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Sherlock's working on a smelly experiment, so I take that as a sign to go up to my room early with a book. We've been living together a couple of weeks and I'm getting used his experiments. I do have an easier time adjusting to him because I'm used to sharing in much less spacious and comfortable surroundings. He's always lived alone and the adjustment to having a flatmate is more significant than he expected. I'm trying to be patient and have a sense of humour because, frankly, some of the things the prat does are hilarious.
I'm just thinking of turning out the lights when I hear footsteps on the stairs.
"John?" Sherlock calls softly.
"I'm up. What is it?"
Sherlock comes into the room, holding his left hand up. It's wrapped in a white towel that is quickly turning bright red. I bolt up in bed. "Christ, what did you do?!"
"Scalpel slipped. I'm going to A&E, but I can't get my shoes on." He sounds embarrassed.
"Wait, let me have a look at it."
"It's really deep."
"Doctor, remember? I have a full kit here. Can even do sutures." There's really no need for me to stock such a kit here in London, of course, but I have the training and I'd rather patch myself up than waste a day at A&E if I can help it.
"Oh." Sherlock says. Then, "Oh!" as he realises that I might have utility beyond picking up the milk and doing the shopping.
As we head downstairs, I stop at the airing cupboard for a clean sheet and my med kit. The desk in the lounge, like the kitchen table, is covered with Sherlock's stuff, but the coffee table has only a few of my medical journals and a bowl of apples on it. I clear it, spread the clean sheet over top, and invite Sherlock to kneel and expose his hand while I get a better light source.
When I finally get a good look at the hand, it's not this more recent wound that I notice first. No, what strikes me are the callouses on his fingers, betraying the fact that he is much more than just a casual violinist. There are also lots of tiny white scars and discoloured spots on his hands, likely from splashed acid during some of his experiments. He always takes safety seriously, wearing gloves, goggles, and even an apron if warranted, but maybe he wasn't always as careful, or the gloves sometimes affected his dexterity.
I finally turn to his injury and find a deep slice across the back of the hand. I'm confused. "How did this happen?" Sherlock demonstrates how the scalpel slipped. A stupid one in a million accident. They happen. The wound is neat, but I'm concerned about bacteria. "Are all your jabs up to date?"
"Yes."
"Good. We'll have to watch it for infection, though."
After rinsing the wound with saline, I prepare a hypodermic needle. "I trust needles aren't an issue?" I can't resist that little jab. Pun intended.
"They aren't." Sherlock has the decency to sound almost ashamed.
"Fine. Now, this is going to hurt."
"Probably not as much as getting sutured without it."
"Yeah. Here goes." I administer the local analgesic at three points along the gash. Sherlock hisses each time. "Make a fist, hold, and release." Sherlock does so. "Can you feel it working?"
"It's starting to." I notice that he's trembling slightly.
We have a few minutes to wait, so I strip off my gloves and go to the kitchen, where I pour a glass of orange juice. I bring it back to the lounge and hand it to Sherlock. "Drink. You're in shock."
Sherlock drinks without argument. Ah. He's a good patient. Who would have thought?
When the wound is suitably numb, I make many small sutures to close it. "It shouldn't scar too badly, but you'll still have a mark." Sherlock nods. I then take gauze and wrap the hand up well. "I'll have a look at it in the morning and see how it's doing."
"Thank you," Sherlock replies, examining the bandage.
His gratitude surprises me. "You're welcome."
"When I realised how bad it was, my first thought was that I was going to spend the night in one of those damned chairs in A&E."
I chuckle. "They are pretty bad, aren't they? So now you know there are advantages to having a doctor for a flatmate."
Sherlock quirks a smile. "John, I don't make a habit of injuring myself. I know my limits. This was just an accident."
"I know, Sherlock. It's fine. I'm going to bed. Take some paracetamol. Your hand's going to hurt when the anesthetic wears off."
When I come out of the shower the next morning, I hear Sherlock in the kitchen. He often fixes tea and toast for both of us since he's usually up before me, so that's what I expect when I join him. But he surprises me with the addition to my breakfast of two fried eggs and three rashers of bacon.
"How's the hand this morning?" I ask before trying my breakfast.
"Sore."
"Have you taken any more paracetamol?"
He nods and joins me at the table with his own breakfast. I take a bite and the buttery eggs are absolutely perfect.
"Sherlock?"
"Hmm?"
"I'm not recommending that you go slice yourself open on a regular basis, but if I get eggs like this each time I patch you up, we're even."
He smirks. "Yes, well, I'll leave you to the washing up. Can't get my hand wet, you know."
Prat. But I'm never bored.