously from the livingroom and he deduced that John must have fallen. John was hurt, John had fallen, there was an odd strain to the words John was yelling hence it wasn't a far leap to deducing that John was in pain and needed help.
Sherlock swept out of the bathroom and soon found John sat on the floor poking at a swollen knee with his uninjured hand. In fact now Sherlock looked more closely, uninjured was probably an overstatement. John's pinky looked rather like a cocktail sausage.
The easiest way to get John into the bathroom would be to carry him but Sherlock was entirely convinced that John would not appreciate this. Instead Sherlock shoved an arm under John's and hoisted him up, supporting him into the bathroom. In the brief trip from the livingroom floor to the bathroom John went from an embarrassed bright red to a pained stark white.
Are you sure about this John? Sherlock asked looking his friend over. If walking was that painful undressing and bathing seemed a really bad idea.
Definitely. I might need a bit of help though.' John admitted as he started to undo his belt.
'I'll get you a towel.' Sherlock offered, 'And some ice.' He added with a sigh. He wasn't quite sure which part of John's body he intended said ice to aid, at the moment it was a draw between his wrist, his knee and his head and lord knew what else he would find when they got under the layers of clothing.
When Sherlock returned John had managed to remove the coat, feet and ears and was currently trying to lift the shirt up without hurting himself, something which was proving very difficult.
'Let me help.' Sherlock offered dumping the towel and bag of ice in the sink and crouching next to John. He carefully eased John's right arm out of the shirt pulled it over his head and proceeded to move it gently off John's left arm careful of the injured shoulder and wrist.
Despite his care John clenched his teeth and his breath involuntarily hitched several times as he tried to help Sherlock get the infernal garment off. Already bruises were starting to appear and everything seemed to hurt.
The thrill of watching John turn up in the dirty and bloody costume was pretty much washed away with the removal of his coat and shirt. Without the costume Bilbo faded away and it was once again John sitting before him, wearing trousers that were too short for him, looking in equal parts furious and miserable.
John's arms were covered in red welts where he had tried to fend off blows from weapons Sherlock could vividly imagine after having watched the films so many times. His hair was matted with blood which had collected in the shell of his ear and run down his neck. His shoulder was swollen as was his wrist and bruises were developing along his back and side. In the middle of his chest was an odd swollen circle with an indentation in the middle which was growing increasingly discoloured.
'Did they try to stab you with something?' Sherlock asked running his thumb over the swelling so carefully John could barely feel it.
'Not unless you count trying to impale me with the blunt handle of a fake axe as trying to stab me. I do think the implement needs to be sharp for it to count as stabbing.' John tried to chuckle to lighten the mood but it hurt and he quickly cut himself off.
Sherlock was about to correct him, informing that in fact it was the act of forcing an implement into something that defined a stabbing and not the sharpness of the object and that he had in fact said 'tried to stab' thus indicating their obvious failure. In fact he already had his mouth open to do so when something, something eerily reminiscent of John's voice, told him that this wasn't the time.
'Can you stand?' he asked instead, reaching over to turn off the water in the bathtub.
'I walked from the car didn't I.' John huffed slightly but it was obviously an effort to get up and once on his feet John gripped onto the sink, closing his eyes and breathing shallowly. He opened his eyes but stared fixedly into the folds of the shower curtain as Sherlock undid his trousers and let them drop to the floor. Sherlock's fingers were already gripping the elastic of his boxers when John realised what he was doing and tried to pull away.
'Leave them on.' He snapped as he wobbled and sat down on the toilet again with a heavy thump.
'Since when are you prudish John?' Sherlock asked and despite the state his friend was in he couldn't help but smile a little at the deep blush creeping up John's neck.
'Since today, now either help me into that bath or make yourself scarce.' John said and his voice allowed for no debate.
'You do know that the best way for me to do that is to lift you in, don't you? Your knee will never let you step into the bath and lower yourself down.' Sherlock said and John wasn't sure if he was relieved or furious that there was no hint of taunting in Sherlock's voice, just genuine concern. If in fact it was genuine, how could you even tell with Sherlock.
John just sat there for a moment. Looking between the drawn bath with its far too high edges and his ballooning knee. Then he squeezed his eyes shut, nodded once and offered Sherlock a curt 'Fine.'
To his credit Sherlock did not mock. He merely stood and stripped out of his shirt, hanging it over a towel hook. Then he bent down next to John and hesitated for a few seconds. 'I fear this will hurt.' He said apologetically as he slipped one arm around John's back and the other under his knees, expertly lifting him up using ergonomical precision.
John clenched his teeth but made no sound. He merely wrapped his right arm awkwardly around Sherlock's neck and promised himself that if Sherlock ever mentioned this moment he was going to claim to have no memory of it, concussions were good for some things.
When Sherlock lowered John into the tub he could feel him tensing, his breath increasing, then as Sherlock slowly let him go he gradually relaxed somewhat. Yet he sat with his back rigidly straight, left arm pressed against his chest and right hand clenched around the bathtubs edge.
Sherlock sat back and watched John who sat absolutely still. Something fierce entered John's eyes and then they suddenly went glassy wet before John squeezed them shut. His grip on the bath grew even tighter and very fine tremors ran through his shoulders.
Sherlock eyed the angry marks on John's back, his laboured breathing and the tension in his right arm and suddenly realised that John wasn't going to be able to wash himself. He needed his good arm to hold himself upright and he needed to sit up because his back wouldn't allow him to lean against the hard tub and his bruised chest wouldn't allow him to lean forward or his breathing would be compromised. Yet he was clearly stubbornly trying to come up with a way to get clean without asking for help.
Sherlock didn't comment. He merely reached for a flannel, dipped it in the water and began to wash John's back. John kept his eyes closed and said nothing as Sherlock carefully washed the blood and grime away. The soap stung and the swollen knee and wrist throbbed with the warmth of the water but at least he felt marginally more like himself. Sherlock had draped the bag of ice over his shoulder so that felt a little better.
Keeping his eyes closed helped somewhat with the horrible embarrassment at having his best friend wash him like a helpless toddler. To his credit Sherlock was both gentle and efficient and soon John was clean.
'Right all de-hobbited.' Sherlock said as he pulled the plug in the bath. 'I'll get you some clothes. Meanwhile hold this to your head, it's bleeding again.' Sherlock offered holding out a towel and John finally looked up.
'Thanks he said simply as he took the towel. Sitting up without the hand to stabilise him was just as painful as he had thought it would be. He found his breathing growing more laboured with each breath. It didn't quite feel like broken ribs, he'd had those before but it certainly felt like broken something. He knew without trying that he would not be able to lift his left hand to hold the towel so he simply had to give up. Dropping the towel beside him he grasped onto the tub again. Soon he could feel the warm trickle of blood down his face. So, it seemed he would have to settle for sensibly dressed and not covered in dirt, unbloody was not to be had today.
When Sherlock returned the water had drained from the tub and John was sitting in an empty tub shivering in the cold air with a concerned look on his face. There was the acrid smell of bile in the bathroom and a sticky puddle next to the bathtub.
'Oh.' Is all Sherlock said as he draped a towel around John.
'Need A&E now.' John said weakly. 'I'm getting worse' Sherlock felt a lump in his throat at John's words.
'Worse as in we need to get going or worse as in I need to call an ambulance?' Sherlock asked and John gave him a faint smile.
'No ambulance if I can stand. Worse as in I can't move my hand and it really hurts to breathe. With your taxi hailing skills a taxi will be as fast as an ambulance anyway. You're going to have to lift me out again though.' John didn't like having to say it but it is the unfortunate truth. There was absolutely no way that he would be able to stand up on his own.
'Of course.' Sherlock bent down and John draped his good arm around his neck again as Sherlock carefully lift him out of the tub. It hurt and John's face involuntarily scrounged up in a grimace. He leant his head against Sherlock's bare shoulder for a second breathing shallowly. He wasn't aware of Sherlock carrying him out of the bathroom until they were already halfway into the living room.
'Where are you going? Put me down.' It was meant to be demanding but his voice was breathy and weak.
'The sofa, it will make putting your clothes on easier.' Sherlock explained before carefully laying John down and returning to the bathroom for the clothes. When he returned John was still lying still and quiet on the sofa, his eyes closed and the injured knee propped up on the armrest. Sherlock's never seen John like this before. He's seen him injured or frightened or upset. John is rather prone to emotions but something was different today. He would never say it so John could hear but the word Sherlock would use to describe him was fragile. John actually looked broken and Sherlock wasn't sure if it was because something in John has changed or because Sherlock was viewing him in a different light. He was aware that the hobbit costume had done something to him, had changed his view of his flatmate in some way.
He kneeled down next go John 'I'm going to get some socks and sweatpants on you, ok.' Sherlock informed before he started to slip John's feet into the socks he'd picked up. He noted in frustration that John's right ankle was ever so slightly swollen. John probably hadn't even noticed but Sherlock could tell the difference between the two feet. He slipped the sweatpants on carefully, observing how John tensed when he lifted the injured leg to get them on.
'You need to sit up John.' Sherlock informed hesitantly.
John grimaced and held out his good arm for Sherlock to take while he stares ahead with glazed eyes.
Sherlock grabbed John's arm at the elbow and wrapped his own arm around John's neck trying to ease him into a sitting position.
It took five minutes to get John into a flannel shirt at which point they were both frustrated.
Sherlock eyed John's jacket which he had brought in with him and decided against it. Instead he grabbed the throw from John's chair and draped it around John's shoulders
'John are you going to kick up a fuss if I suggest you let me carry you down the stairs?' he asked and John flushed, whether from embarrassment or anger Sherlock couldn't tell.
'Yes I am.' John stated calmly and Sherlock just sighed. John's stubbornness certainly led to stupidity at times.
Slowly and arduously they got John to his feet and began the painful journey back downstairs. Sherlock kept expecting John to give up and allow him to aid his descent in a more painless manner but John did not. He allowed Sherlock to walk beside him and support most of his weight but he did not relent or even complain. Sherlock, however, could feel the increased tremors running through his back and hear the way his breaths were turning more laboured.
It turns out that hailing a cab was distinctly less effective when you were supporting a clearly injured man wrapped in a blanket. Particularly as people kept coming up asking them if they need help. Sherlock shooed them away with snarky comments of 'Obviously, but not from you.' or 'Only if you're a taxi driver or an A&E doctor.' And they all quickly scuttled off but it was distracting
When they were finally in the cab Sherlock opened his mouth to inform John that he was decidedly wrong when he said that a taxi would be as fast as an ambulance. It had taken them half an hour to get John dressed, down the stairs and into a taxi, they would be at the hospital long ago if John would have let him call an ambulance. However, he hadn't even uttered the first syllable when John suddenly leaned his head against Sherlock's shoulder with a soft sigh and the words died in his throat. He could feel the soft trembling which indicates pain and possibly mild shock and the uneven breathing which hitched and stuttered in John's chest every time the cab took a sharper turn or hits a bump in the road.