- -

(OLG) *Tears hands back from Sherlock's head to pin him down by the shoulder and hip while John takes up his head and rocks his chin back to clear his airway. Sherlock's eyes are wide open, pupils contracted to tiny spots, and they twitch and roll feverishly as if following the courses of some separate dimension that has overtaken his perception of reality. His breathing comes in short, rasping gasps and his whole body convulses under Og's hands as he struggles to keep him from hurting himself - or whatever else could go horribly wrong. He can still hear himself cursing and stammering -* Bloody hell!! F-f-f JOHN WHAT IN GODS NAME IS - *Cut off by abrupt spasm of Sherlock's right leg, which throws him off balance -* - - 
          (JHW) SHARRUP!!!!! I don't - - what the hell do you think is - *Gripping Sherlock by the face and then backing off to loosen his collar and unbuttoning his shirt as he begins to scream; a strangled, tortured cry of anguish that  shatters in the still, stale air of the library.*
          (OLG) *Brogue thickening to near-unintelligible syllables as he raises his voice over the sonic outpour -* Ai'AV NO FOAKING AIDEA - CHRIST IT'S LIKE HE's BARKING TRIPPING 'ARD BALLS - - - JEST - damn - TAELL ME WHAT TAE DO WETH 'IM!!!!!!
          (JHW) HOLD HIM DOWN!! HE NEEDS TO BE ABLE TO BREATHE OR - *Reaches the bottom of the row of buttons and pulls the fabric of his short back from his chest. His eyes need only to skim over the ivory expanse o his torso to send John's voice to the same volume and intensity as the other two.* JESUS CHRIST!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
          (OLG) *Gaze falls where John's is now locked in utter horror and, though his vision is blurred to a haze and his mind refuses to finish processing, the hideous, mottled spread of black and blue and crimson stripes throws him into such a raw surge of panic that the swearwords that first take shape on his tongue fail miserably and disintegrate into a such a scream that he's certain that his lungs are split and he is drowning.*

(JHW) *It seems the world is spinning again. As John bolts, dropping his iodine bottle and actually vaulting over the coffee table like a pony over a fallen tree, the image that greets him on the lavish floor is the end of the world in at least a dozen different ways. The sudden collapse hadn't seemed to have any direct cause. He had once seen a man die of heroin overdose in much the same fashion. It had followed dangerously close suit to exactly what had happened to Og when the poison had gone to his head in that alley. All he can see is Og's long, marred and disproportionate back bent over the form of Sherlock Holmes, who seems to have contorted himself into a twisted sprawl on the carpet, face buried in Og's hands and his own ebony hair but clearly exhibiting every possible sign of frantic hysterics. Both of them are. John staggars forward, tripping over his feet to Og's side.* Dear God -

(OLG) *Sherlock's progression of collapse is completely unexpectable. Octavian had been controlling the impulse to react to pain in any way whatsoever without fail, but that simple, momentary lapse during which he had done little more than grit his teeth seems to have catalyed such a profound disintegration that he can't begin to comprehend it - what it is, what to do. The pain vanishes immediately as Sherlock is suddenly staring intensely at the spot on his chest where Og's hand had brushed against the gashes. He looks as if he's been shot in the back, eyes widened to the point of nearly falling form his skull, face drained, stock still as a wax model and all at once they're both falling: Sherlock falling forwards and Og stepping in to grasp him about the head and chest and by whatever means possible break the rapid descent. He falls like dead weight into his arms and before Og can do anything he's on the floor, knealing, with Sherlock's hands constricted about his wrists and clutching them to his head - - Og twists his fingers in his hair and vaguely hears his own voice through the panic,* Oh cor - God, no, please - - Sherlock what the . . . please just - no, come off it, no, no! JOHHNNNN!! John what the HELL is wrong with him - - foke -

(OLGcont.) *He seems to avoid Og's gaze, though Og is fairly certain he knows he's being watched, and after a moment he returns to the rest of the bandages. He picks up where John had left off, unraveling the fabric around his middle and climbing his chest to the densest conglomerate of lashes, which smart horrifically in spasmodic shocks of pain as his fingers brush over them. His vision blurs and he pauses to grit his teeth against the agony, but it stills after a second and returns to a dull, nagging ache. Or perhaps it is only the drunken blood reaching his head again. There is still hardly any blood, but the raw, shredded muscle and the occasional manifestation of a white rib laid bare through the wounds are less than promising. For the first time he looks away. The linen falls around him in shreds until his fingers blindly collide with Sherlock's where his shoulder joins with his chest.*

(OLG) *Stares down blankly at the top of Sherlock's head as the bandages rapidly unfurl before his lean, agile fingers. He has beautiful hands; beautiful but very cold and clammy. John is rifling industriously through his kit and lining up a handful of eclectic plastic bottles on the edge of the table, to the labels of which Og is not close enough to read. He also sets aside a pair of needles, the sort Og associates with heroin but assumes vaguely must be intended for nobler purposes. Irene appears to have collapsed with as much grace as can be associated with that verb into her armchair, perhaps asleep or possibly listening reservedly; he cannot tell, with knees crossed, head tilted against her shoulder and suitcase resting neatly to one side. He looks back at himself and his eyes naturally gravitate to Sherlock, and he has to wonder if he's angry or ashamed or just sobered by having to see him with everything that had stood between them exposed and overstated as such, and apparently still posing a risk. His fine, pale lips are somehow tight, uncomfortable, and the bold line of his eyebrows declines in focus, forming a pair of even creases above the bridge of his nose. 
          …*

(JHW) *Drops gauze, steps aside to the coffee table and unzips the kit. It's only a minimal array of things, though he had anticipated having to do this and thrown in two bottles of antiseptic, several packages of dissolvable sutures and an envelope of sterilized needles. He had not, to his dismay, thought to bring any latex gloves. He looks back up at the two men, Sherlock standing attentively, looking a little fragmented but playing the part, and Og stubbornly tearing gauze away from his shoulder with his jaw set and unrestrained mane of hair obscuring most of his face. Stupid boy. He looks like a crooked stick-figure with a prog-rock artist's fashion sense and the lesions of a newly converted werewolf. How they had ever hit it off as friends is well beyond John, but there it was. This had certainly been trying for him in every sense, yet Sherlock had paid equally in misery and internal turmoil and then some interest. Had the consulting detective worn his heart on his sleeve he would probably be in at least a dozen different pieces. 
          John the handful of things on the table and eyes them contemplatively. The sewing thread idea is new.* String or no, are they stable enough to leave in him or will they have to be redone?

(JHW) How many local Gypsy caravans are there!?
          (OLG) At least one . . . *Og is vaguely aware of how uncomfortable Sherlock is - he begins to wish he had protested more but even Sherlock himself had advocated for this. He tries to catch his eye and smiles weakly, trying to treat the situation as casually as possible. It's only delicate because of the emotional strings attached. John's hands work back another few inches of bandages with a patient expertise; it stings immensely but the pain isn't quite unbearable. He steels himself to return his gaze to his body and it seems the cuts have taken some wear since he had last seen them. Only about a third of them are stitched up. He calmly returns attentions to his shoulder and begins to feel for the end of the strip and loosens the wraps until they unravel. It's slow work with one somewhat numb and cold hand.*

(JHW) Here - *Steps forward and gingerly takes the length of gauze from Og's hands. The linen feels rough and strong and damp from the rain.* Hold still and don't look. *Starts gently but quickly stripping gauze away from the wounds, dropping the strips of material as they wind around his back and taking them up again until some of the damage is exposed; three long slashes and the letters I and O. Oddly, two of the lashes are untouched and the third  is sutured with neat but far-spaced stitches in coarse thread, as are the crude letters branded on his right flank. The unattended lacerations still gape a bit and all of the marks have taken on a dark red colour that he isn't sure what to make of. John inhales through his teeth.* They didn't finish you?
          (OLG) *Shakes head.* I went broke.
          (JHW) Sherlock - what about - *Summons Sherlock with a jerk of his head and returns attentions to the injuries, beginning to remove the rest of the bandages a little at a time,* - these stitches are good but what the hell kind of ... It's like they used string!

(JHW) *Nods once. He can feel the tension pulling at the other two and looks them both over discreetly. It must be tearing Sherlock apart to know the old injuries are literally still open and bleeding. But John can't help that now. The only thing concrete about it is the cuts themselves, and those can be dealt with. He catches Og's eye and asks casually,* You had work done?
          (OLG) *Og swallows and speaks in his usual calm tone, phrasing the explanation to make it seem as sensible as possible, which is no easy task. The truth is that it was indeed the only available option and a hell of a lot better than going without.* Well, aye. 'Found some Gypsy caravan outside of . . . I'm not sure where exactly. They had a pretty well esteemed surgeon that I managed to strike a deal with but you know how they can be - first they make you buy the needle and thread and then charge you by the stitch, and throw every ounce of antiseptic and minute of time behind the subtotal and invent a load of imaginary taxes on the spot, so I could only get away with some basic fixes. *It had seemed normal as it happened but he's perfectly aware of how ridiculous it must sound to the others. He looks down at his own chest and starts teasing apart the lowest layers of bandages. He figures it'll have to happen sooner or later. His fingers feel cold and graceless and the fabric clings fast to the lacerations and it stings viciously as he peels it back from his skin. The last handful of lashes had been dealt lower than the rest as Moriarty seemed to feel a need to cover more ground, and they fall across his stomach in sheer, crimson rifts, and seem to have ended up being a bit deeper. besides that they had taken a lot of abuse from moving around as much as he had been. He grits his teeth as the linen tears away from his flesh.*

(OLG) *Expression blunt and blank, drops gaze to the oriental carpet and listens quietly. This was a feeling he hadn't wanted or expected to be faced with again - a sort of exposure and shame brought on from being exhibited for something he had relatively little to do with - Someone else had done it to him and someone else is having to fix it; all Og has to do is put up with the side effects, and it suggests a level of detachment. Something like an actor having to answer for unfavourable reviews of a play when he had only read the lines and not written them. He bites his lip and waits for a sentence, knowing full well what the limited range of actions might entail. To say the whiskey had put away all of the pain would be stretching it. Alcohol doesn't really have that power, it just takes the edge off of it at times; the incessance. And all the running around had done nothing for it.*
          (JHW) *Without taking eyes off of Og,* You? What needs to happen is that the wraps come off and we decide what the situation demands. I could use our help if you're willing but I understand that it's . . . just don't feel much of an obligation.
          (OLG) . . . or any.
          (JHW) *It occurs to him that Sherlock may be bothered, to say the least, by the concept of laying bare the the same marks that had nearly gotten them separated permanently. It's a delicate situation, and John isn't sure how to approach it. The only thing keeping him from excluding him entirely is that he honestly needs the help - and extra pair of hands, a second needle or forceps, something to pin Octavian down or just be there for whatever could go wrong . . . *