Gun of Wrath

Chapter 3- An Impromptu Meeting

Someone is holding me under water. I can't breathe. My head feels like it's going to explode. "Joan!" I wake in a coughing fit and spit water into my lap. Ok, my dreams are getting a little too real. My mouth tastes awful. My bedroom door swings open and Carson leans against the doorjamb. "What are you doing in my house? Come for another-" a second coughing fit ruins my quip. I look around, trying to gather my senses. The only light in my room is what filters past him through my door.

"What the devil were you thinking falling asleep in the tub?"
I blink stupidly for a moment. Asking, "The tub?" doesn't earn me any intelligence points either.

"Your refrigerator was empty. I figured you would appreciate some privacy, so I went to the store while you took your bath, and came back to find you half drowned." My eyes flick down at once to find I'm dressed in the pajamas I pulled out earlier. Still, I pull the covers up to my chin. Carson rolls his eyes and scoffs. "I wasn't looking at you. I was too busy trying to get the water out of your lungs." he says, exasperated.

"You missed some," I point ruefully to my bedspread, where a large, gross, wet splotch now covers my lap. "What time is it anyway," I ask before succumbing to a wide yawn and stretching. I regret stretching at once. The water has soaked into my sheets, leaving a cold spot on my legs. "Nevermind, get out so I can get dressed."

"That's the thanks I get? I come back to find you drowning in the tub, manage to get you out and into bed-"

My brain is struggling to catch up with everything. "Wait. 'Come back'? And wHY THE HELL DIDN'T YOU CALL AN AMBULANCE?"

He looks taken aback for a second before saying, "I didn't need to," as if it were obvious. Sensing another round of yelling, he thrusts his hand into his pocket and yanks out the flask he drank from yesterday at the bus stop.

"Ugh! No wonder my mouth tastes so bad." I remind him I want some privacy to get dressed. He bows out and shuts the door, leaving me in the dark. I feel around for the lamp on my bedside table and turn the knob so I can find something to wear. As I pull a shirt on, the neck scrapes across my forehead. I run into the bathroom and flip the switch, touching a yellow and green bruise with my fingertips in the mirror. The smell of food reaches my nose and I storm into the kitchen. My stomach grumbles, reminding me of the breakfast I lost earlier in the day. "What the hell did you do to me?" I yell, pointing at my forehead.

Carson looks up from the stove with a look of consternation. "You fell this morning, when you got home from work." I search my memories, struggling to catch onto a whirl of color and sounds. I lean on the counter for support, feeling nauseous again. Carson turns the fire down and approaches me with his hands out. He tries to help me to the dinner table but when heat floods from his hands into me, I yank out of his grasp. "Joan, you have a concussion."

"Thank you, Sherlock."

"Let me fix it."

"What do you mean 'fix it'?" I growl at him.

"Sit down and I'll show you." I eye him warily, but lower myself down onto the nearest chair. He follows me and raises his hand, making me flinch. He stops and closes his eyes for a second. "You are going to have to sit still this time." This time? He raises his hand again, slower, and covers the bruise with his palm, releasing heat into my head. Memories flood into my mind all at once and I squirm in my seat waiting for him to finish.

"Well, apparently, I've just had one hell of a day, today. Why didn't you do that earlier?" I accuse.

"You fought me off. I didn't want to cause any more damage. To either of us. You have a nasty right hook," he says, turning back to the kitchen. Feeling somewhat better, I follow him into the kitchen to see him working on something in a pan. Curious, I move closer to peek around him. Curiosity is what got you into this mess.