15-1
John stood up to attention as soon as he saw Sherlock stumble into the flat. He automatically rushed forward to prop him up and take him over to the sofa. The detective winced and hobbled as he was helped across the flat, for John was not careful as he was last time. Now he was absolutely fuming at Sherlock and he wanted him to know that.
"How could you be so damn stupid?" He shouted. Sherlock flinched at his outburst, but he really was too angry to care. "You could've got yourself killed Sherlock and what bloody good would that have done? You think you are so clever, so brilliant that you can go running about London catching mastermind criminals. Well you can't, it doesn't work like that!"
He was leaning down now, his face close to Sherlock's, whose expression was a mixture of shock, confusion and distress. But John had to get out his rage.
"Dammit Sherlock don't you understand what's going on here? He will kill you. He will kill Mycroft; he will kill Lestrade, Anderson, Molly, and Sarah, everyone you have ever known. He will kill me Sherlock."
The detective sat bolt upright, grimacing in pain as he did so, but grabbing Johns hand in his face.
"He will never get to you," he answered through gritted teeth. "And he won't get me either" he added after, mumbling considerably.
"You can't do this," John said, his tone now lowered, but his voice filled with desperation. "You can't take the law into your own hands this time, the risks are too high."
"I am the law," glowered Sherlock.
"You're not this time, it's too dangerous, please, promise me you will listen to me. I won't have you dead."
Sherlock nodded once, in a rather reluctant manner. John sighed and knelt down onto the carpet.
"Tell me the worst of your injuries so I can treat you," he said to the detective, reaching out to touch his bruised face.
"Most are superficial," Sherlock replied. "Will heal in a few days. Ribs are cracked though, and right index finger might be broken. Deep cut on my forehead too, although I'm sure you've noticed that."
John definitely had. Sherlock's face was a mess, covered in bruises and dried blood. The gash on his forehead would take several stitches, but he knew Sherlock would refuse to go to a hospital for any of his injuries.
"Wait there," he instructed as he quickly ran upstairs to fetch his medical emergency bag. He came back down and sat on the floor, opening it to check his supplies. He sat Sherlock upright, and removed his coat and scarf. The detective helped, but was obviously struggling to make movements. John then proceeded to unbutton Sherlock's shirt, slowly so he caused no pain. At least that's what he said out loud, partly he was so slow so he could secretly savour his view. He placed a hand upon Sherlock's chest, feeling around his ribcage, and apologizing every time the detective winced. Sure enough he had damaged two of his right side ribs. He couldn't tell the full extent of the damage without an x-ray, but it seemed the cracks weren't severe enough to have caused any internal bleeding. He removed an elasticised bandage from his bag and wrapped up Sherlock's injured ribs, padding them so they were less likely to be knocked. While he did so Sherlock placed his hands upon John's shoulders, hooking his fingers into his shoulder blades. It didn't feel uncomfortable, despite the amount of pressure Sherlock applied. When he had finished John moved onto Sherlock's finger, taking his hand off his shoulder and placing Sherlock's fingers in his palm. He could tell the broken index finger straight away, it stuck out at rather an alarming angle. There wasn't much he could do except create a splint and bind his middle and index fingers together.
He stood up and kissed Sherlock gingerly on the chest before heading towards the bathroom. He returned with a bowl of warm water and placed it down on the floor.
"Sponge bath time is it?" Smirked Sherlock.
"Shut up you idiot," grinned John. "I need to clean your nasty face."
Sherlock looked at him with mock horror, before sinking into the sofa so his head was at a more appealing level. He closed his eyes and put his palms together in the middle of his chest. John noted that if he hadn't been covered in blood he would have looked positively serene. John mixed sterilising chemicals into the water, and began to wash Sherlock's dirty face and many cuts with a warm cloth. He took care, not wanting to have to look at his face while he winced and cringed with pain. He managed to keep calmly still, and John finished the job quickly and hopefully painlessly.
"I need to stitch this cut," John explained, running his finger across Sherlock's forehead, just above where the cut lay. "I can do it here if you want me to, but it will hurt."
Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "I've had stitches before John, I am aware of the pain that comes with them. You are my doctor John Watson; I trust you and leave my life in your hands."
John couldn't help but smile at this, it was rare for Sherlock to compliment someone else, and John briefly enjoyed the ego boost. He removed the materials he needed out of his bag and readied himself to stitch up Sherlock's head. He ordered the detective to stay still and quickly and steadily sewed up the cut with eight clean stitches.
"There all done," said John, beginning to pack his things away.
"Thank you," replied Sherlock. "I am very tired. I am going to retire to bed now." He sat up, preparing himself to walk to bed.
John couldn't help but feel a little downfallen. He had sort of hoped that after the past few nights, him and Sherlock sharing a bed would become commonplace.
"Okay then," He replied. "I'll head upstairs to bed then too, and see you in the morning."
"Don't be ridiculous!" exclaimed Sherlock grabbing him lightly by the wrist. "I am an injured patient, what makes you think I would retire to bed without my doctor at hand!"
John couldn't help but chuckle at his rash disappointment, and the joy which quickly took hold of him as his flatmate had declared they would once again, spend the night together.
