TITLE: The Other One
CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Six/ Scars
RATING: T (violence/language)
A/N: Can you tell I have my first day off in over a month? Updates galore!
Review please?
Chapter Six: Scars
"Is he alright?" The cab driver threw a concerned glance back at the boy in the mirror.
Sherlock rolled his eyes at the daft question, as the man dripping water and blood was most obviously far from alright.
"Let me turn up the heat," the cabbie offered quickly.
"No," John exclaimed hurried. "If he gets too warm too quickly, he can go into shock."
"Are you sure you don't want me to take you to a hospital instead?"
"I'm a doctor," John shook his head, vividly remembering his patient's panic at the mere thought of going there. "I can take care of him, thank you."
"If you're sure -"
"He is quite sure," Sherlock cut in impatiently. "Now, how about you focus your attention on driving instead of asking stupid questions. Oh, and faster would be preferred."
The driver appeared far more shocked than offended as he notably increased his speed and returned his focus to the road ahead. Within minutes, they were in front of 221B.
John struggled to shift the semi-conscious boy out of the vehicle and was surprised when Sherlock began to aid in his efforts. Tossing money at the cabbie, the detective supported Merlin's upper body while John pulled the young man's legs out the door and into a sitting position. Bending down, John readily lifted Merlin over his shoulders. Although the military maneuver came naturally, John noted that Merlin was far too easy to carry. There was hardly any weight to his lanky figure. That certainly wasn't helping with the sickness that was trying to steal him from the world.
Sherlock had the door unlocked and was holding it open by the time John got there. The army doctor carried his patient up the stairs and into the flat, the detective opening doors and clearing the way as he went. Sherlock gathered a stack of books that had been scattered on the couch into his arms as John laid the man down.
"Blankets," John ordered his friend and Sherlock was off without a word. "And towels!"
Without hesitation, the doctor began stripping the stranger of his soaking scraps of clothing. John was lifting off another layer over Merlin's head when Sherlock returned with a stack of blankets and towels – John's to be precise.
"Get me some clothes," John instructed. "Yours."
"Why mine?" Sherlock was almost pouting and John briefly imagined the grown man stomping his feet.
"Look at the state of him, Sherlock!" John shouted impatiently. "He needs clothes and he's just as much of a bean pole as you."
"I am not perfect healthy and fit. I am not that thin," Sherlock huffed as he stalked to his room.
"No," John whispered as he took away another layer of fabric to reveal rails of limbs, "you're not."
The doctor finally was down to Merlin's undergarments and John almost regretted not just cutting the seemingly unlimited layers away with scissors from the start. He neglected to hesitate before removing the boy's pants and hastily covering his patient's lower half. His clinical eyes scanned the bare body, cataloging every detail, every injury - new, and old.
Between the angry discoloration around his abdomen and John's assessment of the area with his hands, his earlier diagnosis of the boy's ribs was confirmed. His breast was a canvas of black and blue.
There was also an odd and old marking from a burn to the right of the bruising. Above his heart held signs of previous blunt trauma and torn skin. Both of these injuries were only a few years old at the most. There were scars scattered along the rest of his chest and stomach, these far older. These were the types of wounds that told stories. Ones akin to John's scarred shoulder.
John moved his eyes to take in the rest of the prone form.
New bruises were blossoming on his arms, where had had likely been held by one of his attackers if the suspicious finger shaped designs of the discolorations were anything to go by. His knuckles betrayed signs of his defiance and John commended the boy for fighting back.
Merlin's head was still slowly bleeding and the lacerations and bruises on his face made for a disturbing collage.
Sherlock was back again and John snapped into action. He seized the previously discarded towels and began drying Merlin's damp body.
Once John had Merlin dry, the doctor grabbed his blankets - with a silent swear directed at his flatmate - and started the slow process of restoring warmth to his patient. He purposefully avoided Merlin's limbs, trying to deter causing cold blood to travel back to the heart, lungs or brain. The boy's pulse and breathing were already cause for concern and Merlin could easily go into shock at this point. Not to mention the concussion would be bad enough without adding possible brain damage. The head wound was put on the back burner by the doctor for now though. His main focus had to be getting Merlin warm as the boy continued to unconsciously shiver. He could deal with his patient's other injuries once he was in the clear.
No sooner had the thought troubled his mind did the unthinkable happen.
Merlin ceased shivering.
It wasn't the hypothermia, no.
Merlin had stopped breathing.