It isn't so bad, at first. Kept still apart from a flurry of attempted bandaging, harried examination, Horatio's mind stays sunk in a deep unconsciousness that holds back the eddying pain.
It becomes more difficult when they start to move him. Pain laps greedily at the edges of his consciousness as his body is moved from cabin to launch, from launch to cart, from cart to bed. The haze of shock keeps more of it depressed, dull and distant, not quite breaching through to his waking mind.
Then, abruptly, it's all impossibly terrible.
His mind can't focus well enough to understand the staggering new pain of being cut into, much less the searing pain of having shrapnel dug out of his flesh. Fishing out the flecks of metal from the odd ricocheted ball aches, but it's nothing compared to the fire which races through him as long dark splinters of wood are worked out of his damaged flesh.
Barely conscious, his body groans without him. Trapped between pain and oblivion, his body twists and trembles without him, reeling against the new source of too much pain.
There's exhaustion on top of the rest once he's settled down, clean and snugly bandaged. The pieces of himself which grasp hesitantly at reality again claw for sleep over wakefulness. Were it someone else, Horatio might even be fascinated by the manner in which his own mind seems so intent on holding itself back safely from the ravages of the rest of his body.
Somewhere far away, one hand feels warmer than the other. Beyond the thick fog of fever and haze of almost-sleep, someone is speaking to him. His breath comes in a soft shudder, fingers twitching without conscious thought.
He might well be resting, now. Surely there's comfort in that.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2017-05-30 03:32 am (UTC)It becomes more difficult when they start to move him. Pain laps greedily at the edges of his consciousness as his body is moved from cabin to launch, from launch to cart, from cart to bed. The haze of shock keeps more of it depressed, dull and distant, not quite breaching through to his waking mind.
Then, abruptly, it's all impossibly terrible.
His mind can't focus well enough to understand the staggering new pain of being cut into, much less the searing pain of having shrapnel dug out of his flesh. Fishing out the flecks of metal from the odd ricocheted ball aches, but it's nothing compared to the fire which races through him as long dark splinters of wood are worked out of his damaged flesh.
Barely conscious, his body groans without him. Trapped between pain and oblivion, his body twists and trembles without him, reeling against the new source of too much pain.
There's exhaustion on top of the rest once he's settled down, clean and snugly bandaged. The pieces of himself which grasp hesitantly at reality again claw for sleep over wakefulness. Were it someone else, Horatio might even be fascinated by the manner in which his own mind seems so intent on holding itself back safely from the ravages of the rest of his body.
Somewhere far away, one hand feels warmer than the other. Beyond the thick fog of fever and haze of almost-sleep, someone is speaking to him. His breath comes in a soft shudder, fingers twitching without conscious thought.
He might well be resting, now. Surely there's comfort in that.