[ There's a slow breath through John's nose, a precursor to a fraying patience. Fine. Have it your way, you contrary bastard.
The doctor plucks up a syringe from the bedside table, readied from the times he'd been administering the drug before. John could be kind - he could put it into the IV that's already in Sherlock's hand.
He slips it into the man's upper arm instead. John has good hands, steady and precise - a surgeon's hands. But he makes it hurt, twitches the needle just enough to burn as he pushes the plunger and administer's the injection. It takes less than a second. ]
Who's to say?
[ Thank god for his jacket and the lack of holes in it; his wings shift restlessly on his back with his quiet aggression. ]
no subject
The doctor plucks up a syringe from the bedside table, readied from the times he'd been administering the drug before. John could be kind - he could put it into the IV that's already in Sherlock's hand.
He slips it into the man's upper arm instead. John has good hands, steady and precise - a surgeon's hands. But he makes it hurt, twitches the needle just enough to burn as he pushes the plunger and administer's the injection. It takes less than a second. ]
Who's to say?
[ Thank god for his jacket and the lack of holes in it; his wings shift restlessly on his back with his quiet aggression. ]