Colorblind (A Johnlock Fanfiction)

Thirty-Eight; Amaranth

A/N: please please PLEASE leave a cote or a vomment, ty for your support guys, it keeps me motivated :)

"Dislocated ankle. Bruised rotator cuff. Head wound. Concussion." John crossed his arms across his chest and smiled at Sherlock, glaring fucking daggers. "Take off your shirt."

"Why," Sherlock said, his voice hollow, deadened. 

"Because you're bleeding through your fucking clothes-"

"John!" Mrs. Hudson gasped-

"-and I'm going to have to spend all night ripping up bedsheets with my teeth to make your bandages. Take off your shirt."

Sherlock's eyes met his in a flickering glance that lasted only half a moment. He winced in pain as he used one arm to ease his shirt off of his bruised shoulder; John suddenly became very aware that his biceps hurt from digging his fingers into the supple skin underneath his mangled sweater. He tried to unwind himself, like a spring giving way, flexing his hands into tight fists, in and out, in and out...

Which didn't work, bottom line, because the purpling, marbled skin of Sherlock's torso under Sherlock's shirt resulted in John being wound even tighter - he boxed his stance and pulled his shoulders back, trying not to snap.

Sherlock's skin was entirely devoid of an area that wasn't splotched with blood and dirt and bruises. He looked like a dirty pond lily, wilted by heat and wetness. John couldn't look him in the eyes. He was afraid that whatever emotion he saw would be as devastated as Sherlock's skin, just as feverish. John could easily see that Sherlock's body was slick with sweat, even standing two meters away, even with the air cutting through John's clothes.

Sherlock shivered, pulled away as John's gaze was forcibly locked on the destruction in front of him. The bruising and cuts notwithstanding, Sherlock's hair was matted down over a head wound. His ankle was dislocated. His concussion was making him woozy. John didn't know what to remedy first. John couldn't fathom this, not an hour before. And now the only thought in his head that made sense was: He could have died. He could have died. He could have fucking! died!

How could he? How could he have done that? 

"Are you bloody proud of yourself now?" John practically spat, trying very hard to keep his voice steely. It was dangerously close to wavering, losing tone as it became coarser. 

Sherlock didn't respond - but it came off more as defiance than resignation or shame. He gritted his teeth, making angry, unflinching eye contact with the wall, and then his white hot blue eyes slid to John's and John knew that this argument was different. There was something churning in his gaze. Unbridled and monstrous. Maybe it was brought about by the pain that Sherlock was undoubtedly in, or maybe he looked so ruthless because the home he had been raised in for the majority of his life was now a pile of crackling ash - but his eyes were practically incandescent with wrath. John hadn't known he could give off that much wrenching emotion in a look. It took him aback; John almost couldn't make eye contact with him, if it weren't for the fact that he was quite practiced at being just as angry. His stomach felt like wrought iron; he was sick from the images ramming impressions into his head, and a pebble of pure rage stopped the bile from rising into his mouth. He could scream at Sherlock:

Fuck you. Fuck you for fucking all of us, for being a bloody selfish twat. Fuck you and your fucking head wound, stitch it your goddamn self, arsehole.

Instead, John suggestively cleared his throat, looking to Mrs. Hudson for assistance. She was standing by the cupboards, still as decoration. "Mrs. Hudson-"