Chapter 1: Where I Follow, You'll Go

It was late afternoon when Sherlock and John finally returned to their flat, 221B Baker Street. Sherlock was exhausted, so John practically carried him up the stairs to the flat. The tall, frightfully thin man rested his head against John's, his eyes closing, glazed from fatigue.

John gently set Sherlock into his chair and sat in his own, hurting himself from the shock and effort it had taken to get Sherlock home again. He ran a hand through his hair, and looked up, only to find his friend observing him weakly.

"Thank you for carrying me, John. I'm sorry you had to." His gaze never waivered, but John detected humility and guilt in his deep, soft voice.

"It's fine, Sherlock. You hardly weigh anything, although I don't know that you did to begin with."

Sherlock smiled, and John returned the favor. "I estimate I'm about nine stone now."

John's eyes widened. "God, Sherlock!"

"Yes, yes, I know!" Sherlock brushed off the topic before John could talk further about it. "I'd like it, except that I feel too light," he admitted thoughtfully, tilting his head back gingerly to rest against the back of the chair, inching down uneasily into a slouch. "If my goal in life is to be—ow!"

John jumped upon hearing his friend's exclamation of pain, and stood up rapidly as Sherlock hissed in pain, his fingers clenching at the arms of the chair until they were white from the strain. "What is it?" John asked, concerned, trying to deduce medically what was troubling his friend.

"My ribs—ow—broken," Sherlock sighed, finding a comfortable position at last, and settled down, breathing heavily. "Can you check them for me?"

"Of course." John moved to take Sherlock's jacket off, but hesitated, especially since he'd have to remove Sherlock's shirt as well. "Um…Sherlock, I—"

"Yes," Sherlock interrupted him, already knowing the question. "Do what you have to."

John nodded and took off Sherlock's jacket, feeling a bit like he was undressing a doll. Sherlock made no effort to fight him, and John thought nothing could startle him more…until he saw the blood on Sherlock's shirt. Or, at this point, the shirt on Sherlock's blood. He knew his mouth hung open—he hadn't counted on such an extreme volume of blood loss—but didn't do anything about it as he stammered out a question. "Sherlock, is—"

Sherlock sighed, his head still tilted back, his long neck exposed. "A multitude of minor wounds—not important. The ribs. Please, John."

John almost rebuked Sherlock, wanting to say that he'd decide what was "not important" in this case, being the doctor in the room, but he let it go and unbuttoned the shirt, tossing it aside to go on the rubbish pile straight away. As he scanned down Sherlock's chest, trying to ignore the ribs advertizing themselves against his skin and the many cuts littered there, Sherlock rasped: "Rubbish?" He pointed one long finger at the shirt.

John looked back at it, nodded. "Yeah. No use trying to clean it up with bleach."

Sherlock smiled. "Good to know."

John stopped, looked skeptically at his friend. Sherlock's eyes opened lazily, the irises flicking from side to side, reading John like an open book. "Did you just—"

"A consulting detective never stops learning," Sherlock replied. "Besides, I couldn't turn it off if I tried."

John raised an eyebrow, shook his head, smiled. "I really did miss you, Sherlock."

"Moi aussi," Sherlock replied, closing his eyes again. He looked more peaceful with his eyes closed, John thought. Since Sherlock was usually such a harsh and domineering individual, it was odd seeing him so…human.

John focused on Sherlock's most pressing wound. His evident malnutrition (a severe problem that vied for the title of 'most important injury' that the detective had sustained) made the examination go much smoother, and John had no problem finding the broken ribs and assessing damage.

"Well?" Sherlock asked hoarsely upon feeling John's warm hands tickling at his ribs.

"Some small contusions around the area. Nothing too horrible, though. It seems to be healing well." John straightened and stretched. "Does that diagnosis work for you?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. How are my other wounds?"

"From a glance, they don't seem fatal. Blood loss was significant. You need nutrients."

"I know that," Sherlock snapped, but softened quickly, raising his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you."

John shrugged. "It's okay. You're irritable. It's a side-effect of malnutrition."

Sherlock's lips curved into a lopsided smile. "Can we have dinner, then? I'm starving!"

John laughed, going into the kitchen. "I never thought I'd ever hear you say those words! I'll see if there's anything in."

"What words?" Sherlock asked curiously, donning the robe the was thrown over the back of the desk chair.

" 'I'm starving.' "

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. "Well, it is fact. Do you think I can have pasta yet?"

After a few minutes of preparation, the pasta was ready. John went light on the butter and cheese, since he wasn't sure how Sherlock's malnourished body would respond to a refeeding. Of course, Sherlock starved himself all the time, so technically, his body would be trained to respond well to intake of nutrients. But John wanted to make sure. He'd given himself and Sherlock small helpings on purpose, so that Sherlock didn't feel left out, and supervised Sherlock's first meal in twenty and (about) a half days.

Sherlock was trying to eat slowly, of course being knowledgeable about refeeding syndrome and knowing he had to be careful in case he had it. But, in reality, it was hard to do, and he gradually found himself eating faster and faster, barely leaving enough time to swallow before he filled his mouth again. He was disappointed when his fork clinked against the bottom of the bowl, his mouth watering as his stomach asked for more, the muted growling indicating a faster digestion. He couldn't help moaning as he covered his stomach with his hand and looked pleadingly at John.

"How is it?" John asked, rising to take Sherlock's plate.

"Fine. I feel fine."

"You're not just saying that?" John raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Sherlock scoffed. "Oh please, John, come on."

John chuckled. "Right. Well, I'll give you another helping just to get you to sleep, and then we'll call it a night. You need rest."

"I need a shower," Sherlock affirmed, crinkling his nose as John gave him another helping.

John laughed, eating his own supper. "That might be a good idea."

After he'd finished eating, Sherlock took a long shower. He washed his entire body three times, taking gentle care of his cuts. He felt for the first time how thin he actually was, and was again happy to be back in Baker Street.

When he had gotten out of the shower and thrown on his pajamas, he got under the covers on his bed, lying on his back with his hands cradling his head. His dinner, though small, had helped, and already he felt his condition had improved. With John taking proper care of him, he had nothing to worry about.

Sherlock drifted off to sleep, satisfied that he could afford to recover for a few weeks.

Of course, he'd forgotten completely about Moriarty.