John takes care of things

This isn't really related to anything, nor is it in my usual style of writing. It's just a quick little snippet I wrote because an idea burrowed itself in my head, and because I think Sam finally deserves some comfort from John. It's whumpy, but it's also weirdly fluffy, so enjoy <3

Sam barely manages to stumble through the door, hands grappling with the doorframe, probably leaving bloody handprints that John will complain about later, but none of that matters because they're here now and John will take care of things. Their other hand is holding onto their side, sticky with blood and dirt, which their brain tells them should not mix and yet there's nothing they can do about it now. John will take care of things. He always does.

He isn't asleep, even though it's 3 am and he really should be. No, he's reading, a book in some foreign language that Sam doesn't have the capacity to process in this moment, but the minute he hears that knock, that desperate triple knock that could only be one person, he opens the door and catches his friend with open arms.

Sam makes a pathetic noise that they will probably be ashamed of later, but for now there isn't room for shame, only John's soft hands holding them up and laying them down on the soft carpet. Not the sofa, he knows they don't like the sofa. And then the hands are patting them down, checking for other injuries probably, but somehow it's also reassuring and they close their eyes because they're safe now.

"Hey, no, keep your eyes open," comes a voice from above them, John's voice, and it sounds like an order so they obey, because it's an order from John. It takes a lot of effort, but they manage to peel their eyes open, focusing on the kind face hovering over them.

"I'm sorry," they try to get out, "please, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to... to bother you," and John just shushes them gently, because he knows, and it's okay, it really is. He doesn't ask how Sam got their injuries, even though he has his suspicions, but knowing for sure wouldn't make him feel any better either. He wonders if this happens more often than he knows, if they find other ways to patch their wounds. He's not sure they'd tell him if he asked.

"I should take you to the clinic," he says instead, because there is a lot of blood and Sam is really not themself. But John doubts that it's the pain. It's probably whatever led them to this mess to begin with, and maybe they should have a talk, but not right now.

"No, no," they desperately plead. "N-no questions, no hospitals," and with those words John knows that he's already lost. "I would have... stitched it up myself but my hands were just shaking too much, I'm sorry," they continue. John doesn't want to imagine how they would sit on their bedroom floor, needle in their hand, quietly piecing themself back together. But he doesn't need to imagine. He needs to do it himself.

"Alright, alright," he tries to make his voice sound calm. He smoothes a lock of hair away from Sam'a forehead, and they lean into his touch, so he continues, ruffling through their curls until their breathing sounds less shaky and their fingers have gone still. "It doesn't look like there's much else," he tells them, because they ought to know. "Just that nasty gash on your side, huh? And some bruises. You'll survive." He winks, and sees the inkling of a smile.

Grabbing a first aid kit and some gloves, John comes to kneel beside his patient. His degree doesn't do him much good when it came to stitching wounds, but John has got enough experience in his line of work to do it decently, if not that well. "I'm sorry, this is going to hurt," he says, not wanting it to come as a surprise, and he swears he hears a quiet, muttered 'good' in return.

He sighs, and dabs the wound with antiseptic, eliciting a hiss but nothing more. Continuing, he digs out the numbing gel, preparing to spread it around the gash, not wanting to hurt his friend more than he already has.

But a hand reaches up to stop him. "N-no, I don't... deserve that. I need to feel it, please," comes that pleading whisper from below, and what else is there to do but to obey, however much he hates to have to do it. "I promise, I'll be quiet. No risk of your neighbours waking up," and John can't help but smile at that, because that would have been his last concern but still it's good to know. Of course his friend has thought this through. Of course they will stay quiet. He can't imagine any other way.

Slowly, the needle pierces through the skin, but Sam doesn't react, and John tries not to think about how it might feel. The only thing he focuses on is how the metal slides through flesh, dragging its thread behind it, erasing all the evidence of wrong on Sam's far from pristine skin. Only when the final knot is tied, does he focus on his friend, his patient, his colleague.

"Are you still with me?" he asks, just to make sure. Sam hasn't moved throughout the process. The only signs that John was stitching up their skin had been their shaking gasps, and twitching fingers. "Yes, thank you," comes that quiet voice, still so polite even when marred with pain.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like me to move you to the sofa? Or give you some painkillers? It would help you sleep you know," he tries again, though he knows his efforts will be futile.

"No, no it's okay," comes that same response as always. "I sleep well enough with pain. I'm happy here." And maybe they mean more than just the floor. Still, he covers them with a blanket, and sits by them with a book.

"I'll read to you, if you would like me to," he offers, because he knows that now is not the time to talk, but sleep will not come easily for either of them. "I don't speak... French," comes the reply. "Or whatever language it is now," and that actually makes John laugh.

"I'll read to you in English, dear, though I wouldn't worry if you don't absorb much in your current state." Sam smiles, eyes finally fluttering shut, and all that John can do is hope that they open in the morning, that they haven't lost too much blood. And so, he starts to read.