Stumbling up the stairs the next evening, Maelin managed to make it to the landing just outside the kitchen door before her legs gave out. She lay there for ten minutes before the main door below opened. Sherlock's voice echoed faintly in her ears, first chuckling with John, then calling her name. When Sherlock and John arrived by her side, she heard a sharp hiss from Sherlock and a, "My God," from John.
"Tell Mrs. Hudson I'm sorry about the floor," Maelin murmured.
"We need to get you to a hospital," John said beside her right ear.
"No," she said, as immediately as Sherlock.
John sighed heavily before replying. "Then we'll need the kitchen table. Sherlock, you clear it off, and clean it. I'll get my kit. And Maelin, try not to move."
"Not really an issue," she laughed meekly.
Their voices became muddled as they moved into the flat, but Maelin could hear the concern in both their tones. John's was compassionate, urging. Sherlock's was firm, uncompromising, and yet fearful.
You're imagining things, child, she told herself. Your pain is making you delirious. Sherlock doesn't show concern through fear.
As though answering her, Sherlock snapped at John and for a moment her doubting voice was silenced. Perhaps he had changed more than she thought.
Before she could consider further, John appeared at her side with a shot glass of amber liquid.
"I have some painkillers and numbing agents," he said, "but I want to get you on the table first. So this is going to hurt."
He helped tilt her head so she could swallow the liquor. It tasted rather bitter and burned going down her throat, but not as much as the lacerations across her back. She tried not to wince and swallowed.
"All right," John continued. "This is going to be a lot easier once you're on the table, but we have to get your coat and shirt off first."
"I understand," Maelin replied, gathering her strength again.
John said nothing, and Maelin turned her eyes upward to look at him. He seemed to be weighing whether or not she was ready for this. When her eyes locked on his, he nodded.
"Sherlock," he called. "My table ready yet?"
The smell of cleaning products hit Maelin's nose as a response, and then Sherlock was beside her. Maelin focused her mind, readying for the onslaught of pain as John gave instructions to Sherlock.
"Maelin, are you ready?" John asked.
She gave a single nod and felt the hands of both men under her arms. When they lifted her, she wailed and then blacked out.
"What was that?" Sherlock demanded of John as they finished raising Maelin to her feet.
"She passed out," John said simply. "Pain does that to a person sometimes. Probably for the best. Now let's get her prepped and on the table."
With a bit of effort, John removed Maelin's coat and shirt while Sherlock held her upright. They carried her to the table, laying her on her stomach and John undid the clasps on her bra, sliding the straps off her arms. Sherlock dragged a kitchen stool over to prop up her legs so they didn't dangle. When he looked up, he saw her back and stumbled back a step.
"John," he murmured.
John was already at work cleaning her back. "I saw."
"He did this to her."
"I had worked that much out myself," John replied as he reached into his kit. "Now you can stand there being shocked at his depravity, or you can help her."
"How?" Sherlock's voice seemed to have dried up.
John thrust out alcohol and pads. "Clean out the wounds."
Sherlock stepped forward and took them wordlessly, yet didn't move beyond that.
"Sherlock," John said with an eerie stability. "Time is not on our side. If we can't get her wounds cleaned and stitched, scarring will be the least of her worries. I need to make sure no muscles were torn when he cut her and I can't do that until everything is cleaned and numbed. She could wake up at any moment, and that's not going to help the work. So if you want to help her, help me. Now."
Sherlock's gaze drifted once again to Maelin's back, his eyes glazed over with hate for one brief moment, then he set to work with alacrity. As Sherlock dabbed at the deep cuts, John pulled out a syringe and needle. As the third injection went into her back, Maelin moaned softly.
Sherlock looked to John who continued his work.
"Once she's clean, you need to prep the needle with the heavy gauge thread. Disinfect everything, and thread the needle."
"Which size?" Sherlock murmured.
John pulled back for a second, and looked at her wounds. "Third from the top," he said matter of factly before moving to the next spot to prep for injection on her back.
They had laid her out with her arms up, bent at the elbows, and rested her head on her the back of her hands. As Maelin stirred, Sherlock placed a hand on the back of her head, gently.
"Steady," he said softly as he pulled out the suture supplies with his other hand. "Try not to move," he continued, his hand steadying her neck as she awoke.
"How long?" She murmured.
"Just a few minutes."
"You saw?" She said, the fear creeping into her voice.
Sherlock removed the hand from her head and started prepping the needle.
Maelin sighed, then flinched, moaning.
"I'm still numbing the area," John said. "Just try and stay still for another minute and it should be bearable from there."
"Thank you," she said softly.
"You can thank me when these are all closed up and I'm sure you don't have any major tissue damage," John replied. "Do you remember feeling any muscles tear while…" he drifted.
"He was fast," Maelin continued for him. "I remember a lot of pain, and quick slashes. I thought he'd want to savor this work, but I think he wanted something else."
Sherlock glanced to John, and John shook his head.
"I'll have to look closer at your shoulder, then," John said. "A few cuts there seem deeper than the others. But considering you're not screaming now, I think you may be safe from needing surgery."
"Let's hope," she said, groggy. "He wanted me to go to a hospital. Easier pickings."
"Why? He could just send people here," John stated as he began examining her deeper cuts. Sherlock shot him a look, but John ignored him.
"You're trying to distract me, now?" Maelin replied. "Why don't you just knock me out again?"
"You know it's not nice to accuse your doctor," John replied.
"Accusation implies one is not certain of the truth," Maelin countered.
"Sherlock, needle please," John said.
Sherlock handed over the suture needle and thread, followed by the driver. John took them and deftly began sewing up the cuts closest to Sherlock.
"Your muscles don't appear to be torn or cut, but some of these lacerations are very deep. I'll probably have to suture them a few times before they heal. And I'll pass on the info of a good plastic surgeon I know. Should help if there's any scarring."
"That deep?" She murmured.
"Yes."
"Then why can't I feel them?"
"A combination of the numbing agent I injected and the tranquilizer. I'm actually surprised you woke up so soon."
"I have a high tolerance," she said.
"Won't do a lot of good when the pain comes back," John said as he closed up the first wound.
"I have a high tolerance for that as well," she said drily.
"You keep talking like this, it will appear as though you're becoming friends," Sherlock finally interjected.
"Maybe we are," John said. "I didn't hear you trying to keep the patient calm and distracted."
"The patient can still hear you."
Both glanced to Maelin who clenched her jaw as John finished closing another series of cuts.
"The patient would do well to hold still," John said as he began suturing the next series of cuts.
"You know, these didn't seem to take as long being sliced into me," she smiled.
"That's because your previous surgeon was rubbish," John replied with a hint of a smile. "This one is trying to keep you from being scarred, physically speaking at least."
"You mean psychiatric services don't come with the sewing up?"
"Out of my area I'm afraid," John said, moving on to the next wound. "And I certainly wouldn't ask Sherlock."
"You think I'm delusional now?" Maelin grinned.
"Just checking for signs of serious trauma," John said as his smile grew.
"I'm not that far gone."
"Good to know."
John finished the rest of her stitches in silence, Sherlock gazing the whole time at the first few marks on her back. Maelin relaxed, letting John work and trying to focus on remembering details about her capture and conversation, such as it was. She knew once morning came Sherlock would be seeking answers, if not before. His continued silence unnerved her, until he shifted from his position beside the table and moved into the main room. He sat in his chair and looked at her, but before long his gaze grew distant.
Once all the sutures were complete, John carefully cleaned the wounds again.
"I imagine you'll want to wash your hair and face soon," he said to Maelin as he started cleaning and packing up.
"And I suppose you'll tell me I can't shower."
"Not for a few days. I'll have to keep an eye on those sutures."
"Don't trust your work, or want to see me scantily clad?"
John smiled. "Your sense of humour remains intact I see."
"He didn't cut it out of me, if that's what you mean."
"I'll do it," came Sherlock's voice from across the room.
Maelin shifted her head to look at him, as did John.
"Do what?" John asked.
Sherlock stood and strode past the two of them into the bathroom. He emerged a moment later with bottles of body wash, shampoo, and conditioner.
"Sherlock," John began, but Sherlock didn't look at him as he came around to the head of the table and crouched down to face Maelin.
"All I have is my products for now, but we'll get some of yours tomorrow."
Maelin managed a perplexed nod.
"Sherlock, a word," John clipped.
Sherlock looked over Maelin's shoulder to John.
"Now," John said as he gestured to Sherlock's room.
Sherlock set the bottles on a counter as he passed John and went into his room. John followed after setting his kit by the kitchen door.