Chapter 5
The living room was quiet, it had lapsed into silence nearly an hour ago. Mycroft had re-opened his laptop some time ago and was still tapping away on it, evidently more interested in his governmental duties than in his little brother. John was still sitting on the floor, leaning against the sofa so that he could check Sherlock's pulse and the circulation in his hand at regular intervals. He really ought to take a cushion from the sofa to sit on as his bum had gone numb quite a while ago and his feet were heading the same way, a result of sitting cross-legged for too long. He hadn't had anything to do in that time but he found his mind had been perfectly occupied with everything that Mycroft had said and the worry he had for his friend.
When the feeling had completely vanished from his feet he decided it was really time to get up, if it was only to restore the circulation to his legs. With a slight huff he pushed himself onto his knees and turned back around to look at the still unconscious face of his friend. Yet again he checked Sherlock's wrist and was relieved to feel the slow, strong pulse beneath his fingertips. He sighed heavily, wondering when his friend would awake and he could tend to his fractured wrist, as he heaved himself to his feet, leaning against the arm of the sofa until the inevitable pins-and-needles left his legs.
He went to the kitchen, his aim on making himself and Mycroft a cup of tea to help the long wait and flicked the switch on the kettle, watching it light up the familiar blue as the bubbles started to form inside it. He stayed in the small, cluttered kitchen as the water boiled, pleased to be out of Mycroft's imposing stare but still not wanting to leave his friend for too long. He made the tea as quickly as he could before he carried the steaming mugs back to the lounge and handing one to Mycroft. He sipped the other as he stood beside the Sherlock's head on the sofa, gently stroking the dark curls as he sipped the tea.
It couldn't have been more than a few seconds later when a familiar, soft groan came from the sofa and Sherlock turned his head slightly, pushing it into John's hand. He groaned again, this one lower, more pained as he rolled onto his side slightly, lifting his left hand lazily towards his head to rub his eyes. John could feet Mycroft watching from the chair and hear the gentle click of the laptop as he shut the lid, his attention focused now only on his younger brother. Sherlock let his arm fall limp again, resting it on his chest as his face screwed up slightly from the pain that was slowly becoming more apparent to his sluggish brain. He let out a small whimper and screwed his face up tighter as he tried to move his right arm towards his body, obviously unsure what to do with it and John felt his heart leap in sympathy for his friend.
Sherlock rolled fully onto his side and pulled his right arm from the table, curling his body around it, his knees up to his chest. He lifted his head slightly, his eyes still shut then let out a grunt as he flopped his head back onto the cushion, his dark curls falling over his eyes as he nuzzled into the pillow. John continued to run his fingers through his friends thick hair in what he hoped was a comforting way, as one would do with a small child. Sherlock appeared to like this as he sighed loudly and let his body relax into John's touch as he drifted back into the emptiness of sleep.
Mycroft relaxed visibly along with his little brother, leaning back into his chair and letting the mug of tea fall to rest on his lap. Then, in true Mycroft style, he reached back down for his laptop, flipping the lid open again in one fluid movement. John stayed by the arm of the sofa, his fingers still entwined in Sherlock's soft curls, not wanting to move to soon and awaken the sleeping man. He studied Sherlock's face carefully, watching as his eyes flittered from side to side behind their lavender lids as he slept. His face was puckered slightly, as though in confusion and there was a shallow scratch on the perfect alabaster skin of his cheek, probably from when he had destroyed his bedroom.
When he was sure his friend was really asleep John carefully freed his hand from Sherlock's unruly hair, letting it flop gently onto the pillow. Gently he crept back around the sofa, once again faced with the prospect of sitting on the floor as he was unwilling to sit in Sherlock's chair and his was still occupied by Mycroft. Eventually he simply took the cushion from the other end on the sofa and dropped it onto the floor. It wasn't exactly comfortable, but it was better than just the wooden floor he had been sitting on before. He leaned back against the sofa, his legs outstretched and the mug of tea still clutched in his hand and shut his eyes, tired from his day at work, Sherlock, and the fact he had eaten very little that day. The mug of tea slowly drooped to his lap and his head dropped to his shoulder as the doctor's exhaustion finally caught up with him.
Mycroft cleared his throat and John jumped forward, startled by the sound and annoyed at the fact he had momentarily drifted off. The clock on the wall told him that he had only been out for ten minutes, quarter of an hour at the most and he sighed in relief. He shifted slightly on his pillow, reminding himself of the full mug still in his hands and he took a sip, desperate for the caffeine to keep him awake. He grimaced in disgust when he realised that it was cold but swallowed it quickly, setting the mug down on the table where Sherlock's arm had once lay. He could hear the calm breathing from the sofa, reminding him that he really ought to check Sherlock's wrist again as it had been moved since his last check and he did not want to take any chances with something to important.
He knelt up once again, pushing the coffee table away from the sofa so that he could get closer to the arm Sherlock now had curled up to his body. He was lying on it slightly, the hand up next to his face and the fingers softly brushing the pale skin of his cheek. The wrist still looked bent but no more so than before and John was pleased to notice the pleasant pinkness in Sherlock's fingers, showing the still present blood was keeping them healthy. John could have sighed in relief and gently reached out to touch his wrist, wanting to check the pulse just to be sure.
Sherlock visibly flinched as John's hand came to rest on his arm. His eyes snapped open as he jolted backwards, away from the touch, sitting up sharply and leaning heavily on his broken wrist. He let out a yelp and pulled his arm up, falling slightly to the right as his support vanished. He leaned back against the arm of the sofa, his legs curled up to his chest, his eyes shut and his breathing heavy, his face scrunched up from the pain.
John jumped backwards, startled by his friends outburst and he heard the sharp snap of the laptop lid as Mycroft sat upright, actually surprised and concerned by the yell from his little brother. The room was quiet, the only sounds the breathing of the three men, John's panicked, Mycroft's anticipating, and Sherlock's little more than a his as he clamped his teeth shut.
Eventually, Sherlock's breathing slowed and he drew in a deep breath, releasing it slowly as he opened his eyes. They searched the room, not really focusing on anything before they finally came to rest on John. Sherlock didn't say anything, his eyebrows furrowed slightly in confusion as he tried to work out what had happened. John held his breath as he waited, trying to anticipate Sherlock's reaction.
"John," he mumbled finally, his voice barely more than a whisper as he unfurled his legs, and sat upright so that he could face his friend.
"Yeah," John agreed, still unsure what state of mind Sherlock was really in. There was another long silence, John not wanting to rush his friend and Mycroft just watching from his armchair.
"I'm okay, just so you know," said Sherlock eventually, his voice stronger now, more like its usual tone and John nearly sighed in relief. He nodded slowly then pushed himself up from the floor, sitting down on the coffee table, still watching Sherlock carefully. He actually did look to be okay and John had to resist the urge to ask Sherlock what he could remember from the evening before. Sherlock's eyes flicked to the window, where the stars glistened in the pink sky, barely visible through the light pollution which made the sky glow a pinkish red behind the buildings.
"I don't remember it, if that's what you're wondering," he continued, surprising John with his uncanny ability to read minds yet again. The doctor could only nod numbly, entirely unsure of what to say to his friend, not wanting to upset him again but not wanting to be too smothering either.
"That's, um, good," he replied eventually, earning himself a slight chuckle from Sherlock as he watched his friend squirm. "Well, not good, but um…" he continued, realising his mistake and then trailing off as his brain failed to supply words to his mouth. He looked down at his hands in his lap and then across at Sherlock's arm that was held limply in his lap, the hand still and alarmingly pale in the dim room.
"You, need to check it again, don't you?" asked the detective, his voice once again blank of emotion as he followed his friend's gaze. He swallowed heavily but let no signs of emotions onto his face. John nodded slowly but didn't move, still dumbfounded by Sherlock's ability to simply carry on. Secretly John knew it couldn't be good, that Sherlock could just forget everything that had happened again, but he tried not to think about it.
Eventually he stood, crossing the room to turn up the lights and fetch his medical kit from his bedroom, more out of habit than anything. Sherlock was still sitting on the sofa when he got back, his arm one again propped up on a cushion on his lap and his sleeve rolled up past his elbow. He was staring across the room at Mycroft, who had opened his laptop and appeared to be completely ignoring his little brother. John wondered if they had argued about something but he had heard no voices at all and had been gone from the room for little over a minute. With a shake of his head he decided to ignore the whole situation with the Holmes brothers and sat back on the table, letting his doctoring instinct take over again.
He studied the arm, trying to spot any differences from the last time he had done this. It was at a slightly different angle, probably from when the detective had leant on it in his startled panic, and there was a significant change in the colour of his ghostly finger tips. He swallowed and rested his fingers gently on Sherlock's wrist, ignoring the involuntary flinch from his patient when their skin touched, and waited for the familiar pulse to jump under his fingers. Thankfully it was still there, but it was still so very much weaker than it should have been.
"Can you feel that?" asked John suddenly, digging his fingernail slightly into the end of Sherlock's middle finger. The detective swallowed heavily and glanced up at his friend, a panicked look on his normally emotionless face. He shook his head slightly and John could have sworn he heard a sharp intake of breath from the Holmes brother behind him. Sherlock's breathing sped again as the panic and fear rose inside him. He stared at his arm for a second, his jaw tight.
"It might be fine," John said calmly, seeing the true extent of the problem settle itself on his friend. "I need to straighten it though," he added, "To get the blood flowing properly, I mean." Sherlock looked up sharply, his breathing still fast with fear. He had always said that his body was just transport, but John knew what the loss of the function of his leading hand would mean to him. Slowly he nodded, knowing it would be the only way. John dipped his head back at his friend and tried to give him a hopeful smile before turning behind him to Mycroft and letting his doctoring knowledge take control.
"Mycroft, I need you to hold his arm sill, just below the elbow," John ordered, actually surprised when the elder Holmes brother nodded silently and crossed the room to sit next to his brother on the sofa, leaving his laptop on the chair on the way. He looked strangely nervous when he saw his brother's arm, shocked by the strange angle at which the wrist was bent and, unknown to John, reminded of the other time he had seen his little brother's arm in such a state. Slowly he rested his hands just below his brother's elbow and waited for instructions. Sherlock tensed a little as his brother touched his arm and closed his eyes tightly. His face was pale, John noticed, but from the pain or the worry he didn't know.
"You know this will hurt," said John carefully, just as a warning more than anything. Sherlock nodded slowly, the fear evident in his eyes as he knew there was no point in trying to hide it now.
John felt the arm, trying to determine exactly where the bones and pins now were. He needed to pull the bones into a more natural position without disturbing the metal plates too much. Sherlock whimpered slightly as John gripped his arm, placing his hands as he had been taught. He looked up at the pale and terrified face of his friend and met his eyes. John couldn't help but feel sorry for his friend as he knew the pain now was nothing compared to what he would feel when the bone was pulled back to the correct position.
"You ready?" he asked eventually, not wanting nor needing to say more. Sherlock nodded again, just a shaky bob of the head, saying he was ready. John caught his friend's eyes once again before he tightened his grip and pulled the bones back into place.
