A/ N: This was a prompt I found online. If any of you have prompts, then PM me or leave it in a review. Thank you!
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
John steps out of the taxi, pulling the groceries with him. He hauls them up the stairs, groaning. He finally reaches the top and pushes the door open. He tosses the bags onto the cluttered table, sighing with relief. Sherlock and his milk. The blond smiles, looking for his flat mate and lover. Though he wasn't on the couch, pouting or being lost in his mind palace. Neither was he behind his microscope looking at random objects and studying them. The ex-soldier felt a slight twang of panic.
Sherlock had already been kidnapped once while he was out at work. He did not want to fight another gang to save him. Not today. He was too damn tired. John was about to call him, when the bathroom door opens and Sherlock exits. He sighs with relief, smiling at the detective. Sherlock smiles back, sitting on the couch. John makes some tea, sitting next to the dark haired man.
"How was your trip?" He asks.
"It was okay, not exactly the most exciting thing." He replies truthfully. John tries to make a move to snuggle against his lover, but he gets up and sits in his chair. John looks at him.
"What is it, John?" Sherlock asks, trying to ask clueless.
"What was that about? Did I do or say something wrong?" John feels hurt and worried. Worried for Sherlock because he had a feeling something was wrong. Sherlock loved to cuddle with John, despite what he told people. The hurt that the doctor felt was more like rejection. Rejection from the person he loves most in the world.
"No, it's just that I don't feel good and I don't want you to catch it." John goes to feel his flat mate's forehead, but Sherlock stops him. "I'm fine. I just need to rest." Sherlock gets up slowly, heading for the bedroom. John follows, but Sherlock stops him.
"What?"
"I would like to be alone tonight, John."
Yeah, something was definitely wrong. There was something Sherlock wasn't telling him and it was pretty bad. He didn't smell any alcohol on him, his pupils were normal and so was his pulse so he wasn't using any drugs, no sweating and his body was a normal temperature. He didn't see any blood or marks, so what was wrong with Sherlock Holmes? John thinks of the bathroom and knows he was to go see. But first he had to get rid of Sherlock.
"Goodnight, love." He says, kissing his partner on the lips softly. Sherlock smiles, closing the door. John quietly makes his way to the bathroom, sliding the door open. He closes and locks it behind him. At first the ex-soldier sees nothing out of the ordinary. He looks around and he notices a tiny drop of blood. Shit. He continues his hunt and buried in the trash can was a bloody cloth and some torn gauze. Sherlock had gotten hurt and not told him.
But how had he done this exactly? Also, how bad was the injury?Pretty bad going by how much blood there was on the cloth. But why didn't Sherlock tell him? Why did he keep it a secret? He grabs the first aid kit and the cloth, knocking on the bedroom door. He gets no answer, which worries him. John pushes the door open, flicking the light on. The dark haired man groans from under the covers.
"John, I'm trying to sleep." He mumbles and the older man can't help but roll his eyes. He throws the sheets off of Sherlock and the detective glares at him. "What? I'm trying to go to bed here." John holds up the cloth covered blood and Sherlock's face changes to regret.
"What the hell is this and why did I find it in the bathroom?"
"Well, obviously that is a cloth cov-"
"No, that's not what I meant." John says sternly, cutting him off. "Now answer me the right way, Sherlock. What is this and why did I find it in the bathroom?" Sherlock sighs, scratching his head.
"I uh, I got hurt." He answers, looking at the sheet.
"How?"
"I was hunting down a murderer and he attacked me."
"What did he do?"
"Stabbed me."
"Where?"
"Upper thigh."
"Can I see, please?" Sherlock nods, lifting up his pants leg. It was a pretty large wound that was semi-deep. No pus was coming out, but there was quite a bit of dried blood and swelling. John takes out the first aid kit, beginning to dress the wound. He remains silent, trying to concentrate. He finishes, then looks at the silent detective.
"Why didn't you tell me, Sher?" He asks quietly, cupping his hand under the younger man's soft chin. He makes him look him in the eyes.
"I didn't want to seem weak to you." He answers and John scoffs, until he realizes Sherlock is as serious as death.
"Why didn't you want that?" A moment of hesitation and silence.
"Because I want you to see me as a strong person."
"Why?"
"Because I'm not, but I hate looking weak and pathetic." He whispers and John takes his hand.
"You are not weak or pathetic, Sherlock. You are strong, brilliant, funny, resourceful, beautiful, and absolutely perfect. A stab wound from a criminal isn't going to make me think you are weak or cause me to love you any less than I do. You did not choose to be stabbed and it wasn't your fault. Okay?"
"Okay."
'Good, now stop pouting and scoot over." John says with a smile and Sherlock moves over. John gets under the covers and his lover snuggles against. He strokes his unruly curls, as Sherlock plays with the buttons on his shirt.
"Don't ever think you are weak or that I would leave you because of that. I will never leave you." He whispers and he sees the detective smile.
"Promise?"
"Promise." He replies, closing his eyes.
"Hey, John." Sherlock mumbles.
"Hmm?"
"I love you." He says and John kisses his head.
"I love you too, Sher. Now go to sleep." He grabs the younger mans hand, wrapping it in his.
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