Chapter 4:

One Smoking Barrel

"Seriously, Sherlock, put my bloody gun down! Mrs Hudson'll flip if you put any more holes in her wall!"

I glared at my obstreperous flat mate, who was flouncing around the living room in his pyjamas and dressing gown, in the throes of acute ennui, but glaring doesn't really work with Sherlock. He became, if possible, more badly behaved, and danced out of my way still holding the gun.

"I'm BORED, John!"

"Well, do something then. There's a whole world of scientific mysteries unsolved out there - boredom is for the feeble-minded."

He stared at me as if I'd just hit him. Hard. Then his face scrunched into a dark glower, he spun on his heel, and fired a shot into the wall. Without thinking, I lunged at him to confiscate the dangerous weapon he was currently brandishing like a toy, and he scowled at me, turning and tucking it into the front of his waistband.

There was a deafening bang, and a strangled yell.

The gun clattered to the floor, sliding out through the leg of his pyjama bottoms, and Sherlock fell to his knees, his face a terrible grey colour. I thudded to my knees next to him, my mind reeling with horror.

"Oh, Jesus, Sherlock, where did it hit you?"

He suddenly leapt to his feet, and, making a desperate keening sound, bolted for the bathroom, leaving me somewhere between perplexed, relieved and concerned. My mind then processed the visual of the last few seconds. The flying splinters as the bullet crashed into the floorboards two feet in front of Sherlock. The angle was all wrong to have hit him.

Suddenly, I knew what must have happened, and I was torn between an urge to laugh, and eye-watering sympathy.

I followed him to the bathroom. The sound of running water and miserable whimpers seemed to confirm my deduction.

"Sherlock?"

"Go away!" His voice had risen to a high, undignified squeak.

"Sherlock. Did you burn your knob on the barrel of the gun?"

There was a long silence. Then a little, thready "yes."

"Do you want me to take a look?"

"NO!"

God, he could be such a prude.

"Don't you think it would be sensible for me to take a look? I'll take the cold running water into account."

A longer silence, then a small, subdued "Come in."

Sherlock was sitting on the end of the bath with his pyjama trousers around his ankles, holding the shower head to his groin, and looking absolutely woebegone. I honestly don't know how I managed to keep a straight face; I had to reach deep inside myself to find a reserve of medical professionalism.

"Right, let's take a look then." I kept my voice brisk and light. Sherlock lifted the shower head away, and moved his drooping penis to the side, showing me the long angry red stripe along its edge and running down his right testicle. Some of the skin was beginning to blister already. It looked quite nasty.

I'm afraid that at this point, I winced, which didn't go down too well. We got actual chin-quivering, and I had to quickly back-pedal to draw him back from the edge of panic. It seems even a man who views his body as just transport has a soft spot for his... well, soft spots.

"It'll be OK, mate. It's pretty superficial; it'll hurt like buggery for a couple of days, but it'll heal."

"Are you sure?"

"If you look after it properly, which I can help you with, it should be fine."

"Will I still be able to have children?"

"What? Were you considering it?" Again, a lapse in my professional standards, but this was Sherlock we were talking about, and it seemed an extraordinary question for a man who usually refers to children as "spawn".

"No need to sound so alarmed, John. And no, I'm definitely not considering it, but it's not the same as not being able to."

"Fine, fine. And yes, you should, theoretically, still be able to sprog up, but I really, really have to ask that you don't consider it for the time being."

He looked relieved, then his knees started jigging up and down, and the grey lack of colour returned to his face.

"It really hurts when I take the water off it, John."

"You poor bastard. Keep the water on it, I'll go and grab some burn stuff and dress it for you.

When I got back, Sherlock was looking worried again - I mean, worried on top of the basal level of a man who has just scorched his genitals.

"Will it scar, John?"

"Hopefully not."

"It's just... doesn't scar tissue not stretch very well?" He was blushing. Sherlock Holmes was bluching. I may not have bought into snide comments about Sherlock's level of sexual experience by those who should have known better, but it was obvious he had issues about discussing it: the blunt approach was best.

"You should still be able to get it up."

"Well, that's... good." Still hesitant.

"I don't think there'll be anything that'll look too off-putting either."

The sigh of relief reinforced some surmises I had already been making.

"I thought you were married to your work?"

"John!"

"Sorry, sorry, none of my business."

At that moment, we exchanged this version of excruciating embarrassment for another. Inspector Lestrade burst into the room.

"Are you two OK? Mrs Hudson heard... Oh Jesus!"

As he turned to back out of the room, it registered with me that he had been holding his mobile to his ear, presumably to summon help should he need it. I could hear him standing down whoever it was on the other end - I hated to think what gossip was going to follow on from there. Sherlock's face was flaming.

I poked my head out of the door and reluctantly met the Inspector's eye.

"Guess who thought shooting patterns in the wall then sticking the barrel into his waistband to stop his friend confiscating it would be a good idea? I only speak theoretically, of course, because we don't have a gun here, obviously."

Lestrade looked as if Christmas had come early.

"He's burned his meat and two veg?"

"John!" The indignant squawk from the bathroom drew my attention back to my patient.

"Why did you have to tell him anything?" he hissed, furiously.

"Would you prefer him to draw his own conclusions?" The detective lapsed into sulky silence. Lestrade gestured vaguely at the sofa and the kitchen, and mimed the universal sign for drink. I nodded and made a "T" with my hands, thumbing between myself and Sherlock, then closed the door behind me again and rooted through the rather extensive first aid kit in the bathroom cabinet.

"Right, Flamazine", I announced breezily, as I opened the little tube. "Good stuff, this. Developed during the Falklands War."

"Silver sulfadiazine in a water soluble emollient base; prevents the growth of yeasts and bacteria by disruption of the cell wall", muttered Sherlock, the bloody know it all.

"More importantly, it's nice and soothing." I held the packet of sterile gloves aloft. "Do you want to put it on yourself?"

Sherlock looked down at himself, shuddered, and looked ready to faint again. He quickly looked away, staring at the bottle of poncey shampoo at the far corner of the bath.

"Shall I do it for you?"

He hunched into himself, appearing to be trying to shrink, then gave the tiniest and curtest of nods.

I receded back into the cheerful professional again.

"Right, then. Pop this leg up here, this one here. Just a bit of sterile gauze to dry it off now a bit. Just getting the sterile gloves on. I'll need to move things a bit down here. Cold now. I'm just going to smooth it on so it properly covers the damage."

I managed to keep up my inanely sensible patter even when I realised that the set of Sherlock's shoulders wasn't the only part of him stiffening. His averted face was a study in mortification, and I wasn't about to make it any worse. I finished by applying a suitable dressing, then stood up, wincing as my knees cracked. Oh god. There were tears in his eyes. Perhaps I should have mentioned the perfectly natural response to having a person messing around down there, rather than tactfully ignoring it.

Instinct made the decision for me. I threw my arms around him, and drew him into a bear hug, slapping his back in a matey fashion.

"All done! Who's my brave little soldier, then?"

His face was a picture as it tried to adjust from utter shame and despondency to indignation, surprise, amusement, contempt, gratitude - his poor old frontalis, levator labii and their friends didn't know what to do with themselves.

"I'll go and grab you some fresh pyjamas. Take these - it's Paracetamol and Diclofenac." I slipped out of the room to allow him to compose himself. When I returned with the lightest cotton garment I could find, Sherlock was standing with a towel around his waist, held well away from his groin, and he looked more himself, albeit still a little sheepish.

"Better?"

"Much, thank you."

"Good. That's good. I'll leave you to put these on then." I turned to leave.

"John!"

I turned back.

"Yes?"

"You really are an excellent doctor."

"Thanks. And you really are an idiot, but an excellent detective just the same."

"Guilty as charged. On this occasion."

I rolled my eyes and turned to go again.

"John."

"Yes, Sherlock."

"You're an even better friend."

He grinned at me then, and I returned it, touched.

"Thanks."

"Do you think you could get rid of Lestrade?"

"I doubt it."

I was finally allowing myself the tiniest fraction of the giggling fit I deserved as I entered the living room and took the cup of tea Lestrade, comfortably ensconced on the sofa, held out to me. I hurriedly stopped laughing.

"You saw none of this, of course."

"Of course."

Sherlock then shuffled gingerly into the room, clad in pyjamas and dressing gown, and sat down very carefully.

"Alright, out with it. So what are your conditions, Lestrade?"

"Huh?"

"You were on your way round here already, or you couldn't have got here so quickly when Mrs Hudson called you. And you only come over directly if you think you need to persuade me to become involved and there's no emergency. So what is it?"

"The Lansley case."

"Oh, come on! It's utterly dull! You know I'm not interested in that sort of thing!"

"I know. I was going to ask as a favour..."

"Oh, god. And now it's your condition. Blackmail doesn't suit you, Detective Inspector."

"I wouldn't call it blackmail, precisely. But it is going to be difficult, you know, remembering not to mention certain things... D'you know, I'm not sure if this case will be reminder enough. How about you be civil to Sally for the next three months?"

"Three m... Oh! Allright. There actually is something interesting about this case, isn't there?"

"There's a lighthouse and a trained seagull involved."

Sherlock immediately looked radiant. I smiled to myself, then turned to Lestrade, just in case.

"Well, I'm glad you've got something for him to do - although I'd advise against anything too strenuous. Oh, and Greg, just in case your memory needs any assistance - I also find it slightly difficult to remember not to mention certain consultations myself, especially if they're on an unofficial basis, like, you know, down the pub, but I manage. I'm sure you will too, won't you?"

Lestrade shot me the grin of a man who knows he's over a barrel but has decided to be good natured about it.

"I'll be the proverbial elephant, John."

Sherlock beamed again.

"Can I just mention that you're occasionally marvellous, John? It more than compensates for all the times when you're mediocre."

I sighed. No complement from Sherlock could stay unadulterated for long. I turned to Lestrade.

"OK then. This cock and bal... bull story. Let's hear it."

-oOo-

I find it very difficult to make time for writing these days, which is why you can see everything has stalled. I keep coming back to them all. I was grinning to myself all over when writing this one.

I have another nearly finished chapter for this, that is quite a lot darker. I'd be delighted for further suggestions to keep me going.

Thanks so much to all of you who read and reviewed! Always makes my day.