Infirmary post for Sherlock

[no_more_hiding]

 "Please have a seat here," Hank says pointing towards a bed. "I'll file a report and be sure the senior doctor receives it. Is there anything I can get you from the bar?"

Comments

[mightbeagoodone]

Sherlock starts to shake his head, but that's a bad idea so he says, "No, not hungry or thirsty."

[no_more_hiding]

"Very well. You seem stable, but feel free to rest here if you wish. I'll be over there if you need anything," Hank replies, gesturing to the desk several meters away.

[mightbeagoodone]

"Just want sleep."

Sherlock lies back on the bed, still wearing his coat, and then hisses and sits up again to take it off. The back of his shirt is dotted and streaked with blood, visible as he lies on his side.

[no_more_hiding]

"Perhaps I should clean those?" Hank offers. "Or at the least I can get you a pain killer of some sort?"

He isn't truly a doctor, yet, and so doesn't feel it's his place to instist on treatment.

[mightbeagoodone]

Sherlock mumbles into the pillow, "Cleaning would probably be best. Prevent infection.

"No pain killers."

[no_more_hiding]

"Any other areas you'd like me to look at?" Hank asks as he puts on a pair of surgical gloves. If the injuries prove sever, he'll wash up proper, but fur doesn't dry as well as bare skin, so the gloves will do for now. Hopefully.

As he listens to Sherlock's answer, he steps aside to grab a cleaning kit and a tray.

[mightbeagoodone]

"Back is the worst." He pushes himself into a sitting position and carefully takes off his shirt. (It's one of his favorites. The blood will come out--he has a very good dry-cleaner.)

His back is pretty bad, as is his chest and ribs. Bruises, small burns.

[no_more_hiding]

Hank nods and gets to work, carefully cleaning and dressing any wounds as best he can. His touch is light, though the odd poke of a claw is certainly likely.

"I will of course keep the strictest confidence, but if this occurred here, perhaps you should notify Security?"

[cutting_edgex23]

Eventually X makes her way into the infirmary.

Sherlock was, for one, the person who left the note about Moriarty.

And, for another, his scent is -- potentially cause for concern.

"Hello."

[mightbeagoodone]

Sherlock looks terrible. That could also be a cause for concern.

He squints at her. "Hello. X, isn't it? You were watching over Moriarty in the cells."

[cutting_edgex23]

Perhaps if X were someone else. But she's used to interpreting injuries on stoics, so --

"Yes. I made him meditate, too."

Beat.

"There was juice."

Another, evaluative pause.

"This is relevant?"

[mightbeagoodone]

Very relevant, but Sherlock only says, "It's where I remember seeing you before."

[cutting_edgex23]

X's eyes narrow. Fractionally.

"You smell like him."

Beat.

"Jim."

[mightbeagoodone]

Sherlock tips his head.

"Your senses must be overwhelming sometimes."

His hands are finally steady as he pushes one through his hair. "He and I spent a few hours together last night. He did this. I asked him to, so he's not to be arrested. It was a foolish risk to take, but I needed to prove a theory."

[cutting_edgex23]

X shrugs, one-shouldered and quick.

"They are mine. It is okay."

Beat.

"What did you ask? For."

They'll get to the theory in a minute.

[mightbeagoodone]

"I asked for his help. I wanted to replace grief with physical pain, which he did admirably, and far less harshly than he could have done."

[just_cant_lose]

At some point in the night, when Sherlock's asleep and alone, a shadow stands over his bed.

There's a brief light as a photo is taken. Maybe a chuckle.

When he wakes up, he'll see juice dripping out of a bag of squashed and twisted grapes, dumped on his bedside table. And a neat card with a broken flower drawn on the front. The message inside reads, if you wanted it kissed better, you only had to ask. xxx

[mightbeagoodone]

The grapes go in the trash. (They're messy.)

The card gets tucked in Great Unsolved Mysteries of Our Time, unanswered.

There's nothing he could say.

[starrydome]

Elrond occasionally pass through the Infirmary to see if he can be helpful in some small way.

Often, he makes tea.

(There are many reasons for this and one of them might be that there is something very English about parts of Middle-earth. Thus - tea).

At the moment, he is putting a cup of tea quietly down on the bedside table next to the resting patient.



{ooc: passing through or up for play. Your call}

[mightbeagoodone]

At the sound of a teacup, Sherlock opens one eye to see who has brought it.

"Thank you," he says quietly--a bit thickly, too, given the state of his face.

[starrydome]

Elrond gives him a small smile and nods.

"Can I get you anything else?" he asks, just as quietly.

"Some fruit? Or a damp cloth perhaps?"
For the swelling.

[mightbeagoodone]

"Fruit, please." He sits up carefully and picks up the teacup.

[starrydome]

Elrond nods again and heads back out the door. When he returns, he is carrying a small glazed, earthenware platter with slices of apples and pears.

They're from home, incredibly fragrant and still sun warm,

(He didn't go back to fetch them. Bar provided.)

He puts them down on the bedside table.

[mightbeagoodone]

Sherlock smiles slightly at the sight.

"Thank you." He takes a slice of pear, sniffs it, and takes a bite, chewing carefully.

He prods at his face as if to see if the swelling is going down.

[starrydome]

"It will be a couple of days before things even out," Elrond says.

"I can see about making you something for the swelling?"