Made by:topsyturvy_turtely
Words:1927
Fuck! I mean- shite! Oh, bloody hell!" John watched as that asshole run away, clutching the knife wound he had left on him. "Jesus Christ. I hate you."
"John! Why are you- Did you get hurt?", Sherlock came running towards him.
"No, I am cursing because it is fucking funny. Of course, I am hurt, you bloody-", John bit his tongue. "He barely missed my scar.", he added, more quietly.
There was actual concern shining in Sherlock's eyes. "How bad is it? Let me loo-"
"I am fine!", John turned his body away in a quick movement. It hurt. He gritted his teeth and pushed air out through them. It made a funny noise, almost like a whistle. "Let's just get home." John already walked back out on the brighter lit main street.
"Don't you think we should call a doctor-"
"I am a fucking doctor!"
"But John-"
"I am goddamn fine fucking enough, okay. Now just do your-", John let go of his wound to wave vaguely with his good arm in the air. "Thing and get us a bloody cab." John talked- yelled too loudly, too aggressively. But he didn't care right now. He was pretty sure he wasn't even cut that badly. But he was pissed as hell and the asshole stabbing him got away and there was no one else around to yell at. So his flatmate would just have to endure it. John had gone through worse with him.
When Sherlock stared a bit too long at him, John grunted. Immediately Sherlock moved to get them a cab.
As soon as they walked through the door of 221b Baker Street, John went to the bathroom to get his doctor kit. Under his breath, through gritted teeth, with eyebrows furrowed, John closed the toilet lid, threw open the cabinet under the sink and got what he needed: Disinfecting agent, cotton balls, needle, thread, needle holder, bandage. He hasn't really looked at the wound yet, but he could tell by the bleeding and the godforsaken pain, that he was gonna need sutures. He put his equipment on the sink and - with a grunt - moved to take off his shirt. A sharp pain went through his shoulder and for a second he saw white. "Jesus, I-", he reached for the sink and held on to it, tightly. Focused on his breathing. "Get your shit together, Watson."
Out of the corner of his eye John recognised Sherlock appearing in the doorway "John? Do you need help? I can-" Since when did his flatmate sound so damn insecure? It felt weird. He didn't like it.
"NO. I am fine. ", John snapped. "I will be fine. I just... need a mo." But at least he didn't use curse words again.
"Obviously, you're not."
"I. Just. Need. A. Moment.", John retorted angrily.
That's apparently when Sherlock had had enough. "Look, John. I know you like to be in control. I know it's hard for you to let other people take over. Especially in situations that concern health."
"I'm not-", John tried to argue, but Sherlock ignored him and stepped closer. His eyes having so much concern in them it hurt looking at him.
"I know you are being eaten alive and woken up by nightmares, because you couldn't save some of your colleagues,... friends. But this. This isn't war, John. This isn't the battlefield. This is Baker Street. This is home. You're safe."
Sherlock had reached him and hesitantly reached for his hand. Took it gently. "You're safe with me. So, please. Let me help you."
John looked away, eyebrows furrowed because he was oddly moved by this little speech. He nodded. "Alright.", he agreed.
"Alright.", Sherlock replied.
"Go on, then. Help me getting undressed."
Sherlock smirked.
"Ugh, not like that, you utter berk."
Sherlock tried but couldn't quite contain the smile.
"Are you serious right now? I need goddamn stitches and you are grinning because you are helping me getting my bloody - literally bloody - shirt off?" He had started this sentence annoyed but at Sherlock's bad attempt not to grin he had to scoff. And then actually giggle. "I can't believe you."
"Good thing, nobody is watching us right now. People would definitely talk."
Sherlock was done unbuttoning John's shirt and moved to get it off John's shoulders.
"Did you just quote me?", John asked incredulously . then he hissed as the fabric tore on his skin, because it was glued to it with drying blood.
"Sorry."
"You're fine."
They looked in each other's eyes for three very long seconds. Then Sherlock said, "Sit down so I can clean your wound."
"Bossy.", John grumbled. But he was actually glad to sit down. The blood loss made him feel a bit light-headed. Maybe Sherlock undressing him and bossing him around contributed. No, it was most definitely the blood loss.
