Chapter 9: Stitches
Sherlock rolls enough to kick the door closed behind them. He reaches up and locks it for good measure, and then slumps against the door, pressing his wounded hand against his coat, and holding his other arm against his ribs. "John Watson!" he shouts. "Calm down right now!" He remains on the floor, knowing that makes him less of a threat.
John freezes, but his eyes are glassy, his stare a thousand yards, and he's gasping and shaking. His wings thrash agitatedly, scraping against the wall and tangling in the rails of the banisters. Sherlock doesn't move. He lowers his voice, uses his egg-croon cadence. "John. My John. I don't know what you're remembering, but you're safe here. You're safe. You're in Baker Street, with me. We can have tea," Sherlock is desperate. He can see this is a panic attack, presumably set off from memories of another life? He lets his pitch drop again, and slows his tempo even more. "Let's go upstairs, John. We'll have tea, and a sit down. You can sit in your own chair. Ok?"
Slowly, John's focus returns to Sherlock, seeking his eyes first. His shoulders lower slightly, and the wings follow suit. "Good, John. Very good. You're relaxing." Sherlock shifts against the door, warily watching to see John's reaction to the movement. He tracks it, but does nothing. "I'm getting up now, alright? So we can go upstairs. To our home. Alright, John?" Sherlock pulls himself upright. He notes the sting of his cuts, but ignores them. He moves slowly to the stairs. "Coming with, John?" And with that, he deliberately turns his back and climbs the steps.
He can hear John follow.
Sherlock drips blood onto the counter as he fumbles for the kettle, but he ignores it. John is behind his shoulder, his ragged breathing evening out. Sherlock, on the other hand, begins to shake a little. The kettle on, he scrabbles for the kitchen towel, hoping to hold it across his wound and staunch the flow of blood. A hand crosses his field of view and firmly grips around his wrist.
"I'm sorry," John whispers. "Sherlock. I'm sorry. I don't know-"
"It's nothing," Sherlock interrupts. "Just a cut. You were quite discomposed." He turns to look at John, who is looking much better now. Still pale, but present, in a way he hasn't been since the morgue at St. Barts. The wings are still out, brown and gold and gray, fluttering softly, protectively arching as if to cage both men. The knives have vanished. Sherlock lifts his arm, wanting to stroke John's feathers, but aborts the move as blood streams between his fingers. He's not sure how John would clean his wings, if Sherlock were to get blood all over them. Would he preen, like a bird? Wash them in the shower? Would he need help? But these thoughts are fleeting, and meanwhile, Sherlock bleeds.
John laughs a little, without humor. "Discomposed. I guess you could say so." He looks at Sherlock's bleeding hand. "Do you have a med kit? Some supplies? I can take care of this." He makes an apologetic face and repeats, "I'm sorry. I didn't know what I was doing." He can see the muscle and a tendon through the cut, and knows this will need stitches. To Sherlock's disappointment, and before he can touch them, John flicks his wings away. It's more practical, surely, in such a tiny space, but certainly less interesting and aesthetic.
John feels calm settle over him now. He is old friends with this situation: sewing up a man in the midst of chaos. That the chaos exists only in his own head makes no difference. Sherlock gropes for a first aid kit in the cabinet, and John takes it from him. He goes through the contents knowledgeably. The kit is better stocked then most, with sutures and sterile gloves. John snaps them on and gets to work.
He washes the cut over the sink and then pushes Sherlock into a chair. Sherlock watches him with interest, as if this is a test: is John really a doctor? John isn't worried about passing it. Although it's a hand, and needs more stitches per centimeter than other places on the body, his work is neat and effective.
"Breathe," he instructs Sherlock firmly at one point. Surprised, Sherlock realizes he's been holding his breath to the point where he's feeling faint. It hurts, of course. Not only the cut, but the needle, feeding in and out of his flesh, tugging sharply at the skin. He sucks in a breath and focuses on in and out. John smiles faintly. At last, he bandages it up and steps back. "There. It feels good to do that again. Although I'm sorry I'm the one that caused it."
"I can give you more to practice on," Sherlock responds dryly. John's face goes through a comical variety of expressions, before settling on chagrin.
"Don't tell me I got you somewhere else? Let me see..."
Sherlock shrugs out of his coat and begins to clumsily unbutton his shirt. It's ruined, and he reflects that he's glad it was the white one, which was stained and being replaced this week anyway. Now it's red with blood, and John hisses in sympathy. "I'm so sorry."
"Will you stop with the apologies? I know you're sorry, and frankly I don't really care. You didn't do any real damage, and it's only transport."
John takes over unbuttoning and gently eases Sherlock out of the sticky, clinging shirt. "What's only transport?" he asks. He examines the cut: a 15 centimeter scrape across the ribs, from Sherlock's back to under his arm. He tries to maintain a professional detachment as he smooths a dampened towel over pale skin, marbled with streaks and smears and rivulets of blood. Sherlock is lean: there is no fat to pad between muscle and skin over his ribs. John wipes up to his armpit, strangely vulnerable, the skin there nearly blue around a sparse patch of soft black hair. John holds him steady with his other hand, so that he is clasping the narrow girth of Sherlock's ribs. His hands are hot and strong. Sherlock is so slender that those short fingers can wrap from his front to his back.
All this takes place in a mere moment, and John jerks his gaze up to Sherlock's, cheeks flushing with dawning (and utterly inappropriate!) arousal and embarrassment.
Sherlock stares back, pupils blown, eyes a nearly iridescent turquoise. Under the kitchen light, pink lips shine in wet reflection as he swipes his tongue over them. John's hands spasm, and Sherlock gasps in pain, and just like that, the moment is gone.
Bending his head again to his task, John tries to remember the thread of the conversation. "Transport?" he asks. He methodically cleans off the remaining blood with the reddened towel as Sherlock says, "The body. Only transport. What's important is up here." He taps at his head with his bandaged hand.
John gives him an incredulous stare. "They're connected, you idiot. You have to take care of them both. Now hold still. I can close this up with butterfly bandages." Sherlock huffs, and does as he says.
Later, they sit in their chairs with both tea and paracetamol. Sherlock jumps right in. "So. You're John Watson."
"Yes. I ought to call my sister." He pulls a face. "That'll be a riot."
Sherlock makes an impatient gesture. "Are you sure? What are you going to tell her? How do you imagine came to be in the basement? More to the point, how do you think you wound up IN. AN. EGG?"
John shrugs. "The last thing I remember from being John Watson, before hatching, is fighting in a street in Shinkay." His fists clench. "Half the company was down. I was trying to work on a kid... Connery. His leg was blown off... And then... I think I was shot." He rubs his chest. "I'm sure I was shot."
Sherlock is struck with a plan and leaps up, then hurriedly sits back down, stifling the small groan that comes with remembering he's just been sliced up. "Well! This is easily checked, isn't it? Bring me my laptop." He imperiously holds out his hand. John fetches it without comment, and then crouches next to the chair, looking over Sherlock's shoulder.
He very quickly finds the obituary for Capt. John Watson, RAMC. Killed in action four months earlier, mourned and survived by sister Harriet Watson. There is a picture: it is John's face, somewhat less lined and tired. He is proud and serious under a jaunty red beret. If John weren't already sitting down, this would have done it. Even Sherlock sits confounded, shaking his head.