#stitching wounds

[cherry-bombart]

Stitching wounds

[amypihcs]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Before you come to eat me for the title, sewing has been seen as a woman's craft basically since forever, but everyone needs the skill.

Hence the title. It's a provocation, read it that way.

A group of sketches of Holmes and Watson through the years. Their life is not EXACTLY the calmest life existing, it's not such a great leap of imagination to think that they found themselves in the situation where one of them needed stitches and the other provided them. And it's not such a stretch either to think that they might have been in such a situation that they might have needed to stitch their own wound close.

This stuff fascinates me, so here we are.

I've been told that they are disgustingly in love, be warned <3

nuisance tags!

@i-dont-talk-for-days-on-end @fruitviking @cackled0g @eisenkrahe

@tyrannosaurusnacks @haedraulics @louieclamlent @rudbeckiasunflower

@rainbow-person @gooolabatooo @somethingintheforest @skyriderwednesday

@blistering-typhoons @angryducktimemachine @neverquiteeden @r2y9s-notartblog

@uygfiug @yulagrandeur @sadieb798 @friday411

@usergreenpixel @feralmadscientist-n5 @cruccabastarda @geeoharee

@euphoric-cha0s

[whumpedydump]

I was reading an amazing comic, with a great amount of whump and angst, but I think the whump community with it’s wonderful posts on medical accuracy and @knivestothroats Fletchers lesson on stitching up people, kind of spoiled me cause they were using a straight needle in the comic and I was like, how do you plan on stitching anything up with that? You said you have done that many times already, why aren’t you using a curved needle?!

[knivestothroats]

In The Woods Somewhere pt 2 - Bite The Bullet

Immediately picks up from here.

content warnings: field medicine, gunshot wounds, using alcohol to clean wounds, stitching wounds, chained to a bed, history lessons

@lonesome--hunter​ @simplygrimly​

Buck was vaguely aware that Fletcher was speaking, but he wasn’t taking in any of the words. It didn’t seem to be directed at him, anyway. Something about a table. Nothing he was concerned with.

What he was concerned with, from least to greatest, included the following: Fletcher had a hand on his wrist, keeping his arm draped over their shoulders. Fletcher had an arm around his waist. Buck thought he might pass out, or at least fall down His head was swimming. He wasn’t sure how much blood he had lost at this point, but he was confident it was more than he would like to be losing. And lastly, his leg really, really, fucking hurt.

A new concern presented itself when Fletcher suddenly swept him up into a bridal carry. Buck let out a surprised noise, but didn’t have the energy to fight it. He was quickly set down onto a hard surface – most likely the table he had heard about – and he felt like he could melt into it. Maybe with enough exhaustion, your body just dissolves.

More talking he didn’t catch. His ears were ringing. He didn’t care – he didn’t have the energy to care.

Fletcher called out into the house, “Lesson time! Everybody downstairs!” They clapped their hands loudly. “Let’s go, let’s go!”

Buck didn’t notice the people coming into the room. His attention was only drawn back when Fletcher lightly slapped his cheek. They were wearing rubber gloves.

“Hey, how much do you care about these pants?” They asked.

“Wh… What?”

“I mean, they already have a couple bullet holes and a lot of blood in them, but if you want to try to salvage them, I can take them off,” Fletcher said. “Otherwise I’m going to cut through them.”

Buck just sort of sighed and closed his eyes. Fletcher turned away from him to talk to the people who had gathered around.

“Usually, in emergency situations, you have to cut through the fabric,” they said. “So that’s what we’re going to do.”

Buck felt cold metal against his skin as the scissors brushed his leg.

“There will be times, in a pinch, where you may want to use drinking alcohol as a disinfectant,” Fletcher continued to the crowd. “I would not recommend this, for a few reasons. First of all, you should just keep actual medical supplies in your house, you animals. Second, if you pour alcohol over someone, that’s less for you to drink. However, sometimes needs must. If you are going to use alcohol this way, you should be decent enough to let your patient take a swig first, because this is all going to hurt like a bitch. In this case, our friend here is pretty out of it, so we’re going to skip that. Now, be prepared for them to scream…”

Buck suddenly felt a burning sensation in his leg. He screamed, back arching off the table and leg kicking out frantically. He felt a firm hand holding him down.

“Also, you should really only be using clear alcohols like vodka for this,” Fletcher continued nonchalantly as the screaming subsided into pained whimpers. “Now, to stitch a wound you’re going to want a curved needle, like this. If you try to use a regular sewing needle you will all be in for a bad time. Again, please for the love of god, keep medical supplies on hand. And keep them clean.”

Buck felt a hand patting against his cheek, and he tried to focus his eyes on the face of Fletcher, leaning over him.

“Alright, buddy,” they said gently, “I’m gonna give you something to bite down on. Okay? Open up.”

Fletcher put their fingers on either side of Buck’s chin and eased his jaw open. They slipped a folded belt between his teeth and pushed his jaw closed around the leather. Buck bit down, trying to breathe evenly through his nose. A sharp pain pierced the skin of his leg, overlapping with the already burning pain from the bullet wound. He let out a whine, clamping down on the belt. Although some part of him was aware that people were watching, embarrassment over the pathetic noises he was making was the last thing on his mind. He was just trying to get through this moment.

“Here’s a fun fact – a little bonus history lesson,” Fletch said as they worked. “In the civil war, they had advanced their weaponry but not really advanced the way they did battle, so all of a sudden there were way more injuries. And fatalities. And the bullets they were using – well, never mind. I could ramble. The point is, the field hospitals were just Hell. A lot of amputations. And they didn’t have any way to sedate the soldiers, so the medics would just give them a bullet to bite down on for the pain. And that’s where we get the phrase bite the bullet.  Now, you’ll see here that I am tying off each stitch. This is why it’s helpful to use a needle driver. You may be able to substitute needle nose pliers, or…”

“Keep medical supplies on hand,” came a disjointed chorus of voices.

Buck passed out at some point during the procedure.  He woke up in a bed, unsure of where he was. Even as the memories came back to him as he drifted into consciousness, he still wasn’t sure. It was a sparsely furnished room, with just the bed, a dresser, a chair, and a mirror. There was a window in the wall behind him, but the curtains were drawn. He was wearing an unfamiliar pair of sweatpants. 

Buck’s head ached. His leg ached. His whole body ached. He tried to gently shuffle into a sitting position, but as he moved he felt the unyielding tug of metal against his ankle.

His injured leg was handcuffed to the bed.

The door opened. Fletcher poked their head in.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” they said, walking all the way into the room. They were carrying a tray, which they set down on the dresser. Fletcher opened one of the drawers and retrieved a pillow. “Can you sit up?”

Buck, watching Fletcher warily, pushed himself slowly into a sitting position, and Fletcher put the pillow behind him. They retrieved the tray and set it on Buck’s lap before pulling the chair over to the side of the bed and sitting down.

Buck examined the contents of the tray. A water bottle, a small bottle of orange juice, a banana, a sleeve of crackers, a pudding cup, and a spoon. Buck looked up at Fletcher wordlessly.

“Well, eat up, champ,” Fletcher said, leaning forward to rest their forearms on their legs. A beat of silence where neither said anything. Then, “How’re you feeling?”

Buck opened his mouth and let out a croak. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I feel like shit. Everything hurts.”

“Well, that’s to be expected,” Fletcher nodded. “You sustained a pretty serious injury.”

“Which you made worse,” Buck said.

“Hey, I – well, yeah. I did make you walk on it,” Fletcher admitted. “But you did great! And then I made it better.”

“You should have taken me to a hospital,” Buck said.

Fletcher just laughed and said, “Seriously, you should eat something. Drink some water.”

Buck cracked open the seal of the water bottle and took a swig. He paused a moment, and then asked, “Why do you have me chained to the bed?”

“Well, you really shouldn’t be walking on that leg for a while,” Fletcher said.

Buck stared at them in disbelief. Fetcher’s face cracked into a smile, and they shrugged, but said nothing.

“Why are you keeping me here?” Buck asked.

“You’re a great teaching tool,” Fletcher said before standing up. “And I believe you can take it.”

“Take what?” Buck asked, voice soaked in fear.

Fletcher began walking to the door, saying only, “Eat something.”

“What – what is this place?” Buck called after them. “What is going on here?”

Fletcher stopped in the doorway, handle on the knob ready to pull it closed behind them. They turned back.

“Well, Buck,” they said, “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

[So! Before the American Civil War, soldiers were using muskets, which didn’t really shoot straight. Basically the musket ball would bounce around on its way out of the barrel of the gun. So the tactic was for both sides to line up and shoot at each other, creating a sort of wall of bullets, hoping something would hit. By the time the Civil War rolled around, guns had improved a lot. Namely rifles.

Rifles have grooves along the inside of the barrel (called rifling) that the bullet travels along, keeping it on target. The major improvement that made them the new main weapon of the military is that they didn’t have to be cleaned as frequently, whereas before they would get all gunked up on the inside if you used them too many times.

SO, the Civil War happens. Everyone lines up and shoots each other. But now they have guns that shoot straight. To this day, the Civil War has more American casualties than any other war this country has ever fought. It actually changed the game on the way this country handles death in more ways than one, but that’s a separate essay!

Another bad thing about this new-weapon-old-tactics thing, is that these guns shot “slugs,” or (relatively) slow moving bullets. The way these bullets were shaped, they wouldn’t always pierce straight through. If they hit bone, the bullet and the bone would both shatter. This led to many, many amputations. And, well, Fletcher said the rest.

Also please note that it’s been like six or seven years since I took that Civil War class.]

[next part]

[knivestothroats]

Part 5

Based on content it could be part 4.5 because it’s more of Luke’s pov during his/Ace’s captivity, but for the sake of simplicity... 5.

Masterlist of previous parts

THE GOOD/BAD STUFF depending on who you ask: Mind control, captivity, knives, blood, denied medical help, stitching up own wounds. 

~

As much Luke hated being left alone, it was always worse when his captors came back.

Or maybe, his captor and his follow captive. He wasn’t sure. Maybe it was just a food chain, and he was at the bottom. Sometimes it seemed like their roles depended on the day.

Often, he was left with Ace. He spent most of that time trying to figure out which they were that day; prisoner and warden, or two trapped captives.  

Ace would speak when spoken to, but they weren’t much for conversation. Luke found that if he asked for things – simple things – Ace would usually comply. Ice for bruises on his face, an extra portion of food here and there. The cot, however, was off limits.

Luke was trying to get a clear picture of how Ace operated. What things were standing orders, where he could find loopholes, the limits of Ace’s own thoughts and reason. How to convince Ace to do something. Maybe, one day, how to hold a conversation with them. He started to think of it as befriending the prison guard.

And then Miranda would come back, and he would be invisible again. Miranda certainly didn’t acknowledge him, and he couldn’t risk talking to Ace with her around.

One day, Miranda brought Ace another gift. Not a human, this time, but a switchblade. She tossed it carelessly to Ace, who caught it easily. Miranda stalked off again, leaving Ace with their toys.

“Here. Have fun. Don’t hurt yourself,” was all she said.

Ace opened the blade and turned it over in their hands. Luke thought he could see a hint of a smile on their face. They got off the bed and knelt down next to Luke on the floor.

“Give me your arm,” Ace said.

“No!” Luke protested, shying away. “Why?”

“So I can test the knife,” Ace said. “Switchblades are usually stabbing knives, but I want to see how it does on slicing.”

That was probably the longest sentence Luke had ever heard Ace speak.

“Can’t you test it some other way?” Luke asked.

“Mm. Miranda told me not to hurt myself.”

“But… I’m your toy, right?” Luke hated himself for saying it, but he saw an angle and he had to try it. “You – you have to take care of your toys if you… if you want them to last. If you want to keep them.”

He hoped, desperately, that Ace wanted to keep him.

Ace looked like they were thinking as hard as they were physically capable of. He expected smoke to start coming out of their ears.

“Why don’t… you… uh, try it on the mattress?” Luke suggested.

Ace got up and walked over to the cot. They pulled back the blanket, sighed, and then plunged the blade down into the center of the mattress.

“I already knew it was built for stabbing,” Ace said as they pulled the knife back out. They turned around and sat on the edge of the bed. They looked over the blade again. “Actually, you’re supposed to stab up when using a switchblade.”

“You, uh, use switchblades much?” Luke asked.

Ace shook their head, and then pressed their hand to their temple, as if they were getting a headache.

They looked sad.

Fuck, they actually looked sad.

“Is there, like, an apple or something in the kitchen?” Luke asked. “You could try slicing on that.”

Ace perked up immediately and left in search of fruit. Luke breathed out a heavy sigh and uncurled himself from his defensive position.

He felt like he had made progress. Perhaps discovered a trick he could pull out again later if he needed to.

What he had done, really, was make an impact.

--

Luke was sneaking food from the kitchen when he heard the door open.

Shit. He had hoped to have more time before Miranda and Ace got back. Convincing Ace not to test out a knife on him was one thing, but there’s no way he could work around a direct order from Miranda to punish him. He dashed back into the common area in a desperate attempt to simply not be caught in the kitchen.

No one was paying attention to him.

Ace had their hands clasped over one eye. Blood was streaming down from under their palms, through their fingers.

“I shouldn’t even keep you around if you’re going to make careless mistakes like that,” Miranda was yelling. “You are supposed to be a skilled fighter. You’re not supposed to slip up. You’re not supposed to get hurt.”

She didn’t say it out of concern. She said it in a way that meant, you aren’t supposed to lose.

“Move your hands,” Miranda ordered. “Let me look at it.”

Ace, grimacing, lowered their hands. Blood was smeared all over the side of their face, but gash was clearly defined, running from Ace’s forehead down onto their cheek. Luke’s stomach churned when he saw it.

“Open your eye,” Miranda commanded.

Ace did their best to comply, blinking rapidly as blood began to seep in.

“Hmm. Your eye itself is intact. You are lucky,” she said. “You’d be useless to me with a blind side like that.”

Today, Luke decided, we both captives.

“I can heal this,” Miranda said. “Do you want me to heal it?”

“Yes,” Ace said, voice thick with the tears they were trying to hold back. Luke wouldn’t be surprised if that had been an order from Miranda. Stop your incessant crying.

“Too bad,” Miranda snapped. “I want this to be a lesson. Wait here.”

Ace stood and waited, arms at their sides, until Miranda returned with an embroidery kit. She thrust it toward Ace, who took it obediently with bloodied hands.

“Go to the bathroom. Clean yourself up. And then sew it shut.”

Miranda turned and stormed out. Ace stood in place for a moment, looking with their one good eye at the kit in their red, trembling hands. A long needle and thick embroidery floss. They walked to the bathroom without a word.

Luke, ignored by all, returned to his familiar spot on the floor. He could see the open bathroom door down the hall, and he could hear shuddered gasps of pain as Ace did what they were told.

Luke pressed his back against the wall and pulled his knees to his chest.

Today, they were both captives.

[continues here]

[the-elusive-plot]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Sherlock and John did not meet as potential flatmates but on a crisis line. Each battling their own demons they run across each other. This is a Johnlock story about the boys learning to deal with their issues as they fall in love.