Characters: John, Sherlock

POV: Sherlock

Prompt: John is injured and has to talk Sherlock through basic care.

Submitted by: Arowen13

"It is a lot of blood."

"It's not that much, Sherlock."

"How can you tell?"

"Doctor, that's how. I need you to focus."

Sherlock obeys. He focuses on John's face, which is pale and sweating. He focuses on John's pulse, which seems much too rapid. He focuses on the wound in the sinew of John's left shoulder, which is bleeding a lot but apparently not that much.

John takes a few deep breaths and reaches for Sherlock with his good arm. "Help me up."

Of course, Sherlock does this, even going so far as to sling an arm around John's waist when his face whitens upon straightening to his full height. He assesses him quickly, and though his eye is not trained in the medical arts insomuch as John's, he can see that the situation is a bit not good. "We should go to hospital," he concludes. "I'll have Mrs. Hudson call a cab."

"No," John says, tightening his grip on the back of his flatmate's shirt. "Not that bad. Go. That way."

Frowning, Sherlock hesitates. "You've lost a considerable amount of blood. You are sweating and shaking, and your pulse is extremely fast. I feel that the extent of the injury is beyond my scope of - "

"Because it bloody hurts!" John snaps. "And yes, it's beyond your scope of expertise, but I'm going to talk you through it. Go. Washroom. Don't let go."

The detective rather doubts John's assessment of the situation as not that bad, but decides that the chances are great that John will injure himself further if Sherlock tries to force him to go to A&E. The chances are slightly less so if Sherlock simply performs whatever care is needed now, and then persuades him to go later, when he's feeling more agreeable. However: "I don't understand why we aren't going to A&E. You are guaranteed to receive better care there than in our washroom. And it is likely to be cleaner. Somewhat."

They pause on the threshold of the bathroom.

"Are there any experiments going on in here?" John asks.

"No," Sherlock replies automatically. He feels John's disbelieving eye on him and gives his question another thought. "All of my experiments are in the kitchen presently."

"Fine. Good. Kit in the cupboard," John grates.

Sherlock considers pointing out that he really ought to be more specific, as this is a semi-emergent situation and time is of the utmost importance, but he quickly calculates that it would probably take him longer to say it than to just start opening cupboards until he finds the bag. He turns out to be correct, since it is in the second cupboard he looks in, within easy reach of the threshold. Still, he files away this piece of data to educate John with later.

John grunts as he takes the bag from Sherlock and starts going through it with one hand. He pulls out alcohol, gauze, lidocaine, syringe, and forceps.

Swallowing hard, Sherlock watches him lay these things out carefully on the bathroom counter. He hasn't studied enough of medicine to be remotely qualified to do this - truth be told, the only medicine he has studied has been in the fields of virology and toxicology. He knows very little about trauma care. "It would really be better to go - "

"Shaddup." John shrugs out of his shirt and gingerly starts loading the syringe. "This is very simple. You're going to inject a little bit of lidocaine, remove the hook from the wound - carefully - and then slap a bandage on. A trained monkey could do this."

"I very much doubt that." The detective takes the proffered syringe and inspects the wound. "This is a strange role reversal."

"I agree."

"Usually I would not have to tell you not to chase after a man wielding a makeshift harpoon gun whilst you are yourself unarmed."

Craning his neck to look at the wound, John gives a strangled chuckle. "I was bored," he says, and though the comment meant to be ironic, Sherlock suspects it is somewhat true. "Okay. Now. One-fourth of that syringe per quadrant. Just inside the margins of the wound. Go." He sets his jaw.

Sherlock steals a glance at his patient's face. John is pale and sweating and tense. He wants done with it, the detective realises. Too much time spent in hospitals and veteran convalescent homes has made him loathe to enter another one when avoidable. At least as the patient, in any case. He would have spent a lot of time recovering, after Afghanistan - the bullet wound, the PTSD.

The detective nods his understanding, though John probably has no idea that he's just read him like a book, and sticks the syringe between his teeth for a moment so that he can remove his coat. In an uncharacteristic moment of carelessness, he lets it fall to the floor, then takes the syringe between steady fingers again and presses John back against the mirror so that he can see better. "Ready?"

Wordlessly, John nods.

Sherlock sinks the needle into the torn flesh just as John had said - four quadrants. The doctor sucks in a breath quickly but is silent, pressing himself back into the mirror and struggling to remain still. "Don't hold your breath," Sherlock warns as he finishes the last two sticks.

Obediently, John lets his breath out in a groan. His eyes are squeezed shut. The lidocaine stings, Sherlock knows. John's stuck it into him enough times.

Sherlock waits.

An agonising minute later, John starts to relax, his breath coming easier and his posture losing its rigidity. Carefully, he probes the area with a finger, checking to see if it is fully numb. It must be, because he gives the hook an experimental wiggle.

"Let me do that," the detective cuts in, pulling John's hand away.

"It should slide right out, but you have to pull it down and out, swinging it in the direction of the blade. Understand?"

"Yes."

"It'll bleed a lot after that. Put pressure on it til it stops." He glances down at the kit. "Put gloves on."

Rolling his eyes at the fact John thinks he needs to be told, Sherlock snaps on a pair of nitrile gloves. They're meant for John and therefore slightly too small for his longer hands, but they'll do. It's really mostly for traction anyway, so that he doesn't slip and cut himself on the blade or drive the thing further into John's shoulder. "Ready?" he asks again.

John blows out a breath. "Ready."

Slowly and carefully, Sherlock pulls on the free edge of the miniature harpoon tip, letting it guide him directionally. It eases out with a sickening wet sound, as he pulls down, out, and up. Then, just as John warned, blood begins to pour from within the wound anew. Quickly, he packs gauze against the slice and presses down, hard. Beneath his hands, John squirms slightly - the lidocaine will have only done so much to numb the surface tissues, and the damaged muscle underneath is tender. "Sorry."

John barks a laugh, but it ends in a groan and a whine. "Sounds funny coming from you."

The detective frowns as his brain automatically pulls up the catalogues of every time he's ever said Sorry to John Watson. There's a sizeable number. There isn't time to dwell on it, though, because John is looking very white and tipping his head back against the mirror. His eyes are closed. Sherlock taps his cheek with his free hand and says, "Don't."

"It's fine," John replies without moving. "I'm the doctor, remember?"

"There is a saying about doctors being bad patients."

"It's not a rule. Let me look." He lifts his head.

Sherlock carefully peels away the wad of gauze and they both peer underneath.

"Sutures?" the detective asks, with both trepidation and interest. He's never put sutures in a real, live human being before - a cadaver, once, but that's it. He could do with the practise, but he's not keen on scarring John's shoulder for life.

John shakes his head slowly. "No, it's slowing down. Pressure again." He relaxes back against the mirror once more.

"You… look… unwell," Sherlock offers with some uncertainty. He doesn't have John's eye for these things; he just knows that his flatmate isn't supposed to be that particular shade of grey, and that his breathing isn't supposed to be quite that fast.

Silently, John reaches over with his right hand and covers Sherlock's with it, pushing harder into the wound.

The detective takes the hint and concentrates on his task. John's hand falls into his lap and his eyes slide shut. His too-fast breathing is the only audible sound for a while, until Sherlock takes it upon himself to have a look under the gauze again after a few minutes. The bleeding has slowed and nearly stopped, and the wound itself doesn't look as bad as he had thought. With the field cleared of most of the blood, he can see that it isn't terribly deep. It had seemed a lot worse before. Sherlock sighs in relief and discards the gauze.

Having watched John work too many times to count, Sherlock is able to fashion an appropriate dressing for the wound. He slathers an antibiotic ointment onto some gauze, which he then packs onto the surface of the wound before securing it with medical tape. When he is finished, he notices John's eyes are open and he is watching him attentively.

"Got pretty good at that," the doctor says. Some colour has returned to his face and Sherlock concludes that his pallor was due to pain and exhaustion rather than blood loss.

"I learned from the best."

A small smirk pulls the corner of John's mouth upward. "Arse-kissing not necessary."

Carefully, the detective helps John peel himself away from the mirror and hop down off the worktop. He sways and lists to the side, and Sherlock throws an arm around his waist, stumbling under the sudden weight.

"Sorry," John mumbles. "Tired."

Sherlock's eyes narrow. "Blood loss," he offers.

"I'm fine," John stresses again. "I can quantify blood loss quite well, thank you. Be a poor excuse for a doctor if I couldn't." He extricates himself from his flatmate's grasp and heads for the door. "I'm going to bed," he announces.

Sherlock is somewhat crestfallen. "The case isn't closed yet. There's still a thief on the loose. One who shot you with a harpoon gun, I might add, in the event you've forgotten."

"I've earned a break," is all John says before disappearing down the hall.

Not a very complete role reversal, Sherlock thinks, if John is giving up for the night because of a little flesh wound like that.