[ It had been easy not to think beyond the treatment for a while. Sherlock had sustained considerably deep puncture wounds from Moriarty's attack, but none through any major arteries, none that would have Sherlock bleeding out within minutes if untreated. The cut on his wing, too, was a damage, but nothing so critical as to be concerned for detachment. It would heal, and with it, the feathers would grow back in. And yet, Sherlock had exhibited all the signs of shock as if one of his limbs had been pulled off. John had treated him accordingly, staunched the bleeding and stitched him up while the man dropped off into unconsciousness. The equipment in the village clinic was not very advanced, but the former army doctor had made do with less before. He'd gotten a few of the healers to come and help him with the wing. John was no veterinarian and this was clearly a real concern - he wasn't about to risk just stopping the bleeding and leaving the wing be.
Now it was only a matter of waiting. For a while, all John could really do was watch the other sleep, fluctuating between whether or not it should be considered an invasion of privacy. Of course it wasn't - John was a doctor and he was assuring that Sherlock's vitals were running somewhat close to normal after the trauma. Without monitoring materials, he'd had to do it by hand. Mostly, though, watching the other involved wondering how the hell Sherlock Holmes was alive, and how the hell he could choose to kill himself in the first place.There was Moriarty to think about, too. John was reluctant to leave, but John was going to need supplies from the other clinic. Luckily, one of the healers was around to agree to watch over Sherlock, and John had to bet on Moriarty's new facade that he wouldn't attempt anything drastic.
As it turned out, leaving to go to the clinic might have been a poor idea. After hauling another patient into the clinic, John found himself with another worry and no equipment. There was still medicine here, though, at least.
John was in the doorway, speaking low gratitude to the staff member that had found a cup of coffee somewhere along the line, when he heard the groan cut through the room. The doctor glanced over his shoulder appraisingly, excused himself politely, and made his way over. ]
Awake?
[ John approached the bed, cup in hand. He had his coat on, and was wearing signs of being outside within the past few hours. Sherlock would find himself rigged to an IV of a sort - saline in a bottle, rather than a bag, rigged to a hook. On the table nearby, there were pill bottles and small, glass bottles with liquid drugs. Syringes, too, for a quick treatment. ]
no subject
Now it was only a matter of waiting. For a while, all John could really do was watch the other sleep, fluctuating between whether or not it should be considered an invasion of privacy. Of course it wasn't - John was a doctor and he was assuring that Sherlock's vitals were running somewhat close to normal after the trauma. Without monitoring materials, he'd had to do it by hand. Mostly, though, watching the other involved wondering how the hell Sherlock Holmes was alive, and how the hell he could choose to kill himself in the first place.There was Moriarty to think about, too. John was reluctant to leave, but John was going to need supplies from the other clinic. Luckily, one of the healers was around to agree to watch over Sherlock, and John had to bet on Moriarty's new facade that he wouldn't attempt anything drastic.
As it turned out, leaving to go to the clinic might have been a poor idea. After hauling another patient into the clinic, John found himself with another worry and no equipment. There was still medicine here, though, at least.
John was in the doorway, speaking low gratitude to the staff member that had found a cup of coffee somewhere along the line, when he heard the groan cut through the room. The doctor glanced over his shoulder appraisingly, excused himself politely, and made his way over. ]
Awake?
[ John approached the bed, cup in hand. He had his coat on, and was wearing signs of being outside within the past few hours. Sherlock would find himself rigged to an IV of a sort - saline in a bottle, rather than a bag, rigged to a hook. On the table nearby, there were pill bottles and small, glass bottles with liquid drugs. Syringes, too, for a quick treatment. ]