“Jesus, Sherlock,” he mutters, probing at some bruising around his ribs. Sherlock hisses, just managing to stop himself from flinching away. “These guys weren’t kidding around.”
Sherlock looks away. He attempts to distance himself as John works, but doing so only sends his thoughts spiralling back to the alleyway and he grimaces, choosing, instead, to stare blankly at some ridiculous generic well-being poster.
“Bruising around the ribs.” He palpitates the area, searching now for fractures or breaks. “Nothing too serious. It’ll hurt like hell for awhile, though.” He steps around to Sherlock’s back, sucking in a sharp breath as he sees it.
Sherlock has no idea what it actually looks like, but he imagines it’s not a pleasant sight. Remembered feelings of hard sneakers and boots enter into his mind, the feeling of being trapped one he is almost completely unable to ignore. He shivers, locking his jaw against the onslaught of irrational terror.
John sets about stitching up the deeper cuts, plastering the others. He wraps Sherlock’s chest slowly, wincing as Sherlock does at the pressure.
His fingers slide into Sherlock’s hair, then, probing about for injuries. Despite himself, Sherlock stiffens and he’s sure John notices.
“Do you have a head injury?”
Slowly, Sherlock shakes his head no. “It’s merely tender.”
John leans back, lips pressed harshly together, and now Sherlock can see the anger. Before, concern and healing overrode John’s revenge-fueled hate, but apparently, seeing Sherlock so bandaged up and uncharacteristically quiet has brought about more fury than even Sherlock would have guessed. The change surprises him, though what surprises him more is John’s immediate retreat back to the calming nature of a doctor.
John takes a deep breath, shooting Sherlock a small smile. “The nurse said you were limping when you came in.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrow minutely. He doesn’t remember limping. But then, he doesn’t remember much about the journey here except his need to finish it. He shrugs.
“Right,” John says, kneeling down to get a better look at Sherlock’s legs. His hands come up to Sherlock’s thighs, palpitating the muscle there. “Any cuts or suspected breaks?”
“No,” Sherlock answers dully, staring down at the hand on his leg and working hard to remind himself that it’s John touching him right now and no one else.
Minutes - or perhaps hours - later, John pauses in his ministrations. Sherlock glances at him, eyebrow raised. “Problem?”
“I need you to stand up real quick. Just need to test and see what putting weight on your legs does about this limp.”
Sherlock’s eyes shutter, then. He blinks rapidly, staring down at his legs blankly. He can’t stand up at this point, he’s sure. At least not without some complications.
“Sherlock?”
He shakes his head. John’s voice seems to be coming from a distance, now, and he tries to bring himself back to reality. It’s one request - one simple request. A request, it would seem, that has the ability to reveal Sherlock; to make known his humiliation and fault; to ignite sympathy where he wants none; to turn him into a perpetual victim rather than the great consulting detective, accidentally targeted for one brief moment in history. John will find out and Sherlock won’t ever be able to forget this day. This stupid, meaningless, random day.
Suddenly, John’s hand is in front of him, reaching for him, and Sherlock can’t reconcile the Now with the Then and he rears back, blind fear gripping him and sending him nearly toppling from the bed. It hurts, god - it’s complete agony. The sudden movement incites such a feeling of pain he nearly blacks out and distantly he hears a harsh cry that surely could not have been him.
For a few long moments he’s completely delirious, shaking as he tries to put himself back together - to find the finite control he had only minutes before.
Fill (4/?) - Randomness, Or, The Unfortunate Forward March of Entropy
Sherlock looks away. He attempts to distance himself as John works, but doing so only sends his thoughts spiralling back to the alleyway and he grimaces, choosing, instead, to stare blankly at some ridiculous generic well-being poster.
“Bruising around the ribs.” He palpitates the area, searching now for fractures or breaks. “Nothing too serious. It’ll hurt like hell for awhile, though.” He steps around to Sherlock’s back, sucking in a sharp breath as he sees it.
Sherlock has no idea what it actually looks like, but he imagines it’s not a pleasant sight. Remembered feelings of hard sneakers and boots enter into his mind, the feeling of being trapped one he is almost completely unable to ignore. He shivers, locking his jaw against the onslaught of irrational terror.
John sets about stitching up the deeper cuts, plastering the others. He wraps Sherlock’s chest slowly, wincing as Sherlock does at the pressure.
His fingers slide into Sherlock’s hair, then, probing about for injuries. Despite himself, Sherlock stiffens and he’s sure John notices.
“Do you have a head injury?”
Slowly, Sherlock shakes his head no. “It’s merely tender.”
John leans back, lips pressed harshly together, and now Sherlock can see the anger. Before, concern and healing overrode John’s revenge-fueled hate, but apparently, seeing Sherlock so bandaged up and uncharacteristically quiet has brought about more fury than even Sherlock would have guessed. The change surprises him, though what surprises him more is John’s immediate retreat back to the calming nature of a doctor.
John takes a deep breath, shooting Sherlock a small smile. “The nurse said you were limping when you came in.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrow minutely. He doesn’t remember limping. But then, he doesn’t remember much about the journey here except his need to finish it. He shrugs.
“Right,” John says, kneeling down to get a better look at Sherlock’s legs. His hands come up to Sherlock’s thighs, palpitating the muscle there. “Any cuts or suspected breaks?”
“No,” Sherlock answers dully, staring down at the hand on his leg and working hard to remind himself that it’s John touching him right now and no one else.
Minutes - or perhaps hours - later, John pauses in his ministrations. Sherlock glances at him, eyebrow raised. “Problem?”
“I need you to stand up real quick. Just need to test and see what putting weight on your legs does about this limp.”
Sherlock’s eyes shutter, then. He blinks rapidly, staring down at his legs blankly. He can’t stand up at this point, he’s sure. At least not without some complications.
“Sherlock?”
He shakes his head. John’s voice seems to be coming from a distance, now, and he tries to bring himself back to reality. It’s one request - one simple request. A request, it would seem, that has the ability to reveal Sherlock; to make known his humiliation and fault; to ignite sympathy where he wants none; to turn him into a perpetual victim rather than the great consulting detective, accidentally targeted for one brief moment in history. John will find out and Sherlock won’t ever be able to forget this day. This stupid, meaningless, random day.
Suddenly, John’s hand is in front of him, reaching for him, and Sherlock can’t reconcile the Now with the Then and he rears back, blind fear gripping him and sending him nearly toppling from the bed. It hurts, god - it’s complete agony. The sudden movement incites such a feeling of pain he nearly blacks out and distantly he hears a harsh cry that surely could not have been him.
For a few long moments he’s completely delirious, shaking as he tries to put himself back together - to find the finite control he had only minutes before.