((Warnings: un-beta'd, scientifically dodgy, written in a rush, broken nose.))
Sherlock was increasing the acidity of a chemical compound when he heard the dull thump from upstairs. He didn’t pay much mind to it, preoccupied as he was by how corrosive this particular solution had to be in order to damage the bronze hinges of the wardrobe as much as it had seemingly done. By all accounts, John was just exorcising his pre-bedtime cup of tea.
He continued until he found the levels of the elements that perfectly matched the aforementioned damage (25mg hydrogen; 10mg chlorine) and left the kitchen to find his phone. It was only once he got out of the kitchen that he realised that John hadn’t made any more sound, save for that one thump.
He closed his eyes, running through the possibilities. No smashing sound – no struggles – window was never open – sound was too soft to be anything hard or heavy – John didn’t fall out of bed – sound was too soft to even be –
“Something that hit the floor,” Sherlock finished aloud. “John’s having a nightmare.”
At that moment, what sounded like a tortured scream ripped through the flat, albeit muffled by the division between their rooms and the rest of the flat. Snatching up the phone and sliding it in his pocket, Sherlock loped upstairs, following the whimpering sounds that were now coming from John’s room.
Without thinking, he pushed the handle down and almost slammed the door open. He was greeted with the half-lit sight of John writhing in the bed (albeit not in the way he’d imagined recently), fighting with the covers. Sherlock immediately swerved around the bed and to John’s side, crouching down to the mattress level and placing his hands on John’s shoulders.
“John!” he shouted, vigorously shaking him. “John!”
John’s face was screwed up, deeply locked in his nightmare. He was still flailing, and Sherlock had to duck in order to avoid being hit by his limbs. He let go of John’s shoulders and decided to slap him once on both cheeks, not really knowing what else to do, since he couldn’t leave him in this state. The doctor’s eyes immediately flew open. Sherlock only saw a flash of something in them before a fist hit his face, stars exploding in his vision and pain rocketing through his face. He heard a muffled curse and a flurry of bedsheets. He touched his nose gingerly, hearing a crunching sound.
“Shit, Sherlock, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Fuck.” John was wide awake and gazing at the younger man, worry on his face.
“Unh,” Sherlock replied, inclining his head a few millimetres backwards.
John started. “Sherlock, you’ve got a broken nose. Don’t tip your head back.”
“You broke my nose, you mean,” Sherlock muttered, voice sounding thick. “Yes, alright, I broke your nose,” John sighed, running to the toilet and returning with wads of tissue paper. “Head forward and hold this to it. Back in a sec.”
John disappeared and Sherlock manoeuvred himself against the bed, pressing the wad of tissue to his nose. A sharp throbbing spread across that area, pulsing in duller waves across his cheekbones. Soon enough, he heard John return, turning the light on in the room.
“Move the tissues, let me take a look.”
Sherlock did as he was told and John placed a hand on the side of his face, ostensibly keeping his head stable so he could take a proper look at it. However, his fingertips were caressing Sherlock’s temples in a wordless apology. Sherlock raised his hand and lightly stroked forgiveness across John’s fingers.
FILLED (1/2)
Sherlock was increasing the acidity of a chemical compound when he heard the dull thump from upstairs. He didn’t pay much mind to it, preoccupied as he was by how corrosive this particular solution had to be in order to damage the bronze hinges of the wardrobe as much as it had seemingly done. By all accounts, John was just exorcising his pre-bedtime cup of tea.
He continued until he found the levels of the elements that perfectly matched the aforementioned damage (25mg hydrogen; 10mg chlorine) and left the kitchen to find his phone. It was only once he got out of the kitchen that he realised that John hadn’t made any more sound, save for that one thump.
He closed his eyes, running through the possibilities. No smashing sound – no struggles – window was never open – sound was too soft to be anything hard or heavy – John didn’t fall out of bed – sound was too soft to even be –
“Something that hit the floor,” Sherlock finished aloud. “John’s having a nightmare.”
At that moment, what sounded like a tortured scream ripped through the flat, albeit muffled by the division between their rooms and the rest of the flat. Snatching up the phone and sliding it in his pocket, Sherlock loped upstairs, following the whimpering sounds that were now coming from John’s room.
Without thinking, he pushed the handle down and almost slammed the door open. He was greeted with the half-lit sight of John writhing in the bed (albeit not in the way he’d imagined recently), fighting with the covers. Sherlock immediately swerved around the bed and to John’s side, crouching down to the mattress level and placing his hands on John’s shoulders.
“John!” he shouted, vigorously shaking him. “John!”
John’s face was screwed up, deeply locked in his nightmare. He was still flailing, and Sherlock had to duck in order to avoid being hit by his limbs. He let go of John’s shoulders and decided to slap him once on both cheeks, not really knowing what else to do, since he couldn’t leave him in this state. The doctor’s eyes immediately flew open. Sherlock only saw a flash of something in them before a fist hit his face, stars exploding in his vision and pain rocketing through his face. He heard a muffled curse and a flurry of bedsheets. He touched his nose gingerly, hearing a crunching sound.
“Shit, Sherlock, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Fuck.” John was wide awake and gazing at the younger man, worry on his face.
“Unh,” Sherlock replied, inclining his head a few millimetres backwards.
John started. “Sherlock, you’ve got a broken nose. Don’t tip your head back.”
“You broke my nose, you mean,” Sherlock muttered, voice sounding thick.
“Yes, alright, I broke your nose,” John sighed, running to the toilet and returning with wads of tissue paper. “Head forward and hold this to it. Back in a sec.”
John disappeared and Sherlock manoeuvred himself against the bed, pressing the wad of tissue to his nose. A sharp throbbing spread across that area, pulsing in duller waves across his cheekbones. Soon enough, he heard John return, turning the light on in the room.
“Move the tissues, let me take a look.”
Sherlock did as he was told and John placed a hand on the side of his face, ostensibly keeping his head stable so he could take a proper look at it. However, his fingertips were caressing Sherlock’s temples in a wordless apology. Sherlock raised his hand and lightly stroked forgiveness across John’s fingers.