Title: And A Doctor
Author: Still Waters
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Just playing, with love and respect to those who brought these characters to life.
Summary: It was only when people actually saw John working as a physician that they began to understand: that it wasn't just about bullets and IEDs and trauma care under fire. That "doctor" actually covered a pretty wide field. And that John was bloody good at covering ground. 5 times Dr. Watson treated others and 1 time he treated himself.
Brit-pick: Many thanks, once again, to the wonderful mrspencil, who somehow manages to find time in her busy schedule to cheerfully look over my work and teach me new things.
Notes: This chapter, the longest and most time-intensive in terms of editing, came about because I noticed that John's coats tend to have a lot of pockets. The back story and medical scenario that were born of that observation somehow grew to approximately 5,400 words of action and character study. Thank you to all who have reviewed while following this story – I am trying to get the chapters out as quickly as I can, and so proper review replies have taken a back seat at the moment, but I will certainly be responding and truly appreciate your feedback and support. The final chapter still needs some personal editing before I can send it to my amazing brit-picker, so it will be a few days before it's ready to be posted. I have truly enjoyed writing this series and I'm honored and humbled to hear from so many readers who have been touched personally by some of these medical scenarios. As always, I hope I did the characters justice. Thank you for reading.
5.
This was the John Watson most people imagined.
Running through narrow, murky, moonlit alleys, haring off after an art thief smuggling suspect whose latest operation Sherlock had just interrupted, the sounds of sirens in the background indicating that Lestrade had received John's text about Sherlock's stupid plan, and was bringing assistance while they got themselves caught deeper within the labyrinth of London's alleyways.
John regulated his breathing with unconscious training and squinted through the gloomy night air at Sherlock's flaring coat and, a few paces ahead, the fleeing suspect's back. Something about the way Roger Merrim ran when they interrupted his theft-in-progress set John's instincts on edge. He was particularly attentive to the wealth of information found in how a person ran; observations that had made him aware of underlying pathologies as a doctor, and saved him from physical harm as a soldier. Sherlock, for example, true to who he was, never did anything in halves – when he ran it was at a full sprint, no sign of moderation, with all the singular focus and energy he put into his deductions; whereas John's military training kept him at a solidly quick, but steady pace, sprinting short distances if necessary, but ensuring that he maintained his energy to cover the possibility of long distances or upcoming danger.
But Roger Merrim…he ran differently, unique yet familiar at the same time: a man escaping arrest, fast and hard, yet not quite desperate enough. As if he had some private knowledge that lessened his fear of capture.
As if…..
John flattened himself against the wall as Merrim's sharp turn into an even darker alley on their right was immediately followed by gunfire from one of its bordering rooftops.
…..As if Merrim knew that he wasn't alone; that he just had to get to a pre-arranged point where he'd have cover fire for his escape.
Perfect.
"Sherlock," John hissed. His flatmate had taken cover behind a skip about three meters ahead of him, at the other corner of the alley opening; cover he was about to abandon as he inched away from the solid protection, coiling to run again. "Stay down!"
"He's still close, John. We almost have him," Sherlock pressed.
He was right: Merrim's footsteps hadn't continued far down the new alley. But that in itself was all sorts of wrong. There was no way the shots were friendly fire – Lestrade's squad was just arriving and there had been nothing in John's text to indicate a need for an armed unit. And it couldn't have been an enemy of Merrim's looking to pick him off because of how Merrim had been running. He'd purposefully led them to this area, John was certain of that. But if the accomplice was firing merely to help him get away, why wouldn't Merrim have taken advantage of the distraction and taken off down the alley toward freedom? He had already proven that he could run hard enough. No, there was something else going on here; something putting every one of John's senses on full alert. He was just starting to inch along the wall toward the alley opening to try and get a look around the corner, when Sherlock bolted to his feet.
"Sherlock, don't!" John's throat burned as the shout was restrained to a harsh hiss.
But Sherlock was off like a shot, around the skip and down the alley as John rushed forward, past the edge of the wall and into the opening of the narrow passageway, his screaming instincts exploding into sudden realization milliseconds before it played out right in front of him.
Merrim hadn't gone far because he wanted revenge on the man who had mucked up his plans.
Sherlock made it about five meters down the gritty cobblestones before Merrim stepped out from a shadowed doorway, swinging a massive piece of lead pipe that took Sherlock directly across the chest, throwing him backwards to hit the ground with an impact almost as horrible as the dull ring of metal against fragile tissue.
"Sherlock!" The shout escaped John's control as Sherlock fell, the potential damage running through his clinician's mind with the pace of his galloping heart. Shots rang out in an almost gleeful warning that forced him to sprint forward and take cover behind the skip Sherlock had abandoned.
John took a measured breath and got down to it. Right. Sherlock was down. Blunt force thoracic trauma, unknown status. Two combatants: one known – Merrim - on the ground with a lead pipe, the other – unknown - on the far rooftop, approximately 11 o'clock from Sherlock's current position, with a handgun. Sniper with a firearm would usually be a priority as his presence severely compromised John's movement, but the sniper had had at least three opportunities to shoot one of them and hadn't, which either meant he had orders to threaten rather than to kill or wound, or that he was inexperienced. Merrim, on the other hand, had not only injured Sherlock once already, but going by the fact that John still hadn't heard the pipe drop, was prepared to do so again.
John sank into the clarity danger brought him; adrenaline sharpening his focus, sympathetic response ensuring his body was ready to support him, mind clear, hands steady.
First threat identified, options prioritized.
He pulled out his gun, let out a centering breath as he flicked off the safety, and surged around the skip toward the bit of wall between it and the opening of the alley where Sherlock lay. "Drop your weapon, Merrim!" he shouted, edging closer to the corner.
Nothing.
No…..there. Footsteps. Moving closer to John - and by extension Sherlock - rather than further away. Purposeful. Malicious. And distinctly lacking an accompanying sound of lead dropping to the ground.
"Drop it or I will shoot you," John demanded, his left shoulder just passing the edge of the wall now, into the open entrance to the alley, ready to turn.
Two shots hit the wall near John's shoulder. Right, then. He let out a breath and pivoted sharply around the corner, coming into full view of the alley, yet remaining close enough to the wall that he could take cover again if needed. Merrim was two steps away from Sherlock, tapping the pipe provocatively against his leg, as if thinking about how and where to inflict the worst damage.
And that was just not going to happen.
Merrim had been nothing more than a thief and a smuggler. Now he had threatened one of John's own. And it was true - John didn't trust easily, didn't count many in his inner circle, but when he did, he was intensely and irrevocably loyal. Going after Sherlock, no matter how stupid Sherlock may have been in running off like that, was a mistake.
A mistake that ran a fine line between being very painful or very fatal.
Merrim dropped with a howl, John's bullet tearing through his right shoulder, forcing the pipe to drop from suddenly nerveless fingers.
Two shots slammed into the wall near John's head, sending brick shards flying. He pivoted back around the corner for cover, swiping at a trickle of blood near his left eye, and refocused his hearing as the gunshot echoes faded. Merrim was moaning between ground out screams, panting heavily as he rolled on the ground. But then the movement changed from dragging himself along the ground, to the struggling, pained huff of an injured man pulling himself to his feet. John's eyes narrowed. Any rational person would be dragging himself as far away as he could get after a warning like that. Merrim however, was currently demonstrating his appalling lack of rationality by once again moving toward Sherlock, rather than away.
John took another steadying breath. "Move away from him, Merrim, or the next shot will kill you." It was both a warning and a promise; low, dark, and deadly. The voice of a man who knew what he was capable of and kept his promises. A protector called up into the very height of his oath.
A new sound filled the alley; a syncopated rhythm to Merrim's painful movements. A strangled groan in a voice John knew better than his own, followed by the sudden, marked sound of ragged, dyspneic breathing. Sherlock was still alive then, and had regained enough consciousness to feel his injuries. But that breathing pattern was far more than pain and anxiety. It was nine kinds of not good; the sound of a man in immediate need of emergency medical attention.
John was done playing games.
He had been prevented from reaching patients too many times in Afghanistan and refused to allow it here, in supposedly safer London. He pivoted, hard and fast, around the corner, his torch still untouched in his pocket. He didn't need it. The murky moonlight, an intuitive sense of aim born of practice and training, and a driving need to neutralize the threats so he could get down to his real work, were far more useful than any additional light.
Merrim was pulling himself along the wall near Sherlock's left side, his determined, pinched face focused on Sherlock's unguarded throat.
John's shot took him right through the head, throwing him back and away.
Sherlock's ragged breathing picked up speed, left hand weakly scrabbling at the gritty cobblestones.
The resulting shot from the sniper landed menacingly between John's current position and Sherlock's supine one.
That was a mistake.
John didn't duck back around the corner. He flattened himself against the wall closest to him instead, gaze moving from Sherlock up to the man who dared separate him from his patient and friend; chest tightening with a growl that remained silent but for a hardening of his eyes. "Stand down or I will shoot," he shouted to the roof.
No response.
When John repeated the order, it might have been English; could have been Dari or Pashto or a combination of all three. It didn't matter. Sherlock was weakly trying to tilt his head back, a reflexive attempt to open his airway, the very picture of a man toeing the line between severe respiratory distress and full arrest. The smell of blood and gunpowder was thick among the sounds of impending death, and in that space, where panic was born and resignation and self-preservation often took hold, John Watson was calm. Steady. And had only one response.
No.
John stepped away from the wall, the sniper not only repeating the mistake of putting a bullet between John and Sherlock, but also proving his inexperience by standing up to take the shot, halfway to a run as he realized Merrim was dead.
The moonlight was all John needed to take aim.
If the bullet didn't take the sniper immediately through the heart, it was close enough. He went down without a sound, gun clattering over the ledge to the alley below.
And all that existed was Sherlock.
Keeping his weapon in his right hand, John pulled out his torch with his left and rushed to Sherlock's side, performing a quick check to ensure Merrim was dead while silently cursing how the man fell. He really didn't want to move Sherlock, but Merrim's body, and Sherlock's nearness to the wall, were restricting his access and he needed more space to properly assess him. He briefly shone the torch across Sherlock's face and chest, decision made.
Christ.
Sherlock's eyes were wide with panic, accessory muscles straining to pull in air, chest heaving inefficiently, color leached out of his face toward a disturbingly cyanotic edge. His eyes locked onto John's, the relief and fear in them staggeringly open and unchecked as he struggled to wet his lips.
"No," John cut him off firmly. "Don't talk." His tone was clipped, no extraneous conversation as he tucked his gun away and shifted the torch to his right hand, pulled out his mobile with his left, and hit the speaker button followed by Lestrade's speed dial. "I need to move you so I can get a proper look," he both informed and apologized, tucking the torch under his right armpit and holding the phone against his left ear with his shoulder, barking their location and orders for an ambulance to Lestrade while simultaneously fisting his hands in Sherlock's coat collar and dragging him back from Merrim's body and out from the wall so he had room to work. He dropped to his knees on Sherlock's left side and reached into the detective's coat for his torch, turning it on and laying it on the ground facing the alley opening to assist Lestrade's rapidly approaching squad in finding them while Sherlock struggled to regain the horrible, but slightly less horrible, breathing pattern he'd had before he'd been moved.
John was all efficient movement, quickly, but carefully, removing Sherlock's scarf, easing the feeling of pressure on his throat while opening the area to assessment, and pushing the heavy coat back to expose the damaged chest.
Lestrade and Donovan came rushing around the corner, followed by several PCs.
"Bloody hell," Lestrade breathed, taking in the smell of blood and gunpowder, the sound of Sherlock's ragged breathing, and the very dead man lying nearby. "John?" To Lestrade's credit, the question wasn't one of bewildered surprise or subtle chastisement; it was a simple, straight-forward request for a report, recognizing the severity of the situation and knowing that the full details could wait.
"Merrim's dead. Sniper on the roof," John waved toward the position, "took a bullet to the chest." He was reaching into one of his coat pockets. "I need you and Donovan with me now."
Lestrade nodded quickly, accepting John's command and assessment of the situation. He directed officers to cordon off the areas around the bodies as Donovan radioed their location to the rest of the backup and called for a coroner's van, both of them working while jogging the rest of the way to John's position.
"Oh my God," Donovan breathed, looking down at Sherlock's rough, desperate respirations. Her stomach twisted at the absence of Sherlock in his eyes, everything that was frustratingly him replaced by primal human distress, his focus flickering as it struggled to center on John.
"Donovan," John barked, thrusting gloves and a pair of trauma shears at her. Last name, command-clipped, authoritative without ever raising his voice. She immediately felt herself straighten, focusing on the task at hand. John waved to Sherlock's right side. "I need full view of his chest. Cut the front of the shirt first so I can get in there, then the shirt and coat sleeves after. Understand?"
"Got it." Donovan hurriedly donned the gloves, dropped to her knees on Sherlock's right side, and began cutting.
"Lestrade, get that scarf under his head, keep him quiet, and get me a heart rate." John was pushing Sherlock's shirt aside as Donovan finished the center and moved to the sleeves. He thrust the torch at Lestrade. "And hold this so I can see," he added, eyes rooted to Sherlock's exposed chest, cataloguing observations as his hands sought familiar landmarks.
"Got it," Lestrade parroted Donovan's acknowledgement, dropping down at Sherlock's head and placing the scarf as a thin pillow, looking down into the panicked eyes that drifted in his direction. He knew exactly what John was doing, putting him at Sherlock's head and Donovan to the other tasks. Lestrade had no doubt that John needed him to monitor Sherlock's heart rate and maintain decent lighting for him to work, but he also knew, as John did, that Sherlock would never admit to needing comfort at a time like this. So rather than Donovan, whose relationship with Sherlock was generally rocky and fraught with animosity, John was putting Lestrade, one of the few people Sherlock actually trusted and got on with, in the position of reassuring focal point.
"Just keep breathing. John'll get you sorted," Lestrade said, laying two fingers on Sherlock's carotid and beginning to count.
Even on the edge of respiratory arrest, Sherlock rolled his eyes. Obviously.
"Shut up," Lestrade muttered, even as the normalcy of that response sent a tiny wave of relief through him.
Donovan finished Sherlock's right sleeve and hurried beside John to do the left one.
"Hundred and thirty," Lestrade announced Sherlock's heart rate.
John acknowledged the information with an almost absent-minded nod. His hands were on Sherlock's already bruising chest, both palms flat, measuring the breaths and chest movement on each side, eyes moving with rapid, clinical precision from Sherlock's face to his throat and chest. He removed his hands and rocked back on his heels, lips pursed, expression grave, eyes set in experienced readiness.
Severe dyspnea. Tachycardia and tachypnea. Raised JVP. Hyper-expanded left chest barely moving with respirations. Tracheal deviation to the right. Rapidly progressing hypoxia and impending cardiopulmonary arrest.
Sherlock didn't do anything by halves; it truly was all or nothing. Not talking for days on end, or talking nonstop for hours without breath. Running full speed through alleyways, or sprawling on the sofa and not moving a muscle.
Taking a lead pipe to the chest and coming out with a bloody classic tension pneumothorax.
Lestrade angled the torch over Sherlock's chest. "God," he breathed. "What the hell happened?"
It was a testament to how bad Sherlock was getting that he didn't even try to answer this time. His eyes were fluttering, fighting unconsciousness, desperately trying to focus on John.
"Lead pipe," John replied shortly as Donovan reported she was done with the sleeves and returned to Sherlock's right side. John reached into another coat pocket and tossed a packet at her. "I need a betadine scrub, right along here," he instructed, motioning along the left side of Sherlock's chest between the nipple and clavicle.
"Right," she confirmed, tearing open the packet and leaning over Sherlock to start swabbing. Her eyes flickered between the cut coat and exposed skin. Seeing him like this, stripped of his coat and scarf armor, face open and distressed and dying…..it was a harsh reminder that, no matter what he did to suggest otherwise, underneath it all, he was human. The kind of human that desperately focused on his best friend as he slipped away; an intensity of focus mirrored in how John worked to save him. For all she called him "freak" and knew he was dangerous, she'd never wanted to see him suffer like this, and she certainly didn't want him dead. And while John may have been safer and saner without Sherlock, Donovan couldn't really imagine either of them without the other at this point.
John reached back into his coat as Donovan worked. There was a reason he favored coats with multiple pockets. One of the hardest things about adjusting to civilian life had been the loss of his field kit. He had got so used to carrying it everywhere; the comforting weight and knowledge of having at least some supplies with him for emergency situations. Then he came back to London and walked streets that could just as easily hide rooftop snipers or car bombs or heavily clothed humanized explosive devices and he had nothing on him, nothing to treat the types of wounds those things could cause; the ones that could kill before a call for further support was even made.
Then he met Sherlock, and Mycroft had been right – walking with Sherlock was a battlefield. It was kidnappings, shootings, bombings, and unpredictable people; constant danger and running into unknown situations. And while he and Sherlock survived most of them amazingly intact, there were some potential injuries and complications that would quickly be fatal without proper, immediate field treatment. John knew he couldn't realistically run around London after Sherlock with a full field kit, but he was a doctor: he knew how to prioritize supplies and triage potential possibilities. So he started carrying a few things with him beyond the exam gloves that were always tucked in one pocket. Even with body armor, he'd seen a lot of thoracic trauma in Afghanistan; could practically diagnose a tension pneumothorax with his eyes closed. Death was quick to follow if one little thing wasn't put to immediate use after making such a diagnosis.
So John pulled a long, 14 gauge catheter from one of his pockets, changed his gloves, and prepared for needle decompression.
Sherlock startled at the loss of the betadine swab's cold bite as Donovan finished; rapidly losing consciousness, yet still fighting to catch John's eyes, ignoring Lestrade's close voice and soothing, "take it easy."
John's eyes snapped briefly to his left, drawn to Sherlock's unspoken need; a split-second meeting of gazes as his fingers found the center of Sherlock's left clavicle before he focused his attention back on Sherlock's chest. But while Sherlock lost John's eyes as the physician continued his efficient work, he gained his voice. John started to talk. And this time it wasn't the command-clipped tone of Captain Watson, experienced trauma physician, giving orders. It was the calm, matter-of-fact voice of a friend – Sherlock's friend – explaining everything he'd seen and was about to do, paring it down to the basics while still using full scientific terminology. What, at first glance, seemed like an incredibly out of place teaching moment, was actually John giving Sherlock exactly what he needed; exactly what would soothe him.
Data.
"Tension pneumothorax. Your left lung's collapsed and mediastinal shift is compromising venous return to your heart. Each inhalation brings more air into the pleural space that can't escape." John glanced into struggling eyes that somehow still held a spark of intense focus as they latched onto his words. "That doesn't mean you should stop breathing," he warned Sherlock, before softening slightly and adding, "but close your eyes if you need to." He handed the catheter to Donovan and explained how to peel open the packaging so he could grab it, then resumed his simple recitation tone with Sherlock, who had actually allowed his eyes to close, letting John's words wash over him.
"Immediate treatment is needle aspiration, performed at the 2nd intercostal space, mid-clavicular line." Two fingers of John's right hand slid over the betadine to the landmark between Sherlock's 2nd and 3rd ribs, his index finger marking the 3rd rib as he reached across Sherlock's chest with his left hand for the catheter, gripping the top of it as Donovan peeled the rest of the packaging away. "A 14 gauge IV catheter is inserted into the pleural space….." He pushed the needle straight down into Sherlock's chest just over the top of the 3rd rib and smiled tightly at the sudden hiss of air coming from the site. "…..To allow the excess air to escape."
Donovan and Lestrade's eyes widened at the sound - like air being let out of a tire - as Sherlock's eyes snapped back open, some of the tension leaving his face; his breathing, while still rough, easing significantly.
"The catheter is advanced and maintained until further treatment," John continued smoothly in his 'for Sherlock' tone, easing the catheter down until the hub was flush with Sherlock's chest wall, removing the needle, and taking the empty packaging from Donovan to use as a makeshift sharps disposal. He held the catheter in place with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand while reaching back into his coat for some tape. "Better?" he asked Sherlock quietly, clinical eyes noting the decreased dyspnea and other small improvements along with the improved level of consciousness.
"Obviously," Sherlock croaked.
John rolled his eyes and huffed a small half-chuckle, a smile quirking his lips, easing some of the focused tension around his mouth.
"I've never experienced that procedure before," Sherlock gasped.
"Well, congratulations. Now you have. Let's try and avoid experiencing it a second time, shall we?" John said mildly. "Sally," he glanced back to Donovan. Her head snapped up, the switch to more familiar first names a jarring change after everything that had just happened; his next words still steady and confident, but more of a request than an order, the emergency doctor stepping back a bit for the local GP. "Can you hold the catheter while I anchor it?" he asked, nodding toward the tape in his other hand.
Her eyes widened nervously for a moment before settling into the determined readiness that had moved her through the police force. "Of course," she agreed, moving to mimic John's grip.
"Just like that, great. Thanks," John nodded, stripping off his betadine stained right glove and using the ungloved hand to tear strips of tape.
"Blimey, John. How much do you keep in that bloody coat?" Lestrade finally asked, gaping at the deceptively filled pockets.
"Just what I need," John shrugged dismissively, reaching around Donovan's grip to tape the catheter in place. "How's his heart rate?" he asked Lestrade as sirens began echoing off the alley walls.
Donovan tipped her head at the sound and, with John's nod, jogged off to direct the paramedics.
"Hundred and ten," Lestrade reported with a frown. "Still a bit high, isn't it?"
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, his eyes promising a characteristically acerbic retort, but John shut him up with a solid glare. "Don't," he said firmly. "You're still down a lung and believe it or not, smart-arse remarks are not a priority with compromised oxygenation. Just breathe."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but kept quiet, yielding to his body's needs only with John's insistence.
"Releasing some of the trapped air doesn't reinflate the lung. He'll need a proper chest tube in hospital for that," John explained to Lestrade. Honestly, the fact that Sherlock hadn't arrested right off with that blow was damn near miraculous. "110 after massive thoracic trauma and emergency needle aspiration is pretty bloody impressive," he said, finding himself smiling back as Sherlock's eyes sparkled with pleasure, taking the statement as praise.
Donovan came hurrying around the corner with the paramedics. John fired off a quick report, assured Sherlock he'd ride with him, then warned him to behave as he got up to give the paramedics more room to work, joining Lestrade a few paces away.
"Remind me never to get between you and a patient," Lestrade said quietly, glancing over at where Donovan had slipped away to check on a PC's progress. He was a bloody good DI; good enough to know exactly what had happened in that alley. "Sure glad you're on our side, mate," he let out an impressed breath.
John stiffened, swallowing uncomfortably at Lestrade's insight, even as he wasn't surprised that the DI had figured it out.
"Ready, Doctor Watson?" one of the paramedics called, standing up as he fastened the last strap around Sherlock.
John tilted his head toward the stretcher, eyebrows raised as he sought Lestrade's permission to leave the scene; the same silent 'may I?' gesture he respectfully used before inspecting corpses.
"Off you go," Lestrade waved John toward the paramedics with a small smile. "Someone needs to help those poor bastards deal with him," he cast a pitying look at the ambulance crew.
John blew out a breath that was half-gratitude, half-chuckle. "Yeah," he sighed. "Thanks."
Lestrade nodded, both in acknowledgement of the thanks, and confirmation of the layers of meaning John infused into that single syllable.
With a quick dip of his chin, John spun on his heel and jogged off after the departing paramedics.
Donovan stepped up to Lestrade's side, watching them go. "You know, for someone who probably doesn't even believe in luck, the freak's sure got a bloody lot of it," she mused aloud.
"What?" Lestrade forced his attention back to the present.
"Not many people out there who would do all this," she waved at the scene, "just for a chance to try and save the bastard's life."
Lestrade's head whipped around to find Donovan giving him a wry smirk; her eyes resigned, yet understanding. I know exactly what happened here. I may not like it, but don't worry, I'll keep my mouth shut.
Lestrade smiled tightly. Of course she knew. Donovan was a smart woman; had a good eye, like him. And he realized her response probably would have been different had it been Sherlock doing the shooting rather than John, but he appreciated it all the same.
Donovan nodded once and strode off, back to work.
Lestrade turned around to face the scene and ran a weary hand through his hair, trying to figure out how the bloody hell he was going to report how two criminals were shot dead while being pursued by two supposedly unarmed civilians.
Because the military-trained doctor most certainly did not have a handgun.
Illegal, that was.
"I can't believe you had Donovan cut off my coat," Sherlock groused the next afternoon, propped up in bed and glaring at the incentive spirometer on his over-bed table as if it had personally offended him.
"Yes, well, I figured dramatic coats are replaceable. Dramatic consulting detectives on the other hand…." John shrugged.
"Hmmm, true," Sherlock's lips quirked, acknowledging what was left unsaid. He picked at the chest tube dressing, watching John lean forward to lift the tubing, allowing the accumulated blood to drain down into the collection device on the floor.
"It's a closed system, Sherlock," John sighed, recognizing the light of potential experimentation in his flatmate's eyes. "You can't just crack it open and help yourself to a sample of thoracic drainage."
"Surely they have no need for the container once it's full," Sherlock pointed out.
John sighed again, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. "You do realize that hospitals are actually obligated to follow proper biohazard disposal procedures, right?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes and shrugged; a 'rules are dull and don't apply to me' dismissal. He focused back on John's drawn face. "You still haven't slept," he noted.
John shrugged self-consciously and shifted his attention to the window, avoiding eye contact.
Sherlock paused for a moment, studying him. "You can hardly expect to keep saving my life with such efficiency without proper sleep," he finally stated, smirking as John straightened in his chair, accepting the challenge as intended.
"I haven't had a proper night's sleep since we met," John scoffed.
Sherlock wisely refrained from pointing out that John hadn't slept well before their meeting either, between Afghanistan and its resulting nightmares. Sherlock may not have had much use for being tactful, nor was he always the most emotionally observant of people outside of what he needed to manipulate others, but he knew John well enough to see the shadow in his eyes; the one that said he was already sharing Sherlock's thoughts - recalling the memory of the place that had helped shape and train him to kill in order to protect Sherlock Holmes.
"And I wouldn't have had to save your life if you hadn't run off after I specifically warned you not to!" John added, exasperation, adrenaline crash, and resignation warring for dominance in his tone.
"Perhaps I should listen next time," Sherlock said wryly, running a hand over his bandages. No one else would have done what you did for me. More importantly, no one else could have done it the way you did.
"You won't," John pointed out wearily. I'd do it again in a heartbeat and you know it. Just please try not to make me have to anytime soon.
"I'll try?" Sherlock offered. I'm sorry. You were absolutely brilliant.
"All right," John conceded, releasing a weary chuckle and taking Sherlock's words for what they were. Thanks. Glad you're going to be okay.
"Go home and sleep, John," Sherlock ordered quietly.
"Yeah, all right," John scrubbed his hands across his face again and dragged himself upright with a groan. "You sure you're okay?" He'd seen Sherlock's chart of course, but that's not what he was asking. He remembered the fear in those eyes.
"Fine," Sherlock dismissed with a vague wave of his hand.
"I'll be back in a few hours. Text if you need anything," John shrugged into his coat.
Sherlock made an acknowledging grunt and picked up the incentive spirometer, turning it over with a scientist's deconstructive eye.
John rolled his eyes, pitying the nurses who had to encourage him to do his coughing and deep breathing exercises, and went to call a cab.
He was back at Baker Street and settling into bed when his phone chirped.
Thank you, John. SH
A warm smile softened John's exhausted features at the significance of those three simple words. Saving the text with the same gratitude and reverence with which he saved cards, letters, and dog tags from previous patients, he closed his eyes and fell into a restful, dreamless sleep.