John had seen him come home covered in blood before, so why was he having such a fit now?
"John- John, I'm fine," he griped, trying to fend John off as the doctor went for his coat. "It's just a minor wound, leave me alone."
"Sherlock, God, you're covered in blood, don't say it's nothing!" John said, fingers latching onto Sherlock's coat and wrenching it open. "Jeez, what did you do?"
"John," Sherlock protested, anger flaring up. "Leave me alone!" He didn't mean to be so ungrateful- or maybe he did, really- but the gash across his chest was paining him too much to properly function. The cloud of pain was beginning to disturb his rational thinking. He wanted to go back and have a nice, long soak in the bath and let the hot water take him to a totally different world. He'd missed his criminal, he'd missed his chance, and sod it all, it had been a long shot, but he had felt good about the whole thing. Now? Now? He had missed his criminal, he had missed his chance, and he had a long gash stretching from shoulder to ribcage. It wasn't deep and it wouldn't scar, but it was bleeding enough and it hurt.
John worked Sherlock's coat over his shoulders, not that Sherlock didn't struggle. Except, he couldn't struggle much, because it hurt.
"Stop moving, Sherlock!" John all but yelled, taking Sherlock's shirt and unbuttoning it. Sherlock swallowed back the groan that threatened him when John worked his shirt open, peeling it away from the wound.
"John-" he started, but John cut him off.
"This is not a minor wound, Sherlock! Why do you play these things off as not important? Stop it! Sit down!"
"I'm bleeding all over the carpet, John! Mrs. Hudson will be appalled!" Sherlock retorted quickly, gripping the back of the armchair when a wave of vertigo hit him. He had hoped that John wouldn't notice- but John noticed.
"Sherlock Holmes, sit down! Now!"
Oh, John was really very angry. John only took that tone when he was very angry, which was, admittingly, not as often as it probably should have been. Sherlock had heard a lot of people angry before. His old landlord. Sally Donovan. Several angst-ridden teenagers stuck in St Bart's for one reason or another. Mycroft. His mum. But, rarely John. Rarely John.
Why? Was it because John had been in the war, because he was a doctor? Was that why he had more patience?
Sherlock knew that he was agitating as a flatmate and eccentric in his methods, to be sure, but John rarely got really angry with him. Where his voice changed, where his whole posture changed, when he became someone that Sherlock could barely recognize...
Sherlock sat down.
He tried not to complain- because an angry John was an annoying John if he didn't get his way- as John worked over his wound. The pain was really reachable an unbearable point, especially with John dabbing something (probably hydrogen peroxide or rubbing alcohol) onto the exposed wound. More than once, a hiss escaped his teeth, but John never once looked up or even seemed to notice. Sherlock should have been angry- but he knew that John was in his element now. This was John Watson, the John Watson of war that Sherlock had never truly experienced.
After some time of silent work, John finally finished with the bandaging and sat back to admire his own work.
"Looks good," John muttered, getting to his feet to check the gauze that had been looped around Sherlock's shoulder. "Not too tight?"
"It's fine," Sherlock replied stiffly.
John nodded. "Take two paracetamol."
Sherlock nodded in return, standing in preparation to work his way back to the bathroom.
"No shower, either."
Sherlock paused. "But I'm covered in blood." He frowned, looking at John. "You usually dissuade me from sitting on the furniture when I'm covered in blood."
"Well, you've gotten blood on the chair already, so it doesn't matter. Plus, I want that to stop bleeding and I took the time to bandage it, so the shower can wait."
Sherlock sniffed, turning away. "You do know that I take baths, don't you?"
"No bath, then," John replied, putting his medical equipment back into the nearby first-aid kit. "Not for a bit, anyway."
Sherlock huffed- wincing in pain afterwards- as he trudged back towards the bathroom door. "Yes, whatever you say, Doctor Watson," he muttered, low, under his breath.
He didn't even need to look back to see John smile.
I rather like this one. But doctor!John is another of my weakness, so... ["To be fair, it is my only weakness." (Not really. xD)] Hopefully you liked it.
Up next, Sherlock's Bouncy. And, no, there's not a trampoline involved. :p Thanks for reading! I look forward to any feedback!