Fall From Grace (8)
Pairings: N/A
Warnings: Mild gore/blood/emotions/coping
Synop: John's starting to figure something out.
Author Note: Beta'd by the lovely Kat (http://sir-not-appearing-in-this-blog.tumblr.com/)
There's a commotion in the hall, and, when John goes to find out what exactly is the problem, he's not entirely shocked by the sight that meets him.
Because of course it's Sherlock. Because it's always Sherlock; could never possibly be anyone but, at least not in John Watson's case.
Even when the man was dead to him for three bloody years, it was still Sherlock, and he's almost one hundred percent sure that this is the set way of things; forever and always, amen.
And when Sherlock holds out his bloody hand, and it looks like he's taken a bloody fishing hook to it, well, that makes sense, too. Even when the detective smiles; says his name, and crumples at his feet, it's nothing new. Because it seems like he's always picking Sherlock back up; scraping him off the floor, dusting him off, and fixing up the broken bits. Not entirely; not enough to fix him completely. But enough; just enough to keep the clockwork prince running; moving forward, ticking, ticking.
John shakes himself; snaps the world back into place, and comes into the present. He waves the attending away; bends and fits his hands in the crooks of Sherlock's arms, and pulls him to his feet. The detective weaves, somewhere between awake and not. His head rolls, he's leaning heavily on John, and he's dreadfully light.
"I've got him," he murmurs; directs the nurses away; sends the doctors back to their posts. "Thanks, but he doesn't like being touched."
"But you're touching him," a voice points out; a true enough observation.
"There's an exception in all cases," John replies; hears Sherlock in the words, and clamps his mouth shut; half-drags the limp doll that has replaced the man he once shared a flat with, towards an empty room; shuts the door, and dips the detective onto the bed. He leans against the wall, blends; stays silent and still; watches.
Sherlock's turning his head; rolling it from side to side, and rubbing his cheeks against the pillow. His bloody hand rises; grips the railings of the bed, and leaves rusty smears on the metal; across the white sheets. He looks disjointed; distracted; utterly shattered: eyes blank, mouth loose, and bleeding, bleeding.
John digs up bandages; collects supplies, before he takes Sherlock's mutilated hand and starts sponging away crusty red; watches the half-dried flakes dissolve into a thin parody of bloodshed in the wash basin. He keeps his eyes on Sherlock's face; drops his gaze to the hand, and studies the wound. It turns out to be, of all things, a bullet wound. Quite severe; almost passing entirely through the detective's hand, the palm blackened and shiny and shrivelled from powder burns.
He sighs; chokes, and strokes the tips of his fingers slowly over Sherlock's wrist, looking at him desperately. He looks entirely too small in the blood-stained bed for a man of his height and size; his chest appears curved and caved in and broken in two, at least to John's eyes, but he can't look past it; can't stop seeing it.
He closes his eyes, breathes, and bends back over the wound.
His mind flashes back to the previous day; a visit from Mycroft, that had been the flavour of the hour. He'd delivered a message, of sorts, straight through John's ears, and stuck it right solid in the middle of his chest.
"You have to go back. I'm not asking you to move in with him, but you need to go see him; make him a part of your life again."
"He's stopped working. He won't take cases. Not just from me; he's ignoring Detective-Inspector Lestrade's texts."
"John, you're the only person he wants. The only one he'll open the door to. I don't entirely understand his reasoning behind it, but he's decided that he can't function without you."
John sighs; scrapes a hand across his face, and his palm rasps against a slight dusting of stubble. From the corner of his eyes, he catches movement; Sherlock's eyelashes fluttering; grey irises peeking through. He blinks; runs his tongue over dry, cracked lips, and stares through heavy lids.
"John," he rasps; clears his throat, and tries to curl his fingers through the doctor's, fresh blood bubbling from the wound in Sherlock's hand at the movement. "John."
"Yeah." He replies, because there's really nothing more to say. He touches his fingers gently to Sherlock's wrist, over the pulse, and the detective stops his struggles to grab John; relaxes, and watches closely as the man he once shared a flat with begins sponging away the fresh blood. As Sherlock watches him, John watches back; takes careful stock of the other man's condition.
Aside from the ragged hole in his palm, Sherlock's not in what one would term 'good health'. He's thin; thinner than usual, too thin. His lips are more than chapped; they're cracked and split and bleeding, and his tongue looks swollen; too big for his mouth. Dehydration. His face is chalk-white, most likely from blood loss, but also due to other factors. Grey eyes study him, oddly dulled, the silver tarnished and smeared, instead of clear; sharpened.
"God, Sherlock," John mutters; presses the sponge a bit harder than he means to, and catches Sherlock's wince from the corner of his eyes. "Can't you take better care of yourself? You're a full grown man, for Christ's sake."
"No."
John's head snaps up; he stares, pausing, sponge held just over Sherlock's hand. Water oozes into his palm; mixes with the blood, and runs down Sherlock's wrist. John watches the slow, red progress; labels and names each bone beneath the skin the trail touches: first the lunate, the centre-most bone, pooling in the cleft just beneath the heel of the hand, then slanting sideways; dripping along the radius; striping down Sherlock's forearm. Ulna, his brain supplies, distant; stained with a smell of antiseptic and disinfectant that brings him back to the present.
"What do you mean, no?" John demands; sits back, and scowls. He tries to pull back his hand; Sherlock fumbles, grabs, and holds on; smears his blood against John's lifelines. He frowns; meets the detective's eyes. Sherlock looks back; opens his mouth, then shakes his head, and drops John's hand. John takes a moment; breathes slowly, and collects himself, before wiping the mess away from Sherlock's arm.
"God, you're an idiot."
Warnings: Mild gore/blood/emotions/coping
Synop: John's starting to figure something out.
Author Note: Beta'd by the lovely Kat (http://sir-not-appearing-in-this-blog.tumblr.com/)
There's a commotion in the hall, and, when John goes to find out what exactly is the problem, he's not entirely shocked by the sight that meets him.
Because of course it's Sherlock. Because it's always Sherlock; could never possibly be anyone but, at least not in John Watson's case.
Even when the man was dead to him for three bloody years, it was still Sherlock, and he's almost one hundred percent sure that this is the set way of things; forever and always, amen.
And when Sherlock holds out his bloody hand, and it looks like he's taken a bloody fishing hook to it, well, that makes sense, too. Even when the detective smiles; says his name, and crumples at his feet, it's nothing new. Because it seems like he's always picking Sherlock back up; scraping him off the floor, dusting him off, and fixing up the broken bits. Not entirely; not enough to fix him completely. But enough; just enough to keep the clockwork prince running; moving forward, ticking, ticking.
John shakes himself; snaps the world back into place, and comes into the present. He waves the attending away; bends and fits his hands in the crooks of Sherlock's arms, and pulls him to his feet. The detective weaves, somewhere between awake and not. His head rolls, he's leaning heavily on John, and he's dreadfully light.
"I've got him," he murmurs; directs the nurses away; sends the doctors back to their posts. "Thanks, but he doesn't like being touched."
"But you're touching him," a voice points out; a true enough observation.
"There's an exception in all cases," John replies; hears Sherlock in the words, and clamps his mouth shut; half-drags the limp doll that has replaced the man he once shared a flat with, towards an empty room; shuts the door, and dips the detective onto the bed. He leans against the wall, blends; stays silent and still; watches.
Sherlock's turning his head; rolling it from side to side, and rubbing his cheeks against the pillow. His bloody hand rises; grips the railings of the bed, and leaves rusty smears on the metal; across the white sheets. He looks disjointed; distracted; utterly shattered: eyes blank, mouth loose, and bleeding, bleeding.
John digs up bandages; collects supplies, before he takes Sherlock's mutilated hand and starts sponging away crusty red; watches the half-dried flakes dissolve into a thin parody of bloodshed in the wash basin. He keeps his eyes on Sherlock's face; drops his gaze to the hand, and studies the wound. It turns out to be, of all things, a bullet wound. Quite severe; almost passing entirely through the detective's hand, the palm blackened and shiny and shrivelled from powder burns.
He sighs; chokes, and strokes the tips of his fingers slowly over Sherlock's wrist, looking at him desperately. He looks entirely too small in the blood-stained bed for a man of his height and size; his chest appears curved and caved in and broken in two, at least to John's eyes, but he can't look past it; can't stop seeing it.
He closes his eyes, breathes, and bends back over the wound.
His mind flashes back to the previous day; a visit from Mycroft, that had been the flavour of the hour. He'd delivered a message, of sorts, straight through John's ears, and stuck it right solid in the middle of his chest.
"You have to go back. I'm not asking you to move in with him, but you need to go see him; make him a part of your life again."
"He's stopped working. He won't take cases. Not just from me; he's ignoring Detective-Inspector Lestrade's texts."
"John, you're the only person he wants. The only one he'll open the door to. I don't entirely understand his reasoning behind it, but he's decided that he can't function without you."
John sighs; scrapes a hand across his face, and his palm rasps against a slight dusting of stubble. From the corner of his eyes, he catches movement; Sherlock's eyelashes fluttering; grey irises peeking through. He blinks; runs his tongue over dry, cracked lips, and stares through heavy lids.
"John," he rasps; clears his throat, and tries to curl his fingers through the doctor's, fresh blood bubbling from the wound in Sherlock's hand at the movement. "John."
"Yeah." He replies, because there's really nothing more to say. He touches his fingers gently to Sherlock's wrist, over the pulse, and the detective stops his struggles to grab John; relaxes, and watches closely as the man he once shared a flat with begins sponging away the fresh blood. As Sherlock watches him, John watches back; takes careful stock of the other man's condition.
Aside from the ragged hole in his palm, Sherlock's not in what one would term 'good health'. He's thin; thinner than usual, too thin. His lips are more than chapped; they're cracked and split and bleeding, and his tongue looks swollen; too big for his mouth. Dehydration. His face is chalk-white, most likely from blood loss, but also due to other factors. Grey eyes study him, oddly dulled, the silver tarnished and smeared, instead of clear; sharpened.
"God, Sherlock," John mutters; presses the sponge a bit harder than he means to, and catches Sherlock's wince from the corner of his eyes. "Can't you take better care of yourself? You're a full grown man, for Christ's sake."
"No."
John's head snaps up; he stares, pausing, sponge held just over Sherlock's hand. Water oozes into his palm; mixes with the blood, and runs down Sherlock's wrist. John watches the slow, red progress; labels and names each bone beneath the skin the trail touches: first the lunate, the centre-most bone, pooling in the cleft just beneath the heel of the hand, then slanting sideways; dripping along the radius; striping down Sherlock's forearm. Ulna, his brain supplies, distant; stained with a smell of antiseptic and disinfectant that brings him back to the present.
"What do you mean, no?" John demands; sits back, and scowls. He tries to pull back his hand; Sherlock fumbles, grabs, and holds on; smears his blood against John's lifelines. He frowns; meets the detective's eyes. Sherlock looks back; opens his mouth, then shakes his head, and drops John's hand. John takes a moment; breathes slowly, and collects himself, before wiping the mess away from Sherlock's arm.
"God, you're an idiot."