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impulsereader“You are absolutely not allowed to die on me, Sherlock. I refuse to play Benedick opposite anyone else.”
“Christ, John, I can hardly die with my doctor right beside me; unless you’re changing your own verdict and admitting to incompetence in that area?”
It was a decent attempt at condescending if not witty, but John could hear the pain in his partner’s voice and his worry ratcheted up a notch. A doctor he may have been, but they were stranded God knows where in the middle of the Scottish Highlands, they were on foot, it was swiftly getting dark, the temperature was already turning chill, and Sherlock was bleeding like a stuck pig. There wasn’t much even a very good doctor experienced in dealing with battlefield conditions could do in their present circumstances. He wasn’t even happy allowing Sherlock to move, but leaving him lying on the ground applying pressure to his wound as he slowly bled to death didn’t seem a truly viable fucking alternative.
So they were laboriously making their way in the direction of the last sliver of setting sun, because that was their only accurate clue to which direction they were moving. Sherlock’s right arm was slung across John’s shoulders and John’s left arm was wrapped around his friend’s waist, both so that he could help by taking even more of Sherlock’s weight and so that he could apply pressure to what was left of his shirt, the bulk of which had been fashioned into a pad and secured over Sherlock’s wound with what had once been its sleeves. It was an awkward angle, but short of slinging the taller man over his shoulder (an option which he had not officially taken off the table) it was the best they could manage.
John’s mind wouldn’t stop suggesting things he needed to start carrying around with him in case they were going to be finding themselves in this sort of situation more regularly: gaffer tape, an extra shirt, his actual medical bag, a compass, a lighter, a pint or two of AB negative, some heavy-duty antibiotics, a backup phone for when his and Sherlock’s had been confiscated by the thugs and smashed to pieces – John looked up, because he had just felt – fuck, he thought; yeah, he had just felt a drop – an umbrella (alternately Mycroft), two pairs of wellies, and (because, what the hell, how about an) x-ray machine. At that point he made himself stop thinking along that line and concentrated on scanning the distance for any sort of structure while he still had a little bit of light to work with.
He decided that there might be something dead ahead which he couldn’t get a good look at since the last bit of sun was likewise dead ahead. He told himself that there must be, and for good measure said, “I think there’s something up ahead.” He crossed his fingers that a snug little cottage with a telephone line and a resident nurse had suddenly popped into existence as a consequence of his uttering the words aloud.
Sherlock made a grunting sound, but the odds were that it had been because John had jarred his injury rather than being representative of his opinion on the possibility shelter might be within reach.
Grimly, John soldiered on as the single drop turned into a handful and then a drenching curtain. Once the sun had gone down completely he kept on walking, hoping like hell he was still moving in a straight line.
In the end it didn’t matter because whether or not they’d travelled in a straight line because eventually, there it was: a cottage that, as far as he could tell, could very well prove cosy. Relieved beyond measure, he hauled Sherlock the last few steps up the walk and gently propped him against the face of the cottage. He rang the bell; it was one of the old-fashioned sort and as he twisted the lever he could hear it chime inside. As he waited for a response, he marshalled his resources and did what he could to take in the lay of the land.
John Watson was a very competent man. He was a doctor and he had been a soldier. He had spent years living at the side of Sherlock Holmes and had accordingly seen the battlefield. All his experience and skills now allowed him to determine, despite the dark, that they were in the middle of fucking nowhere. Also, no one was coming to open the door for them.
John Watson wasn’t used to giving in to panic, but as he rang the bell again and then employed the knocker for good measure a small part of him actually did simply flip the fuck out. He decided that if no one was there he’d break into the place without qualm, but the portion of his brain which wasn’t panicking knew he’d better make damn sure there was no one at home first. A handful more rings and some energetic pounding later, he was satisfied.
He took a step back and looked at the place again, this time with a view to tactics. Break a window?
Suddenly, though, Sherlock was on his knees in front of him. At first he was afraid his friend had collapsed from the blood loss and John followed him down. He found him not losing consciousness, but instead employing his lock picks. Since this required two hands, John automatically lent him a third and used it to resume the pressure on his wound. He wondered how the hell Sherlock had retained this tool through the otherwise thorough confiscation of their possessions.
John took the moment of close contact to assess his patient’s condition. Breathing: laboured. Face: drawn and pale. Pulse: fluttery. Conclusion: worrisome. Still, he was clearly following events perfectly well, so that was something. It was also encouraging that John found his pulse-taking hand shrugged off by a gesture pregnant with irritation. It was, however, not encouraging that the swinging open of the door was followed by the admission, “I need you to help me up.”
Carefully, John did this, and together they staggered into a room which presented their irises with a new and exciting degree of darkness but did not prove, unfortunately in that moment, to be empty of furniture. “Bollocks on toast!” John exclaimed when he barked his shin hard on something.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Sherlock critiqued weakly. “You definitely wouldn’t eat that.”
“And yet somehow it made me feel better for a fleeting instant, which would be the entire point of profanity. Look, can you stand for a second on your own?”
“Probably.”
John tried not to get even more worried, but failed. He decided that panic was really not something he handled well and made a mental note to avoid it in future. He reluctantly released Sherlock and flailed about a bit until he found a wall. “Here, lean here while I stumble round.” He guided him over to his new find and placed his free hand on it. The fact that Sherlock sank down the wall instead of using it to prop himself up ratcheted his concern yet another level higher.
His eyes were adjusting to the near-full dark now and he could make out the shapes of the furniture well enough to avoid additional bruises. Unfortunately, the light switches he found yielded no actual light. “Fuck.” That meant that the telephone probably wasn’t going to work either. He spent a few precious moments bumping around the room before finding the instrument in question and confirming there was no dialing tone. “Double blustering fuck. Where do people keep candles?” he demanded.
The response was not as irritated as it should have been. “Why would I know that?”
Worried and bordering on frantic now, John waved his hands around in distress without realizing he was doing so. Sherlock did not, unfortunately, have his eyes open so he missed the entertaining visual. He was, however, still able to be vaguely amused by the verbal accompaniment. “You know things, Sherlock, strange things that I have no idea why you’ve retained. It’s not just the creepy knowing things about everyone you lay eyes on, it’s that you know how people act even when you haven’t laid eyes on them.” Even knowing it was irrational, he repeated himself, “So where do people keep their bloody candles? I don’t have time to be wasting while you’re still bleeding.”
“Sorry, no idea.”
It was the ‘sorry’ that sent John over the edge from calmly panicking to frenzied. He stormed out of the room and began rooting around in the kitchen cabinets, banging into things as he went and not even bothering to curse about any of it.
His doctorly lizard brain still seemed to be in working order, though, because when he’d finished ransacking the kitchen he had almost unconsciously set aside a box of matches, a torch with dead batteries, and a pair of scissors. He decided to suspend the search for a light source and sought out the loo instead. Luckily, his ransacking there yielded an ancient bottle of rubbing alcohol and some slightly less ancient gauze pads which were still in sealed packets; this made him feel quite a bit better. What he really needed now was a needle and thread - as well as light to work by - right. “Fuck. Fuck fucketty buggering fuck.”
He added his new finds to the motley pile of treasure which was accumulating next to Sherlock, then stormed out to the garage. There, he realized that some kindly God who looked out for idiot flatmates who continually insisted on jumping into the line of fire had smiled upon him in his hour of need. Not only did he find an industrial-sized box chock full of lovely large emergency candles, but also two more boxes of matches, some batteries which would fit the torch, as well as (wonder of wonders) a tackle box full of fishing line and nice pointy hooks, at least one of which he hoped would prove free of rust.
Back in the living room, John was immediately disappointed when the batteries proved to be dead; no torch, then. He worked as quickly as he could, lighting a significant number of candles and managing to light the area around the sofa with a glow which clearly illuminated the space. He burned each finger at least twice and during the process had resumed a steady stream of profanity which Sherlock himself was just able to appreciate despite the pain; it helped, actually, to have something else to focus on.
Finally - Finally! So much bloody time wasted! - John eased Sherlock back up, telling him, “Well, the good news is that if you were bleeding internally you’d probably already be dead.” This wasn’t strictly the entire truth, but he was really hoping it would prove true, and it honestly was the only cheerful thing he could think to say. Conveniently, Sherlock was too tall for the sofa so he propped his feet up on the arm. It was a little late to start trying to prevent shock, but it was also habit; now that he had supplies and some light the more routine things which needed to be done could come to the fore. Accordingly, he took another precious moment to shred the flaps of the cardboard box which held the remaining candles in the hope of ending up with a fire. The candlelight had revealed logs already laid in the hearth and he did what he could to encourage them to burn.
“Right. Let’s have a look, then.”
Sherlock knew it would be childish, downright churlish in fact, to complain. It was his fault they were in this situation and he was quite lucky to have landed in it with a doctor who actually had some chance of putting things right. But he was freezing cold, his body was suffused with pain, and he really just wanted to be left alone. John’s ‘having a look’ was bound to change the pain from throbbing to sharp and there seemed no hope at all that he would somehow magically become dry, warm, and transported home to Baker Street. Then again, seeming childish was usually not a deterrent to Sherlock. “I’m cold.”
John sighed. “I know, I’m sorry, I’m hoping the fire will help after a bit.”
“It hurts.”
“God, Sherlock, I know, I’m so sorry.” He paused then said regretfully, “It’s going to hurt more before I’m done.”
Fabulous. He’d been both childish and churlish and it hadn’t got him anything. Some days Sherlock despised being alive. A giddy inner voice assured him that soon, that might no longer be a problem.
John was removing the makeshift bandage; the shock of cold that hit his wound as a consequence made him grit his teeth and he could hear his own indrawn breath hiss in the quiet of the long-abandoned room.
“Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?”
An astonished bark of laughter escaped Sherlock, and he cringed at the pain the jarring caused. “This is hardly the moment for running lines, John.”
More firmly, his trusty physician and lately Benedick prompted again, “Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?”
Oh, what the bloody hell he thought, at least the response was appropriate. “Yea, and I will weep a while longer.”
“I will not desire that.”
“You could stop,” another hissing breath in response to whatever he was doing down there, “poking around then and just leave me be.”
“It’s actually better than I’d expected. Somewhere along the way the bleeding mostly stopped; you’re only oozing now. I’ll still have to stitch it, though. Keep going: I will not desire that.”
Sherlock bit back what might have been either a groan or a curse if it had been given voice. Instead he swallowed hard and kept going. “You have no reason; I do it freely.”
“Surely I do believe your fair cousin is wronged.”
“Ah, how much might the man deserve of me that would right her.”
“Is there any way to show such friendship?” John’s voice was gentle and sincere and it suddenly made Sherlock want to weep in truth. He had no idea what he’d ever done to deserve a friend, no, a brother so steadfast as Dr John Watson; in fact he suspected he didn’t deserve him at all.
Then he felt the needle go in. Sherlock bit back a cry.
“Is there any way to show such friendship?”
He focused on John’s voice, the tone even but with an underlying thread of tension. His own was ragged when he suggested, “A very even way, but no such friend.”
“May a man do it?”
“The very best of men,” Sherlock breathed. “John -,”
“First rule, Sherlock.”
“Never break character,” he murmured, “but we’re just running lines.”
“May a man do it?”
“It is a man's office, but not yours.”
“I do love nothing in the world so well as you: is not that strange?” John snorted, amused for a split second. “Jesus, strange doesn’t even begin to cover it.”
Sherlock sucked in a ragged breath and insisted to himself it was just transport. “As strange as the thing I know not. It were as possible for me to say I loved nothing so well as you: but - AH!”
“All right, you’re all right. I’m sorry, Sherlock, I’m so sorry for all of this.”
“Not your fault,” he grit out and forced himself to continue, “believe me not; and yet I lie not; I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I am sorry for my cousin.” His delivery had been terrible, but he’d got the line right. They were just running lines.
“By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me.”
John was trying hard to maintain his calm and soothing tone, but there was a waver there. Sherlock summoned everything he had left. “I lovest you much more when you are making me tea.”
His doctor made a sound which would have been a chuckle under other circumstances. “By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me when I am making you tea.”
“Do not swear, and eat it.”
“I will swear by it that you love me, at least when I’m making you tea rather than stitching you up without a local; and I will make him eat it that says I love not you.”
Calm and soothing was firmly back in place now, and Sherlock took strength from it. “Will you not eat your word?”
“Honestly, what is it with all the eating of words in this play? With no sauce that can be devised to it. I protest I love thee.”
“Why, then, God forgive me.”
“What offence, sweet Beatrice? That was the last one,” he added softly, “I’m just finishing up now.”
Sherlock sighed in relief, “You have stayed me in a happy hour.” He carefully pulled in a new breath. “I was about to protest I loved you.”
“And the audience cheers.”
Sherlock snorted.
“And do it with all thy heart.”
“I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest.” Sherlock hoped John knew that he meant that. He thought he probably did.
“Come, bid me do any thing for thee.”
“Kill Claudio.”
“Already ticked that box with the cabbie. Next?”
Dog my every step, pick up the pieces which I think aren’t important but will need later, reflect my genius back to me so that I can see clearly, reassure me that you and Baker Street are my home, patch me up physically using chewing gum and a tea towel if need be, and don’t forget to hand me my phone. Oh, Sherlock didn’t ask for much, really, just the moon, stars, and a box to keep them in; he knew it too.
He opened his eyes and looked at John. His partner was soaking wet and shivering, stripped even of the slight protection his shirt might have given him. He was pale and drawn with exhaustion, but his eyes were clear; there was deep concern there, yes, but it was born of the affection which shone through even in this extremity. He took in the rest of the scene; the candles and the mismatched set of tools Dr Watson had accumulated in his profanity-fuelled search.
“I think managing to save my life and improvising stitches from the contents of a tackle box will serve quite nicely.”
“Ha! not for the wide world. Go on, ask for something else while I’m feeling sorry for you.”
“God, I’d love a cigarette.”
John glanced around ruefully. “Sorry, I’m pretty sure even if I found some here you wouldn’t want them.”
“You kill me to deny it. Farewell.” Because the thought that he would be able to move under his own power was funny, he frivolously waved his hand about to help convey the hilarity of it all.
“Tarry, sweet Beatrice.” There was just a hint of laughter in John’s voice.
“I am gone, though I am here,” Sherlock insisted, “there is no love in you: nay, I pray you, let me go.”
John rose and moved over to check the status of their fire. “Beatrice -,”
“In faith, I will go,” Sherlock insisted from his prone position on the sofa.
John employed the heavy poker which had stood sentinel on the hearth for who knew how long. “We'll be friends first.” His delivery was appropriately dry considering their history.
“You dare easier be friends with me than fight with mine enemy.”
“Tarry, good Beatrice. By this hand, I love thee.”
Sherlock raised his head to look at his partner, curiosity winning out over his pain-management strategy of lying as still as possible. “You just skipped about four pages.”
John shrugged, now beginning to prowl round the room, taking stock of its contents. “Your physician advises you to save your breath for breathing instead of wasting it wishing you were a man so you could eat Claudio’s heart in the marketplace.”
“Grandmother would not approve.”
“She’ll approve my keeping you alive to play the part.”
“Hm. Use it for my love some other way than swearing by it.
“Think you in your soul the Count Claudio hath wronged Hero?”
“Yea, as sure as I have a thought or a soul.”
“Enough, I am engaged. Ah ha!” John strode over to the sofa and covered his partner with the blanket he had just found, tucking it snugly around him. Sherlock almost protested that he should keep it for himself, but knew it would be a waste of breath. “I will challenge him. I will kiss your hand, and so I leave you. I’m going to get you some water.” He recited the rest of the line with a bit more volume so he could be heard from the kitchen. “By this hand, Claudio shall render me a dear account. As you hear of me, so think of me. Go, comfort your cousin: I must say she is dead: and so, farewell.”
“Find yourself a shirt or something.”
“What,” he called over the sound of the running water which had thankfully proved more congenial than the electricity and telephone service, “you’re offended by my ill-defined pectoral muscles? Or threatened, maybe?”
“I’m offended by the fact that you’re shivering.”
“I’m going to have to find some rain gear. Or something plastic at least.”
Sherlock frowned. “Why?”
“Why do you think, genius?” He sat on the edge of the sofa and helped Sherlock sip from the glass. “We need to ring Mycroft or Lestrade, or possibly both; we have to find someone who can tell us where the hell we are so one of them can come fetch us.”
“You aren’t going out into the rain in the dark when we have no idea where we are,” Sherlock stated flatly.
John just grinned. He put the water aside and stood. “Sounds like something mad that you might do, doesn’t it? Don’t worry, I’m not nicking your act; but seriously, I want you in hospital sooner rather than later. You need antibiotics and a transfusion; proper stitches wouldn’t go amiss either.”
Sherlock frowned and did something he truly hated doing; he repeated himself. “You are not going out into the rain to wander around in the dark on your own.”
He sighed. “I can’t just sit here doing nothing and thinking about the bacteria attacking your body. At least if I’m out looking for help I’m doing something.”
“Must I say it a third time?”
“Sherlock, you could still die as a consequence of this wound, and if you do I’m not going to be able to live with myself knowing I didn’t go wandering through the dark and the rain and the cold like a bloody loon!”
“Wait until sunrise. It doesn’t make any sense at all for you to go now.”
John made himself take a breath. Sherlock was right, of course. That didn’t stop him wanting to set out immediately instead of waiting. “I know it’s stupid, I just feel as if I need to do something.”
Sherlock racked his brain. “I’m still cold,” he blurted out finally because it was the truth. Belatedly, he realized that had been brilliant of him. “You need to stay and keep me warm,” he concluded with deeply smug satisfaction.
John stood, hands on hips, staring at Sherlock for a moment. His mouth quirked up into a smile. “You’re actually telling me that you want me to keep you warm with my own body heat, aren’t you?”
His partner would have shrugged if it would have been worth the resulting pain. “It seems the most sensible course of action.”
John’s smile widened and he dropped his head, shaking it in disbelief. “My life just continues to get more ridiculous. Honestly, who does something like that outside the telly?”
“I believe some lesser authors are not above employing the trope.”
“Oh right, I live within the pages of a Mills and Boon paperback now. Of course, I’d completely forgotten. Honestly, we might as well actually get married. I’ll be back in a tick.” He turned and walked toward the front door.
“Where are you going?” Sherlock said, alarmed. He had made a valid point, blast it!
John didn’t stop walking, but said, “I’m just going to look for a wood box. We could use some more dry logs if there are any to be found.”
And when he came back he had dry wood as well as another blanket and a pillow, both of which smelled musty, but the entire cottage smelled musty so that didn’t much matter. He added the latter two items to the sofa already containing Sherlock and the first blanket. He then poked things around a bit in the fireplace and added some of the new logs. He thought the room was finally starting to feel warmer.
“John?”
“Coming. Just coming.”
“Christ, John, I can hardly die with my doctor right beside me; unless you’re changing your own verdict and admitting to incompetence in that area?”
It was a decent attempt at condescending if not witty, but John could hear the pain in his partner’s voice and his worry ratcheted up a notch. A doctor he may have been, but they were stranded God knows where in the middle of the Scottish Highlands, they were on foot, it was swiftly getting dark, the temperature was already turning chill, and Sherlock was bleeding like a stuck pig. There wasn’t much even a very good doctor experienced in dealing with battlefield conditions could do in their present circumstances. He wasn’t even happy allowing Sherlock to move, but leaving him lying on the ground applying pressure to his wound as he slowly bled to death didn’t seem a truly viable fucking alternative.
So they were laboriously making their way in the direction of the last sliver of setting sun, because that was their only accurate clue to which direction they were moving. Sherlock’s right arm was slung across John’s shoulders and John’s left arm was wrapped around his friend’s waist, both so that he could help by taking even more of Sherlock’s weight and so that he could apply pressure to what was left of his shirt, the bulk of which had been fashioned into a pad and secured over Sherlock’s wound with what had once been its sleeves. It was an awkward angle, but short of slinging the taller man over his shoulder (an option which he had not officially taken off the table) it was the best they could manage.
John’s mind wouldn’t stop suggesting things he needed to start carrying around with him in case they were going to be finding themselves in this sort of situation more regularly: gaffer tape, an extra shirt, his actual medical bag, a compass, a lighter, a pint or two of AB negative, some heavy-duty antibiotics, a backup phone for when his and Sherlock’s had been confiscated by the thugs and smashed to pieces – John looked up, because he had just felt – fuck, he thought; yeah, he had just felt a drop – an umbrella (alternately Mycroft), two pairs of wellies, and (because, what the hell, how about an) x-ray machine. At that point he made himself stop thinking along that line and concentrated on scanning the distance for any sort of structure while he still had a little bit of light to work with.
He decided that there might be something dead ahead which he couldn’t get a good look at since the last bit of sun was likewise dead ahead. He told himself that there must be, and for good measure said, “I think there’s something up ahead.” He crossed his fingers that a snug little cottage with a telephone line and a resident nurse had suddenly popped into existence as a consequence of his uttering the words aloud.
Sherlock made a grunting sound, but the odds were that it had been because John had jarred his injury rather than being representative of his opinion on the possibility shelter might be within reach.
Grimly, John soldiered on as the single drop turned into a handful and then a drenching curtain. Once the sun had gone down completely he kept on walking, hoping like hell he was still moving in a straight line.
In the end it didn’t matter because whether or not they’d travelled in a straight line because eventually, there it was: a cottage that, as far as he could tell, could very well prove cosy. Relieved beyond measure, he hauled Sherlock the last few steps up the walk and gently propped him against the face of the cottage. He rang the bell; it was one of the old-fashioned sort and as he twisted the lever he could hear it chime inside. As he waited for a response, he marshalled his resources and did what he could to take in the lay of the land.
John Watson was a very competent man. He was a doctor and he had been a soldier. He had spent years living at the side of Sherlock Holmes and had accordingly seen the battlefield. All his experience and skills now allowed him to determine, despite the dark, that they were in the middle of fucking nowhere. Also, no one was coming to open the door for them.
John Watson wasn’t used to giving in to panic, but as he rang the bell again and then employed the knocker for good measure a small part of him actually did simply flip the fuck out. He decided that if no one was there he’d break into the place without qualm, but the portion of his brain which wasn’t panicking knew he’d better make damn sure there was no one at home first. A handful more rings and some energetic pounding later, he was satisfied.
He took a step back and looked at the place again, this time with a view to tactics. Break a window?
Suddenly, though, Sherlock was on his knees in front of him. At first he was afraid his friend had collapsed from the blood loss and John followed him down. He found him not losing consciousness, but instead employing his lock picks. Since this required two hands, John automatically lent him a third and used it to resume the pressure on his wound. He wondered how the hell Sherlock had retained this tool through the otherwise thorough confiscation of their possessions.
John took the moment of close contact to assess his patient’s condition. Breathing: laboured. Face: drawn and pale. Pulse: fluttery. Conclusion: worrisome. Still, he was clearly following events perfectly well, so that was something. It was also encouraging that John found his pulse-taking hand shrugged off by a gesture pregnant with irritation. It was, however, not encouraging that the swinging open of the door was followed by the admission, “I need you to help me up.”
Carefully, John did this, and together they staggered into a room which presented their irises with a new and exciting degree of darkness but did not prove, unfortunately in that moment, to be empty of furniture. “Bollocks on toast!” John exclaimed when he barked his shin hard on something.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Sherlock critiqued weakly. “You definitely wouldn’t eat that.”
“And yet somehow it made me feel better for a fleeting instant, which would be the entire point of profanity. Look, can you stand for a second on your own?”
“Probably.”
John tried not to get even more worried, but failed. He decided that panic was really not something he handled well and made a mental note to avoid it in future. He reluctantly released Sherlock and flailed about a bit until he found a wall. “Here, lean here while I stumble round.” He guided him over to his new find and placed his free hand on it. The fact that Sherlock sank down the wall instead of using it to prop himself up ratcheted his concern yet another level higher.
His eyes were adjusting to the near-full dark now and he could make out the shapes of the furniture well enough to avoid additional bruises. Unfortunately, the light switches he found yielded no actual light. “Fuck.” That meant that the telephone probably wasn’t going to work either. He spent a few precious moments bumping around the room before finding the instrument in question and confirming there was no dialing tone. “Double blustering fuck. Where do people keep candles?” he demanded.
The response was not as irritated as it should have been. “Why would I know that?”
Worried and bordering on frantic now, John waved his hands around in distress without realizing he was doing so. Sherlock did not, unfortunately, have his eyes open so he missed the entertaining visual. He was, however, still able to be vaguely amused by the verbal accompaniment. “You know things, Sherlock, strange things that I have no idea why you’ve retained. It’s not just the creepy knowing things about everyone you lay eyes on, it’s that you know how people act even when you haven’t laid eyes on them.” Even knowing it was irrational, he repeated himself, “So where do people keep their bloody candles? I don’t have time to be wasting while you’re still bleeding.”
“Sorry, no idea.”
It was the ‘sorry’ that sent John over the edge from calmly panicking to frenzied. He stormed out of the room and began rooting around in the kitchen cabinets, banging into things as he went and not even bothering to curse about any of it.
His doctorly lizard brain still seemed to be in working order, though, because when he’d finished ransacking the kitchen he had almost unconsciously set aside a box of matches, a torch with dead batteries, and a pair of scissors. He decided to suspend the search for a light source and sought out the loo instead. Luckily, his ransacking there yielded an ancient bottle of rubbing alcohol and some slightly less ancient gauze pads which were still in sealed packets; this made him feel quite a bit better. What he really needed now was a needle and thread - as well as light to work by - right. “Fuck. Fuck fucketty buggering fuck.”
He added his new finds to the motley pile of treasure which was accumulating next to Sherlock, then stormed out to the garage. There, he realized that some kindly God who looked out for idiot flatmates who continually insisted on jumping into the line of fire had smiled upon him in his hour of need. Not only did he find an industrial-sized box chock full of lovely large emergency candles, but also two more boxes of matches, some batteries which would fit the torch, as well as (wonder of wonders) a tackle box full of fishing line and nice pointy hooks, at least one of which he hoped would prove free of rust.
Back in the living room, John was immediately disappointed when the batteries proved to be dead; no torch, then. He worked as quickly as he could, lighting a significant number of candles and managing to light the area around the sofa with a glow which clearly illuminated the space. He burned each finger at least twice and during the process had resumed a steady stream of profanity which Sherlock himself was just able to appreciate despite the pain; it helped, actually, to have something else to focus on.
Finally - Finally! So much bloody time wasted! - John eased Sherlock back up, telling him, “Well, the good news is that if you were bleeding internally you’d probably already be dead.” This wasn’t strictly the entire truth, but he was really hoping it would prove true, and it honestly was the only cheerful thing he could think to say. Conveniently, Sherlock was too tall for the sofa so he propped his feet up on the arm. It was a little late to start trying to prevent shock, but it was also habit; now that he had supplies and some light the more routine things which needed to be done could come to the fore. Accordingly, he took another precious moment to shred the flaps of the cardboard box which held the remaining candles in the hope of ending up with a fire. The candlelight had revealed logs already laid in the hearth and he did what he could to encourage them to burn.
“Right. Let’s have a look, then.”
Sherlock knew it would be childish, downright churlish in fact, to complain. It was his fault they were in this situation and he was quite lucky to have landed in it with a doctor who actually had some chance of putting things right. But he was freezing cold, his body was suffused with pain, and he really just wanted to be left alone. John’s ‘having a look’ was bound to change the pain from throbbing to sharp and there seemed no hope at all that he would somehow magically become dry, warm, and transported home to Baker Street. Then again, seeming childish was usually not a deterrent to Sherlock. “I’m cold.”
John sighed. “I know, I’m sorry, I’m hoping the fire will help after a bit.”
“It hurts.”
“God, Sherlock, I know, I’m so sorry.” He paused then said regretfully, “It’s going to hurt more before I’m done.”
Fabulous. He’d been both childish and churlish and it hadn’t got him anything. Some days Sherlock despised being alive. A giddy inner voice assured him that soon, that might no longer be a problem.
John was removing the makeshift bandage; the shock of cold that hit his wound as a consequence made him grit his teeth and he could hear his own indrawn breath hiss in the quiet of the long-abandoned room.
“Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?”
An astonished bark of laughter escaped Sherlock, and he cringed at the pain the jarring caused. “This is hardly the moment for running lines, John.”
More firmly, his trusty physician and lately Benedick prompted again, “Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?”
Oh, what the bloody hell he thought, at least the response was appropriate. “Yea, and I will weep a while longer.”
“I will not desire that.”
“You could stop,” another hissing breath in response to whatever he was doing down there, “poking around then and just leave me be.”
“It’s actually better than I’d expected. Somewhere along the way the bleeding mostly stopped; you’re only oozing now. I’ll still have to stitch it, though. Keep going: I will not desire that.”
Sherlock bit back what might have been either a groan or a curse if it had been given voice. Instead he swallowed hard and kept going. “You have no reason; I do it freely.”
“Surely I do believe your fair cousin is wronged.”
“Ah, how much might the man deserve of me that would right her.”
“Is there any way to show such friendship?” John’s voice was gentle and sincere and it suddenly made Sherlock want to weep in truth. He had no idea what he’d ever done to deserve a friend, no, a brother so steadfast as Dr John Watson; in fact he suspected he didn’t deserve him at all.
Then he felt the needle go in. Sherlock bit back a cry.
“Is there any way to show such friendship?”
He focused on John’s voice, the tone even but with an underlying thread of tension. His own was ragged when he suggested, “A very even way, but no such friend.”
“May a man do it?”
“The very best of men,” Sherlock breathed. “John -,”
“First rule, Sherlock.”
“Never break character,” he murmured, “but we’re just running lines.”
“May a man do it?”
“It is a man's office, but not yours.”
“I do love nothing in the world so well as you: is not that strange?” John snorted, amused for a split second. “Jesus, strange doesn’t even begin to cover it.”
Sherlock sucked in a ragged breath and insisted to himself it was just transport. “As strange as the thing I know not. It were as possible for me to say I loved nothing so well as you: but - AH!”
“All right, you’re all right. I’m sorry, Sherlock, I’m so sorry for all of this.”
“Not your fault,” he grit out and forced himself to continue, “believe me not; and yet I lie not; I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I am sorry for my cousin.” His delivery had been terrible, but he’d got the line right. They were just running lines.
“By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me.”
John was trying hard to maintain his calm and soothing tone, but there was a waver there. Sherlock summoned everything he had left. “I lovest you much more when you are making me tea.”
His doctor made a sound which would have been a chuckle under other circumstances. “By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me when I am making you tea.”
“Do not swear, and eat it.”
“I will swear by it that you love me, at least when I’m making you tea rather than stitching you up without a local; and I will make him eat it that says I love not you.”
Calm and soothing was firmly back in place now, and Sherlock took strength from it. “Will you not eat your word?”
“Honestly, what is it with all the eating of words in this play? With no sauce that can be devised to it. I protest I love thee.”
“Why, then, God forgive me.”
“What offence, sweet Beatrice? That was the last one,” he added softly, “I’m just finishing up now.”
Sherlock sighed in relief, “You have stayed me in a happy hour.” He carefully pulled in a new breath. “I was about to protest I loved you.”
“And the audience cheers.”
Sherlock snorted.
“And do it with all thy heart.”
“I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest.” Sherlock hoped John knew that he meant that. He thought he probably did.
“Come, bid me do any thing for thee.”
“Kill Claudio.”
“Already ticked that box with the cabbie. Next?”
Dog my every step, pick up the pieces which I think aren’t important but will need later, reflect my genius back to me so that I can see clearly, reassure me that you and Baker Street are my home, patch me up physically using chewing gum and a tea towel if need be, and don’t forget to hand me my phone. Oh, Sherlock didn’t ask for much, really, just the moon, stars, and a box to keep them in; he knew it too.
He opened his eyes and looked at John. His partner was soaking wet and shivering, stripped even of the slight protection his shirt might have given him. He was pale and drawn with exhaustion, but his eyes were clear; there was deep concern there, yes, but it was born of the affection which shone through even in this extremity. He took in the rest of the scene; the candles and the mismatched set of tools Dr Watson had accumulated in his profanity-fuelled search.
“I think managing to save my life and improvising stitches from the contents of a tackle box will serve quite nicely.”
“Ha! not for the wide world. Go on, ask for something else while I’m feeling sorry for you.”
“God, I’d love a cigarette.”
John glanced around ruefully. “Sorry, I’m pretty sure even if I found some here you wouldn’t want them.”
“You kill me to deny it. Farewell.” Because the thought that he would be able to move under his own power was funny, he frivolously waved his hand about to help convey the hilarity of it all.
“Tarry, sweet Beatrice.” There was just a hint of laughter in John’s voice.
“I am gone, though I am here,” Sherlock insisted, “there is no love in you: nay, I pray you, let me go.”
John rose and moved over to check the status of their fire. “Beatrice -,”
“In faith, I will go,” Sherlock insisted from his prone position on the sofa.
John employed the heavy poker which had stood sentinel on the hearth for who knew how long. “We'll be friends first.” His delivery was appropriately dry considering their history.
“You dare easier be friends with me than fight with mine enemy.”
“Tarry, good Beatrice. By this hand, I love thee.”
Sherlock raised his head to look at his partner, curiosity winning out over his pain-management strategy of lying as still as possible. “You just skipped about four pages.”
John shrugged, now beginning to prowl round the room, taking stock of its contents. “Your physician advises you to save your breath for breathing instead of wasting it wishing you were a man so you could eat Claudio’s heart in the marketplace.”
“Grandmother would not approve.”
“She’ll approve my keeping you alive to play the part.”
“Hm. Use it for my love some other way than swearing by it.
“Think you in your soul the Count Claudio hath wronged Hero?”
“Yea, as sure as I have a thought or a soul.”
“Enough, I am engaged. Ah ha!” John strode over to the sofa and covered his partner with the blanket he had just found, tucking it snugly around him. Sherlock almost protested that he should keep it for himself, but knew it would be a waste of breath. “I will challenge him. I will kiss your hand, and so I leave you. I’m going to get you some water.” He recited the rest of the line with a bit more volume so he could be heard from the kitchen. “By this hand, Claudio shall render me a dear account. As you hear of me, so think of me. Go, comfort your cousin: I must say she is dead: and so, farewell.”
“Find yourself a shirt or something.”
“What,” he called over the sound of the running water which had thankfully proved more congenial than the electricity and telephone service, “you’re offended by my ill-defined pectoral muscles? Or threatened, maybe?”
“I’m offended by the fact that you’re shivering.”
“I’m going to have to find some rain gear. Or something plastic at least.”
Sherlock frowned. “Why?”
“Why do you think, genius?” He sat on the edge of the sofa and helped Sherlock sip from the glass. “We need to ring Mycroft or Lestrade, or possibly both; we have to find someone who can tell us where the hell we are so one of them can come fetch us.”
“You aren’t going out into the rain in the dark when we have no idea where we are,” Sherlock stated flatly.
John just grinned. He put the water aside and stood. “Sounds like something mad that you might do, doesn’t it? Don’t worry, I’m not nicking your act; but seriously, I want you in hospital sooner rather than later. You need antibiotics and a transfusion; proper stitches wouldn’t go amiss either.”
Sherlock frowned and did something he truly hated doing; he repeated himself. “You are not going out into the rain to wander around in the dark on your own.”
He sighed. “I can’t just sit here doing nothing and thinking about the bacteria attacking your body. At least if I’m out looking for help I’m doing something.”
“Must I say it a third time?”
“Sherlock, you could still die as a consequence of this wound, and if you do I’m not going to be able to live with myself knowing I didn’t go wandering through the dark and the rain and the cold like a bloody loon!”
“Wait until sunrise. It doesn’t make any sense at all for you to go now.”
John made himself take a breath. Sherlock was right, of course. That didn’t stop him wanting to set out immediately instead of waiting. “I know it’s stupid, I just feel as if I need to do something.”
Sherlock racked his brain. “I’m still cold,” he blurted out finally because it was the truth. Belatedly, he realized that had been brilliant of him. “You need to stay and keep me warm,” he concluded with deeply smug satisfaction.
John stood, hands on hips, staring at Sherlock for a moment. His mouth quirked up into a smile. “You’re actually telling me that you want me to keep you warm with my own body heat, aren’t you?”
His partner would have shrugged if it would have been worth the resulting pain. “It seems the most sensible course of action.”
John’s smile widened and he dropped his head, shaking it in disbelief. “My life just continues to get more ridiculous. Honestly, who does something like that outside the telly?”
“I believe some lesser authors are not above employing the trope.”
“Oh right, I live within the pages of a Mills and Boon paperback now. Of course, I’d completely forgotten. Honestly, we might as well actually get married. I’ll be back in a tick.” He turned and walked toward the front door.
“Where are you going?” Sherlock said, alarmed. He had made a valid point, blast it!
John didn’t stop walking, but said, “I’m just going to look for a wood box. We could use some more dry logs if there are any to be found.”
And when he came back he had dry wood as well as another blanket and a pillow, both of which smelled musty, but the entire cottage smelled musty so that didn’t much matter. He added the latter two items to the sofa already containing Sherlock and the first blanket. He then poked things around a bit in the fireplace and added some of the new logs. He thought the room was finally starting to feel warmer.
“John?”
“Coming. Just coming.”
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Date: 2013-02-12 09:38 pm (UTC)All the love for this one! You have some of my favourite things; hurt Sherlock, BAMFY and doctorly John, bromance to the power of infinity and candles.
I think this has become my favourite one of the series and I want to hug you for it!
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Date: 2013-02-13 12:42 am (UTC)