{Important Post Scriptum at the end... obviously.}


#29 | Doctor

A gunshot sliced through the silence of the night, ripping through the air.

"Sherlock!" John shouted, sprinting toward where the sound had come from. He got to a tiny clearing in the large field made by many trampling feet upon the tall, thick grass. Sherlock was lying on the ground, his forehead bleeding. Movement caught the corner of John's eye and reflexively he looked up to see a dark figure heading away from the small clearing. John quickly raised his gun and fired a couple of shots at the figure. There was a cry of pain followed by grunts and growls, but the rustling of the grass continued and soon faded.

With no threat detected at the moment, John knelt down next to Sherlock. He was still breathing, thank God. The wound on his head, however... wasn't exactly deep but it wasn't exactly a scratch either, and it was bleeding pretty badly.

"Damn it." John muttered under his breath before saying louder, "Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

"John," Sherlock mumbled, his eyelids fluttering for a few seconds before he got them open. "He's… he's… getting away—" Sherlock struggled to get to his feet, but John put a hand firmly on his shoulder, preventing him from getting any farther than sitting. "We… can't let him… get away." Sherlock objected blinking hard and reaching up to touch his wound.

"You're hurt and he's probably long gone by now. In a field like this, when it's this dark out, I doubt we'll be able to find him." John reasoned the doctor side of him kicking in.

Sherlock tried to stand again anyway, but John kept his hand firmly on the detective's shoulder, keeping him sitting.

"That wound is deep enough that it's going to need stitches—" John started.

"I'm fine." Sherlock snapped, swatting John's hand off his shoulder. He attempted to stand again but before John could push him back down into a sitting position, he was already on his feet. This however didn't last very long, for as soon as Sherlock had got to his feet he swayed and his knees buckled. John caught him and set him gently back onto the ground.

"Damn." Sherlock muttered looking annoyed.

"Now are you going to listen to me?" John asked.

Sherlock glared at him which was his way of saying yes and muttered, "Don't suppose you have a medical kit handy? Or maybe a sewing kit?"

"Sorry?" John looked at him confused.

"We're out in the middle of nowhere. It's going to take ages for an ambulance to get here even if we did have service and I'm guessing that you're going to need to close this wound if we're going to be traveling anywhere." Sherlock explained.

"Oh, right. Yes. Well… unfortunately I don't have a medical or sewing kit—"

Sherlock let out a huff and looked away.

"Well, I'm sorry, I'll remember to bring a needle and thread the next time we go chase a criminal just in case one of us happens to have a bullet fly past us, leaving an open wound." John retorted sarcastically.

Sherlock reached for his scarf then, "I'll just put pressure on it until—"

John shook his head. "No, I want to close that up."

"I'll be fine, John." Sherlock insisted.

"I'm not going to take any chances."

"Then what do you suppose we do?"

John smiled. "I think you forgot, Sherlock. I'm an army doctor and a bloody good one at that."

"I never forget." Sherlock told John as he stood and took out his gun. "What are you doing?"

"Improvising." John answered taking out the magazine from his gun and pushing a bullet out while Sherlock bit back the reflex to make a snide comment. Because, as much as Sherlock wouldn't admit it, out loud to his flatmate, his friend, he trusted John with his life.

John knelt down next to Sherlock again while taking the bullet out of the shell casing, then.

"Tilt your head back." he instructed.

"Sorry, what?"

"I'm cauterizing the wound. Tilt your head back." the army doctor ordered again.

Sherlock reluctantly did as he was told and John poured the gunpowder into the wound, getting a wince from Sherlock.

"This next bit's going to be worse." John warned pulling out a matchbook and taking out a match.

"You don't smoke." Sherlock commented looking at the matches in John's hand with slightly furrowed eyebrows.

"Nope, I don't." said John as he took a match out.

"Since when do you carry matches around with you, then?"

"Since I met you."

And before Sherlock could say anything else John struck the match.


Fun Fact: Got this idea from Lost. Yes, indeed, if that cauterizing the wound with gunpowder and a match sounded familiar, that's where I got it from.

For my Guest reviewer, I'm not sure if I'm going to expand on Achilles, but that doesn't mean no, either. So, be on the lookout because I might just post a one-shot/short story for that.

{PS: So, final stretch guys! Any ideas/suggestions of what I should do next month? And before you say Sherlock I'm going to tell you now, I'm not going to do Sherlock. I said I'd switch off each month; HOWEVER, I will come back to Sherlock. I have way too many ideas to just leave it at this. And with the third series coming out soon, I'll probably have even more for you. So, I will be coming back to it… just not next month, as tempting as that is.}

Thank you for everything,
TheBrightestNight