BOYS OF BAKER STREET:
An A-Z Almanac of Hurt/Comfort
Secondary Genre: Drama/Angst
Rated: T for Violence
Character/s: Sherlock Holmes
A/N: This letter was difficult for me – so I improvised again. Go me!
U is for Underground
Wherein Sherlock infiltrates an illegal underground fighting ring and John is not as stupid as believed.
Contrary to popular belief, John Watson is not a stupid man. It takes some degree of intelligence to obtain a medical licence and despite Sherlock's opposing arguments; his observational skills have improved somewhat since living with the Consulting Detective.
The living room is dark; but for the roaring fire in the grate – severe snow storms have knocked the power out, but John is nestled comfortably in his chair, nursing a fresh cuppa. His first aid kit is nearby; because now that he's figured it out, it's likely it will be needed.
It's taken him the better part of a week, but he's distantly proud that he's been able to get this far without assistance.
Sherlock had been acting strange – well – more so than usual an John made a mental note of these behaviours.
Observation one:
For the past week, the detective had been leaving the flat at 9:30pm on the dot.
Observation two:
He always returned exactly three and a half hours later – disappearing into his room without a word.
Observation three:
He stays there for exactly twelve hours, before emerging for a shower and taking his own dirty clothes to the laundromat.
It's the final observation, the quiet hisses of pain – uttered when he thinks John can't hear him – that really concerns the Doctor, leading him to conclude that Sherlock has been injured and his hiding it. More to the point, it seems to be a scheduled thing – worsening with every secret excursion.
From these small changes, John begins his research. He spends hours on his laptop, trawling the News sites for any possible open cases that could be responsible for the odd behaviour.
It was only that morning, just before the power went out that John found an article about a suspected underground fighting ring, operating in Central London.
It had to be it – the precisions of Sherlock's comings and goings explained as such, and John would confront his friend about it on his return.
He glanced at his watch and took a sip of tea.
Any minute now…any minute…
The Doctor didn't flinch as the front door slammed open, and then shut in quick succession. An uneven thudding on the stairs followed and John felt himself tense. What if he was badly hurt? What if he was wrong? What if…?
The landing door was opened gingerly and John could hear the rustle of Sherlock's Belstaff being removed with care.
'How was the fight?' John asked casually, not turning but unable to supress a small smirk when Sherlock froze on route to his bedroom.
'John…' The younger man responded, his voice tight with pain and discomfort.
'I'm not an idiot, despite your beliefs otherwise.'
The Detective grunted.
'It seems you are far more observant than I give you credit for. What gave me away?'
John snorted and turned, trying to not outwardly panic at the state his friend was in. Sherlock's shirt was torn and bloody, his face bruised, swollen and impossibly grey.
'You never do your own laundry,' He responded calmly, rising and setting his cup on the coffee table.
Sherlock sighed, trying to morph his features from pain to mild disinterest.
'There's always something. Anyway – off to bed, see you later!' The young man turned towards the hall to flee, but John reached out and gripped the closest wrist, eliciting a pained yelp that he only felt slightly guilty for.
'Not so fast Sherlock. I do believe I deserve some form of praise for being able to deduce your whereabouts. Sit, now.' John growled.
'Doctor Watson, I assure you – I am perfectly fine-'
'No. Shuddup and sit down. It's not a request.'
The Detective slumped visibly and shuffled stiffly to his chair, sliding down with a poorly concealed groan.
The poor light wasn't ideal, but John could see enough to be concerned. Blood coated the side of the man's face, matting his dark curls and the rapid blinking spoke of visual disturbances that usually accompanied a moderate blow to the head.
Not waiting for permission, John divested the younger man of his ruined button-down and swore at the sight of Sherlock's torso. The bruising was so extensive, covering pale skin with a violent array of hues, blending from black to a nasty purple/green and interspersed with bloody grazes and a particularly nasty gash that was seeping pus.
'Jeez, Sherlock! You call me the idiot? What the hell were you thinking?' John hissed, warming his palms and pressing them against his ribcage and feeling it give almost instantly.
Sherlock whimpered at the pain the examination caused and John had to bite his lip to prevent another slew of admonishments. The man was clearly exhausted and in more pain than he cared to show, so the doctor kept his mouth shut and continued his investigation.
None of his injuries were life threatening on their own, but John was concerned about the warmth radiating from Sherlock's skin – despite the freezing weather outside. There wasn't much that could be done about it, most of the roads were closed on account of the blizzard, so getting to a hospital was out of the question.
John's thoughts were interrupted by an urgent groan and he stepped back just in time to avoid getting hit by a torrent of sour bile.
Clearly the moron hadn't been eating either, so a moderate to severe infection was looking more likely. John tutted in sympathy and carefully brushed a damp curl from his brow.
'Easy now mate. Let me take a look at that head, yeah?' He soothed, retrieving a penlight and shining it briefly into pale eyes.
His pupil reaction was sluggish, which was indicative of concussion – although that much was obvious from the excessive blinking and vomiting. Sherlock slumped down further, hissing quietly when John began to clean the blood away from his temple with warm, soapy water.
Through the blood, the Doctor discovered a ragged wound, deep enough to require stitches, and swore.
'Jesus, what did that bastard hit you with?' John growled, retrieving a suture kit from his bag and setting it down in favour of preparing some pain medication.
He was at loathe to give the man anything opiate based, due to the nature of past addictions – but he had no lidocaine left and he wasn't prepared to begin repairs, as it were, on Sherlock's transport without something to dull the pain.
'Knuckle Dusters,' he groaned in response, his lids drooping with exhaustion as John worked. 'It's mixed martial arts, and illegal to boot. Anything goes…got stabbed with a letter opener on Thursday…'
John's jaw was so tightly clenched; he could feel the muscles fluttering rapidly as Sherlock slurred his explanation of the case. The doctor almost told him to shut up, before he realised the man was babbling to prevent himself from falling asleep, thus minimising John's concern. The painkillers had kicked in instantaneously, and were turning out to be quite effective, which made staying conscious all the more difficult for the younger man.
'Why'd you do it? Go off on your own, I mean? I had no idea you had a case on – why keep me out of the loop?' John asked softly, his brow furrowed in the dim light as he stitched the gash above Sherlock's ear.
The Detective sniffed and tried to avoid John's gaze, but the doctor gently pinched the man's chin between his fingers and turned his face.
'You scare me, when you do this. You know that right? You're my closest friend and I hate seeing you hurt.' John admitted softly, not missing the way Sherlock's eyes widened slightly at the admission, before flicking away sheepishly.
'That's why…' he muttered under his breath.
'That's why, what?' John urged.
'That's why I didn't let you in on the case John…because you're my only friend and I utterly despise seeing you hurt. I knew that if I made you aware of this case, you would insist on doing the fighting because you're a soldier and have the training for it. I wasn't prepared to risk you on the chance that your opponent would choose to fight dirty.'
John chuckled, and slowly moved from wound to wound – noting Sherlock's embarrassed silence as he went.
'That was really sweet,' John said finally, smirking as Sherlock narrowed his tired eyes at him in a half arsed attempt at a glare.
'John, do shut up. I am not…sweet.' He slurred in response, trying to move away from the Doctor's gentle ministrations.
He pressed a palm to Sherlock's brow and gave him a small smile.
'Easy, Sherl…I won't tell anyone, I promise. Just please…for God's sake – next time, just tell me.'
Sherlock grunted his response, eyes slipping shut – and John's stomach clenched in panic. He was now fully unconscious and unresponsive, despite his best efforts to remain otherwise.
John scrubbed a hand over his tired face and began to tidy – he would stay up all night if he had to – to ensure the insufferable man that somehow became his Best Friend, lived another day.
Well, this one will clearly have to be continued, I think…I hope you enjoyed – it's a bit tamer than the others. Decided to give them a break. Review! Only 5 letters left - then I will start on the continuations!