I know this isn't perfect, and my medical knowledge is pretty limited. But I hope you like this anyway. I'm so, so sorry for how late this is; my only excuse, pitiful as it is, is that I've been busy and/or distracted by other things. I'll try to post more often, if I get enough enthusiasm from my audience. Also, for those of you reading The Grinning Gargoyle, I do have an idea of what I want to write next, I'm just a little stuck with how to write the next part. I promise, I'll continue it. Also, I'm sorry, but I do pick on Sherlock a little bit here, because I think he occasionally needs a taste of humble pie.
They made a very quick stop at the Watsons' house-John barely took the time to grab his bag and explain to Mary that he was helping a friend in need before dashing out again-and then Emery gave the cabbie instructions to take them to Kensington Gardens. As they headed there, Sherlock continued to ponder this strange young man. So far he had been able to ascertain that he had grown up with his mother, had a particular fondness for pastries, had a strange scar on the back of his neck, and was not going by his real name. He was also loyal, intelligent, secretive, and brave. And something else, something he really didn't understand...something about this boy seemed unusually, well, powerful (the only word he could think of to adequately describe him). Like even though he was a scrawny boy, he could destroy them and everything else in this neighborhood if he wanted to. Sherlock didn't understand, and he didn't like not understanding. It made him irritable when he didn't know something; all he knew was that it probably had some correlation with the way the boy's eyes had changed color earlier, just before the cab pulled up.
Though his natural instinct was to dismiss that as a trick of the light, or another hallucination, something about this felt too different. He decided the best thing was to keep gathering data, and see what else he could learn about Emery.
As soon as the cabbie stopped at Kensington Gardens, the boy was leaping out of the car, dragging John with him and (for once) leaving Sherlock to be the one to pay the fare. He did so very grudgingly, not sure he appreciated how the tables were turning. By the time he turned back, they were already gone down one of the paths. Now he was sure he didn't appreciate how the tables were turning; he always wanted to be the one leading the pack, because that was his role in the world. If other people were too slow to keep up, in either a mental or physical sense, that was their problem. Unable to prevent a growl of frustration, he hurried to catch up with them.
John hurried after the strange young man who needed his help, the excitement and urgency meaning that his leg didn't even think of having a psychosomatic limp. They heedlessly crossed the grass, until finally they came to Round Pond. To John's surprise, there was an old, wooden boat floating on it, close to the shore, and when they got close, he could see that inside lay another young man, blond this time, and more muscular than his friend. What made him even more distinct was the fact that he was wearing what looked like chainmail of some kind; actual chainmail, and armor, and a long red cape. One gloved hand lay over his left shoulder, and John saw that the mail underneath was stained with scarlet. No question about it, he was hurt.
"Arthur!" the boy called, shaking him slightly.
The older boy barely stirred.
"Let's get this onto the shore," John interrupted, grabbing the prow of the boat and starting to pull it in. "I can treat him better if he's not in the water."
After another distraught moment, Emery jumped in the pond himself, managing to tread water to keep himself upright, and began to push from the other side, showing unusual strength for one so skinny. At some point during the process, Sherlock showed up, and without asking questions helped John to pull.
Once the boat was out of the pond, the boy pulled himself out of the pond, quite waterlogged but completely oblivious to his new dampness, and looked down frantically at his friend.
"Arthur! Arthur, wake up! I've brought help!"
"Ugh," Arthur moaned.
"Arthur, please!"
John gently nudged him to the other side, and after donning a pair of rubber gloves, he removed the boy's hand from his shoulder, so he could look at the wound.
"We'll have to get him out of this," he concluded, indicating the chainmail. "Sherlock, help me."
Grimly the detective helped sit Arthur up, and begin maneuvering him so they could get him undressed. As they did, the young man moaned, and reflexively clutched the at the wound again. His face scrunched up in quite obvious agony, and so they were forced to stop, helplessly.
"How do we get this off?" John asked, automatically looking to Sherlock for a solution. In hindsight, he realized he could possibly have asked Emery; the boy didn't seem at all surprised about his friend being dressed like that, so he must have been familiar with it, and might know how to remedy the situation. However, he was also used to his friend being the one with all the solutions.
"It appears to be the kind that slips on over one's own attire, so we can't unfasten it at all. We'll just have to pull it off."
"Right." Though he knew how much that would hurt the patient, John also knew they hadn't time for a different solution. So he finished moving Arthur into a sitting position, and removed his cape, before preparing to ask the other men's help in standing him up. But then something else interesting happened: Emery thrust out his hand, and muttered something in what sounded like a foreign language; as he did, his eyes turned gold again, and with a clinking noise, the chainmail just fell apart, leaving Arthur bare-chested, and with a visible gaping wound in his shoulder.
A now utterly shocked John looked to Sherlock for a possible explanation as to what had just happened. That had definitely not been a hallucination; they could both feel Arthur's skin where there had once been cold metal and an old shirt underneath, and see the many links now lying in the bottom of the boat. There were no strings attached that either of them could see, and Arthur was genuinely injured, so he couldn't have been involved in making it fall apart. The only explanation John could think of was that somehow, by making his eyes turn colors and muttering that phrase, whatever it was, Emery had been able to make the shirt fall apart. But the explanation, when he thought about it...no, no, it was too ridiculous. It had to be. That wasn't real. Right?
Sherlock looked equally flabbergasted. He stared hard at Merlin, and said in a strangled tone, "Explain."
The boy looked mildly terrified, but said only, "I can't right now. Fix Arthur, and I swear I'll explain everything."
"I'll try, but I honestly think we should call an ambulance," John said softly as, adapting to the new situation, he produced some peroxide and a few other surgical instruments from his bag.
"I can't; I don't know how he'd take it."
"What do you mean?"
"He's never been in a hospital before; I don't want him to feel too uncomfortable here before I can help him adjust somewhat. Besides, they'd ask all kinds of questions that he really can't answer, and-"
His explanation was interrupted by Arthur making a strangled sound of pain; John had just poured peroxide into the wound, and was examining the inside for any intrusions, or to see if it had punctured anything important. He was in better condition than he could have been; apparently the wound had missed anything important, but it was definitely going to need stitches. The main problem, besides that, was that he had lost a lot of blood, judging by his pale complexion.
As he mused, he barely noticed that Arthur's eyes had opened, and the patient was staring at him in a mixture of confusion and fear.
"It's all right," he reassured him, "I'm a doctor. I'm here to help."
The younger man squinted, and murmured something that sounded like, "Where's Gaius? Where's-"
Emery made a small choked sound. "Gaius is gone. But I'm right over here. It's okay, we can trust them."
Arthur's head swung around in his direction, and his body sagged in relief.
"There you are, Merlin. I was wondering where you'd gone."