FIC - Triage
Title: Triage
Pairing: John/Sherlock, but with no sex.
W/C: ~1200
Warnings: blood and injury
Rating: R for aforementioned blood and injury
A/N: I recently discussed the idea of this story with atlinmerrick and decided to write it myself. I live for feedback so please, please let me know what you think of this. It’s my first non-221b fic for this fandom and I’m incredibly nervous to post it.
Finally, finally, fucking finally, there was quiet. John had managed to haul Sherlock into some industrial building which looked long abandoned but still had electricity. Out of the streets and under the harsh fluorescent lights, he finally had a chance to get a better look at Sherlock’s wound.
Stripping off Sherlock’s coat and shirt was harder than he thought it would be due to the overwhelming amount of blood sticking to everything. They’d been in pursuit, on foot, of a man who had eluded the Yard’s attempts to find and arrest him for murder. As a result of his uncharacteristic fall from twenty feet up a fire escape while engaged in the aforementioned pursuit, Sherlock had sustained a gash to his left arm that was at least four inches long and deep enough that the fatty tissue under his skin was exposed. He’d had the presence to mind to send Lestrade a text consisting only ‘GPS my phone, ambulance, now’, but they were well outside of the city, and John knew he wouldn’t be hearing sirens for half an hour at least.
John gave himself approximately thirty seconds to panic, to kiss his lover ten times all over his face, to whisper assurances that Sherlock would never hear due to his being completely unconscious. It was instinctive, his almost (all right, not almost, and you can shut right the fuck up about that immediately) need to comfort Sherlock. But not as instinctive as his training, his quick run-down of the possibilities, his gauging of possible consequences, and his determination to fix what was wrong. To heal. Sherlock’s blood pressure was low and getting lower by the minute, as was evident by John’s non-stop and almost obsessive pulse-checking, and there was a slight tinge of blue around his lips which would probably not have been noticed by someone other than a physician.
At the very least, he needed to tend to the triage - the evaluation of illness, or (as was the case currently) an injury coupled with the most efficient way to head off the worst of the damage. Removing his t-shirt, he tied it tight above the long, ugly and still actively bleeding injury. First move, obviously. Since he’d have to get up, he couldn’t hold pressure on the damaged limb, so artificially stemming the blood flow was the next best thing. The sudden rush of cold air on his bare skin barely registered. Sherlock was losing blood rapidly thanks to the metal pole he’d hit on this way to the ground. Enough that he’d lost consciousness before they’d gotten more than a few blocks away. Luckily, John was stronger than he looked, and Sherlock was lighter than a man of his height ought to be, so John had been able to half-carry and half-drag Sherlock into the building where they were currently holed up.
Reluctantly moving away from Sherlock, he scanned his immediate surroundings. This had clearly been a factory of some kind, a plant, and as such, there was a chance that somewhere in this building, a nurses’ station existed. As quickly as he could, John moved through the rooms closest to them and before five minutes had elapsed, he found himself nearly shouting with joy. This was clearly the plant nurse’s domain, when the place had still been in operation. John started shoving gauze and bandages and suture supplies into his pockets, as well as two small bottles (one disinfectant, one vial of Bacitracin) when he spotted the other items. IV needles and valves, sterile alcohol pads, surgical tape.
With almost superhuman speed, he was back at Sherlock’s side. First things first. Trying to distract himself from the overwhelming not platonic feelings that were doing their damned best effort to work their way to the surface, he first cleaned the wound with an alcohol wipe, then proceeded to stitch it up methodically. His self-distraction technique involved Sherlock being conscious while this was happening and letting loose an uncharacteristically filthy stream of profanity. Other than the times when they were engaged intimately, John had never heard Sherlock curse other than the rare “damn it” or something just as tame. He was grateful at that point that Sherlock wasn’t awake, because he knew how painful this was. He’d seen countless brave soldiers, lying still in the sand of a battlefield, shed tears when it was necessary to stitch a wound without the benefit of anesthesia.
Once the stitches were in, all forty-eight of them (yes, John had counted every last one), the blood flow had ceased. Unfortunately, the loss of that blood had already taken its toll, which is why John had grabbed that last batch of supplies. It had been years since he’d done this, and he’d only done it twice. The first time didn’t count since it was just a test during his training, but the second time….that had been real and terrifying, but unavoidable. His lack of extensive expertise didn’t mean he’d forgotten the instructions and procedure, though.
Using another alcohol pad, he cleared a spot on the top of Sherlock’s left hand (there was a decent vein there, and John hated the idea of Sherlock with a needle in his arm, no matter that this was a different circumstance entirely). With dead-on accuracy, he slipped the IV needle into that vein and locked it in to the thin rubber tubing he’d found. Attaching the other IV needle to the opposite end of the tube, he took a deep breath and inserted it into the skin right at the crease of his right elbow. Lying down on the floor directly next to Sherlock, John gently squeezed his right hand into a fist several times over, then finally saw what he’d been looking for.
His own blood, running through the tube and needle, directly into Sherlock’s vein.
He had no idea what Sherlock’s blood type was, which surprised him for just a moment, given all the medical treatment he’d given to his lover in their short time together. John did know, however, that he was type O negative, which was considered a universal donor and safe for anyone to receive except in very rare circumstances (oh, sweet Jesus, please don’t let this be one of those very rare circumstances), so he felt reasonably confident that this would help.
The flow of blood from a live donor was obviously much slower than having it transfused by machine in a professional medical setting, but John had to at least hope it would help.
Staring at the tube connecting them, John had a fleeting thought about another level of intimacy the two of them had shared. As he became lightheaded and started to succumb to the dizzying effect of losing blood, his eyes fluttered a bit just a few seconds before he registered the sound of emergency vehicle sirens.
Pairing: John/Sherlock, but with no sex.
W/C: ~1200
Warnings: blood and injury
Rating: R for aforementioned blood and injury
A/N: I recently discussed the idea of this story with atlinmerrick and decided to write it myself. I live for feedback so please, please let me know what you think of this. It’s my first non-221b fic for this fandom and I’m incredibly nervous to post it.
Finally, finally, fucking finally, there was quiet. John had managed to haul Sherlock into some industrial building which looked long abandoned but still had electricity. Out of the streets and under the harsh fluorescent lights, he finally had a chance to get a better look at Sherlock’s wound.
Stripping off Sherlock’s coat and shirt was harder than he thought it would be due to the overwhelming amount of blood sticking to everything. They’d been in pursuit, on foot, of a man who had eluded the Yard’s attempts to find and arrest him for murder. As a result of his uncharacteristic fall from twenty feet up a fire escape while engaged in the aforementioned pursuit, Sherlock had sustained a gash to his left arm that was at least four inches long and deep enough that the fatty tissue under his skin was exposed. He’d had the presence to mind to send Lestrade a text consisting only ‘GPS my phone, ambulance, now’, but they were well outside of the city, and John knew he wouldn’t be hearing sirens for half an hour at least.
John gave himself approximately thirty seconds to panic, to kiss his lover ten times all over his face, to whisper assurances that Sherlock would never hear due to his being completely unconscious. It was instinctive, his almost (all right, not almost, and you can shut right the fuck up about that immediately) need to comfort Sherlock. But not as instinctive as his training, his quick run-down of the possibilities, his gauging of possible consequences, and his determination to fix what was wrong. To heal. Sherlock’s blood pressure was low and getting lower by the minute, as was evident by John’s non-stop and almost obsessive pulse-checking, and there was a slight tinge of blue around his lips which would probably not have been noticed by someone other than a physician.
At the very least, he needed to tend to the triage - the evaluation of illness, or (as was the case currently) an injury coupled with the most efficient way to head off the worst of the damage. Removing his t-shirt, he tied it tight above the long, ugly and still actively bleeding injury. First move, obviously. Since he’d have to get up, he couldn’t hold pressure on the damaged limb, so artificially stemming the blood flow was the next best thing. The sudden rush of cold air on his bare skin barely registered. Sherlock was losing blood rapidly thanks to the metal pole he’d hit on this way to the ground. Enough that he’d lost consciousness before they’d gotten more than a few blocks away. Luckily, John was stronger than he looked, and Sherlock was lighter than a man of his height ought to be, so John had been able to half-carry and half-drag Sherlock into the building where they were currently holed up.
Reluctantly moving away from Sherlock, he scanned his immediate surroundings. This had clearly been a factory of some kind, a plant, and as such, there was a chance that somewhere in this building, a nurses’ station existed. As quickly as he could, John moved through the rooms closest to them and before five minutes had elapsed, he found himself nearly shouting with joy. This was clearly the plant nurse’s domain, when the place had still been in operation. John started shoving gauze and bandages and suture supplies into his pockets, as well as two small bottles (one disinfectant, one vial of Bacitracin) when he spotted the other items. IV needles and valves, sterile alcohol pads, surgical tape.
With almost superhuman speed, he was back at Sherlock’s side. First things first. Trying to distract himself from the overwhelming not platonic feelings that were doing their damned best effort to work their way to the surface, he first cleaned the wound with an alcohol wipe, then proceeded to stitch it up methodically. His self-distraction technique involved Sherlock being conscious while this was happening and letting loose an uncharacteristically filthy stream of profanity. Other than the times when they were engaged intimately, John had never heard Sherlock curse other than the rare “damn it” or something just as tame. He was grateful at that point that Sherlock wasn’t awake, because he knew how painful this was. He’d seen countless brave soldiers, lying still in the sand of a battlefield, shed tears when it was necessary to stitch a wound without the benefit of anesthesia.
Once the stitches were in, all forty-eight of them (yes, John had counted every last one), the blood flow had ceased. Unfortunately, the loss of that blood had already taken its toll, which is why John had grabbed that last batch of supplies. It had been years since he’d done this, and he’d only done it twice. The first time didn’t count since it was just a test during his training, but the second time….that had been real and terrifying, but unavoidable. His lack of extensive expertise didn’t mean he’d forgotten the instructions and procedure, though.
Using another alcohol pad, he cleared a spot on the top of Sherlock’s left hand (there was a decent vein there, and John hated the idea of Sherlock with a needle in his arm, no matter that this was a different circumstance entirely). With dead-on accuracy, he slipped the IV needle into that vein and locked it in to the thin rubber tubing he’d found. Attaching the other IV needle to the opposite end of the tube, he took a deep breath and inserted it into the skin right at the crease of his right elbow. Lying down on the floor directly next to Sherlock, John gently squeezed his right hand into a fist several times over, then finally saw what he’d been looking for.
His own blood, running through the tube and needle, directly into Sherlock’s vein.
He had no idea what Sherlock’s blood type was, which surprised him for just a moment, given all the medical treatment he’d given to his lover in their short time together. John did know, however, that he was type O negative, which was considered a universal donor and safe for anyone to receive except in very rare circumstances (oh, sweet Jesus, please don’t let this be one of those very rare circumstances), so he felt reasonably confident that this would help.
The flow of blood from a live donor was obviously much slower than having it transfused by machine in a professional medical setting, but John had to at least hope it would help.
Staring at the tube connecting them, John had a fleeting thought about another level of intimacy the two of them had shared. As he became lightheaded and started to succumb to the dizzying effect of losing blood, his eyes fluttered a bit just a few seconds before he registered the sound of emergency vehicle sirens.