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Emergency Contact	By : RueRambunctious Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 1534 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any related adaptations (inc. Professor Moriarty) and make no money from this story.

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Sebastian does his best to focus on carving out a passable new existence and tells himself that the weekend he spent after his discharge was nothing more than an enjoyable way to relieve the associated tension.

He has to focus on his future, such as it is.

His new occupation certainly isn't legal and it doesn't have much in the way of career progression, but he has an exceptional skill and he utilised it.

The jobs come slow at first, and Sebastian is forced to rely on gambling to bridge the gaps between (or accept money from Augustus, and that certainly is not an option unless there's some sick pleasure attached). However, whispers on the street and in dark rooms are making him known in 'professional' circles and Sebastian finds he's starting to be able to support himself.

It's not the army, but there's less shouting and pointless tasks, and more action and lie ins, which that's what Sebastian responds to. It's neither glamorous or safe, but that suits him too.

Sebastian is finishing cleaning up equipment after a late job when a phone starts to ring. He's startled and tired, so it takes a moment to shuffle through the current burner, his ordinary work phone and his personal one. He'd pulled them out of his pocket and dumped them in a stack on the table once he got home.

His personal phone is lit up and insistently displaying a number he does not recognise. It looks to be local.

Sebastian answers it on a whim, continuing to oil down small pieces by rolling them around the cloth in his hand.

“Hello? Is that Sebastian?”

The voice is female and professional, clear and superficially warm, but there's an edge of tiredness to it, and perhaps concern.

Sebastian sits forward. “Speaking.”

She explains she is calling from the nearby hospital and Sebastian starts to consider his friends, a tightness appearing in his stomach even though there is no one he is exceptionally close to. It doesn't make sense for any of his army friends to have been admitted to this particular hospital, but he knows plenty of others in dubious jobs.

Then the woman explains that they have admitted a patient who had been seriously injured, and would not give them any of his personal details. Sebastian puts down his cloth.

“He didn't have anything on him, except for your number,” the woman finishes, a shrug in her voice.

“I'll be there right away,” Sebastian offers. “What ward?”

The hospital worker tells him, but then takes a breath and adds, “Prepare yourself. He's in a bad way.”

“Coming now,” Sebastian asserts, terminating the call and heading out to the hospital.

Sebastian realises as he reaches the destination that he still does not know who or what to expect.

He trots through the hospital ill at ease with focus only on ward numbers.

Sebastian finally finds where he needs to be and explains his presence. Someone in scrubs gives him a look and leads him through to a ward.

Arty.

Fuck.

The bloodied teenager in bed looks like he almost did not reach his twenties. Sebastian swallows and clinically assesses the damage, as though he's still in Kabul and not merely Greater London.

“We can release him with medication if there's someone to sign him out and help with his recovery,” explains a man in what seems to be Monsters Inc scrubs.

Sebastian nods and eyes the charts on Arty's bed. “I can sign him out; that's no problem,” he states soberly.

“Alright,” says scrubs. “He's on an IV just now, and he's had a few transfusions, but we'll give you some antibiotics and pain management. He'll need his dressings kept clean, dry, and regularly changed. I can give you a print out about that, and any danger signs like fever or swelling. He'll need to come back in ten days' time to have the staples on his lesser wounds taken out, and we'll assess his deeper wounds again then. Any issues, get in touch.”

Sebastian processes this glut of information, commits it to memory and agrees.

The staff member goes to fetch the paperwork and Sebastian turns to look wearily at Arty.

The brunette startles Sebastian by sitting up on his elbows and opening his eyes. Apparently he wasn't sleeping.

“You didn't h… Thanks,” Arty says in a subdued, rough voice.

“You gonna tell me what happened?” Sebastian asks.

Arty bares his teeth in an awkward smile, his lips discolouring around the broken skin as they stretch out. “Nope.”

Sebastian nods, certain he can work it out of the kid later. He glances across at the glass partition, noting the approach of the paperwork.

“You going to tell me what to write down?” Sebastian asks.

“Nope,” repeats Arty in what might have been a sing-song voice were it not so scratchy. He has the gall to smirk arrogantly, as though he's not more held together by surgical stitches and staples than anything else.

Sebastian sighs, but crosses to the door and takes the forms and printouts he is offered. He takes photographs of the care instructions for fear of losing them then folds them carefully into his pocket.

“You don't need to go to that effort,” Arty comments as the man in cartoon scrubs leaves. Sebastian much prefers them to theatre blues but wonders about Arty's age.

“If you're going to talk you could tell me something useful,” Sebastian responds, clicking the pen from the clipboard and surveying the questions.

“Like what?” Arty asks.

“Name? Age? On any medication already?”

“No, no, and no,” Arty mutters belligerently.

Sebastian sighs, “Fine.” He ticks the boxes he thinks he can answer, like race and nationality.

“Just make it up,” Arty says, sounding uncomfortable.

Sebastian prints ARTICUS MORAN in the section marked 'name.' “Give me a rough idea on age? Nineteen? Eighteen?”

“Seventeen, not that the difference matters,” Arty croaks.

Sebastian glances up at him in surprise. Arty stares him down.

Sebastian sighs and does the mental arithmetic to calculate Arty's birth year. He makes up a birthday.

“Address?” Sebastian asks.

Arty gives him another grumpy look.

Sebastian writes down his own.

“Phone?” he asks, knowing the likely response.

Arty huffs, crossing his arms instinctively before finding the action too painful.

Sebastian writes down his own again, and continues to make up likely details, leaving the national insurance number blank. He also presumes 'consent to share data' is another fat no.

“Any known allergies?” Sebastian asks.

Arty blinks and shakes his head.

“You want to sign it?” Sebastian asks.

The brunette curls his lip.

Sebastian sighs and makes up a signature, handing back the forms on Monsters Inc's return.

“There's a bit missing where-”

“Sorry, don't know it off of the top of my head,” Sebastian apologies. “Can we get it to you later?”

“Sure,” the staff member replies, glancing at Arty with an odd nervousness although he just wants the young man out of his ward and out of the hospital.

A nurse in block colours comes in and removes Arty's drip and other paraphernalia without making small talk or eye contact.

Sebastian gives Arty a curious look, but the brat looks away.

Monsters Inc gives Sebastian a familiar tracksuit explaining, “His top wasn't salvageable.” He places down the medication and leaves quickly with the clipboard, the image of Arty being used as a pin cushion floating without welcome into Sebastian's head.

Arty leans heavily on the bed and shuffles towards Sebastian. He snatches the clothing lightly and changes stiffly but without self-consciousness.

“I'll get your shoes,” Sebastian offers, noticing as Arty bends to pull on his bottoms that the young man cannot help but wince in pain, the newly exposed wounds on his torso stretched by the motion. Presumably Arty recognises the necessity himself, as he permits Sebastian to drop to the floor and guide his feet into the worn trainers.

Arty makes another series of small, insufficiently muffled pain noises as he pulls on his thin tracksuit jacket. Sebastian's heart twinges but he holds back the urge to embrace the brunette, certain the touch would not be welcome.

“Let's go,” Arty says hoarsely.

“You need to lean on me?” Sebastian asks.

Arty curls his lip but concedes. Sebastian pockets the cumbersome medications and approaches to support Arty's movements.

Somehow Sebastian gets the acerbic but unusually muted teen downstairs and outside.

Arty announces softly, “If you give me my painkillers I'll be on my way.”

Sebastian entwines their arms tightly and hails down a black hackney cab. “Not a chance,” he responds. “You need looking after.”

Arty opens his mouth to argue angrily, but Sebastian ignores him and drags the brunette towards the waiting car.

Jim gets stabbed in arms and torso
hospital can only find Moran's number as potential emergency contact
Moran lies and agrees to take in Jim and administer medication etc
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Emergency Contact