You've Only Just Arrived (a Tom Hiddleston fan fiction)

Part 53

Fragments of Tom and John bickering with each other stick out in your mind later. The rest melds together – which, all things considered, isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

“Hold higher up on her arm.” John says, trying to direct Tom without releasing his grip on Mitch. Tricky business, monitoring the man who broke into your place while also making sure both you and Tom are properly taken care of.

“What?” Tom still is applying pressure directly over the gash in your forearm. Maybe that’s helping him focus on something other than his wounded palm.

“Higher up, Tom.”

“With what hand?”

You still have a free hand. You may be woozy but at least you still remember you have two hands. You’ve been holding onto Tom’s wrist, unsure what else to do. It’s an easy swap. If he’ll just let go…. You release your grasp on Tom’s wrist to wiggle your fingers to indicate its availability.

John speaks deliberately. “Tom. Wrap her arm the way you did your hand. _______, hold that cloth down. Tom, if you pinch….”

Details blur. Richard arrives. Categorize him as extremely unhappy. Paramedics arriving, along with police. And then Tom is arguing again, refusing to leave your side. He protests for the both of you while the paramedics get to work, first cleaning away excess blood to better see the real wounds. As soon as Tom’s uninjured hand is free again you intertwine your fingers with his and have no intention of letting go any time soon.

Your head maintains a dull ache – until they start poking at the tender spot on the back of your head – then you see stars. “Ow.” You mutter. Now you have paramedics, Tom, John, and Richard all hovering around you. You keep your responses limited. If only they’d stick to asking you yes or no questions.

What is your name? – You didn’t hit your head that hard. Tom gives you a look that clearly says: Humor them.

Do you know where you are? – “Yes.” That doesn’t suit so you add: your partially destroyed kitchen. It’s tempting to also add: Los Angeles, California, USA, Earth…. But that’s entirely too much speaking and would net you another sour look from Tom.

Do you know what day it is? Another yes – you list out the day, month, and year.

Do you remember what happened? Yes, again. But God you wish you didn’t.

Then you’re at the hospital. You’ve never been particularly fond of the smell of hospitals. Disinfectant. That’s what they tell you they all smell like – disinfectant… Yes, and no. There’s something else in the air that makes you uneasy, even if you’re just visiting.

But then today you’re not just visiting.

They continue to poke at you asking question after question. Doctors, nurses, policemen. Everyone trying to gather all the facts.

You argue the point with everyone who will stand still long enough, regardless of their power over the situation. You’re fine. Well, you’re not fine. Your head is starting to ache more insistently, but they’re foregoing any powerful painkillers over concerns that you may have a mild concussion. The thing keeping you distracted from you head is your arm…

They give you a shot – something that burns initially and then, doesn’t – and then start to sew up your arm. It’s actually quite entertaining to watch them poke at you and only feel the dulled tug of the sutures as they work. You only get to examine their stitch work briefly before they cover the area with gauze and tape.

Richard, to his credit, is doing his best not to pass out. You note he did blanche a bit when they started tugging at you skin with needle and thread. At least he had the good sense to sit down. And Tom – they’d pried him from your grip so he could be taken to undergo his own examination.