#injured sherlock

[cupidford]

after hours by simplyclockwork

After meeting Sherlock as a patient with a limp, Doctor Watson can't get him off his mind.

Johnlock Love Letters #2296

[thekittyfox2999]

John Watson has a shiny Sylveon as his main pokemon

please

please get me

(sherlock still has one wooper through his whole life)

[weather-phenomenon]

god i cannot wait for olympics to be over so i dont hv to hear ppl talking abt athletes as if they arent just glorified circus actors who act like priests expecting someone else to pay their keep please

[v-thinks-on]

All eyes followed every huddled figure which crossed the darkened dock, but it was not until the early hours before dawn that our weary watch was at last stirred into action.

“Is that…?�� Inspector Lestrade whispered, peering at the man bundled beneath a heavy overcoat, hastening past. “Yes, he’s going to the Regulus!”

I glanced at Watson and he at me. His gloved hand closed briefly around mine and I did not need my powers of deduction to know that he would follow me anywhere I went.

“Now!” Lestrade hissed, and all his men leaped into action, and Watson and I with them.

With a hand on Watson’s wrist, I kept us back as the officers rapidly tightened their net around their man, instead we circled around. As the officers drew in, the suspect turned and fled and that was when I sprung. With my long legs, I was inevitably the faster of us two and I reached the man first, my cane out, and he barreled into it, knocking me aside, but Watson was on him in an instant and they crashed to the ground, the officers close behind, turning it all to utter chaos.

“Watson!” I cried. “Out of the way!” My high voice cut through the night, and I was grateful for it.

All fighting ceased and the officers parted to let me though. There I found Watson on the ground, still holding fast to the suspect’s ankle. One of the officers grabbed their man as I knelt down beside Watson, a hand upon him as though that alone might reveal to me how badly he was injured.

“Watson, old fellow, are you unhurt?” I whispered, silently cursing the clumsy officers and wishing we were away from their prying eyes.

He gave a groan and took my hand so that I might help him upright. “After a fashion,” he said with a breathy chuckle, “just winded is all. It is no worse than when I played rugby.”

“You are not so young as you once were,” I cautioned, but his glare silenced me.

I gingerly helped him to his feet, his arm across my shoulders and mine cradled around his waist.

I only distantly heard Inspector Lestrade questioning the suspect, “You claim you’re not the admiral’s son, James Marcus? Then who are you?”

Watson’s legs steadied as he regained his footing, though his hand remained upon my arm.

The suspect answered, “Wilson, the canary trainer.”

[vacantgodling]

😈 Who is naughtier? Either in the bedroom or by breaking the law, etc.

🍋 Who is more likely to be in a sour mood on a bad day? (Bonus: how does the other one handle that?)

For Amon and Hya bc I am so normal about them fufhfhhfhfh

fjdjdjrjr pls i need someone else to share my insane obsession with them 😭

😈 Who is naughtier? Either in the bedroom or by breaking the law, etc.

AMON.

amon amon amon amon AMON. in both senses. MY GOD. firstly he’s already in a gang, and while the laws in galère are questionable AT best amon disregards them whenever it suits them. he knows the law so he can play the law yknow lol. he’s also killed several dozen people if not more than that by the time he meets hya (idk how many id have to really delve into his backstory to figure that out but it’s probably at least 20) so like. law who? don’t know her.

when it comes to the bedroom amon is pff. the only one with experience between the two of them first off and secondly he’s already into some pretty wild shit. he can pretty much be convinced to do a lot of things in the heat of the moment and he’s probably been in more dangerous sexual situations than he should be in. i’ll rant about some of his unusual kinks or things he’s dabbled in in the tags lol but like the tl;dr amon letting hya tie him up is Mad Tame for him dbdjdjd

🍋 Who’s more likely to be in a sour mood on a bad day? (Bonus: how does the other one handle that?)

while the two of them are prone to irritability tbh unsurprisingly it’s hya mainly bc his foul moods linger lmao. once amon lets off some steam he’ll be over whatever pissed him off but hya can let the smallest things irritate him for days on end if left to his own devices about it fjdjdj. he’ll also get pissed off by other things if he’s already in a bad mood so like let’s say he’s irritated in the morning by one small thing— he’ll stay irritated and it’ll just keep piling up.

amon usually handles hya (better than most) in such a weird way. he’ll keep pushing hya’s buttons until he takes it out on him or tells him what’s wrong hdhedhe. hya isn’t someone who opens himself up to being coddled (it’s a LONG TIME before he lets amon cuddle him voluntarily 😭) so a lot of times he has to be “forced” to get over it or let out his frustrations. best way to do that is to keep pissing him off and become the target of his irritation. most people don’t want to be the object of hya’s wrath but amon finds it both funny and sexy tbh so he has no problem with it. & it usually leads to raunchy sex so like. who’s really winning?

(amon is)

[not-equippedforthis]

SO. I AM 7.5K WORDS INTO THE FIC. I DID NOT EXPECT IT TO BE THIS LONG. I AM NOT FINISHED. FAR FROM IT.

some of the scenes are a little silly but like? fluffy silly? idk i had a shitton of fun writing them so i hope they're enjoyable. holmes watson shenanigans!

[tenth-sentence]

"Mrs. Hilton Cubitt was seriously injured and is at death's door."

"The Illustrated Sherlock Holmes Treasury" - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

[whats-in-a-sentence]

"(...) I was laid by the heels for ten days, and Trevor used to come in to inquire after me. (...)"

"The Illustrated Sherlock Holmes Treasury" - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

[fanaticsfiction]

Authors Convinced Fanfic is Illegal/Requires Permission

Terry Goodkind: “Copyright law dictates that in order for me to protect my copyright, when I find such things, I must go out and hire lawyers to threaten these people to make them stop, and to sue them if they don’t.”

John Scalzi: “Let's remember one fundamental thing about fanfic: Almost all of it is entirely illegal to begin with. It's the wild and wanton misappropriation of copyrighted material”

Diana Gabaldon: “OK, my position on fan-fic is pretty clear: I think it’s immoral, I know it’s illegal, and it makes me want to barf whenever I’ve inadvertently encountered some of it involving my characters.”

Robin Hobb: “Fan fiction is like any other form of identity theft. It injures the name of the party whose identity is stolen.”

Anne Rice: “I do not allow fan fiction. The characters are copyrighted. It upsets me terribly to even think about fan fiction with my characters. I advise my readers to write your own original stories with your own characters. It is absolutely essential that you respect my wishes.”

Anne McCaffrey: “there can be no adventure/stories set on Pern at all!!!!! That's infringing on my copyright and can bear heavy penalties…indiscriminate usage of our characters, worlds, and concepts on a 'public' media like electronic mail constitute copyright infringement AND, which many fans disregard, is ACTIONABLE!”

Chelsea Quinn Yarbro: “No. Absolutely not. It is also against federal law.”

Lynn Flewelling: “Whether you are writing about Seregil or Fox Mulder or Sherlock Holmes, if you do not have legal permission from the author, their estate, or publisher, then you are violating US copyright law. It is creative piracy. Doesn't matter how many disclaimers you put on, or if you're being paid. It. Is. Illegal.”

Someone Else, elaborated in the notes

[kgreen200]

Please, God, Let Me Live

By KathyG

Summary: In this prequel to “A Study in Pink,” Captain John Hamish Watson, MBBS, licensed general practitioner, and combat surgeon in training, is shot while on a retrieval mission in Afghanistan, and spends weeks afterwards fighting for his life.  Originally written and posted as a one-shot, it has since been expanded into a 20-chapter pre-Sherlock story, covering the time from John’s shooting until he returns to London.  Be forewarned: Sherlock himself makes no appearance at all in this story!  I’ve modeled this story on Pompey’s “On Afghanistan’s Plains,” which is posted on Fanfiction dot net.  (Thanks to Besleybean for beta-reading and Brit-picking my story!  And to sgam76 for helping me to getting some details straight.)

Notes: In the military, a bullet wound alone is not considered grounds for a medical discharge.  Even though John’s left shoulder is extensively damaged in this story, given the sheer amount of repair work that his shoulder goes through and the rehab he undergoes afterwards, the army would keep him if at all possible, even if he had to be assigned amended duties at least for a time.  His skills are too valuable and too desperately needed for the army to let him go if there’s any way that it can hold onto him.  Something more has to happen, to prompt the decision to invalid him out of the army.  I have my own ideas of what that something more could be, and you’ll see what it turns out to be as you read the story.

When Pompey set out to write her great ACD story, “On Afghanistan’s Plains,” her goal was to write a canonical and historically accurate account of what happened to Dr. Watson in Afghanistan from the day he was shot to the day he met Sherlock Holmes, based on what is told in Sir Arthur Conan Doyles’s first Sherlock story, A Study in Scarlet.  As a result of the sheer amount of research that she engaged in beforehand, she did a marvelous job of attaining her goal!  Since it was sometime after BBC Sherlock’s third season came on the air that I first read her story, which was posted on Fanfiction dot net back in 2008, I really wanted someone to write a comparable account of what happened to modern-day John in Moffat and Gatiss’s version of Sherlock Holmes.  Alas, Pompey herself showed no interest in writing such a story, and I could find no other author who did.  A number of stories about John getting shot in Afghanistan, yes, but nothing that told the whole story.  It finally became clear that if such a story was ever to be written, I would have to write it.  Early this year, I wrote a one-shot about that fateful day, and sometime after that, I extended the story into a 20-chapter novel.

In writing this story, I've drawn on the back history I gave John that is described in “Background Check,” which is posted on Fanfiction dot net and Archive of Our Own.  The back history in that story, in turn, is based in part on the articles that are posted on wellingtongoose’s tumblr and LiveJournal accounts, and partly on the history that BlueSkye12, in the stories on her Fanfiction dot net and Archive of our Own accounts, has given John Watson.  I have used that same back history to create this story.

In truth, I've borrowed from the stories of several great fanfiction authors—mainly BlueSkye12, as explained above but also others, including thebakerstreetgirl and sgam76—as well as wellingtongoose's equally great metas, to create John’s back story.  And I’ve modeled this story on Pompey’s “On Afghanistan’s Plains,” which is posted on Fanfiction.net.  I highly recommend that everybody who hasn’t yet done so head over there and read her story! =) And then, when you've finished it, read her equally great post-Hiatus sequel to that story, “A Young British Soldier”!

Chapter 1: “Skirmish”

A/N: Since this chapter started out as a one-shot, I've edited it to transform it into Chapter 1.

I've borrowed from John's nightmare at the beginning of "A Study in Pink" to create the scenario in which he gets shot.

XXXXXXX

JULY 27, 2009: (1) FOB HAMIDULLAH, SANGIN VALLEY, HELMAND PROVINCE, AFGHANISTAN

13:30 p.m., army time (1:30 p.m.)

Captain John Hamish Watson lay on his cot, reading The Lord of the Rings, which he had purchased back in England while on leave before the Fusiliers had been redeployed to that U.S. base in Kandahar.  He hadn’t had a real chance to start reading it yet; so much had happened since then.  Finally, though, there was some downtime, and he had a chance to catch his breath and relax.  And read his new book, which he had just started reading the night before.  Only, after almost two years, it wasn’t so new anymore.  Until lights out at bedtime, the captain had read voraciously the introduction, the prologue, and the first three chapters of the novel.  Since he had read The Hobbit as a child back in Chelmsford, this was a return to a fantasy world he had enjoyed back then.

So far, it had been a normal day—well, as normal as any day could be for a trainee trauma surgeon stationed at (1) FOB Hamidullah in Helmand Province.  He had eaten breakfast with Major James Sholto, their unit’s commanding officer, as he usually did on a weekly basis—sometimes with Major Robert Clancy, the Fusiliers’ consultant surgeon.  Sholto and his men had since gone out on patrol; only Dr. Clancy, Dr. Watson, and the nurses had stayed behind, in case any casualties were brought in.  After breakfast, Dr. Watson and Dr. Clancy had gone on their daily rounds of their patients in the forwarding operating base’s field hospital; for now, there were only a few, so there was plenty of downtime at present.  They both knew, though, that that could change at any time.

Stopping to rest his eyes, Dr. Watson glanced up at the calendar on the bulletin board.  It was Monday, July 27th, 2009.  And the wall clock showed that it was 13:30, army time.  He smiled at the memory of Corporal Tanner taking another photograph of him two weeks earlier; he had emailed it to Clara in London as soon as time had permitted.  His older sister, Harry, should have it by now. (2)  It had long since become his practice to send pictures of himself to his sister every few months; since he didn’t own a camera, and since Corporal Tanner did, the good corporal always used his to take those pictures.  John always made sure that there was nothing in the pictures that would upset or irritate Harry.  In some of the photos, John posed by himself; in the others, he posed with some or all of his mates.  Mates whom he had long since become close friends with during his years in Afghanistan.

Three years, he thought.  Ending up my second tour, so I’ve been in Afghanistan for close to three years now.  Clearing his throat, he turned his attention back to the chapter he had arrived at, Chapter Four: “A Short Cut to Mushrooms”.  He was reading the part about the hobbits’ efforts to evade the Black Riders while they were travelling.

Suddenly, just as John came to the sequence where the hobbits ran into Farmer Maggot, there was a siren, and John leaped off the bed, inserted a bookmark into the chapter, and dropped his book on the nightstand.  Dr. Clancy hurried into John’s officer’s quarters.  “The patrol Sholto took the Fusiliers out on split up, and some of them joined another patrol that was out looking for trouble.  That bunch has run into a skirmish five kilometres west of Sangin; from what I hear tell, a bad one.  You better hurry, Watson,” he ordered.  “Murray’s already waiting at the helicopter.”

To read the rest of this 20-chapter story, click here:

[leemarkies]

everyone telling me to sue the dude who rear ended me like . no. it’s really not that easy

[thekittyfox2999]

some small doodles

[coreofgold]

Of course, the other wants to watch him in action. The reason Shen Wei donned the moniker of Ghost Slayer was so no one can see him do any of these things. Granted, it won't lead back to Shen Wei, but he works in the shadows, and especially, works alone. "No one sees me in action." He glances to the other before casting his gaze outward, back to scanning the surrounding area.

He hummed. "I think I'd say that my appetite being whet is more appropriate than my curiosity being satiated. I'm yet to see you in action, after all. Encountering you in the streets isn't quite the same thing."

[holylulusworld]

Mrs. Sherlock Holmes (1)

Summary: Your marriage starts rocky.

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Wife!Reader

Warnings: angst, injured reader (light), mentions of getting robbed, angry Sherlock, implied innocent reader

A/N: A collection of drabbles on how you became Mrs. Sherlock Holmes.

Mrs. Sherlock Holmes masterlist

“Where is my brother? We need to talk about Enola and the upcoming event. She needs to make her debut…” you hear Mycroft downstairs. He’s usually a stoic and silent man, but you kinda like he’s silent and leaves you alone most of the time. “Where is the lady of the house? Maybe she can help my sister correct her behavior."

You hear his voice grow louder as Sherlock’s head housekeeper raises her voice. She always acts more like the lady of the house than a servant.

“Mr. Holmes,” you gracefully walk down the stairs, putting on a strained smile hurting your bruised face. “I’m afraid my husband is not at home. He’s solving another case.”

“Again?” Mycroft holds out his hands. He presses a quick kiss to your offered hand. “He should’ve left his lovely wife all alone so short after your wedding.”

“Sir, it’s fine,” you flutter your eyes shut as you try to keep the wrong words from spilling from your lips. It all became too much lately.

Sherlock's absence, and his displeasure in participating in your marriage. The head housekeeper acting like you are not Sherlock’s wife but a peasant.

“My dear, what happened?” Mycroft gasps when his eyes finally see your swollen left cheek and your split lip. “Please tell me my brother didn’t raise his hand on you. If he did, I’ll make sure he’ll regret putting his hands on you.”

“It wasn’t my husband,” you reach out for Mycroft and grab his hand. “He’s a little distant and mostly interested in solving cases but…he would never. I swear, Sir. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have gone to town on my own. But Mrs. Demeter refused to send for a carriage.”

“What happened, my dear,” Mycroft worriedly asks. He offers his arm to you, and wonders if you are lying to protect his brother. “Please do not fret. Tell me everything.”

“I left the house to get the books Sherlock wanted,” you sniff. “I paid for the books and carried the books out of the store. A woman ran into me, and I dropped the books. I tried to pick them up and then…” You choke out a sob. “There was a masked man. He ripped my bag out of my hands and hit me with it.”

“My dear!” Mycroft gasps audibly. “Did you tell my brother about this?”

“He wasn’t home,” you drop your gaze, ashamed about your weakness, and inability to stand up for yourself. “The owner of the bookstore helped me pick up the books and accompanied me to Scotland Yard but…they didn’t want to listen to me.”

“Did you tell them your name?” Mycroft is furious. “How dare they ignore a young lady in need.” He huffs as you tell him repeatedly it was your fault for not telling them your name. “Stop blaming yourself, my dear. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s my brother’s for ignoring his wife.”

Downstairs it sounds like a war is going on. Sherlock and Mycroft yell at each other. And you are afraid, Mycroft is winning.

Your betrothed falls silent after a while, and you hold your breath as you repeatedly hear your name. The last thing you wanted was to cause a rift between the brothers.

They already have their hands full with their younger sibling. Now you are causing trouble too.

You wring your hands while hearing footsteps on the staircase. You hold your breath and step away from the door. “Wife,” Sherlock grumbles as he opens the door. “Where are you?”

“I’m here,” your voice cracks. “Sir.” You add, in the hope of appeasing your husband. He steps inside your room, eyes roaming your body. “Please accept my apology.”

“What for, Precious?” He steps closer to cup your face with both hands. “Why didn’t you send for me? I would’ve come here to take care of my wife.”

“I didn’t want to disturb you, Sir. It’s nothing,” you close your eyes when his gaze gets too intense.

“You got hurt. This is not nothing,” he raises his voice but gets a grip seconds later. “No one touches my wife.” His lips press against your swollen cheek, but you only feel the warmth of his soft pillows, not the slight pain. “I will call for Lestrade. We will find the man hurting you.”

“I think he worked with the woman running into me,” you explain while Sherlock inspects your injuries. “She distracted me long enough for the man to steal my bag.”

“Why did he hurt you?”

“I-I didn’t want to give the bag to the man. You gifted it to me,” you shyly batt your eyelashes as Sherlock angrily furrows his brows.

“You are fearless, my dear,” he cracks a smile. “I am sorry about my absence. After our wedding, we should’ve…” He clears his throat. “I'll send for a doctor.”

“She’s well then?” Sherlock sizes the doctor up. “I need to know every detail. Please don’t shelter me.”

“Her cheek is swollen, but the cut on her lips is already healing. She’s mostly frightened of the person attacking her,” the doctor says. “I’d suggest not leaving her alone for the time being.”

“Sir, what are you doing?” You almost screamed when Sherlock entered your room. He softly whispered your name and picked you up in bridal style to carry you toward his bedroom.

“I’m bringing my wife to my bedroom,” he carried you out of the room. His chest swelled when you rested your head on his chest.

"Sir, I think...you have a case and..." you whimper. If he wants to finally have your wedding night, you are not sure you are ready to be with him.

“I shouldn’t have taken case after case. We didn’t have the chance to get to know each other better. I know this was an arranged bond my mother and your father agreed to. But I…I want you to know that I’ll protect you from now on.”

>> Part 2

Tags in reblog.

[v-thinks-on]

Holmes and I hastily stumbled to our feet and endeavoured to back away from the sheep which had encircled us in their apparent curiosity. The cat that had been our guide slipped away between their hooves, where we could not follow.

I glanced at Holmes, the sudden strike which had left him so badly bruised at the fore of my mind, and he likewise seemed to be hesitant to confront the otherwise docile, large, fluffy creatures.

Our standoff was interrupted by a familiar voice calling across the pastures, “There you are! I was wondering where you’d slipped off to!”

The sheep scattered as Inspector Lestrade approached without our hard-learned caution.

“You are a sight for sore eyes, Inspector,” Holmes said, when it was at last safe to approach, and I followed after him to meet the inspector.

“What happened to you? You and the doctor both look like you’ve been digging in the mud.”

“I fear it is a tale worthy of Watson’s annals,” Holmes said, with a spark of humour across his features, “but there were some particular points of interest, which I believe would be best told over luncheon at the inn, if you would be amenable, Watson?”

“Certainly,” I said with some enthusiasm, weary from the morning’s labours.

Holmes appeared to be of a similar mind, for we did not delay in our return to the inn. When we arrived it was mercifully near empty. I would not have noticed the lone woman sitting in the parlour had she not put her book aside at our entrance and stood to greet us.

“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson.”

I startled at the familiar voice.

Holmes too betrayed some surprise, but he is never caught off guard for long and swiftly replied, “Mrs. Watson.”

Inspector Lestrade doffed his hat to her.

“You look well,” I managed—what else could I say to my lawfully wedded wife whom I had not seen in months, who had graciously not sued for divorce despite due cause, which would have had me sentenced to hard labour for gross indecency? “What brings you here?”

It is to her immense credit as a gentlewoman that she merely smiled at my fumbling and said, “Plainly nothing nearly so exciting as you and Mr. Holmes. There is a bakery in town of which I am particularly fond. I sent some of their mincemeat pies to Mrs. Hudson, but I learned they had become waylaid, so I have come to replace them.”

Holmes, unflappable as ever, gave a barking laugh. “That is the answer to one little mystery, eh Watson? We must apologise, Mrs. Watson, for it is on our account that the mincemeat pies did not reach their intended recipient. If you will allow me to replace what has been lost?”

“The note I sent with them must have been mislaid on the journey, so you and Dr. Watson are hardly to blame, but you are very generous, Mr. Holmes. But do not allow me to detain you.” She sat back down as we made to pass through the parlour, but spared us one final glance with a pointed, “Do take care.”

[er-osion]

Stay (in my life)

pairing: Jason Todd x gn!Reader

summary: Red Hood comes back to your apartment for a patch job again, but his injuries are a bit more severe this time so he accepts your offer to stay over

word count: 4.3k

warnings: blood, fairly detailed descriptions of injuries, fluff

author’s note: sorry this one’s a little long ya’ll, i got a bit carried away. hope you guys enjoy. you can read part one here.

⋄∘∗⋅⋆≁≁⋆⋅∗∘⋄

“Holy shit, you look terrible!” You gasp as you take in Red Hood’s battered form as he clumsily steps over to your couch.

“Thanks, you look great too.” Hood grits out in reply as he slumps into the cushions. You hurry to grab your med kit and rush over beside him.

“You’re getting blood all over my couch, Hood.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’m really good at getting stains out.”

“I hope you’re also really good at surviving what appears to be multiple stab wounds and severe burns.”

“You’d laugh at that statement if you knew my background.”

“We’re gonna have to move this to the bathroom, I need better lighting and access to the sink.”

“I just sat down.” Hood exasperated.

“You know it’s not far.” You rolled your eyes at his words but couldn’t fight the rising anxiety at his condition. On instinct, you got up and held out your hand for him to take. Hood moved his head to look at your hand.

“Considering my size and condition, I don’t think you’re gonna be much help getting me off this couch by yourself.” He noted, unimpressed.

You narrowed your eyes at him but kept your hand where it was, “It’s more the sentiment. However, in your condition you might very well need all the help you can get walking the short distance to my bathroom.” Hood paused but set his gloved hand in yours. It was dirty with dust and what you assumed was blood and gripped tightly, probably more so than he realized, but you paid no mind with your thoughts wrapped up in Hood’s less than favorable state. The vigilante got up slowly from your couch and he wobbled to and fro once he was on his feet. The two of you started to move carefully to your bathroom, which was just down the hall, but Hood seemed to be more injured than you initially thought because his knees suddenly became weak and you both had to make a combined effort to catch him.

“Did you hit your head tonight?” You ask as Hood tried to restabilize himself.

“You asking if I have a concussion?” Hood responded.

“That’s exactly what I’m asking, yes.”

“It’s highly probable. I was thrown against a cement wall pretty hard.” Hood moved and wrapped one of his large arms around your shoulder for more support, immediately putting more of his weight onto you. The man was heavy beyond belief, but he did his best not to pile his muscle mass on top of you. The arm around your shoulders was secure and his hand gripped the fabric of your t-shirt tightly. Hood groaned while he settled more into you and you began walking again. Despite your rampant mind, your heart hammered in your chest at the contact and you felt the skin touching his arm dance. By some miracle, the two of you made it to your bathroom, and you did your best to help Red Hood down onto the floor in front of your bathtub.

“Can you just start listing off all your possible injuries while I get all my supplies out?” You asked Hood while you opened the first aid kit. Hood complied, and started listing off all the places he suspected was injured during his patrol tonight. You noticed, though, that his words sometimes got slurred and his sentences kept drifting off —in other words, he didn’t seem all there. “Are you sure you don’t have a concussion?” You probed.

“Told you, it’s very possible. What do you think, doc?” Hood shot back.

“In all honesty, I suspect you have a concussion. Maybe not a severe one, but a concussion is still bad no matter the level. How does your head feel, where it got hit?”

“It hurts.”

“No shit Sherlock, but I was hoping for a more detailed answer.”

“I guess it’s kind of a dull pain? Not like a migraine, but it also hurts in my neck and back of the head.”

“Okay, I think we need to deal with your head first.” You stopped when you realized the implications of your words. You’d need his helmet off to examine his head for any open wounds, you’d never seen Red Hood with his helmet off. Hood seemed to realize this at the same time since you saw him tense suddenly. Neither of you moved or said anything for a couple seconds, trying to figure out how to proceed. You quickly tried to remedy the awkwardness, “Look, I know I’m not supposed to see your face, I’m just concerned about your head but the last thing I want to do right now is push your boundaries, so if taking off the helmet is a no-go we’ll figure something else out.”

Red Hood shook his head, “No, you’re right, as usual. I trust you won’t go mouthing off about what the Red Hood’s face looks like.” He teased as he moved his hand up toward his helmet. You heard a clicking noise and a quiet hiss and felt your body still with anticipation. Hood slowly removed the helmet and you saw him peel off a domino mask underneath.

When his face was bare and uncovered in front of you, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. He’s beautiful. Red Hood was the most gorgeous man you’d ever seen. His eyes a mystifying swirl of green and blue, dim with exhaustion but there was still this inexplicable unnatural glow to them. His hair —while slightly matted from the helmet— looked deliciously soft, the color of the night sky with a bold white streak at the front. There was a long thin scar connecting one of his eyebrows to his pale pink lips. You were speechless as you took in Hood’s face, trying to wrap your head around how someone could look that goddamn beautiful. It really wasn’t fair. Your heart was racing out of your chest and you were having trouble maintaining a steady breath while you gazed at his features. Red Hood noticed your stare and shifted a little uncomfortably under your gaze, his gemstone eyes gluing themselves to the ground.

“You gonna stare at my face all night, or are you gonna fix me up?” His voice snapped you back to reality.

“Right right, sorry. I just… wasn’t expecting to finally learn what you looked like tonight… got caught up in the surprise I guess.” You tried to cover your embarrassment and scooched closer so you could examine his head. You looked around and felt very gently for any bumps or wounds. “Hood, you’re bleeding at the back of your head.” The worry in your voice was prominent.

“That would help explain the dizziness.”

Your lips pulled into a line and you started to clean his head wound as carefully as you could, and then wrapped it gently with a bandage. You then made the vigilante promise not to fall asleep on you while you worked on the rest of his injuries. The rest of his body made the head injury look like a splinter. Multiple abrasions were littered across his torso, the molested skin was red with blood and irritation. You could see small bits of debris lodged in the surface of his cuts and abdomen. The slashes on his arms were in a similar state. As if the knife assaults weren’t enough, spots of his body were marred with blistering burns the color of bright red and white. Your heart stung at the obvious pain your hero must be in. No one deserved this, especially not Hood. Your eyebrows furrowed deeper with concern and your frown carved further into your face.

You were startled out of your thoughts when a thumb brushed between your eyebrows, forcing the furrow to even out. You blinked, and shot your gaze up to the owner of the hand. Hood was looking at you with green eyes that were clouded with emotions you couldn’t pinpoint. He had been frowning, but when you locked eyes, the edge of his lips quirked upward ever so slightly. “Keep that face up and you’ll get wrinkles before you’re thirty.” He teased as his thumb once again brushed between your brows, to further his point.

You huffed and shook your head slightly, but not too much to force his hand off of your face. “Keep coming here on the brink of death at 2 am and I definitely will.” You fired back with the ghost of a smirk. Neither of you felt the need to say anything more, Hood’s hand lingered at the top of your head for a brief moment before he retracted it back to his side. You instantly missed the contact. But, you turned your attention back to the task at hand and began caring for Hood’s various other injuries. You used tweezers to fish out the pebbles that had burrowed into his skin and then cleaned the subsequent areas with water and your saline solution. You looked at each cut to determine if it needed stitches or not. For the ones that did, you warned Hood of your plans each time and made extra careful work of numbing the areas before stitching his wounds neatly and efficiently.

Jason watched you in a daze. He could never get over how well you handled everything. Even though he knew you were worried and filled with anxiety, you worked calmly and with composure. You were focused and didn’t let your fears rule your movements, something he greatly appreciated as the one with the injuries. Jason hadn’t planned for any of this to happen. He hadn’t planned for tonight’s ambush to go so wrong, he hadn’t planned to hobble into your apartment nearly blind with pain and dizziness, and he certainly hadn’t planned to take both of his masks off in front of you. Sure, the two of you had been getting closer as of late. After your offer to host him even on nights he wasn’t injured, Jason had been showing up to your apartment a couple nights out of the week to make dinner and watch tv with you. In the past few weeks, Jason had been relishing in the change in your dynamic. Just existing in the same space as you put Jason’s head into a flurry, but in the most exciting way. The best part of his day has been visiting you these last few weeks. And of course, each time he’s entered your place he’s thought about removing the helmet and allowing you to get closer to him in a way he hasn’t let anyone in years. But each time, he’s stopped himself in fear. Fear of what exactly? Fear of putting you in danger, fear of scaring you, fear of disappointing you. Jason Tood would not be able to handle it if any of those things occurred. But there’s no time like the present, as they say. At least you didn’t flinch when you saw him. He couldn’t exactly figure out what you were thinking (whether it was positive or negative) but it wasn’t disgust he saw on your face, so a win is a win.

The black-haired man is suddenly overtaken with words and spits out without realizing, “I’m Jason, by the way.”

You freeze and look up at him questioningly. “I’m sorry?”

“My name, it’s Jason.”

“Oh! Okay, Jason…” You test the weight of his name on your tongue, “Jason, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” You conclude with a genuine smile.

Jason’s entire stomach has just done at least 20 flips. His heart is beating so hard and loud in his chest he hopes you don’t hear it. The man never knew a person could say his name so sweetly. He never knew his name could be uttered without any hint of malice by someone outside of his family. Your pronunciation of his name is echoing in his mind like bells to a dizzying effect. He’s been a fool. He’s been such an idiot. How could he let fear prevent him from lifting his helmet and telling you his name, when he could’ve been hearing the beautiful way you say it all this time? Jason realizes he’s left you verbally hanging for a good minute just staring, so he clears his throat and adverts his eyes. “The pleasure is all mine.” When Jason looks back at you, he sees your smile is still plastered on your face and it gives him a strange sense of pride.

“I want you to know though, I know the mask was probably a lot tonight. I don’t want to force you to say or give up anything for my sake, I’m the one treating you. I’m so glad you trust me enough with your face and name, but I don’t want you to think I need it to help you, Jason. I’d fix you up even if you came in here one day as a bat-Frankenstein.” You’re worried you might’ve pushed him too far tonight. You don’t want Ho—Jason, to think you’re only out to discover his secret identity. You want him to understand that you’d care for him no matter the circumstances, whether you knew his face and name or not.

All at once, Jason felt his throat close up and tears brimming his eyes. Do you know what your words mean to him? Do you know how instantly you make him feel loved? Jason is so certain he is undeserving of your kindness and understanding, but here you are giving it to him freely. Will you ever understand the effect you have on him? How you heal pieces of his soul he thought long shattered. Jason’s full, pink lips quiver into a small smile. A smile of profound gratitude, appreciation, and sadness.

“Angel, it’s long overdue. You’re right on one thing though, I do trust you. I trust you far more than my colleagues would probably advise, but I do so anyway because I can’t do anything else. I keep invading your life in sharp broken pieces and asking you to pick me up off the floor, even at risk of hurting yourself. Yet, you do it each time with a grace Shakespeare wishes he could write about. The fact I want you to understand is that; if I didn’t want you to see my face or know my name, you wouldn’t. End of story. But that’s not the case, so it isn’t the end of the story. You’re not pushing me. And to know that you’d fix me up even if I did end up a bat-Frankenstein, is some of the most relieving news I’ve had all month.” Jason had to end his monologue with a small tease, worried his vulnerability would be too obvious without it. You listen to his words with so much intent you’ve forgotten the rest of the world. An invisible hand is squeezing your heart to the point it hurts. You can only take shallow breaths and you feel as though you might tear up.

“Well then, let’s finish fixing you up.” Your words come out barely a whisper and you go back to tending to his wounds. But neither of you can ignore the change in the air. The swift shift into a heavy lull that keeps a smile on both of your faces. You realize you’ll be done treating him soon and a wave of panic rises in you. He can’t leave now, not after everything we just left unsaid. But he leaves every time I finish taking care of him, without wasting a second. Then, an idea comes to mind. One you’ve conjured up multiple times in the past but never really entertained because of its unlikeliness to occur. It’s a risk, for sure. It’s very possible you mess it up and ruin the evening, but things have gone smoothly thus far and the success has given you a boost in confidence. Plus, you are still majorly concerned for his health, so you brave the question once you’ve completed the last bandage.

“I’m done wrapping your injuries, but that in no way means you’re recovered. I know you’re probably anxious to get back to your safe house or whatever, but you’re a severe liability in your condition.”

“So what do you suggest?” Jason asks with a skeptically raised eyebrow.

“…Um well, I was going to offer —and it’s perfectly acceptable if you say no— but I was going to offer you stay over here for the night, to have somewhere to lie down without having to brave Gotham at night with a concussion and several broken ribs.” You refused to meet Jason’s eyes as you offered him to stay the night, so you missed how they widened in surprise and then lit with anticipation.

“Yeah that— um, I—” Jason coughed awkwardly, something you’ve never seen him do but find endearing, “I mean yeah, that’s probably a good idea. Not sure I could make it a block without collapsing. But you uh— you sure you don’t mind?” Jason’s voice softens in volume at the end of his query.

“I wouldn’t be offering if I did.”

“Fair point.” You smiled at his acceptance of your invitation, secretly giddy at the idea of him spending the night. “But um, I don’t really have anything for you to change into.”

“Understandable. I have my compression shorts on though so I’ll be fine.” Jason assures you and you nod your head. You then help him up off of the bathroom floor. Jason once again lays his arm around your shoulders for support and your stomach twists into knots. The two of you say nothing as you move toward your bedroom. Jason helps open the door with his free arm so you can shimmy your two bodies through the opening. Jason suddenly feels very awkward and misplaced inside. He’s never seen your room before, and to do so now feels so intimate it makes him light headed. This is the most personal space in your entire apartment and it is just now striking Jason that this is where he’ll be sleeping since you don’t have a guest room. Too lost in his racing thoughts, the vigilante doesn’t notice you’ve helped him to sit down on the edge of your bed. You reluctantly pull away from his grip around your shoulders to go turn on your bedside lamp, immediately feeling the absence of his body heat. Jason is pulled back into reality at the loss of contact and is hit with the need to say something but he searches for words with no avail.

It’s you who breaks the silence in a quiet but firm voice, instinctively not wanting to ruin the quiet air of the room. “You can sleep in here tonight. I’ll be in the living room if you need anything. If you get thirsty or hungry please help yourself to anything in my kitchen. The bedroom door locks too, just in case that’d make you more comfortable. Like I said though, if you need anything just come grab me, I’ll be on the couch.” You turn to leave him in privacy, but Jason quickly speaks up.

“You’re gonna sleep on the couch?” He asks incredulously.

“Well that is the only other option.” You affirmed with a raised eyebrow.

“No no no. It’s your house, you can sleep in your bed. I’ll take the couch.” Jason started to get up, but you could see him straining with each movement. You rushed over and gently but forcefully pushed him to sit back on the bed.

“Yeah, no. You are the one who’s severely injured, I’m not letting you sleep on a couch in your state. I really don’t mind anyways, it’s just one night.”

“Well I refuse to make you sleep on a couch in your own home, you already sacrifice enough just letting me in here.” You were about to protest his use of the word ‘sacrifice’ before Jason continued, with a suggestion that made you still. “We could… we could share the bed? I mean— it’s big enough for two people and we’re both apparently too stubborn to let the other one sleep in the living room.” Jason’s lake green eyes scanned your face for any sign of disgust or hesitation, his palms felt sweaty and he suddenly felt like an idiot for even suggesting such a thing.

You were frozen, the cogs turning in your head at the implications of his offer. Your heart was racing. The two of you sleep in the same bed? You had just learned his name, and now you two would be sharing a bed? You tried to stop yourself from feeling so excited at the idea. Jason took your silence for uncertainty and continued blabbering, “We’re both adults, right? I don’t mean anything by it, I just— I don’t want you getting a bad night's sleep on your couch, and your stubborn ass clearly won’t let me sleep anywhere that isn’t a real bed so… I don’t know, maybe it was a dumb suggestion. You can forget about it, I’ll take the couch—”

You interrupted him with a burst, shaking your hands in front of you to keep Jason from getting up. “Oh, no no no. It’s fine, it's fine. Really, it’s cool. We can— we can share the bed I don’t mind. It’s a smart idea. Just, ya know, be careful with your stitches and bandages. I’d hate for you to worsen any injuries in your sleep.” You tried to sound calm and collected, but really you were shaking with excitement and nerves. Jason just nodded slowly, still looking a little unsure at your agreement, but he moved to step out of his armor anyway.

You walked over to your side of the bed, and started fiddling with random nick nacks on your nightstand to try and appear busy while Jason got undressed behind you. Lord almighty, it was taking every ounce of your strength not to look behind you and oogle at what you knew were rippling muscles. “Focus, gotta get through this night without making a fool of yourself.” You thought as you felt the bed dip on the other side, signaling Jason was ready to sleep.

With that, you turned the lamp off and slipped underneath the covers. Jason copied you wordlessly and you both laid in the dark, staring at the ceiling in silence. The air was so thick with tension it was near suffocating, but the two of you were too scared to speak and break the spell of the night. You unconsciously let out a little sigh and turned on your side so your back was facing Jason. You closed your eyes to try and force yourself to sleep, but your mind was hyper vigilant at this point. You could feel the bed dipping to accommodate Jason’s gigantic form on the other side. You weren’t used to sharing this space with anyone, and the fact that you could feel his breath through the mattress had your mind in a frenzy. You were fighting every fiber of your being that was telling you —no, begging you to move closer to the man beside you.

Jason was pleading with the universe in hopes that you couldn’t hear how his heart was thundering in his chest. For someone who’s lying down, his breathing sure is quick. Jason thought this would be enough. Just having you near by, occupying the same space, he thought that’d be enough to satisfy his urge to be near you. But for some goddamn reason, it’s making it worse. How can you be so close yet so far? How much closer can he get before he crosses a line? Jason blames his exhaustion for his next move.

Out of nowhere, you feel something heavy curl around your waist. Your eyes pop open in surprise, and you have to force your body to be still. Jason uses the arm draped across your middle to pull you closer to him. Your back presses against his solid chest and you forget what it was ever like to be cold. You can feel warmth seeping into your skin from every point of contact between the two of you. You can feel each breath Jason takes pushing into your back and you can feel the speeding rhythm of his heart, which you’re sure is close to the speed of your own. Your lips have curled into a smile and you’re fighting off a sigh of contentment.

“Is—is this okay?” Jason’s question comes out in an unsure whisper. If you hadn’t been so close you wouldn’t have heard him.

“Yeah, this is okay.” You reassure at an equal volume, worried that being any louder would shatter the moment. Your smile has evolved into a full on grin.

“Okay.” Jason mutters and then presses his head into the curve of your neck. His muscular arm tightens around your waist and his hand grips your shirt gently. You subconsciously shuffle further into him, though, you didn’t think there was anyway you could physically get any closer. Still, any space left between the two of you was eliminated. Your two breaths became one as your heartbeats synced up. You could feel Jason’s warm breath against your neck and it sent shivers down your spine. Jason felt so warm and happy, here with you in his arms. Holding you felt like a reward he didn’t deserve. He only hopes he’ll be able to do this again…and again, and again, and again.

You’ve never felt so safe as you do in Jason’s arms. It’s almost euphoric, being like this with him. You never want this moment to end, but the warmth of Jason’s embrace is quickly dragging you under the spell of sleep. You hope you wake up with him in the morning, you hope this isn’t a dream. You two have probably crossed some sort of line tonight, not that either of you care right now. The unclear nature of your relationship with the vigilante is something for you to wrestle with in the morning. For now, you’ll fall asleep wrapped in Jason’s arms, with the happy thought that he’ll surely be coming back to do this again.