Concussion
Title: Concussion
Rating: G
Word count: 1,000
Summary: From watsons_woes challenge 23 prompt: BBCverse | There's a severe lack of H/C for John at the end of The Blind Banker. At least Sarah got a blanket and a bit of fussing. John's had to go back to the supermarket twice because of the chip-and-pin, had no sleep for a couple nights, ran interference for Sherlock with Dimmock, got his date crashed by Sherlock and then by manic jade smugglers, walloped on the head, and probably a touch of PTSD from thinking his brains were going to be blown out. It's not been a good week, and he should've gotten more than a stripey sweater and cup of coffee scene the next morning.
The swift ending of any chance at a relationship with Sara was something John expected, not the brief kiss she placed on his temple and an added whisper of "that was brilliant."
Knowing he would have a second chance with Sara did ease the tension of the night. However, the headache, nausea and dizziness, plus the pain of the cut on his forehead did not lend to a promising evening. Neither did the ache in his leg.
When John stepped away from Sara's doorway, Sherlock grabbed his elbow. "Hospital."
John glanced down at the hand holding his arm and then up to the determined look in Sherlock's eyes. He tugged his arm but Sherlock's grip was firm. "I told you three times; I'm fine."
"Dizziness, nausea and a loss of balance. Highly indicative of a concussion. You also stated that you don't know how long you were unconscious."
John tugged his arm again. "Doctor. Doctor that's had experience with actual concussions instead of ones in a morgue."
"Five." Sherlock dropped his arm, stepped back, and stood with his hands behind his back. He stared at John.
"Five what?"
"Five actual concussions. One from falling from a tree. One from walking on a tightrope-"
"Tightrope?" John snorted and then giggled. "You have to tell-" John stopped speaking at the look that crossed Sherlock's face.
"One from a man that did not appreciate the lack of extra...funds, one from Mycroft and the last from Sergeant Donovan." Sherlock sniffed.
"Donovan?" John smirked. "Donovan?" John laughed.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Hospital." Sherlock moved towards the curb and raised his arm to hail a cab.
"I don't need a bloody hospital. I know what to do" John shifted slightly "you know what to do, Mr. Five-concussions-one-from-a-tightrope." John giggled again "How in the heck did Donovan give you a concussion?"
Sherlock turned to John "that cut will need stitches. They may have drugged you. Hospital."
John pulled a face. "This is merely a scratch. They didn't drug me. They hit me over the head with..." John closed his eyes.
"Loss of memory" Sherlock declared. "Considering the time it took to travel, and that you did not wake until after they tied you to a chair and set up a deadly crossbow, it is highly likely that you may have been drugged."
John crossed his arms. "I wasn't drugged."
Sherlock inclined his head slightly "fear of hospitals." It wasn't a question.
"I'm not afraid of hospitals."
"Good." Sherlock lowered his arm as a cab slowed.
John hadn't expected the smells and sounds of the A&E to bring him so close to the dry air and sand that infected his dreams. He jammed his trembling hand into his jacket pocket. Sherlock glanced at the motion and pressed his palm against John's shoulder.
A minor concussion and a cut that needed no stitches was something that would mean several hours upon stiff chairs. John dreaded how Sherlock would react to the screaming children, arguing spouses, and crying patients. Yet, he was quite looking forward to see what Sherlock could deduce from them all. He was also hoping that the 'boring' hours would extract the tale of how Sherlock received a concussion from Sergeant Sally Donovan.
When Sherlock mentioned his and John's name, the eyes of the nurse behind the triage desk widened. "Mr. Holmes!" She stood "We're expecting you and Captain Watson. The nurse leaned over to peer at John. "You can go right in dear."
John stood unmoving.
"John?" Sherlock shook John's shoulder gently.
"Captain Watson?"
"Yes, Captain. Let's finish this, please. I did not just sell my soul to my enemy-"
"Mycroft? You called Mycroft?"
Sherlock sighed and continued as if John had never spoken "for you to stand about like a tourist gaping at Big Ben."
"That's the bell" John muttered.
Sherlock scowled and pulled John forward.
Two and a half hours later, Sherlock was grinning as they left the A&E.
"I should be disturbed that you're so happy."
"I'm not happy that you have a concussion and needed three stitches."
"Yes. You are. You laughed!"
"Again, John, I'm not happy that you are injured." Sherlock's hand clenched at the last word "I was right though." He faced John and winked.
"You got something wrong."
Sherlock pursed his lips.
"I wasn't drugged."
"I never said you were drugged. I said you might have been drugged." Sherlock's voice had the distinct hint of a child sticking their tongue out.
A hot shower, his favourite worn pyjamas and his bed. It was all John wanted and expected. In his brief time living with Sherlock, he knew the man would not be one to even try and 'comfort'.
It seemed that being completely nonplussed was becoming a habit in 221b. Freshly clad in his pyjamas, John entered his room to the sight of a glass of water and two paracetamol on the table beside his bed. He studied the glass for a moment before swallowing the pills. Sinking to the edge of the bed, John buried his face in his hands. Moments later, John jerked his head up at the sound of Sherlock ascending the stairs.
"Toast." Sherlock swept into John's room with a plate in one hand, his violin case in the other and a collection of papers under his left arm. "Strawberry jam." Sherlock shoved the plate onto John's lap.
John was struck speechless.
Sherlock flopped into the single chair in John's room, removed his violin from it's case and began to tune it.
"What are you doing?"
Sherlock froze "perhaps we should go back to hospital?"
John shook his head "no. No what are you doing?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes "I'm not about to walk up the stairs every two hours."
John frowned.
Sherlock sighed "I thought you were a 'Doctor'. At the very least, I would have expected you to listen to Dr. Gould."
John stared.
"You require observation." Sherlock nodded his head once and resumed tuning his violin.
John smiled slightly. He finished the toast and stretched out on his bed. Though he would never mention it, he would never forget: As he closed his eyes, Sherlock began to play.
Rating: G
Word count: 1,000
Summary: From watsons_woes challenge 23 prompt: BBCverse | There's a severe lack of H/C for John at the end of The Blind Banker. At least Sarah got a blanket and a bit of fussing. John's had to go back to the supermarket twice because of the chip-and-pin, had no sleep for a couple nights, ran interference for Sherlock with Dimmock, got his date crashed by Sherlock and then by manic jade smugglers, walloped on the head, and probably a touch of PTSD from thinking his brains were going to be blown out. It's not been a good week, and he should've gotten more than a stripey sweater and cup of coffee scene the next morning.
The swift ending of any chance at a relationship with Sara was something John expected, not the brief kiss she placed on his temple and an added whisper of "that was brilliant."
Knowing he would have a second chance with Sara did ease the tension of the night. However, the headache, nausea and dizziness, plus the pain of the cut on his forehead did not lend to a promising evening. Neither did the ache in his leg.
When John stepped away from Sara's doorway, Sherlock grabbed his elbow. "Hospital."
John glanced down at the hand holding his arm and then up to the determined look in Sherlock's eyes. He tugged his arm but Sherlock's grip was firm. "I told you three times; I'm fine."
"Dizziness, nausea and a loss of balance. Highly indicative of a concussion. You also stated that you don't know how long you were unconscious."
John tugged his arm again. "Doctor. Doctor that's had experience with actual concussions instead of ones in a morgue."
"Five." Sherlock dropped his arm, stepped back, and stood with his hands behind his back. He stared at John.
"Five what?"
"Five actual concussions. One from falling from a tree. One from walking on a tightrope-"
"Tightrope?" John snorted and then giggled. "You have to tell-" John stopped speaking at the look that crossed Sherlock's face.
"One from a man that did not appreciate the lack of extra...funds, one from Mycroft and the last from Sergeant Donovan." Sherlock sniffed.
"Donovan?" John smirked. "Donovan?" John laughed.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Hospital." Sherlock moved towards the curb and raised his arm to hail a cab.
"I don't need a bloody hospital. I know what to do" John shifted slightly "you know what to do, Mr. Five-concussions-one-from-a-tightrope." John giggled again "How in the heck did Donovan give you a concussion?"
Sherlock turned to John "that cut will need stitches. They may have drugged you. Hospital."
John pulled a face. "This is merely a scratch. They didn't drug me. They hit me over the head with..." John closed his eyes.
"Loss of memory" Sherlock declared. "Considering the time it took to travel, and that you did not wake until after they tied you to a chair and set up a deadly crossbow, it is highly likely that you may have been drugged."
John crossed his arms. "I wasn't drugged."
Sherlock inclined his head slightly "fear of hospitals." It wasn't a question.
"I'm not afraid of hospitals."
"Good." Sherlock lowered his arm as a cab slowed.
John hadn't expected the smells and sounds of the A&E to bring him so close to the dry air and sand that infected his dreams. He jammed his trembling hand into his jacket pocket. Sherlock glanced at the motion and pressed his palm against John's shoulder.
A minor concussion and a cut that needed no stitches was something that would mean several hours upon stiff chairs. John dreaded how Sherlock would react to the screaming children, arguing spouses, and crying patients. Yet, he was quite looking forward to see what Sherlock could deduce from them all. He was also hoping that the 'boring' hours would extract the tale of how Sherlock received a concussion from Sergeant Sally Donovan.
When Sherlock mentioned his and John's name, the eyes of the nurse behind the triage desk widened. "Mr. Holmes!" She stood "We're expecting you and Captain Watson. The nurse leaned over to peer at John. "You can go right in dear."
John stood unmoving.
"John?" Sherlock shook John's shoulder gently.
"Captain Watson?"
"Yes, Captain. Let's finish this, please. I did not just sell my soul to my enemy-"
"Mycroft? You called Mycroft?"
Sherlock sighed and continued as if John had never spoken "for you to stand about like a tourist gaping at Big Ben."
"That's the bell" John muttered.
Sherlock scowled and pulled John forward.
Two and a half hours later, Sherlock was grinning as they left the A&E.
"I should be disturbed that you're so happy."
"I'm not happy that you have a concussion and needed three stitches."
"Yes. You are. You laughed!"
"Again, John, I'm not happy that you are injured." Sherlock's hand clenched at the last word "I was right though." He faced John and winked.
"You got something wrong."
Sherlock pursed his lips.
"I wasn't drugged."
"I never said you were drugged. I said you might have been drugged." Sherlock's voice had the distinct hint of a child sticking their tongue out.
A hot shower, his favourite worn pyjamas and his bed. It was all John wanted and expected. In his brief time living with Sherlock, he knew the man would not be one to even try and 'comfort'.
It seemed that being completely nonplussed was becoming a habit in 221b. Freshly clad in his pyjamas, John entered his room to the sight of a glass of water and two paracetamol on the table beside his bed. He studied the glass for a moment before swallowing the pills. Sinking to the edge of the bed, John buried his face in his hands. Moments later, John jerked his head up at the sound of Sherlock ascending the stairs.
"Toast." Sherlock swept into John's room with a plate in one hand, his violin case in the other and a collection of papers under his left arm. "Strawberry jam." Sherlock shoved the plate onto John's lap.
John was struck speechless.
Sherlock flopped into the single chair in John's room, removed his violin from it's case and began to tune it.
"What are you doing?"
Sherlock froze "perhaps we should go back to hospital?"
John shook his head "no. No what are you doing?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes "I'm not about to walk up the stairs every two hours."
John frowned.
Sherlock sighed "I thought you were a 'Doctor'. At the very least, I would have expected you to listen to Dr. Gould."
John stared.
"You require observation." Sherlock nodded his head once and resumed tuning his violin.
John smiled slightly. He finished the toast and stretched out on his bed. Though he would never mention it, he would never forget: As he closed his eyes, Sherlock began to play.