Disclaimer:Nothing mine, of course. A.N. I know, I know, love, your birthday bit was tiny, apologies...I have another bit for you, though (still not all, sorry. I promise, in time.)
Sherlock didn't feel safe until he was locked in the bunker. Thrice. Ok, time for assessment. He dreaded what he would find...Comminuted fracture of the radius? Deep lacerations already infected with whatever pathogen distorted his perception? Bite or no bite, humans weren't canids...He'd obviously superimposed the images of his two foes. No wonder he wasn't an effective opponent. He would have to call John, no doubt...and the doctor's scolding, no matter how well deserved, would hurt him more than whatever care would be administered. He hated being the stupid one. Especially when it was true.
The sleuth stared at the wound. He was usually good at gauging the seriousness of harm, but the drugs must have been fucking his self-perception, too, lowering his pain threshold to embarrassing level...because, while there was blood (an oddly high quantity...maybe the dog had been disturbed during a bloody meal?) there was, in fact, no wound at all. A deep imprint of teeth, sure, but nothing for John to suture. Had he managed to escape before the dog could plunge his teeth into him fully? Then why did he feel so much pain still? Any soreness from an almost-wound should long be gone.
Fucking drugs. It must be them. Why did he always have to stumble on drugs?
No matter what he told himself he should be feeling, the pain was still there – if anything, it seemed to be growing. Dizziness and a ferocious headache joined in. Damn it. He lay on the floor, trying to get into recovery position. If he was lucky, he'd sleep the drugs off.
He did lose consciousness, that was for sure. When he came to, the following morning, he wasn't in any pain, except a low buzzing at the back of his mind...as if a particularly annoying mosquito kept flying around his ears. The bunker was bug-free, though. Oh, and starving. But that was easily remedied.
Ok, this was odd. Apparently he'd tried to soothe the munchies even during the time he'd deleted. Not all night asleep, then. And if he'd just eaten, nothing odd in that. One good thing of the bunker was that it'd been stocked – and when people forgot about it, they forgot about that, too. Who cared about a few old cans of whatever passed for food decades ago? Jello something, probably. A few cans lay on the floor, all around him...and none had seen a tin opener (third drawer). Some had been smashed, deformed until they broke, and others...these indents weren't made by a slipped tin opener. No, they looked most like claws.
Looking around, more clues pointed to a rampaging animal let loose inside. Sherlock ran to the door – nope, still locked. Thrice. Then again, if a hungry, angry beast managed to slip in during the night, why hadn't it feasted on the unprotected human inside, instead of attacking the tinned food?
Nothing made sense. He sighed, blinked – almost expecting the whole room to change back to its usual appearance – and then shrugged. This wasn't a mystery he could solve for now. Food and John (John and food?) were his next priorities. His limbs might be intact, but there was definitely something wrong with him. Hopefully John would just hand him a pill and set his brain straight.
His mind might refuse to work properly, but his senses were on overdrive, that wet London morning. They were always sharp – that was the point of observing, after all – but today, everything was amplified. Smells. It was as if all cars had swapped motors overnight for old ones emitting much worse exhaust. Sounds. How likely was it that everyone walking was an American tourist, or at least shared that nation's contempt for soft sounds? Colours, instead, were oddly muted, or plain wrong.
Sherlock instinctively. shook his head. It was stupid, it wouldn't settle him...only it did, a bit. Colours came back, in all their shades. After a short while, sounds stopped giving him a headache. Smells, though, refused to fade back to acceptable level. Thankfully, by then he'd found a cab. Soon enough, he'd be at home, safe from all stench. And with John. Everything would be okay.
Everything was not okay. He'd just walked in when John gave him an once-over and growled. And if it wasn't bad enough, John smelled weird – almost like the...dog yesterday? Not the same, definitely not. But...odd.
Sherlock almost took a step back, but this was his home, and John, and fuck it, he wasn't going to be cowed. Especially not when he needed help. It'd set a bad precedent. So instead he plopped on his armchair, asking, "What's your problem?"
"Who dared?" There was no hint of growl anymore in his voice. In fact, John sounded absolutely calm. Drop everything and run if you know what's good for you John could be reasoned with, or even fought. This one was a breath away from murder. And while his sentence made clear he wasn't planning to murder Sherlock just as of yet, it was enough to make him ponder the answer.
"It was a burglar, I didn't know there would be drugs, really – "
Before he could go on to promise he wouldn't face violent criminals (and their pets) without John's assistance anymore, or ask how John could deduce his unwitting use, his blogger laughed. Odd reaction, but Sherlock relaxed. No murder was imminent anymore.
"Drugs. Of course you'd assume drugs. Oh God, where have you been tonight? We have to check..."
"Assume? You might be the doctor, but I know drugs when I'm exposed, thank you very much. In fact, my nose is still out of order – because I inhaled it, I'd say. And no worries, I've been at one of my boltholes...it's...well, it looked to be in an odd state, but even if most of what I've seen was true, nothing irreplaceable was lost." The sleuth glared.
"No blood?"
Oh. So John's doctorly instinct were back online. Thank God. Sherlock repressed a relieved sigh. "No...well, a bit, I thought it was mine, but it couldn't have been."
John frowned. "This morning?"
"Yesterday night, but what does it matter, I wasn't up to showering yesterday – in fact, I think I'll go." Surely any treatment could wait ten minutes. And hopefully, after his flatmate would stop the interrogation and get to cooking. Or healing. Or both.
The warm water was blissful...until he noticed it. It couldn't be a bite scar – not since it was already formed minutes after the bite, especially what felt like a vicious one. But if it was just the imprint of teeth that never pierced him, it should be long gone hours later. Sherlock rubbed his eyes. He'd thought that his eyes went back to their proper function, but what if they didn't? How can he work anymore? Breathe. He needed to breathe. His doctor was here.
Usually the detective rushing from the shower still half-dripping, bundled in a bathrobe didn't make John even look twice. But usually Sherlock was after an experiment, or a case, and didn't stop right in front of him, with an almost lost look in ever-changing eyes. "Do you see that?" he asked.
John's nostrils flared. "I do, but try not to flaunt it at me, will you? Jury's still out."
"It shouldn't be there."
"Definitely not. The bastard should have known better."
The conversation was interrupted by a loud growl...from Sherlock's own stomach.
The doctor sighed. "Of course you didn't eat properly – before or after. Thank God we're well stocked. Sit down, I'll find you something."
Sherlock wasn't going to argue with that. It wasn't his usual fare – his experiments were enough to put him off meat often – but the tartare, followed by a toast slathered with abundant sausages, was exactly what he needed. "Ta," he mumbled, mouth full. Weirdly, the meal seemed to settle his tinnitus too – so continuous he'd forgotten about it.
John smiled at him, once he could use the plate Sherlock had been given as a mirror. "Put something on, please, and then we'll need to have a talk."
Odd. John was an army doctor. He'd never minded his flatmate in various states of undress, if there was something to check. And surely, the...whatever it was, involving teeth, should deserve a look, even if it wasn't actively hurting or bleeding. If only because it was a mystery. Given his flighty moods today, though, the consulting detective decided to go along with the request. He could always undress back, after all. Wait...who exactly was giggling in his mind palace? He wasn't sure. How couldn't he be sure?
Never mind. He'd work that out later. A quick dry off, and rather than dressing up (what for?) he put on the softest pair of pajamas he owned. Next step: explain to John that it was totally drugs. Among other things, perhaps. How had his friend missed the obvious?
A.N. (again) Just a tiny reminder to my American friends...we Italians are just as loud, if not worse. ;D That sentence just slipped out. Please, don't be offended.