For John Watson

[howdull]

[Sherlock is still finding pieces of the melted laptop in the carpet.

It had actually been quite an ingenious booby trap to be devised by a fourteen year old boy with only household chemicals to work with but, as Sherlock surmised, rather overkill to keep his mother from finding his extensive porn collection. Not one of their more illustrious cases, but it had been quite entertaining to watch both the boy and mother's faces as he revealed that he did know the how and why. He lost interest after the mother started shouting and John started shouting and the whole thing turned tedious.

He rather thinks John won't actually be doing a full write-up of this one on his blog.

It's been two days since their last case and he's beginning to get more than a little antsy. Lestrade has sent him nothing, just a boring hit and run that he refused to even leave the flat for, and nobody interesting has appeared through the blog. Said blog he is currently scrolling through on John's laptop, having borrowed it again.

He did ask, it's not his fault John hadn't been in the room at the time.]

Bored, John.

[He doesn't even know if his flatmate is even in, but that's hardly a necessity for him to actually speak to John. Frustrated, he throws the laptop across the room to hit the wall, where it summarily breaks. Which is where he can be found whenever John appears, sulking amidst pieces of laptop, both from the melted one of their last case and John's poor broken one.]

Comments

[howdull]

[By the time the ambulance gets there a further four minutes have passed and Jake is unconscious, breathing slowed right down but still fighting through to stay alive. Paramedics converge on both sides of the car and open the doors, two of them carefully lifting Jake onto a gurney while another crouches at the passenger side to look at John.]

You the one that called it in? Are you hurt anywhere?

[He starts snapping on latex gloves, calm but efficient.]

Are you a relative? Friend?

[jumpthegun]

Friend. Please, I'm fine. [John looks very not-fine. His hands are covered in blood now, he doesn't have a jacket, and he's white as a sheet, sweating, and grimacing from aggravating his own injuries.] Just take care of Jake.

The shooter was down by the Thames. She made us drive down there, got out and shot him through the stomach. I need to contact the police.

[howdull]

[He definitely doesn't look fine. Even if he hadn't been a paramedic and therefore trained to see this sort of thing, he still wouldn't have believed that even for a second. Probably in shock so he can't feel his own injuries.]

Alright, sir, we're taking care of him, but we're going to need to look you over too. We can call the police from the bus, so why don't you lean on me and we'll get you out of there?

[jumpthegun]

[He only has three days. If they put him in hospital again, he might not get out.]

No, no. I'm fine, really. I just... need a lift to my flat. I'll be fine there. Broken ribs. Need a lie down. It's in Shepherd's Bush, Romney Court.

[John does start to pull himself out of the car, though, trying to avoid taking the paramedic's assistance to show that he is absolutely fine. He might well have pissed off the Alphabet Woman enough with that stunt for her to take it out on these people. Better to get away from them quickly.]

[howdull]

[He's not going to be so easy to fob off, his job is to make sure that injured people don't just go wandering off anywhere. Broken ribs aren't exactly a reason for him to be any less worried either.]

Alright. How about you get up into the back of the ambulance and we'll take you to the hospital with Jake, and we'll have a look at you on the way? Then if you're all set to go, we can have someone run you home. Does that sound like a good compromise?

[jumpthegun]

[They're not going to think he's good to go if they examine him. Unless... well, if he can keep them from seeing his back, it should probably be fine. And trying to outrun a healthy paramedic likely isn't going to end well.

There's also the fact that his delay may well be delaying them getting Jake into surgery.]

Yeah. Sure.

[Just a little bit longer to keep up the facade. He can manage that. And there's food at Sherlock's place, the Chinese he didn't eat. So that's... something. He'll have to figure out what to do after that for money. Going to Sarah isn't even on the menu of options. He turned down Mycroft, so any assistance there is probably gone. Lestrade? He'll have the most resources, but he might want to put John in hospital while they're running down leads. Mrs. Hudson's been through too much. Clara isn't involved, and Mike doesn't need to be, either.

Molly?

Molly would help if she knew it were for Sherlock, and he could stay in Bart's with her helping him. Maybe. He barely knows the woman. They just see her for cases, but he can tell she's absolutely smitten with Sherlock.

John makes his way to the ambulance.]

Uh... what about Jake's car? Someone needs to call his mum, too.

[howdull]

[Nobody answers him until he's been hustled into the back of the ambulance and sat on one of the side benches, the ambulance almost immediately driving away at high speed with the siren going. Jake was already hooked up to an oxygen mask and a heart monitor, with two of the paramedics carefully taking away his coat and his shirt so that they could examine the wound beneath. His vital signs are thready but still not in the danger zone, so it looks like he might pull through.

The paramedic who helped John into the ambulance takes out a chart and a pen, before smiling at him reassuringly.]

All right mate why don't you tell me where it hurts? What happened to your ribs?

[They can deal with the car and Jake's mum in good time.]

[jumpthegun]

[John knows this is standard procedure, but he has other things to be doing.]

I fell down the stairs at home.

[He raises an arm, wincing, and lets his finger hover over the points that feel the most pain. He honestly doesn't know which ones are broken. Sherlock might have gotten a look at his chart, but John had been more keen to escape.]

I'm a doctor. Really, I understand this is your job, but I know what I'm talking about when I say it'll be fine, son.

[howdull]

[The paramedic didn't exactly appreciate being called son, but he had been called worse things in the duration of his career. So he just smiled a tight, polite smile and gestured to John's shirt.]

If you can slip your shirt off then I'll have a quick look, make sure everything is still ticking along. I'm sure it is, you being a doctor and all, but I'm sure you appreciate that I have to check.

[Doctors always were the worst patients.]

While you're doing that, why don't you tell me your name and date of birth?

[jumpthegun]

[Bloody hell. John smiles back, blinking a few times. He unbuttons the front of his shirt, but doesn't take it off.]

Mycroft Holmes, 1st of April, 1966.

[howdull]

April Fool baby, hm, Dr. Holmes?

[The words are half distracted as his main attention is taken by the discoloured bruising on his patient's torso. Frowning, he gently moves to tug the shirt the rest of the way off.]

Looks pretty nasty, any trouble breathing? Any nausea or dizziness?

[jumpthegun]

Well, I've been called a fool.

[One who is hanging onto his shirt. There is nausea and dizziness from the pain.]

Nothing like that, no. I'm a bit cold, if you wouldn't mind just checking over the shirt. Lost my coat.

[howdull]

Don't you worry, Dr Holmes, this ambulance is well heated you'll be fine for a few minutes without a shirt and I promise to give it right back.

[He isn't an idiot and he wants to get a proper look because he's pretty sure Mycroft is hiding something from him.]

I'm going to have to ask you to take it off for me.

[jumpthegun]

I'm going to have to refuse, Mister...?

[howdull]

Thomas Miobi, Doctor. And why do you feel like you have to refuse?

[jumpthegun]

[Because.]

I have an embarrassing tattoo. Really don't like people seeing it. Be a mate.

[He's clearly lying at this point and isn't even going to bother to put together something reasonable-sounding.]

[howdull]

[Yeah, no. He looks a little more stern.]

If I feel like you might be endangering your own health, you know that I'm entitled to have you detained for 72 hours under the mental health act.

[Usually used for suicide risks, but was sometimes used to help treat patients who otherwise would refuse to their own detriment like drunks or addicts.]

[jumpthegun]

[Goddamn it. John glares at Thomas for a long moment before grimacing and removing his shirt the rest of the way.]

There was an explosion at my flat. I've got burns. They've already been treated for.

[Sort of. He was in a hospital for a given period of time.]

[howdull]

An explosion and a shooting? Sounds like a rough time, but you can tell the police about it when we get to the hospital. But for now those burns look angry and I don't like the look of those ribs, I'm going to give you something for your pain and then do a proper examination.

[He gathered up a small bottle and syringe from one of the many drawers in the sides of the ambulance.]

Do you have any allergies, Dr. Holmes?

[jumpthegun]

Most sedatives.

[Now he's just being difficult, but he's eyeing that syringe in a way that clearly indicates the mutinous thoughts running through his head. If he weren't in pain, as is, he thinks he could probably take the EMT down. But as things stand...]

[howdull]

That's not possible considering the wide variety of ingredients, so why don't you try again with an honest answer?

[jumpthegun]

The world of medicine is wide and varied for allergies. [John raises his brows defiantly, in spite of feeling wretched and... sort of wanting the drug. He holds that for a moment before sighing in irritation.]

I don't have any allergies.

[howdull]

[Why couldn't he have been working on the gunshot victim? At least he was unconscious. Thomas sighs and preps the needle before taking his patient's arm.]

You're going to feel a sharp scratch in a moment.

[He doesn't wait much beyond that, getting the morphine into him. With any luck it'll knock him out.]

[jumpthegun]

[The comforting numbness of narcotics flood through him fairly quickly.]

I need to call the police. Mind if I do that now?

[Except what was the dosage on that? John's brows knit together as he feels his head swimming more with induced dizziness than what was there from the pain.]

Bloody hell. I need... the Alphabet Woman is still out there! I have to call... Lestrade. She has Sherlock.

[He shakes his head, but it's like trying to swim against the current in a river. John just doesn't have the energy for it anymore. He slips into unconsciousness.]

[howdull]

[Atta boy, sleep now.

Thomas doesn't usually like drugging his patients without their consent, but sometimes it's necessary and this is definitely one of those times. He gets his patient readmitted as soon as they get to the hospital, his partners taking Jake up to surgery, and he's processed to a high priority ward due to the state he's in.

Whenever he finally wakes up it will be to the comforting buzz of morphine, fresh sheets, and Lestrade looking tired while reading a stack of case files.]