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Disclaimer: 'Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. You recognize it, I don't own it.
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The flat was calm and peaceful, a stark contrast compared to the hectic crime scene they left behind. Sherlock made a beeline to the mirror without removing his coat, plucking photos off with flourish and letting them fall freely all over the floor.
"Right." Joan looked around, wobbling slightly. I need a shower.
She tugged her dirty coat off, not daring to think about the dry-cleaning fee, somehow managed to remove shoes without falling down head first (once again), and had already made considerable progress towards the bathroom when her flatmate materialized at its door. Joan arched a tired eyebrow, then winced. Her head felt like one big bruise. All attempt at a facial expression hurt. "Can't I have dibs on the hot water tonight?"
The detective adopted a no-nonsense voice. "You have suffered a concussion. You should not be left alone on slippery surfaces." At first, she felt touched by the concern, before fully realized what the git implied.
"No" the soldier growled.
"But John…"
"You are not watching me in the shower!" And I really hope there were no microphones to catch this particular dialogue either. "No" she repeated forcedly, seeing as he made to argue. "Not negotiable. Out of my way." The man continued to scowl. Mellowing slightly, and cursing herself for it, Joan sighed. "I won't latch the door. If I fall, you have my permission to come in to help." It seemed to suffice, since the way to the long-awaited shower reopened at last.
Gooooood, it feels heavenly. Joan was soaking under the warm stream, the rusty red hue of blood in the water fading to usual transparency by the minute. Her thoughts cleared a little, but the dizziness stayed. Hydration and sleep. Call Stamford for a CT scan first thing in the morning. Two wake-up calls in the night, will have to note the times and perceived condition somewhere. The mental to-do list grew a little too long for her current state, and she switched her attention back to the cooling water.
Wrapped in the fluffy bathrobe, Joan sat on the closed toilet lid, slowly massaging the towel over her hair. The condensation twisted around her, lulling her senses into sleep. The yawn pulled her skin, causing the freshly scabbed gash over the right ear to split open again with a sting. "Damn" she muttered under her breath. Wiping the mirror clean, the medic assessed the damage.
Her dirty blond hair was still short, merely falling over her ears in a clumsy bowl cut, allowing an easy access to the injury, and for once she felt vaguely grateful for the hairstyle her sister imposed on her (bowl cut, really, Harry, that's your best shot?). The wound definitely needed stitches. Sighing, Joan pried open the cupboard under the sink with her left foot and was about to search for her medi-kit, when the door flew open, letting in a gust of cool air and a scowling Sherlock who had finally shed his coat and even changed his shirt. "Jesus, Sherlock!"
He strode in the small space, gently pushing her back to sit on the closed lid, and knelt in ominous silence. After some fumbling in the darkest recess of the cupboard (who knew what he kept in there), he produced the small toiletry bag in which she stored some basic medical equipment. I am too tired to play games. "What are you doing?"
"You need stitches."
"Yes, and I am more than able to do them myself."
His eyes flared for a second before he rumbled in a bored tone: "You haven't slept for over thirty hours, except that thirty-minutes nap in the Tube." Damn, of course he noticed. "Not the worst you have done, presumably, given your previous occupations, but you never roamed the town with a concussion for so long. Your senses are dulled, and you are still dizzy, evident by the unstable stance and frequent blinking – trying to reassert spatial coordination. Your hands are steady – which is remarkable by the way – but you are not in a proper state to guide them to do the right thing, not even to undo knots, let alone for a simple medical procedure. I, on the other hand, have full use of my capacities and have been fully trained in field medicine." At her very disbelieving huff, he amended: "I had some practice."
Joan peered at the man in thought. There was no doubt he was capable of doing a couple of stitches, she had gathered as much from the bits and pieces he sometimes let on about his previous cases. Having noticed a long, thin faded scar on his left calf once, which had clearly been self-medicated, concurred to this assumption. However, he was displaying an unusual level of concern, and it nagged at her. Is it an experiment? Is he genuinely worried? If so, what should I deduce about this self-proclaimed sociopath? It felt like too much thought for the moment, though. "If you disfigure me, your coat is going to get it" she sighed in defeat and tilted her head to the side.
Surprisingly gentle fingers ghosted over her temple, fixing the damp hair aside with a hairclip. A wet cotton pressed on the cut, burning with disinfectant. She didn't hiss. It isn't really pain. Then a cool swap of anesthetic balm, and all touches became dulled in that area.
Sherlock worked in silence, intent and efficient. It took him less than five minutes to apply the three stitches, disinfect again and lean back to admire his work. "You can use my room tonight" he said over his shoulder while storing away the med-kit. "Stairs are not recommended in your condition, and it'd be easier to wake you every hour for check-up."
"Twice a night should be ok, though." She wanted to protest more, but the suggestion was sensible. "I'll call Mike to arrange a CT scan next morning."
They exited to the hallway, and Joan was only half-surprised to have her pajamas tossed at her. "I'll text him now" Sherlock announced, and disappeared in the living room. Shrugging, the very tired woman dragged her feet to the nearby room, and without bothering to change collapsed on the bed. She was asleep seconds after her head touched the pillow.
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Sherlock found her snoring softly half-seated, half-sprawled on the side of his bed, pajamas cradled with one hand against the chest, and bathrobe slipping dangerously from one shoulder. Snorting in amused surprise, he gently pulled her legs on the bed and covered her with several blankets. A bottle of water was positioned on the floor near the bed. After all, it wouldn't do to lose the person who managed to occasionally feed him. Plus, the prolonged stay of the ex-army doctor confused Mycroft to no end, which was just delightful.
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Her sleep was restless, incoherent dreams nagging at her with a foreboding sense of loss and lateness. She vaguely remembered Sherlock waking her up two times, silver eyes glinting in the semi-darkness of the room, asking her simple questions ("How old are you?", "Where did you train?", "Where do you live?"). Around seven o'clock, ingrained training kicked in, and Joan woke up. Unfamiliar surroundings had been confusing (and worrying) at first, before the brain came back online, and she relaxed, glancing around curiously.
Sherlock's room was unexpectedly tidy. There was no chaos which defined their common space, no papers or clothes lying around in heaps and piles. You can even see the floor, wow. Heavy dark green curtains were half-drawn, and sunrise's warm light filtered through small cracks. His sheets smelled nice, she noted absently, trying to determine if the small spot on the wall over her head was grease or paint. Well, the man is the synonym of wealthy, despite needing a flatshare. Rich boys and trust fund problems, I don't even want to know. There were no photos or small souvenirs, except for a large Mendeleev's table on the farthest wall and strangely enough five colorful pins in a smallish glass case.
Rolling over to sit up, Joan gingerly touched her head. The right side was tender. Overall, she still felt sluggish and clammy. Well, maybe you should have changed into pajamas before falling asleep, John, a small disapproving voice whined in her mind. She ignored it in favor of stretching sore muscles and taking a large gulp of water from the helpful bottle at her feet.
"Ah, you're up." The silky baritone from the doorway made her startle.
"Yeah" she replied, pretending they both didn't notice it. "Morning."
"Stamford slotted you for a CT scan at ten. You have time to shower and change, and Mrs Hudson will bring the breakfast up soon." He disappeared in the hallway as suddenly as he came.
"Sherlock!" Joan called out. The mop of unruly hair popped back in. Unsure of how to express the fondness and the gratitude she was currently feeling towards the man, she simply smiled (it might have come out a little too tired). "Thank you." He just huffed off-handedly in reply.
She was in the shower, juggling the bottle of shower gel while trying to not wet the stitches, when Sherlock shouted from behind the door: "Hillary?"
What?... Oh, for God's sake…! "GO AWAY!"