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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.

Chapter List
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The street is a mishmash of overpriced buildings crammed together in haughty familiarity, with smooth art deco geometry holding place against ostentatious cornicing.

Sebastian pulls Arty into a spacious reception area and towards the lifts, punching 'up' then 'five' without even a glance towards his abducted charge. The ride up reminds Arty of how he had felt at the hotel and it stokes his anger further. Sebastian is silent.

The lift opens directly into an internal hallway, which is glaringly white and always annoys Sebastian a little on sight. He has never been fond of the apartment, but whilst he was on a tour of duty Sir Augustus had saw fit to have decorators rape the period style of the place and turn it into an icy, gleaming identikit version that mirrored that of most of the neighbours. Not that Sebastian ever usually so much as made eye contact with his haughty neighbours. They were his father's people, or the nouveau rich that were rich enough for his father not to ignore in public.

Sebastian leads Arty through to the open plan living area, which is dominated by a ginormous, curved, metallic leather couch.

Sebastian considers his options. He has multiple bedrooms, but he is more likely to notice if Arty becomes feverish if they share a bed.

Arty might not like that, but they managed for a weekend before.

“Are you hungry, or straight to bed for you?” Sebastian asks softly.

Arty blinks, his hatred receding marginally as he considers. “I just want sleep,” he croaks in a closed off voice.

“Think you can manage the stairs, or do you need me to carry you?” Sebastian asks.

Arty snorts. He does not want to be anywhere near the other man, much less touching. “Where's the stairs?” he asks in a clipped voice.

“Through here,” Sebastian responds.

Arty follows and grips the handrail heavily. His legs work, but he is beyond exhausted, and the breathing required to mount the stairs sends fire along his ruined chest.

“I don't mind carrying you,” Sebastian says gently.

Arty answers with a poisonous glare. He hates how Basher can make those eyes look kind when not long ago he was making Arty a victim of his sadistic amusement.

“Fine, struggle; what do I care?” Sebastian mutters. He waits patiently instead of continuing ahead, concerned the brunette might fall.

Eventually Arty manages up the stairs.

“Do you want clean clothes to sleep in?” Sebastian asks.

Arty does not want to accept anything from the git, but clean clothes are too tempting to resist. He nods stiffly.

“How low do your wounds go?” Sebastian asks, heading towards his drawers. “Will boxers cut in? I have some pajamas but you'll need to roll the legs up.

“Just give me a big teeshirt,” Arty says, his voice somewhere between dull and biting. “Not as if you can't see my arse any time you want, is it?”

Sebastian blinks, but reaches for a middle drawer. “I gave you ample opportunity to back down.”

“That doesn't mean I wanted it,” Arty states through gritted teeth.

“Doesn't it?” Sebastian drawls archly. He retrieves an oversized teeshirt that will drown Arty. He pulls back his arm to throw it, then considers the brunette's wounds and instead carries it over.

Arty takes it crossly and unzips his tracksuit jacket. As he tugs at the zip the dark material clings against his chest and highlight twin, raised pea-shapes.

He's always cold, Sebastian remembers. And he should be, wearing that little in late October.

Arty drops the zipper to the floor and Sebastian gets another look at those hellish stab wounds.

It hurts for Arty to raise his arms over his head. The brunette pulls the clean top over his head with mild difficulty, panting a little but exuding an air that tells Sebastian not to offer help.

The hem skims Arty's rear. He toes out of his shoes and scowls as he awkwardly pulls his waistband down over his tender cheeks.

“I'll get you some water for your tablets,” Sebastian announces, trying to keep his gaze at face level.

Arty peels off his socks. “Fine.”

Sebastian disappears through what is presumably the door to an en suite. Arty hears a clinking sound then running water. He's tired enough that he'd like to just slump onto the bed but everything hurts.

Sebastian returns with a chunky glass tumbler of water. He hands it to Arty, who considers smashing it into Basher's face and might have, if not for the exhaustion.

Sebastian empties the medication and printouts from his jacket before shoving it over a chair. He reads the instructions on the painkillers and antibiotics before ripping them open and handing Arty the corresponding amount.

“I'm perfectly capable,” Arty glowers.

“I need to feel useful, alright,” Sebastian mutters.

Arty glances at him for a moment, then grunts and lowers his gaze. He knocks back the pills with the water.

Sebastian undresses, feeling dead on his feet. He glances at Arty. “If you're finished with the drink just dump it on the bedside table.”

Arty obeys, because he just wants to sleep.

“Do you want me to get you a fresh toothbrush or can you wait until morning?” Sebastian asks.

“It can wait,” Arty mutters.

Sebastian pulls aside the bed covers. “Get some rest then. We can talk in the morning.”

Arty wants to resist, but he wants sleep far more. He mounts the mattress obediently. “About what?”

“About how we're going to get along?” Sebastian suggests. “House rules for both of us.”

Arty tries to sit down, but can't get comfortable. “For you?” he croaks dubiously.

“I expect you have preferences for how you get treated,” Sebastian comments, dropping onto the duvet in his tight boxers.

“Unconvinced you could manage,” Arty sneers, trying to lie on his side. He tosses about, pain forcing him to keep moving.

“Try a pillow under the base of your spine,” Sebastian suggests, lying down with his back to the brunette. There is enough space in the bed that their bodies do not touch.

Arty gives him a dubious look, but tries it. It's not comfortable, but it's less painful than anything else.

Arty turns at looks at the back of Sebastian's skull questioningly.

Sebastian senses the attention. “I used to get thrashed a lot for fighting,” he explains mildly.

Arty grunts sleepily in response, reaching up to adjust the pillow underneath his head.

He flinches and freezes as his fingers curl around cold metal.

Sebastian feels the disturbance shake the bed and glances across at the boy. Noting Arty's white face, Sebastian quickly apologies and pulls the gun from under the pillow.

“I'll get rid of it,” Sebastian announces, getting out of bed and disappearing out of the room.

He returns sans weapon. “Forgot it was there,” he says by way of explanation.

He lies down and is asleep before long, but Arty lies awake and still until the pain medication kicks in. He now cannot sleep for a reason other than the pain.
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Emergency Contact