BBC Sherlock Imagines (Book 2)

Sherlock: Scars (Part 1)

Request for -TheLostGirl01- and her amazing brain that comes up with these amazing ideas

~

"This may sting a little," warned the lady in the lab coat. She brought the disinfectant wipe up to your shoulder, giving you a sorry look before she placed it gingerly on your skin. It felt like a fire was spreading over your shoulder and you bit your tongue so hard that you tasted blood. Only 20 more times, you told yourself, but it didn't make you feel any better. You spent the next hour biting your tongue and clenching your fist as you felt almost every part of your body go up in flames. They weren't kidding when they said you were in bad shape.

As soon as you had been found, after 5 years of being tortured in Afghanistan, you had been sent here to St. Bart's in London. Your injuries were... Well to say the least, they required more than what the makeshift hospital at the base could offer. Your back was riddled with permanent indented slashes from being whipped constantly, purple and blue bruises, and strings of burn marks that ran parallel to each other. Your arms and legs didn't look much better, they too were decorated the same. Your whole body looked as if it had been thrown off a cliff into some jagged rocks, then tossed carelessly into a fire. And to tell the truth, that's what it felt like too.

You heard a loud bang come from somewhere behind you and you instantly jumped up. Your senses became heightened, trying to find the source. "(Y/n)," said the lady in the lab coat, "it was just a door slam."

You took a few deep breaths and nodded. Your whole body was suddenly exhausted, so you slumped back onto the bed and let her finish bandaging you. She had just applied the last bandage when two men slipped through the door into the room.

"Molly," said the shorter one with blondish hair, "we need your help." Ah, her name is Molly, you mentally noted.

"I'm with a patient right now," she said, trying to motion with her eyes for them to get out.

"Well the patient can be patient and wait, that word is a homonym for a reason," butted in the tall curly haired one that followed behind him. His striking blue eyes landed on you and you felt every inch of you being analyzed. You wondered if he could see through the bandages and suddenly you realized just how ugly you must look underneath all these. You were just about to tell him to take a picture since it lasts longer, but then he spoke. "Johnny boy, looks like we have another Afghanistan war vet here with us," he said in a deep arrogant tone.

Your jaw clenched and your nostrils flared. The very mention of the place you had spent years in misery sent streaks of anger through your body, making your blood boil and your lip curl. Wait, but how did he know that? The shorter man came up to you and extended his hand. At first you didn't take it, partly because you were still confused on how the tall arse knew you had fought in Afghanistan, but also partly because, well, the physical human contact you've had over these past 5 years were usually painful. Eventually though, his kind eyes and warm smile melted your iciness. "Doctor John Watson," he introduced himself. "Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

"Yorkshire Regiment," you responded in a raspy voice that was still getting used to being in use again.

"Name?"

You cleared your throat. "Liutenant (Y/f/n) (Y/l/n)."

"Nice to meet you," he said. "How'd you get-uh-injured?"

"Captured."

"Ah," he said with a slight nod of his head, not needing any more explanation to understand what you meant. You felt eyes on you again and you looked up to find a pair of blue ones still studying you.