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Description
John looked up from his book, staring at his wall, frowning. He glanced at the clock - it was almost midnight.
Then his phone buzzed softly. Leaning forward he scooped it up and opened up the message.
'Can you let me in? He did it again. -SH'
John felt cold rage sweep through him. The almost-18-year-old had had to treat his schoolfriend before when
he had shown up on his doorstep with a horrible scrape down his back from his father throwing him
into a wall. Sherlock had known - he always knew - that John wanted to be a doctor, and from there they'd
grown into fairly close friends.

He tiptoed down the stairs, glancing at his sister's room. His parents were away for the weekend, but Harrie
was still here, so he had to be careful. He opened the door and couldn't stop himself from taking a shallow gasp
at what he saw. Sherlock laughed wheezily - "That bad, huh?"
The lanky fifteen year old was leaning on the doorframe, unable to support his weight. He wore a white shirt, dark
jeans; the white shirt spotted with blood. His arm was wrapped around his ribs and his feet were bare, covered
in mud and cuts. That wasn't what had caused the gasp, though.

Sherlock's lip was swollen and had split on the left side; above that, on his cheekbones, was a rapidly building,
horribly dark in the centre and mottled over the edges. It looked like it would swell his eye shut if he continued.
Numbly, John nodded, then noticed the young boy's waver. He moved forward to wrap his arms around him so Sherlock
wouldn't fall, but got a choked gasp of pain in response as he led him in and sat him on the sofa. "Christ, Sherlock."
he murmured, angry at the tremor in his voice but more angry at Gladstone Holmes. Sherlock swallowed, leaning forward,
breathing harshly as he clutched himself.

"Sherlock..." John bit his lip then changed his mind. He dashed off to the bathroom, grabbing the little medical
kit his family kept, and a flannel, soaking it. He crouched next to Sherlock and gently dabbed the blood away from
his lip, ignoring the little wince in return. His hair - longer, less curly than it would end up being - had bits of
twig and debris in it. That explained his feet. When he was sure that the cut was clean and not bleeding, John gently
cleaned his feet as well, before shoving the flannel in the wash. When he came back, though, he was caught off guard
as Sherlock was undoing his top.

"What're you..." he broke off as he saw the bruise hidden under his clothing, unintentionally covering his mouth in
horror. "Oh my god." the bruise was massive on his lithe ribs. It started a few inches below his shoulder and covered
the length of his ribs, a darkening bruise, deep red where knuckles had struck and purple rapidly spreading around,
already half-covering the area he could see. "What the hell happened?" he was surprised by the cold in his voice.
"He hit me. Obviously." John bit back any words he could've said as Sherlock began to laugh, each breath a wheeze.

Then he began to cough, trembling, clutching himself again. John crouched in front of him. "You idiot." he mumbled,
of course not meaning it. Tears began to run and it was only then that John clicked just how much pain he was in.
But a more pressing concern was coming up. He was still coughing, harsh, grating noises that could've woken even Harrie,
not that John cared about that right now. There came a horrible hacking sound from his throat, like bits of bones
rubbing together. He clenched his eyes shut as a thick blot of red appeared on his lips, making John feel like he'd been
plunged into ice cold water. 'No. No, Sherlock, no-' he thought desperately, as he held his hand up to Sherlock's face,
not knowing what to do. Gasping for air, Sherlock made that terrifying noise again and another thick strand came out,
dripping. John could feel it on his fingers but he didn't care.

"I'm calling the hospital-" "No!" Sherlock's gasp was rough, desperate, as he grabbed John's wrist. John tugged away
from the weak fifteen year old. "I don't care." he whispered. "I'm not watching you die."

Written by ~Lemonade4Jessa or on tumblr: [link]

We actually sorta wrote this through an RP on omegle... then we were like.. "OMG WE SHOULD BE FRIENDS." So she wonderfully rewrote our RPing into a little short ficlet whilst I drew along with it.

So YEAH!

Reblog here: [link]

Description
John looked up from his book, staring at his wall, frowning. He glanced at the clock - it was almost midnight.
Then his phone buzzed softly. Leaning forward he scooped it up and opened up the message.
'Can you let me in? He did it again. -SH'
John felt cold rage sweep through him. The almost-18-year-old had had to treat his schoolfriend before when
he had shown up on his doorstep with a horrible scrape down his back from his father throwing him
into a wall. Sherlock had known - he always knew - that John wanted to be a doctor, and from there they'd
grown into fairly close friends.

He tiptoed down the stairs, glancing at his sister's room. His parents were away for the weekend, but Harrie
was still here, so he had to be careful. He opened the door and couldn't stop himself from taking a shallow gasp
at what he saw. Sherlock laughed wheezily - "That bad, huh?"
The lanky fifteen year old was leaning on the doorframe, unable to support his weight. He wore a white shirt, dark
jeans; the white shirt spotted with blood. His arm was wrapped around his ribs and his feet were bare, covered
in mud and cuts. That wasn't what had caused the gasp, though.

Sherlock's lip was swollen and had split on the left side; above that, on his cheekbones, was a rapidly building,
horribly dark in the centre and mottled over the edges. It looked like it would swell his eye shut if he continued.
Numbly, John nodded, then noticed the young boy's waver. He moved forward to wrap his arms around him so Sherlock
wouldn't fall, but got a choked gasp of pain in response as he led him in and sat him on the sofa. "Christ, Sherlock."
he murmured, angry at the tremor in his voice but more angry at Gladstone Holmes. Sherlock swallowed, leaning forward,
breathing harshly as he clutched himself.

"Sherlock..." John bit his lip then changed his mind. He dashed off to the bathroom, grabbing the little medical
kit his family kept, and a flannel, soaking it. He crouched next to Sherlock and gently dabbed the blood away from
his lip, ignoring the little wince in return. His hair - longer, less curly than it would end up being - had bits of
twig and debris in it. That explained his feet. When he was sure that the cut was clean and not bleeding, John gently
cleaned his feet as well, before shoving the flannel in the wash. When he came back, though, he was caught off guard
as Sherlock was undoing his top.

"What're you..." he broke off as he saw the bruise hidden under his clothing, unintentionally covering his mouth in
horror. "Oh my god." the bruise was massive on his lithe ribs. It started a few inches below his shoulder and covered
the length of his ribs, a darkening bruise, deep red where knuckles had struck and purple rapidly spreading around,
already half-covering the area he could see. "What the hell happened?" he was surprised by the cold in his voice.
"He hit me. Obviously." John bit back any words he could've said as Sherlock began to laugh, each breath a wheeze.

Then he began to cough, trembling, clutching himself again. John crouched in front of him. "You idiot." he mumbled,
of course not meaning it. Tears began to run and it was only then that John clicked just how much pain he was in.
But a more pressing concern was coming up. He was still coughing, harsh, grating noises that could've woken even Harrie,
not that John cared about that right now. There came a horrible hacking sound from his throat, like bits of bones
rubbing together. He clenched his eyes shut as a thick blot of red appeared on his lips, making John feel like he'd been
plunged into ice cold water. 'No. No, Sherlock, no-' he thought desperately, as he held his hand up to Sherlock's face,
not knowing what to do. Gasping for air, Sherlock made that terrifying noise again and another thick strand came out,
dripping. John could feel it on his fingers but he didn't care.

"I'm calling the hospital-" "No!" Sherlock's gasp was rough, desperate, as he grabbed John's wrist. John tugged away
from the weak fifteen year old. "I don't care." he whispered. "I'm not watching you die."

Written by ~Lemonade4Jessa or on tumblr: [link]

We actually sorta wrote this through an RP on omegle... then we were like.. "OMG WE SHOULD BE FRIENDS." So she wonderfully rewrote our RPing into a little short ficlet whilst I drew along with it.

So YEAH!

Reblog here: [link]