BOYS OF BAKER STREET:

An A-Z Almanac of Hurt/Comfort

Secondary Genre: Angst

Rated: T for swearing

Character: John Watson

L is for Laceration

The one where John receives a rather nasty cut at a crime scene and nearly dies as a result


John gripped the edge of the catwalk tighter, ignoring the explosion of pain in his bad shoulder. Perhaps, he thought distantly, it wasn't such a good idea to split up.

He and Sherlock had been chasing a suspect through the dark industrial estate, when he disappeared into the building – a dilapidated steel plant, rusted and disused – but not yet ready to be demolished. Upon noting the sheer size of the factory, The Detective didn't so much suggest they split up, but he did swan off into the darkness with instructions to phone if there were any hiccups.

Well…dangling from a rusted footbridge after a tousle with a criminal undoubtedly warranted the title of 'hiccup' – and the suspect certainly wasn't going to be murdering anyone ever again, due to the permanent nature of his injuries.

Fingers slick with sweat, John slipped minutely. He didn't have the energy to call out to Sherlock or pull himself up…he was going to fall and this was a rather dangerous place to do so. There was a lot of rusted steel jutting out of dark places, so much so that John didn't even feel the jagged length pressing into the soft skin of his wrist until he began to fall and a line of fire was gouged across his forearm.

The sudden pain snapped John's focus back into place, long enough for him to pray the corpse below would cushion his fall.


As it turned out, sometimes – if you pray with enough fervor, God may just cut you a bit of slack. That was one theory, anyway and John toyed with it for several moments as he rolled off the dead criminal with a groan. That was about as far as he got though.

He was so inexplicably tired, that he feared he may actually fall asleep on the dirty floor of a steel plant…but why was the exhaustion so all encompassing? Why was the darkness itself tilting like a carnival ride? He glanced down and recoiled at the sight of his right arm.

Well, shit. That would be why.

That really was a bit not good.

In the dark, and through the copious amounts of blood pulsing from the wound – John could make out a Very Serious Problem that travelled from wrist to elbow, gaping, deep and very life threatening.

Very.

There was no time to waste and even with his energy flagging and darkness threatening to overwhelm him, the good doctor managed to tug his thankfully undamaged mobile from his pocket.

Foresight was also very handy, it seemed.

Quite a while ago, John had managed to type up a few SOS text messages to Sherlock – coding them by level of urgency. He saved them in his drafts folder and instructed that Sherlock do the same.

It was still difficult, navigating his way to the message drafts – his mind was fuzzy and slow; fingers numb – eventually, though, he found the one he was looking for.

He hit send and hoped Sherlock was close enough to render assistance.


Sherlock was on the other side of the plant when the SMS came through.

He pulled the phone from his Belstaff and immediately, his heart seized in panic.

SOS: Code Red. Come Immediately – JW

Code Red was the worst code. It was the message saved only for the most severe of situations, when injuries definitely had the potential to be Life Threatening.

John would not send this message lightly.

All thoughts of capturing a murderer fled from his mind as he turned and ran through the factory, pulling up John's number and connecting the call.

After several moments, he could hear the tinny tone echoing through the large space – Sherlock raced towards it, faintly surprised he hadn't tripped in the dark. It was like he had sonar, and could sense any obstacles – even in the dark.

The moment the call went to voicemail, Sherlock hung up and called again. The tone was closer now, louder and the detective knew he was close.

Must be on the main floor, he thought distantly.

'John! John!' He called almost frantically, hoping for a clear response.

He got a mumbled groan, but it was enough.

Two forms were splayed on the concrete – one of them, the suspect – was dead.

The other…shit

Sherlock swiped through his phone and selected the flashlight app, thumbing the icon and wincing at the sudden brightness.

John was utterly white and there was blood everywhere – the man was barely conscious, but fighting – clutching his arm hard against his chest.

'Sh'lck,' he slurred, blinking rapidly.

'I'm here…let me have a look,' the detective snapped, his emotions flaring at the sight of his friend so mentally distant. He pulled his arm aside, expecting to see a stab wound to the gut – but was surprised, instead, to see the disgustingly deep gash on his forearm.

'Fuck,' he hissed, clamping a hand tightly around the wound. He was no medical genius, but even he knew that lacerations of this severity usually resulted in exsanguination very quickly.

Sherlock quickly dialed Lestrade's number and thumbed the speaker before resting the phone on John's chest. He needed two hands for this.

'T'll him…' John began weakly, his dark cobalt eyes glazed in exhaustion. 'Stage 3…h-h-hypovolemia,'

The detective nodded, and flashed what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

'You'll be fine, John…' He assured, sighing in relief as the DI answered his phone sharply.

'Sherlock, its bloody midnight and I've just finished my shift – this better be good.'

'Ambulance is required urgently, Lestrade, and they come far quicker when requested by the Police.'

'You alright mate?' Came the concerned reply.

'I'm fine. John is not…tell them he has a severe laceration to his right forearm that has nicked the artery. He's in Stage three Hypovolemia and struggling to remain conscious. He needs an immediate blood transfusion, type O-Negative.'

'Fucking Hell – alright, hang tight – I'll send the Calvary. Is there anything else?'

'Yes, suspect is dead, second ambulance is required… do hurry up!'

Sherlock rattled off the address and rang off, turning his entire focus to John. His eyes were closed, and the detective panicked, even though he could still feel a pulse, weak as it was.

'John, wake up for me,' he barked, tapping the man's cheek. 'I don't know what to do!'

Blinking owlishly, the Doctor gave his friend a small smile.

'Doin' great 'Lock…noth'n much left,' He assured, lids drooping.

'Yes, well…the ambulance should be here soon, can you stay awake until then?' Sherlock replied, trying to keep his voice steady.

John nodded. 'I'll do mi best…wish they would hurry…so…sleepy,'

Sherlock held the wound tighter, hoping that his friend could hold on for just a little longer.


John couldn't remember losing consciousness and yet, he was blinking awake to the sharp smell of hospital grade antiseptic and the heavy fuzz of morphine.

His right arm felt heavy and although he'd been out for an indeterminate amount of time, he still felt inexplicably exhausted.

Any attempts to sit were waylaid by a twinge of pain lancing up his forearm.

'Take it easy, John.' Sherlock's soothing baritone washed over the ex-soldier and he allowed himself to relax and rid himself of the momentary panic building in his chest.

'How long was I out?' John asked groggily, allowing his friend to raise the bed slightly.

'Nearly three days. You lost a lot of blood,' Sherlock replied, holding a plastic cup to the Doctor's lips.

John sipped slowly, allowing the information to sink in.

It must have been serious for him to be unconscious for that long.

'You had to have surgery,' Sherlock supplied, as though he could read John's thoughts.

The Doctor looked down at his heavily bandaged forearm and morbidly wondered if there were any photographs.

'We're never splitting up again,' the detective murmured, almost hesitantly – earning a look of shock from the Doctor. 'The texts are a brilliant idea, John – but…if I had been further away…'

There was a lengthy silence.

'I nearly died, didn't I?' John queried curiously.

'You did…during surgery. You kept losing it faster than they could replace it.'

'Sorry mate,'

Sherlock stiffened, eyes suspiciously wet as he rose from the visitor chair.

'Yes, well – let's avoid this in future, shall we?'

'Sherl-'

'Please, John…I can't see that again,'

Instead of replying, John nodded, gave the man a smile and fell back to sleep – too tired to be aware of the hand gently curling around his own.


I originally wrote something different for 'L'. I completely finished the chapter before deciding I didn't like it.

Please review – I know you want to!