A new story – don't quite know where it's going yet so T rated…just in case! Don't plan slash, but anything can happen – waiting for the boys to tell me where this story's going. If you enjoy please review, if not please review/critique anyway – otherwise how will I learn?

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Sherlock characters (Wish John was mine though!) – Thanks to all the actors, writers, etc that make the original series so worth writing about!

Leaning heavily on his cane John looked down at the body lying face down in the empty house. Behind him Sherlock was being Sherlock, spouting everything about the woman's life history, but John just looked down.

"Thought John had got rid of his stick" Greg Lestrade kept his voice down, but his eyes slid over in the doctor's direction and he looked at the bowed head, the slumped shoulders. "What happened?"

Sherlock followed his gaze, seeing what Greg saw but observing so much more. There were dark shadows under his friend's eyes, and every now and then he shifted his weight to ease his leg a little.

"You missed the obvious, Lestrade, or your memory is faulty." Sherlock spoke equally quietly although he was certain that John was aware they would be talking about him. "When we first met John's psychosomatic limp was in his right leg."

Greg's eyes widened slightly as he noticed for the first time that John was favouring his left leg.

"What happened?"

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

3 Days Earlier…..

John stumbled down the stairs from his bedroom where, five minutes earlier he had been sleeping off a particularly nasty headache. Under his breath he was cursing all noisy flatmates and Sherlock in particular. He was preparing a lecture of gargantuan proportions as he walked into the living room, only to discover the source of the noise was not his genius friend after all.

The man currently rampaging through Sherlocks papers was about the same height as John, though stockier, on the verge of overweight. At the sound of John entering the room he looked up, startled, his face so comically like that of a child caught with his fingers in the biscuit tin the doctor almost laughed. Only almost. Instead he folded his arms across his chest and stood squarely blocking the intruders exit.

"What the fuck d'you think you're doing?"

The man stood and stared, the file in his hand falling unheeded to the floor. John's gaze never left his face, a habit that was second nature to him, that on many an occasion has saved his life, and it was to do so again now as he noticed the slight flicker of the man's eyes to a spot over Johns left shoulder.

Ducking slightly to his right and pivoting on his left foot he swung round to face the second intruder, his hand reaching up to grasp the other's wrist, twisting it and forcing him to drop the carving knife that had been taken from the block in the kitchen. Fortune however wasn't on his side that afternoon. The man was fast, and apparently ambidextrous, for he caught the knife as it fell and thrust upwards, burying it deep in John's thigh.

With a cry the injured man collapsed to the floor clutching his leg, and had to watch helplessly as the trespassers dashed out of the door empty handed.

Swallowing down the nausea that threatened to engulf him John tried to assess the damage. It was fortunate for him that his attacker had not really had the time to aim his thrust. The fact that he could still feel and move his leg – albeit painfully – almost certainly meant the damage was not life threatening, the knife had not sliced through a major artery or tendons.

Laying back on the floor John gingerly pulled his leg up so that his foot was flat on the floor, his knee raised. With one shaking hand he fumbled at his belt buckle, finally releasing it and pulling the sturdy leather through the belt loops on his jeans. At last the belt came free from the denim material, and John lay panting from his exertions.

After a moment's rest the doctor slid the belt around his thigh, a few inches above where the knife still protruded and tightened it as far as he could to slow down the flow of blood. Counting slowly to sixty he then grasped the knife by the remaining area of blade (from somewhere in the back of his mind he could hear Sherlocks voice reminding him that there may be fingerprints on the handle) and gently lifted it away from his leg, groaning as it came free.

Carefully placing it on the couch – Sherlock could roll his eyes and complain about the bloodstains all he liked, he thought to himself, it was safer there! – John watched the blood slowly oozing into the material around the deep gash and slowly counted to sixty once more before loosening the makeshift tourniquet. There was no noticeable increase in blood flow, so he decided against re-applying it. Rolling the belt up he shoved it into his pocket and propped himself up on his elbows, considering his options.

Glancing over to the coffee table he noticed his phone was sitting where he had left it earlier in the day. Taking a deep breath he eased himself along the floor until he was close enough to reach up and pull the phone into his hand.

Sherlock grimaced as his phone buzzed in his inside pocket.

"Get that John, and if it's Mycroft, delete it. I've told him I'm not interested in his ridiculous foreign scandals." Not once did he take his eye away from the microscope. There was something wrong with the reaction on the slide and he was watching it, processing the reactions through the science lab that resided in his mind palace.

There it was again, that infernal buzzing.

"For goodness sake, John! Can't you do something about that…" he lifted his head and scanned the room for his usually constant companion, impatience writ large on his pale sharp features. Where on earth is…Oh! Of course! Memories of the nagging disappointment he had felt when John declined to accompany him to the lab at St Bart's, pleading a crippling headache as reason to stay behind. To be fair his eyes, the tension in his shoulders and neck all indicated high levels of pain, and he had grudgingly, unwillingly, agreed that yes, John would probably be better off in bed with a couple of paracetamol.

Reaching into his jacket he pulled out his iPhone and noted the two messages.

'Where are you? – JW'

At this first text Sherlock smirked - Surely John hadn't forgotten where he was going? He opened the second.

'Please come – need help. – JW'

Suddenly his body stilled, and he stared at the words on the screen. Was the headache worse than he originally thought? What if it was more than just a headache? He opened a reply message.

'What's wrong? – SH'

No response.

'John? – SH'

Chewing at his lower lip Sherlock willed the phone to buzz with a response.

'John! – SH'

Pulling on his coat he shoved the phone in his pocket.

"Everything okay?" Molly walked in and smiled "Did you work out…." she stumbled over her words, "….er, whatever it was you wanted to work out?"

Sherlock frowned down at her as her wrapped his scarf around his neck.

"You're babbling, Molly. How on earth did you manage to pass the required exams to do your job?"

Hurt flashed in the young woman's eyes. Even though she knew this was normal for the consulting detective, she had half hoped that the help she had given him when he faked his death would have proved her worth and capability to him. Sherlock however didn't see it, he simply stared blankly down at Molly.

"I've got to go. I'll be back later." And without a backward glance he strode from the room.

Watching his retreating back Molly sighed, and started to clear away the slides and samples. She carefully labelled them and placed them in the storage facility, knowing he would expect them to be available when he deigned to return.

The cab driver could see that the pale dark-haired passenger was becoming increasingly irritated by the delay in his journey. The traffic was heavier than usual, perhaps due to the multitude of tourists that had descended on the capital, whatever the cause, his passenger was not happy. Every two minutes he pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and stared at it, as if willing a call or a message, and every two minutes he was doomed to disappointment. The driver opened his mouth to speak but…

"No. Don't speak! Just get me to Baker Street as quickly and quietly as possible!"

With a slight shake of his head the driver decided some passengers were best ignored.

At last Sherlock climbed out of the cab, paying the driver and stalking in through the black door. He took the stairs two at a time, burst through the flat door and stopped dead, frozen to the spot.

John Watson lay, unconscious on the living room floor, a fair sized blood stain on the carpet under his leg.

A/N: Apologies to any medical specialists reading this – my last first aid trainer assured me the tourniquet method of slowing bleeding is only used in extreme cases, but as poor John was on his own I feel he would have taken that precautionary measure.