It takes a day from when he first touches Sherlock for the ambulance to arrive.
It is called an ambulance optimistically, because it is little more than a van with some equipment inside to help sustain life. They have this to take them to Nyala, a three hour drive away, where they will then be transported by helicopter to Khartoum.
John doesn’t confess to anyone around that he doesn’t think Sherlock will last the journey.
They load him up, John takes what supplies he can carry, and they are gone. He barely stops to apologise for leaving the crew without one valuable team member, because he can’t bear to leave Sherlock’s side.
The road is bumpy from the get go. It’s uncomfortable for John, but no doubt worse for Sherlock.
John tries to steady the stretcher as best he can, and – drowned out by the sounds of the two men talking loudly in the front – he tells Sherlock everything he can think of.
Things Sherlock knew, things Sherlock didn’t (though no doubt five minutes at his observational peak would have John’s post-Sherlock secrets all laid bare), things that didn’t matter. John spoke because it helped to speak.
He spoke because if he stopped speaking, he’d have to think again.
He’d have to think about the temperature in the van reaching agonising levels. He’d have to think about how Sherlock’s burnt, peeling skin twitched as he tried to massage warm lotion onto it. He’d have to think about how every single bump jarred his knee a little more, and how the makeshift splint John had arranged to keep it still could only do so much.
John couldn’t afford time to think, so he spoke.
When Sherlock made it alive to Nyala, John was surprised.
And when the paramedics in the helicopter took over from him, he was relieved.
Another two hours by air-conditioned, well-stocked rescue helicopter, and they’d be at a real hospital. No shelter set up near a border village. Sherlock just had to make it a little longer, and then someone would finally be able to help him.
John repeats this over and over to himself in his head – almost there, not long now, everything will be alright.
“Were you the doctor?” One of the people staffing the helicopter asks him, interrupting John’s thoughts.
John can’t draw his eyes away from Sherlock’s form as people with proper tools work on saving his life. If she’s hit small talk so soon in the flight, maybe there’s little that can be done. “Yeah.” John replies, though his voice is cracked. He hasn’t had anything to drink in a while – spent too long trying to get some fluids into Sherlock’s body in the van that the thought to tend to his own body fell by the wayside.
Her hand is firm on his shoulder. “You’ve done well.” The smile she offers him lights up her face, and her reply (in heavily accented English) is strangely reassuring.
Re: Fill: Sans Frontières (4b/?)
It takes a day from when he first touches Sherlock for the ambulance to arrive.
It is called an ambulance optimistically, because it is little more than a van with some equipment inside to help sustain life. They have this to take them to Nyala, a three hour drive away, where they will then be transported by helicopter to Khartoum.
John doesn’t confess to anyone around that he doesn’t think Sherlock will last the journey.
They load him up, John takes what supplies he can carry, and they are gone. He barely stops to apologise for leaving the crew without one valuable team member, because he can’t bear to leave Sherlock’s side.
The road is bumpy from the get go. It’s uncomfortable for John, but no doubt worse for Sherlock.
John tries to steady the stretcher as best he can, and – drowned out by the sounds of the two men talking loudly in the front – he tells Sherlock everything he can think of.
Things Sherlock knew, things Sherlock didn’t (though no doubt five minutes at his observational peak would have John’s post-Sherlock secrets all laid bare), things that didn’t matter. John spoke because it helped to speak.
He spoke because if he stopped speaking, he’d have to think again.
He’d have to think about the temperature in the van reaching agonising levels. He’d have to think about how Sherlock’s burnt, peeling skin twitched as he tried to massage warm lotion onto it. He’d have to think about how every single bump jarred his knee a little more, and how the makeshift splint John had arranged to keep it still could only do so much.
John couldn’t afford time to think, so he spoke.
When Sherlock made it alive to Nyala, John was surprised.
And when the paramedics in the helicopter took over from him, he was relieved.
Another two hours by air-conditioned, well-stocked rescue helicopter, and they’d be at a real hospital. No shelter set up near a border village. Sherlock just had to make it a little longer, and then someone would finally be able to help him.
John repeats this over and over to himself in his head – almost there, not long now, everything will be alright.
“Were you the doctor?” One of the people staffing the helicopter asks him, interrupting John’s thoughts.
John can’t draw his eyes away from Sherlock’s form as people with proper tools work on saving his life. If she’s hit small talk so soon in the flight, maybe there’s little that can be done. “Yeah.” John replies, though his voice is cracked. He hasn’t had anything to drink in a while – spent too long trying to get some fluids into Sherlock’s body in the van that the thought to tend to his own body fell by the wayside.
Her hand is firm on his shoulder. “You’ve done well.” The smile she offers him lights up her face, and her reply (in heavily accented English) is strangely reassuring.
John’s sigh is shaky.
Is doing well good enough?