Full Fathom Five, or, the Torment. Chapter Seven.

[ghislainem70]

Title: Full Fathom Five, or, the Torment. Chapter Seven
Author: ghislainem70
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 1111
Warning: Graphic depictions of violence (entire work), explicit sex (entire work)
Summary:  Sherlock and John are summoned to solve mysterious disappearances from a Scottish lighthouse.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. All honours to Messrs Moffat, Gatiss, BBC, et al.
Note: This fic was inspired by a tweet from Mark Gatiss, noting his love for the film "I Know Where I'm Going!", also a fave of the author's.
Full Fathom Five, or, the Torment. Chapter Seven.
The pilot chastised the men with indiscriminate and colorful curses for having neglected the tide timetable. "A minute more, and you'dve been swept into the sea," he shouted over the noise of the helicopter.

Sherlock looked down at Dubh Ardath through the mist and stormy clouds as though searching for something in the gathering late afternoon gloom. The men kept quiet about their discovery of the bloodstain, and McMann's journal. Rather than return to Tobermory against the storm, the pilot advised them to stay on at Loch Buie for the night. They swiftly landed there. John urgently needed to attend to Lestrade's injuries, and Sherlock intended to search the other missing keepers' cottages as soon as the storm permitted. Provided Lestrade was fit, it was decided that he and John would return to Dubh Ardath the next day for a more thorough search.

* * *

There was a tiny, very simple inn at Loch Buie, run by a comrade of the pilot's, and the four men made their way there in driving rain and thunder. Without undue fussing, which Sherlock could never bear, their rain-soaked coats were taken to dry by the innkeepers, a grizzled old married couple. Servicable, thick shetland sweaters were offered to the men with simple island courtesy.

The innkeepers, who were called MacBride, told Sherlock that they were well accustomed to taking in strangers to shelter from the Hebreidian storms. The pilot had confirmed that nearest doctor was in Bunessan, not so far as the crow flies, but they could travel no further in the helicopter until the storm cleared, and the roads were but sheep tracks and rough single lanes full of hazard.

John asked if there was somewhere he could tend to Lestrade’s gashed chin, which was leaking blood dramatically despite the improvised dressing. The innkeepers led John and Lestrade into the minuscule but well-lit kitchen. Sherlock followed. The stove warmed them, and there was a large table here with a light hanging above. Mrs. MacBride brought two oil lamps and put on a pot of water to boil.

The pilot and Mr. MacBride then began loudly reminiscing over glasses of whisky about one Farris, a local fisherman, who had been brought to this very table to have his hand cut off after a terrible fishing accident. Lestrade blanched a bit. John was vastly experienced with field medicine, and he knew that this would be nothing. But it was going to hurt.

John said cheerfully, "I don’t think we’ll have to have this one’s head off just yet. I have a few tricks up my sleeve," and he pushed Lestrade back onto the table.

The pilot left tend to the helicopter and the kitchen was so crowded that after bringing the hot water for John, Mr. and Mrs. McBride withdrew. John held the oil lamps close by Lestrade’s shoulders to give him light to work on Lestrade's ugly gash. Sherlock sat by restlessly in a kitchen chair, fidgeting rapidly with his mobile phone - whose signal was patchy here -- and staring out the window, from which the lighthouse of Dubh Ardath could be seen periodically flashing out into the night.

* * *

John told Lestrade he would be needing more than a fresh dressing, he was going to have to stitch the wound. There was no anesthetic available.

"Now is your chance to really appreciate that local whiskey," John said as he prepared a needle and thread and poured a large tumbler full from the bottle that Mrs. MacBride had had the foresight to leave by John’s elbow.

John began by checking Lestrade's head carefully for any open wounds or large lumps from concussion, and checked his pupils and eye-hand coordination. Lestrade closed his eyes as John carefully felt about his scalp, his gentle fingers probing through Lestrade's thick silvered hair. "No serious harm there," John announced, straightening. Lestrade whispered, very low so that only John could hear, "Don't stop."

He opened his eyes and gave John a cocky grin, his very best "I could fuck you all night long and you'd still be begging for more" grin.

John looked faintly puzzled, then became quite still.

Lestrade could not tell what John was thinking, but before he could press the issue, John was urging more whisky upon him. "Down the hatch. Doctor's orders," John said sternly and Lestrade observed with his keen detective's eyes that John's left hand was trembling slightly. He downed the whisky in two stout gulps and took a pull from the bottle for good measure, then tilted his torn chin up at John and grabbed the edges of the table.

"Do your worst, Doctor," he said huskily.

The incessant clattering of Sherlock's fingers on his cell phone stopped.

John sterilized the needle and poured rubbing alcohol into Lestrade's ragged wound. John knew that this simple maneuver caused agonizing pain, but other than gritting his teeth, Lestrade did not flinch.

John started in with the needle. The wound was deep and had quite a bit of dirty sand in it, and John systematically cleaned as he went. He used the tiniest stitches possible to minimize Lestrade's scar, taking his time, but having to go rather deep in places. Lestrade sucked in his breath once or twice, but bore the pain from the needle piercing his flesh stoically. He was concentrating instead on the feeling of John's warm breath on his neck and his head bent over him, so that John’s chest was very nearly pressed against Lestrade's own.

He wondered if John could feel his heart beating.

At last it was over. John held Lestrade’s face between his hands and turned it this way and that in the glow of the oil lamp. "Now I call that a neat bit of work, if I do say. You’ll have a scar, but it will make you quite distinguished," John said as he drew back.

Lestrade, despite the stinging pain, spinning of the room and the lightness of his head, grabbed John’s hand as he was drawing away from his face, and held it tightly, raising it to just near the corner of his mouth, and would perhaps have dared to brush his lips against the inside of John’s wrist when suddenly Sherlock stood up with a cool glare.

Lestrade dropped John’s hand.

"Thank you, Doctor," he said, slurring his words with elaborate finesse. The room was really spinning now, and his chin hurt like hellfire now that John wasn’t actually touching him anywhere.

John muttered something about needing to find a better dressing, and left the kitchen for a moment, admonishing Lestrade to keep still and not move.

To be continued . . .

Listen to Buena, here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M34iZH4-qkI

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