Triage (conclusion)
Title: Triage (part 2, conclusion)
Pairing: John/Sherlock, Lestrade
W/C: ~1600
Warnings: blood and injury
Rating: R for aforementioned blood and injury, also some angst and schmoop (I don’t know why I always feel the need to warn for schmoopy-ness).
A/N: Several readers asked for a sequel, so here it is. The conclusion from my fic Triage, which can be found here http://verucasalt123.livejournal.com/144917.html
John had only a fuzzy recollection of the troops marching in, ambulance technicians and crime scene officers and one exceptionally agitated Detective Inspector. Yes, you know the one.
He’d started to get a clear head again once he and Sherlock were both lying down in the back of an ambulance. Coming back to his senses, he sat up and realized that the IV connection between them had been disconnected, replaced with a bag of hospital blood - one for him and one for Sherlock. Sitting up, he took in his surroundings and realized that they were surrounded by medical personnel and police. Standing out from the crowd, of course, was the aforementioned DI, their friend Greg Lestrade.
Upon realizing that John was once again conscious, Greg helped him into a full sitting position. “You all right, John? Had me, uh, I mean, had us worried for a minute there. You don’t have to sit up, you can lie back down.”
“No, I - I’m fine, I wasn’t injured, what is all this?” John asked, his head still a little fuzzy. He remembered the chase, the fall, finding the empty building. He knew he had tried to patch Sherlock up the best he could. And then…oh, the blood transfusion. That’s what all the fuss was about, regarding him at least. “Sherlock - he’s the one who was hurt, what’s happening, is he awake?”
Lestrade wasn’t surprised that John’s first concern was for Sherlock. Everyone knew John was the only real friend Sherlock had, and he’d come to suspect their relationship went beyond the normal parameters of flatmates or pals. “He’s not awake, no, he took a hell of a blow to the head. Nothing much more serious than the cut on his arm. I assume you sutured that yourself?”
“Of course I did, Jesus, he was bleeding like…Christ, he was practically hemorrhaging, there was so much. God. Just so much blood. How’d I do? We weren’t in an exactly proper or sterile environment.”
One of the ambulance techs overheard, and joined in to answer John’s question. “Lucky he was with a doctor when this happened, he was. Tying up his arm and getting him stitched kept him from losing too much blood, along with your makeshift transfusion. I’ve never seen something like that before. They don’t teach that when you’re training in my job.”
“Nevermind that, Greg, you said he knocked his head? Jesus, I’m such an idiot, I didn’t even check for a concussion. I was so focused on the blood loss from the cut on his arm, it didn’t occur to me that he might have…Fuck. Fuck all. Is it serious?”
Before Lestrade could respond, the ambulance tech jumped in again. “There’s a knot by his temple, but his pupils are reactive and if I had to guess, I’d say the concussion was mild, relatively speaking.”
At this point, John looked to the side and realized Sherlock was lying down right next to him, his eyes still closed and the bag of replacement blood hooked into the IV needle John had placed there before, on the top of his left hand.
“All right, John, everything’s all right”, replied Lestrade, his voice soft and gentle like it was when he was trying to calm an assault victim or the widow of a murdered man. For some reason, it made John bristle.
“All right? My assessment is leaning more toward a bit not good. I am a doctor, you know. No reason to sugarcoat it for me.”
Lestrade sighed, knowing he wasn’t going to get around answering every question John had. “If we can manage it before he wakes up, we’re planning to take him for observation at Saint Mary’s, it’s the closest hospital. But as far as his arm injury goes, you did brilliantly. I’ve got to ask, though. The blood transfusion - that’s something you learned in Army training, I’m guessing?”
“Yeah”, John replied, “I only did it once for real before, and it was a couple of years ago. I hope it was at least slightly helpful, he’d lost so much blood, he was soaked in it…”
“We saw his clothes. I know it must have been bad. But for you to set up something so risky, John, it’s just not like you. What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking, Greg, that I still had all my blood and he needed some, and there was a way for me to get it for him. That’s it. I considered alternatives, but there weren’t any. It didn’t hurt me.”
“Not that you would have given half a rat’s arse if it would have hurt you”, Lestrade responded.
“Can’t believe it didn’t cross my mind to check for a concussion. Stupid.”
“You saw how much he was bleeding, it wasn’t stupid for you to have done what you did. The visible injury was foremost in your mind, which is natural. You must know that, years of hospital and field training aside.”
John was about to respond when he noticed Sherlock stirring. His eyes were opening slowly and, of course, he immediately attempted to sit up. His attempt was aborted, though, when it seemed the world was inexplicably spinning around him.
“Sherlock!” John exclaimed, hoping to keep the anxiety out of his voice. “Sherlock, my love, please, are you all right? Tell me you’re all right.” He leaned in close to press a kiss to his lover’s forehead, not caring even in the least that they’d never been affectionate like that in public.
With more than a little slur to his voice, Sherlock responded. “I don’t remember much after I fell. My head hurts, and my arm…” He looked over and studied the long, sutured gash in his arm. “I’ve gotten patched up already then?”
Lestrade cut in before John had a chance to respond. “John stitched it up for you before we got there. Stopped the bleeding, and tried to help you replace the blood you’d lost.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, before turning his eyes on John. This time he managed to sit up and hold himself steady with his hands. “John, I know you’re capable of repairing wounds like this, but helping to replace lost blood? What did he mean by that? What did you do?”
“Nothing, love, nothing drastic. Just found the necessary supplies and set up an IV to get some blood pumping into you while we waited for the authorities.”
“You…where did you get it? The blood? Where did it come from?”
For just a moment, there was silence. John finally explained, hoping Sherlock wouldn’t go mental at the news. “I hooked up an IV needle and tubing, connected you to me.”
Sherlock just stared. After a moment, he took in the bag of blood emptying into him in the back of the ambulance, then looked back again and John. “You gave me your own blood?” he asked, his voice quiet and eyes wide.
“I wasn’t injured, Sherlock. It was not dangerous to me, and it was a necessity for you.”
“I don’t , uh…”, his words were still coming out slowly and measured. “Thank you. Just…thank you, John.” Now it was Sherlock’s turn to break the PDA rule as he moved his left arm and pulled John closer to him. With a sly grin on his face, he added, “My hero.”
“Oh for pete’s sake, darling, you would have done the same for me.”
“I wouldn’t. That’s just it. I don’t know how to stitch up a gash in someone’s limb, I don’t know how to go about taking my own blood and giving it directly to another person. Had this been the other way around, I couldn’t have done for you what you did for me.”
Flushing more than just a little, John answered, “It’s all right. You’re going to be fine and that’s all that matters.”
Lestrade was back at their sides then. Seeing Sherlock sitting up, he immediately had an ambulance tech fetch a shock blanket and wrap it gently around his shoulders.
And yes, it seemed Sherlock would really be just fine, as he pronounced with his usual air of indignance, “Again with the blankets, Lestrade, honestly? I’m not in shock or…or…anything. I’m just a little dizzy.”
“You hit your head, mate, we thought we’d just get you over to”
“St. Mary’s? Forget it. Nothing they can do for me that I can’t get at home. I’ve got a doctor of my very own.” Turning his eyes back to John, seated next to him, “John will make sure my medical needs are being met, I assure you.”
Knowing it was a lost cause, Greg relented. After asking the ambulance techs to remove the IVs from both men, he said “At least let me have an officer take you both home, all right? A taxi from out here will cost you a fortune.”
“Long as it’s not Sally”, Sherlock sullenly replied. Right, yeah, definitely getting back to his normal self, though his speech was still slow and he kept touching the goose egg on the side of his head.
Once they got back to Baker Street, Sherlock validly attempted to show his gratitude to John in a physical way, but John recognized his exhaustion and the after-effects of blood loss and concussion. Sherlock had unsuccessfully attempted to decline John’s offer of paracemetol before he allowed John to tuck him into bed.
Seconds from sleep, John heard Sherlock whisper, “Your blood is in me now.”
John didn’t reply, he just thought ‘Everything I am is in you’.
Pairing: John/Sherlock, Lestrade
W/C: ~1600
Warnings: blood and injury
Rating: R for aforementioned blood and injury, also some angst and schmoop (I don’t know why I always feel the need to warn for schmoopy-ness).
A/N: Several readers asked for a sequel, so here it is. The conclusion from my fic Triage, which can be found here http://verucasalt123.livejournal.com/144917.html
John had only a fuzzy recollection of the troops marching in, ambulance technicians and crime scene officers and one exceptionally agitated Detective Inspector. Yes, you know the one.
He’d started to get a clear head again once he and Sherlock were both lying down in the back of an ambulance. Coming back to his senses, he sat up and realized that the IV connection between them had been disconnected, replaced with a bag of hospital blood - one for him and one for Sherlock. Sitting up, he took in his surroundings and realized that they were surrounded by medical personnel and police. Standing out from the crowd, of course, was the aforementioned DI, their friend Greg Lestrade.
Upon realizing that John was once again conscious, Greg helped him into a full sitting position. “You all right, John? Had me, uh, I mean, had us worried for a minute there. You don’t have to sit up, you can lie back down.”
“No, I - I’m fine, I wasn’t injured, what is all this?” John asked, his head still a little fuzzy. He remembered the chase, the fall, finding the empty building. He knew he had tried to patch Sherlock up the best he could. And then…oh, the blood transfusion. That’s what all the fuss was about, regarding him at least. “Sherlock - he’s the one who was hurt, what’s happening, is he awake?”
Lestrade wasn’t surprised that John’s first concern was for Sherlock. Everyone knew John was the only real friend Sherlock had, and he’d come to suspect their relationship went beyond the normal parameters of flatmates or pals. “He’s not awake, no, he took a hell of a blow to the head. Nothing much more serious than the cut on his arm. I assume you sutured that yourself?”
“Of course I did, Jesus, he was bleeding like…Christ, he was practically hemorrhaging, there was so much. God. Just so much blood. How’d I do? We weren’t in an exactly proper or sterile environment.”
One of the ambulance techs overheard, and joined in to answer John’s question. “Lucky he was with a doctor when this happened, he was. Tying up his arm and getting him stitched kept him from losing too much blood, along with your makeshift transfusion. I’ve never seen something like that before. They don’t teach that when you’re training in my job.”
“Nevermind that, Greg, you said he knocked his head? Jesus, I’m such an idiot, I didn’t even check for a concussion. I was so focused on the blood loss from the cut on his arm, it didn’t occur to me that he might have…Fuck. Fuck all. Is it serious?”
Before Lestrade could respond, the ambulance tech jumped in again. “There’s a knot by his temple, but his pupils are reactive and if I had to guess, I’d say the concussion was mild, relatively speaking.”
At this point, John looked to the side and realized Sherlock was lying down right next to him, his eyes still closed and the bag of replacement blood hooked into the IV needle John had placed there before, on the top of his left hand.
“All right, John, everything’s all right”, replied Lestrade, his voice soft and gentle like it was when he was trying to calm an assault victim or the widow of a murdered man. For some reason, it made John bristle.
“All right? My assessment is leaning more toward a bit not good. I am a doctor, you know. No reason to sugarcoat it for me.”
Lestrade sighed, knowing he wasn’t going to get around answering every question John had. “If we can manage it before he wakes up, we’re planning to take him for observation at Saint Mary’s, it’s the closest hospital. But as far as his arm injury goes, you did brilliantly. I’ve got to ask, though. The blood transfusion - that’s something you learned in Army training, I’m guessing?”
“Yeah”, John replied, “I only did it once for real before, and it was a couple of years ago. I hope it was at least slightly helpful, he’d lost so much blood, he was soaked in it…”
“We saw his clothes. I know it must have been bad. But for you to set up something so risky, John, it’s just not like you. What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking, Greg, that I still had all my blood and he needed some, and there was a way for me to get it for him. That’s it. I considered alternatives, but there weren’t any. It didn’t hurt me.”
“Not that you would have given half a rat’s arse if it would have hurt you”, Lestrade responded.
“Can’t believe it didn’t cross my mind to check for a concussion. Stupid.”
“You saw how much he was bleeding, it wasn’t stupid for you to have done what you did. The visible injury was foremost in your mind, which is natural. You must know that, years of hospital and field training aside.”
John was about to respond when he noticed Sherlock stirring. His eyes were opening slowly and, of course, he immediately attempted to sit up. His attempt was aborted, though, when it seemed the world was inexplicably spinning around him.
“Sherlock!” John exclaimed, hoping to keep the anxiety out of his voice. “Sherlock, my love, please, are you all right? Tell me you’re all right.” He leaned in close to press a kiss to his lover’s forehead, not caring even in the least that they’d never been affectionate like that in public.
With more than a little slur to his voice, Sherlock responded. “I don’t remember much after I fell. My head hurts, and my arm…” He looked over and studied the long, sutured gash in his arm. “I’ve gotten patched up already then?”
Lestrade cut in before John had a chance to respond. “John stitched it up for you before we got there. Stopped the bleeding, and tried to help you replace the blood you’d lost.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, before turning his eyes on John. This time he managed to sit up and hold himself steady with his hands. “John, I know you’re capable of repairing wounds like this, but helping to replace lost blood? What did he mean by that? What did you do?”
“Nothing, love, nothing drastic. Just found the necessary supplies and set up an IV to get some blood pumping into you while we waited for the authorities.”
“You…where did you get it? The blood? Where did it come from?”
For just a moment, there was silence. John finally explained, hoping Sherlock wouldn’t go mental at the news. “I hooked up an IV needle and tubing, connected you to me.”
Sherlock just stared. After a moment, he took in the bag of blood emptying into him in the back of the ambulance, then looked back again and John. “You gave me your own blood?” he asked, his voice quiet and eyes wide.
“I wasn’t injured, Sherlock. It was not dangerous to me, and it was a necessity for you.”
“I don’t , uh…”, his words were still coming out slowly and measured. “Thank you. Just…thank you, John.” Now it was Sherlock’s turn to break the PDA rule as he moved his left arm and pulled John closer to him. With a sly grin on his face, he added, “My hero.”
“Oh for pete’s sake, darling, you would have done the same for me.”
“I wouldn’t. That’s just it. I don’t know how to stitch up a gash in someone’s limb, I don’t know how to go about taking my own blood and giving it directly to another person. Had this been the other way around, I couldn’t have done for you what you did for me.”
Flushing more than just a little, John answered, “It’s all right. You’re going to be fine and that’s all that matters.”
Lestrade was back at their sides then. Seeing Sherlock sitting up, he immediately had an ambulance tech fetch a shock blanket and wrap it gently around his shoulders.
And yes, it seemed Sherlock would really be just fine, as he pronounced with his usual air of indignance, “Again with the blankets, Lestrade, honestly? I’m not in shock or…or…anything. I’m just a little dizzy.”
“You hit your head, mate, we thought we’d just get you over to”
“St. Mary’s? Forget it. Nothing they can do for me that I can’t get at home. I’ve got a doctor of my very own.” Turning his eyes back to John, seated next to him, “John will make sure my medical needs are being met, I assure you.”
Knowing it was a lost cause, Greg relented. After asking the ambulance techs to remove the IVs from both men, he said “At least let me have an officer take you both home, all right? A taxi from out here will cost you a fortune.”
“Long as it’s not Sally”, Sherlock sullenly replied. Right, yeah, definitely getting back to his normal self, though his speech was still slow and he kept touching the goose egg on the side of his head.
Once they got back to Baker Street, Sherlock validly attempted to show his gratitude to John in a physical way, but John recognized his exhaustion and the after-effects of blood loss and concussion. Sherlock had unsuccessfully attempted to decline John’s offer of paracemetol before he allowed John to tuck him into bed.
Seconds from sleep, John heard Sherlock whisper, “Your blood is in me now.”
John didn’t reply, he just thought ‘Everything I am is in you’.