[Log] Restore life the way it should be

[was_a_soldier]

Who: John Watson and Sherlock Holmes
Where: First Floor
When: Backlog; After the Queen slays the Jabberwock
Rating: PG for post-violence clean up, medical stripping 
Summary: John stumbles back after fighting the Jabberwock, Sherlock takes care of the doctor.
The Story:

 

John stumbled, cursed, and pressed his hand against the wall to steady himself. The hallway lurched dangerously and he fought against the urge to get sick. The doctor in him knew it was due to the concussion he was likely sporting--he vaguely remembered being smashed about by the Jabberwock but there was blood drying on the side of his head as more obvious physical evidence and he had a large chunk of time missing between what he last remembered and when he woke up sprawled against a wall, ears ringing.

'It feels worse then it is,' he reminded himself with his best internal medical voice. Yes, it could have been far worse. He could have ended up like Dean, ripped apart, spattered across the floor... John gagged again, curling over, body not enjoying this train of thought. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand--the hand still clutching his Browning, having forgotten it was there by now--catching some of the saliva caught on his lips and blood dripping from his nose, smearing it on his face unknowingly. The former soldier heaved a breath once, twice, then straightened. It really wasn't so bad. He just had to get to his room, there he had the supplies to shower and fix himself right up. John set his shoulders and stood, happy when the world didn't spin again, before setting off once more.

Sherlock had been evicted from the mirror once the Queen had returned, his 'real' status no longer allowing his stay. The event was over at least--all things back to as they should be. But he could not find John. John had left him for the fight and he was worried. The bones they'd found, the signs of chaos, the echo of screams.... Sherlock fears the worse but thinks of nothing, keeping himself cool and composed as he slowly takes the halls of the first and second floors, keeping close to the stairs should he happen to find John en route for his room. The nervous energy makes his stomach ache but he will find John. And if he doesn't, if he must wander outside to the grounds strewn in bodies, then he will make Wonderland pay.

It is perhaps beneficial to all when Sherlock sees John and hurries to him, noting his injuries at a glance. "John!"

"Sherlock...!" John is surprised, having not known about what happened on the mirrorside now that the fight was seemingly over. He lets out a sigh of relief that his friend was spared anything like what that fight had been. Focusing his eyes makes his head hurt, however, and he presses the heel of his hand into the hollow of one, squinting at the shape rushing towards him with a small grin, a vain attempt to try and reassure the detective. "...I probably look a right mess, huh? Might not want to get too close, I might get sick on your shoes..."

Sherlock couldn't care less about his shoes. He comes right up, hand on his back, trying to make sure he's steady and to offer himself as something to aid in that if necessary. "Forget your room for now. Any will do," he instructs as he leads him to the first empty room available.

 

Comments

[was_a_soldier]

John blinks rapidly as the world suddenly tips in a way he isn't expecting--being lead makes walking easier but his concussed mind was having some trouble keeping up. "Wait, but I can still--" Walk? Make it? Function? Forming arguments, it seems, is something to difficult for him to do at the moment was well, because he can't think of a proper protest as the door to the new room is flung open.

Because Sherlock was the one to open it, the room is actually his from home. He leads John to the bed and guides him to sit on it, looking into his eyes for a good look at his pupils before starting on the buttons of his plaid shirt.

He barely has a moment to register what room they're in, to focus his eyes on Sherlock's, remembering why he must do so, before the other man's hands are on his shirt. John reaches up with a grunt of surprise, to stop or slow the other's fast hands, but gets caught up when he realizes the gun is still in his hand.

"Oh..." The safety was already on, so the doctor slowly lets go of the Browning, letting it drop onto the bed next to him. "...I have a concussion." He offers weakly, as if Sherlock will judge him for his inability to function properly at the moment without explanation.

"I can tell. You have other wounds, though. Let me see the extent then I will give you something for the pain. Just talk. Pay no attention to me." He works fast indeed. He gets his shirt open and pushes it out of his way quickly, trying not to jostle his shoulder too much which he had already assumed to be causing him pain.

He hisses softly, but Sherlock's efforts to be careful pay off. Under the shirt, there's a scattering of injuries. None life threatening, but some substantial such as bruising around his ribs, likely hiding a cracked rib or two from where he was knocked back. John bites back any noises of pain that threaten to escape by setting his pale lips into a determined line, jaw tight.

Right, talking. He needed to do that, needed to focus. John cleared his throat, fumbling. "...It was giant. The Jabberwock." He confirms, more for his own sake then Sherlock's. "It moved so fast... Shot it's eyes out so Dean could get close..."

Sherlock nods, listening. He presses on his ribs to listen for sharp intakes of breath, finding a few spots worth concern. He hops up and heads to the closet, getting some serious pain pills as well as some lesser.

"How much will you want to sleep if I give you the appropriate medicine and how much pain do you feel you will have to withstand if I give you something less effective?" He pulls out long rolls of cloth and misc. bottles for treating scrapes and other lacerated concerns.

John presses his eyes shut, then blinks them open, lifting a hand to press to his head. "If you give me the stronger one, I might pass out for a while.. Rather not, to be honest... I was unconscious for... couldn't be more then a half hour?" He's not sure, exactly, and it's frustrating. John tries shakes his head slightly in an attempt to clear it, but it doesn't help and only makes the nausea return. The doctor doubles over, hissing and pressing a hand to his ribs as they protest.

Sherlock hands him water and the regular type pills. "These then. You shout out its eyes. Continue."

He looks at John then goes to the bathroom, getting a bowel, soapy water, and a towel out. First thing's first: whore's bath for John so at least his body is clean.

"It's tail flew out. Knew exactly where we were even when it was blinded. Managed to dodge..." He frowns, the memory slipping away from him, and after a long pause in an attempt to recover it, he decides to use that moment to swallow the pills and chase them with a swig of water. "...I'm having trouble remembering what happened next..." John admitted, knowing it wasn't something he could help but finding it annoying nevertheless.

"Next you survived the encounter." Sherlock said, putting the bowl of water down to start washing John starting with his left arm.
John chuckled softly at that, watching the other clean his arm, flexing his fingers pleasantly at the sensation. "A bit of a jump between then and that, but long story short, yes." He paused, licking his lips. "Want me to sit on the floor? The bed will be ruined."

"The bed doesn't matter," he says, working his way up across his shoulders and chest, being gentle but firm enough to scrub away any dirt for his encounter. "I imagine you did very well. Enjoy yourself?"

John winces, tilting his slightly head to offer his neck for easier access when the clothe passes over his collarbone. He flushes, just a little, when what's going on catches up to him, but it's easily lost in the flow of conversation that he's trying to focus on. "Just a tad." He says, but a grin is tugging at the corner of his mouth. "My heart was racing, like when we're chasing someone. Though with it being a giant dragon and all that rush didn't last long."

"Should I knight you Sir John Watson dragon slayer?' He rubs his neck down, passing the cloth over his pecs and ribs and stomach, pulling away to rinse the rag off and continue with cleaner water and cloth.

Being cleaned off feels amazing, especially when the dried blood caked on the side of his neck is dislodged, the itching skin finally cleared. He sighs heavily, happily, eyelids drooping, ignoring the soft voice in the back of his head muttering a warning or two at him. "That'd be a lie, though, didn't slay him..." His voice has dropped, quieter, and he leans into Sherlock's hand. "...Got defeated rather specta- spectacularly." John clicks his tongue against his teeth in dull irritation.

Sherlock can tell he's beginning to nod off and presses in against a rib a little harder than is necessary, delivering him a short spike of pain. He moves around him and cleans his back, paying extra attention to all his cuts to come back over them later once he's fully cleansed. "You're not bones picked clean. That's something at least." He presses his hand to John's chest as he washes his back, giving counter weight as he rubs to keep John steady.

He flinches awake at the sharp pain, dropping his hands from where they were lax in his lap to steady against the bed, suddenly aware that he had been leaning over, tipping over. Sherlock's hand was there now, though, holding him in place. "Yeah, would rather not be bones..." He licked his lips, catching some of the blood that stained the skin under his nose. "...I'm glad you weren't there. It tore Dean apart. I might not have been able to protect you..."

"There are a lot of reasons why it was best I not go. I wish you hadn't felt the need to behave so foolishly, though." He continues on down John's arm, finishing with his right hand. He gets up and leans close to wipe the blood and grime from his face, feeling around in his hair for cuts to give a painful scrub to.

"...People needed my help." He wrinkles his expression like a child when the clothe passes over his face and aching nose, but sighs contently when the dirt and blood are gone. He gasps in pain as Sherlock finds the knock near the back right side of his head, behind his ear, that threw him into unconsciousness. Spots dance in his vision momentarily, but he endures the pain so that his hair will stop sticking matted to his head.

Sherlock scowls. "May need stitches here," he advises, finally getting rid of the washcloth. The rest of John he can clean up later if needed. He grabs the antiseptic and treats his head first.

"...Joy." He groans, tangling his fingers in the bedding as the antiseptic bites into his nerves. John's head swims, but thanks to the pain killers, the pain is more of an frustrating, muddling ache. "You... okay to do them?"

"I can do it if you trust me."

[was_a_soldier]

"One-hundred-percent." He glances up, smiling crookedly at Sherlock.

Sherlock smiles and goes to the closet and gets some topical numbing solutions and a curled needle and thread. He shows his supplies to John. "Acceptable?"

He reaches out and grasps Sherlock's hand, fumbling but gentle, and draws it closer, squinting slightly at the objects before nodding. "Yes, those are fine. Have you stitched a wound up before?" John glances up at Sherlock for confirmation. "Do I need to instruct you at all?"

"I've needed to secure flesh over incisions on a cadaver. Just the top layers of skin or do I pull in the muscle layer beneath as well?" He runs his fingers through his hair, inspecting the wound.

"Just a tad below the layers of skin... Each stitch should be as far away from the cut as the wound is deep..." He shivers as Sherlock cards his fingers through his hair against the grain, wincing at the end when one brushes too close to the wound.

Sherlock nods and has him hold the needle and tread while he numbs the area, taking the tools back after he's quite sure it won't cause John more pain. He works very slowly and very meticulously. He wants to do a good job for John.

John breaths carefully through his nose as Sherlock works, trying not to twitch or wiggle at the odd sensation of the numbed area being stitched together.
"Keep talking, John. Tell me more about your fight." He is rather sure he won't be falling sleep with him pulling a needle through his head but it's better to hear him and gauge the extent of the head trauma

"Already told you what I can remember..." The memory might come back later, but for now the event was foggy, just a couple of rushes with his heart pounding in his ears. "...Should I talk about something else?"

"That would be fine." He tries to make the stitches small as possible. Even if it's in his hair, he'd rather him not scar too thickly and lose more hair than he might enjoy in the area

Taking a deep breath through his nose, John tries to stumble through his fumbling thoughts to find a topic to talk about. In the absence of anything substantial, he starts muttering to himself rhythmically, "os frontale, ethmoidale, parietale, temporale, occipitale, sphenoidale..."

Sherlock pauses. "Are you..." Yes. Yes, he is. Sherlock chuckles a little. So many reasons to love this man. "And where do you go when you're done wit those?"

"nasale, lacrimale, zygomaticum..." He licks his lips. "You mean once I'm done with the whole skeleton?"

"I've got a lot of work to do on you," he says, finishing up on the head wound at least. He knots it and cuts it, putting a bit of antibiotic cream over it though it won't do to bandage it. He has butterfly plaster for the deeper cuts on his face.

"Muscles, after that. Followed by organs." He only flinches at the string is knotted off, turning his head to peek back at Sherlock. "Will that be enough?"

"I should hope so. The rest of your wounds aren't as bad, just numerous. Arms out so I can wrap your ribs."

He stretches his arms out, grunting and clenching his eyes shut in pain. "Cavea thoracis," He hisses as the ribs are wrapped. "Vertebrae cervicales, vertebrae thoracales, vertebrae lumbales..."

Sherlock wraps the shoulder in the same go to keep everything in place. His long fingers trail as gently as possible but he keeps it as firm as is necessary. "Breath for me. Tight enough of too tight?"

He breathes, slowly, pointedly, for Sherlock. His breath hitches at a certain point in the inhale, and he presses his hand to his side. "Tight enough. It's good."

Sherlock strokes his back gently as he breathes. Not entirely sure why but he's sure if could be considered comforting. "Trousers now."

His eyes snap open, having fluttered closed at Sherlock's soothing touch on his back. "Huh? My trousers?"

"Lay back so I can remove them."

"...Okay." He might not have agreed to this so easily normally, but being complacent is easiest for his head at the moment. He scoots back, bumping Sherlock lightly as he does so, before leaning back onto his elbows, licking his lips and having the wherewithal to blush slightly when Sherlock's fingers reach for him again. "I... don't remember hurting my legs..."

"Never know with the trauma elsewhere. You'll be more comfortable either way." Sherlock undoes his button and unzips his fly, peeling the material down.

He sucks in a sharp breath through his nose, the heat rising in his face and making his head pound. John lays back fully pressing his hands to his eyes and taking deep breaths to both calm down his racing pulse and the ache between his temples.

Sherlock gets his pants off and inspects his legs. Seems fine above a couple bruises. "Right. I think we've got you about set."

John sinks back into the bed, dropping his hands with a sigh, keeping his eyes closed. "Right then..." The doctor flicks his eyes open eventually, regarding the detective that just fixed him up. "Thank you, Sherlock." He breathes.

"No at all. You're not sleeping yet, though. That's the proper course of action, is it not?"

He groans, nodding reluctantly. "It is... bollocks." He shakes his head slowly against the bed, regretting so much that he can't close his eyes and go to sleep, soothing the fuzziness his head....

Sherlock sits on the bed with him. "Shall we do the periodic table or discuss our findings on the mirror side? The events were unlike any normal ones so the data will be slightly skewed."

John forces his eyes open, regarding the detective through a half lidded gaze. "It did seem different. I haven't gotten to check the network... What's happened since I was knocked unconscious? Do you know what happened to the Jabberwock?" He sits up, trying to avoid the temptation of falling asleep. Only then does he recognize the fact that he's very much only partially clothed. "...Maybe I should get dressed."

Sherlock folds the blanket awkwardly over John. "Just leave it at that. As for the monster, it seems the Red Queen came back into power and slew the beast."

"The Red Queen... the one you said was in power before Alice." He pulls the blanket closer. "She killed it? By herself? That's... impressive."

"Well, she has the special sword. The vhorple blade or something or other. So now things will return t normal I suppose. Not that they were different under the Red Queen or Queen of Hearts or whatever she is."

"I wonder what will happen to Alice." John said, regarding the pattern on the blanket, vaguely recalling that this wasn't really one of their rooms, despite the familiar surroundings of Sherlock's space from 221B. "What happened on the mirror side when the Red Queen took over again? Nothing happened to you, did it?"

"Alice is fine, I believe. And nothing happened to me, no. I was evicted but unharmed." Sherlock looks John over. Poor John. "You should really learn to be more selfish."

He glances over, catching Sherlock's calculating gaze on him, the slight pinch of worry on the detective's normally schooled expression. John smiles, chest tightening in a warm knot. "Probably." His tone suggests, however, that he's not inclined to ever do so. "Seems we're right on our way to switching our roles about. Second time you've patched me up recently."

Sherlock almost nods before he remembers.... "Second time?"

John hums. "Before you went through the mirror. You probably don't remember... You were in your 20s, couldn't remember me... but you still patched up where those soddy wings had broken through." He smiled to himself at the memory, eyes distant in recollection and the remains of his head trauma. "I'm supposed to be the one taking care of you." He chides teasingly.

"I can't imagine a worse encounter. Me at that age? How did you manage not to strangle me?"

"Same way I manage to not punch you on a regular bases." He jokes, shrugging eventually. "You were a handful, but it was still you."
Sherlock scoffs. "Not me. That was just drugs."

"I don't think that's quite true. There were moments; the way you talked or something you said, sometimes even how you moved or sulked. You know?" John turns to look at Sherlock, as if for confirmation. But then he shifts suddenly, clearing his throat. "Uh, right, but you probably know yourself better then I do, of course."

Sherlock smiles just a little. John really is coming along very well as a detective. "Well, I honestly have very few memories of myself at that time in my life. So I will take your word for it. I just hope I didn't make things uncomfortable for you."

"Not really, no." He folds his legs, the blankets wrapped around them and over his shoulders. "It was odd... difficult watching you be so dependent on drugs. I tried to ignore it since there was probably little I could do to change that about you in the amount of time you were likely to stay that age."

"The good thing about cocaine is the withdrawals are relatively easy to manage. It's the longing to feel that good again that makes it a problem. Not a fight you would have won. You're a smart man to have not chosen that particular battle." Sherlock smiles at him. "Diminutive size, drug addicts, large painful wings, mirror selves, and monsters. Congratulations of surviving the worst event on record, John. You were fantastic."

He can't resist beaming, just a little, under the praise. As best he can with head trauma, at least. "Oh, go on." He jokes, trying to subtly bask in the words as subtly as possible by mockingly asking for more. "You survived too, though. We both made it. I consider that quite a success."

"I feel like I was hardly here. More trouble to you than good. Apologies." He cards his hand through the unhurt side of John's head

"Trouble, yes. But that's not unusual. No need to apologize." The fingers in his hair are cool and soothing. John hums as he tilts his head with the caress lightly, not really aware he's doing it.

He does it for a bit. Not really helping in keeping John awake. "Want a tv program on? Not sure Not sure what you normally do to keep someone awake."