S - Oneshot:: Irrelevant Data
Title: Irrelevant Data
Author: Jaelijn (jaelijn )
Rating: PG
Warnings: description of injury, mild insults
Disclaimer: Copyright for this incarnation of Sherlock Holmes is with the BBC and Messrs Moffat and Gatiss. No infringement intended.
Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, Mrs Hudson
Summary: Sherlock being Sherlock is injured. John is not happy.
Author's Note: For mariska_lee and watsons_woes help-Japan-effort. Hope you enjoy it!
................~oOo~................
“Aren't you supposed to keep an eye on your brother? Don't you 'worry constantly'? You seem to have had no problems following my every step, why was it so impossible to intervene?”
Mycroft shifted the tip of his umbrella on the floor, regarding it nonchalantly. “I suggest you calm down, Dr Watson. It is only a broken nose, after all.”
“Easy for you to say - you won't have to deal with your whining brother once the doctor has finished patching up his nose!”
“Sherlock is not in the habit of whining, Doctor, except-”
“Except when he's bored, I know. Nevertheless.” John flopped down on one of the uncomfortable waiting room chairs. He could have done without the visit to the doctor's - he was a GP after all, and capable enough treat a broken nose, but then, he had not been there.
Mycroft showed no intention of sitting down. He just stood there, leaning slightly against the door frame, staring down at his umbrella. “I can't keep an eye on my brother all the time. Sometimes, there are more important matters to attend to. I had presumed that this was precisely the reason why you had become my brother's flatmate and colleague.”
John glared at him. “I was in the surgery, working. That's what normal people do - and I've already cancelled twice this week alone because of Sherlock's case.”
“You should have known better than to allow Sherlock to talk to the victim's brother unaccompanied. I could have predicted that outcome right from the start.”
“Then why didn't you go with him?!”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Good day, John. Do keep me informed if Sherlock attempts anything reckless.”
John just scowled. I assumed that's what your secretary is for.
As soon as Mycroft was gone, however, John started pacing. He was still angry - at Mycroft, for blaming him, at Sherlock, for being so incredibly stupid, and at himself. Mycroft was right, he should have been there. He had known what Sherlock was about to do, and knowing his flatmate, he should either have prevented it, or gone with him to prevent the worst.
He was just glad that the brother of the murder victim Sherlock had been investigating had left it at punching Sherlock in the face. And, from what John had heard, the oh-so-clever detective had deserved it.
“Dr John Watson?”
“Yes!?” John looked at the nurse that had entered. She shrank under his stare, and John rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Sorry, I'm sorry. Yes? I take it Sherlock is finished?”
“Mr Holmes is in the second room to the right. I was told you were here to pick him up?”
“Yes. Is he all right?”
She smiled a little. “It's a clean fracture. We have advised your boyfriend to keep ice on it, and please call us if there is any more bleeding.”
“He's not my... oh, never mind. The second door to the right?” John walked past her, almost expecting to hear Sherlock's voice as soon as he stepped into the hallway. It wasn't there, only the usual noise of a surgery.
Hesitantly, John knocked on the second door to the right before he pushed it open. “Sherlock? Mycroft called me. I'm here to pick you up.”
Sherlock sat on the examining table, his nose - most of his face, in fact - hidden behind an icepack. He lowered it a little to glare at John, but said nothing.
If John hadn't been feeling so stressed, perhaps he would have laughed. Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to look offended with a bruised and swollen face and a blue cold compress in the middle of it. “Let's go, then.”
Sherlock rose to follow him outside to the cab that Mycroft had called for them, not once lowering the compress. He clearly had no idea what to do with his free hand, and his forehead kept creasing into a frown that was always stopped in its track - it had to hurt, then.
John settled into the other seat, fastening his seatbelt. “221 Baker Street, please,” he told the driver, and then turned to Sherlock, who was staring out of the window. “Let me take a look at your nose, Sherlock. I will have to keep an eye on it to avoid complications.”
“No,” Sherlock said. He sounded strangely nasal, as if he had a cold.
“Do you have any difficulties breathing through your nose? There are things you can take against the discomfort of a nasal fracture, did they give you anything?”
“No.”
“We'll have to go to the chemist, then.” John folded his arms and left Sherlock in peace. He would have to worm the whole story out of Sherlock as soon as they were home. Maybe if he learned exactly how much of a git Sherlock had been, he'd feel less like this was his fault.
Mrs Hudson - whom John had called the instant Mycroft had texted him that Sherlock was at the doctor's with a broken nose - waited for them at the door and ushered Sherlock inside with a worried expression. “Oh, my poor dear. I'll put a fresh compress in the fridge for you. And I'll make tea, that'll cheer you up.”
“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” John said, and poked Sherlock to start moving upstairs. “That's very kind of you.”
“No problem, my dear.”
Sherlock strode ahead of him, picked up John's favourite pillow from John's favourite armchair and settled down on his sofa, pushing the pillow behind his head.
“Anything I can get you?”
Sherlock continued to stare at the ceiling.
“Fine. We'll just wait for Mrs Hudson's tea, then.”
“Fine, if you must see!” Sherlock lowered the compress.
John's first impression had been correct - the swelling was quite impressive, as was the bruising. Sherlock had been lucky that the brother's aim had been immaculate, or he would be sporting a blue eye or two. The blood had been wiped away, but it was still an ugly sight.
“Better keep the ice in place. It will help to reduce the swelling. Make sure to rest elevated. Nasal fractures can make breathing difficult. And don't even think about pursuing that case tomorrow. I will call Lestrade, I am sure he can manage for one day.”
“If you think fussing over me will ease your guilt, you are mistaken.” Sherlock balanced the compress on his face and folded his arms, sulking.
“Guilt! I am definitely not feeling guilty.”
Sherlock's eyes flickered to John's face, then back to the ceiling. “Yes, you are.”
“I'm not. If you'd follow the medical news as well as the criminal ones, you would have seen that surveys have proven that men seldom feel guilty.”
“Irrelevant data.”
“Is it? I suppose basic human niceties are 'irrelevant data', too!”
“Why?”
“What did you say to the victim's brother that he punched you in the face?!” John knew he shouldn't be shouting, especially not when Mrs Hudson could come in at any moment, but he couldn't stop himself.
“I merely informed him that clearly he did not know his sister all that well he claimed when he didn't even know that she gained her money by allowing frauds into the casino where she was working as croupier, and then splitting the winnings, particularly with her partner. He is currently my main suspect.”
“Sherlock, you idiot! That man is grieving; his sister has been murdered! Did you think he will take it kindly if you tell him that she was a criminal?!”
“It's the truth. I think she was murdered because she tried to put an end to it and threatened to go to the police. Do you suppose he would rather have read it in the paper?”
“Of course not! But I am not surprised that he hit you. You should have explained that she was trying to get out of it!”
“I would have, if he hadn't broken my nose!”
A soft knocking at the door. “Your tea, dears.”
John shot Mrs Hudson a smile. “Thank you.”
“Never mind.” She sat the tray with the tea down on their coffee table and left, closing the door behind her.
John turned back to Sherlock. “Look, Sherlock, you can't go around accusing dead people of being criminals in front of their grieving family.”
“Why not?”
“It's... insensitive.”
“That's precisely the reason why I asked you to accompany me; instead, you preferred to spent hours at the surgery, wiping noses and treating upset stomachs. Your hard drive may not be as efficient as my own, but as an external storage, you are quite useful.”
“You're as bad as your brother! It's not my fault that you are incapable of anticipating the feelings of others!” John gripped the backrest of his armchair to stop himself from upsetting the tray with Mrs Hudson's precious china teacups. He was not feeling guilty. It was not his task, after all, to apologize for everything Sherlock did...
“Sociopath, remember?”
“That's not true, and we both know it.”
Sherlock fiddled with the compress. “Do we.”
“Yes.” John said down and poured tea into one cup, handing it to Sherlock. “Here you are.”
Sherlock accepted it, but said nothing.
“Look, I'm sorry I didn't go with you.”
“I thought you weren't feeling guilty.”
“I'm not! It's just that, if I had been there, you wouldn't have insulted that brother, nor would you have been punched in the face.”
“I would still have told him.”
“I know. It's your fault that you now have a broken nose. Still, I would have pulled you out of the way.”
“Well, it's fine, I suppose. It wasn't a bullet, after all.”
John suppressed a hysteric giggle as he poured a cup for himself. “No, it wasn't.”
Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Sherlock smiling, too.
................~oOo~................