July writing prompt 2014 #04 And that’s why we still love libraries
Title: And that’s why we still love libraries
Author: rojo3131
Rating: PG
Character: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes (BBC)
Warnings: Slight angst and serious head injury.
Word Count: 354
Prompt: poem! By Walt Whitman!
Summary: Sherlock had never heard such frightening words
Author's Notes: Again, I own nothing. This took me ages!
The thug that hitted John in the head with a metal tube, several weeks ago, was going to pay and dearly. He rubbed his tired eyes; they had not slept for three days, until, while in a crime scene, John’s headache got unbearable, and his Boswell asked him to take him to the hospital.
Sherlock had never heard such frightening words and he had never seen John cry either. In less than a minute he half carried the Doctor into Lestrade’s car; pick pocketed the keys while the Detective Inspector was distracted securing the area and headed for the nearest hospital.
The surgeon’s words resonated in his mind, like a badly scratched record.
Possible Chronic Subdural Hematoma
That was what the surgeon had called John’s headache, explaining that it was an old hit in the head gone wrong, when a collection of blood was out of its place, occupying space between the surface of the brain and the skull.
John turned to look at him, lids low and pale face. They both knew surgery was inevitable, and were just waiting for the last tests; but at least for now the army doctor was free of pain. They were told to immediately contact a nurse if there was any nausea or vomiting.
His friend closed his eyes and grabbed his hands. They were both cold.
“I can’t watch telly and can’t sleep. Read to me?” - John almost sounded like a child
“I don’t have anything…” - answered Sherlock “Wait, didn’t you carry around that stupid bag with books you wanted to return to the library? Let me see.” Rummaging through John’s stuff he found were three books. There was Siddhartha, by Hermann Hesse, which sounded lethally boring, Harry Potter which he would be avoiding for years after John forced him to watch the movie marathon and another one of Poems, by Walt Whitman.
“So I’m reading Walt Whitman’s work apparently” - Sherlock started, making his mind on getting a tablet for John. His friend whispered his agreement and he read for some time. Apparently his voice soothed John for a time.
That was, until he started vomiting.
Author: rojo3131
Rating: PG
Character: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes (BBC)
Warnings: Slight angst and serious head injury.
Word Count: 354
Prompt: poem! By Walt Whitman!
Summary: Sherlock had never heard such frightening words
Author's Notes: Again, I own nothing. This took me ages!
The thug that hitted John in the head with a metal tube, several weeks ago, was going to pay and dearly. He rubbed his tired eyes; they had not slept for three days, until, while in a crime scene, John’s headache got unbearable, and his Boswell asked him to take him to the hospital.
Sherlock had never heard such frightening words and he had never seen John cry either. In less than a minute he half carried the Doctor into Lestrade’s car; pick pocketed the keys while the Detective Inspector was distracted securing the area and headed for the nearest hospital.
The surgeon’s words resonated in his mind, like a badly scratched record.
Possible Chronic Subdural Hematoma
That was what the surgeon had called John’s headache, explaining that it was an old hit in the head gone wrong, when a collection of blood was out of its place, occupying space between the surface of the brain and the skull.
John turned to look at him, lids low and pale face. They both knew surgery was inevitable, and were just waiting for the last tests; but at least for now the army doctor was free of pain. They were told to immediately contact a nurse if there was any nausea or vomiting.
His friend closed his eyes and grabbed his hands. They were both cold.
“I can’t watch telly and can’t sleep. Read to me?” - John almost sounded like a child
“I don’t have anything…” - answered Sherlock “Wait, didn’t you carry around that stupid bag with books you wanted to return to the library? Let me see.” Rummaging through John’s stuff he found were three books. There was Siddhartha, by Hermann Hesse, which sounded lethally boring, Harry Potter which he would be avoiding for years after John forced him to watch the movie marathon and another one of Poems, by Walt Whitman.
“So I’m reading Walt Whitman’s work apparently” - Sherlock started, making his mind on getting a tablet for John. His friend whispered his agreement and he read for some time. Apparently his voice soothed John for a time.
That was, until he started vomiting.