"It turned out in the end. I don't see how it is concerning to you." His elegant eyebrow arched as John's jaw fell in frank surprise. John mouthed silently a few times before turning his head away disgustedly.
"It *is* concerning to me Sherlock. Surely your brilliant mind can see that!" He turned back to face the stoic detective and glared. His eyes traced over the thin trickle of blood that had dried down the side the other man's face. A split over one sharp cheek bone was swelling and oozing its own rivulet. Rib damage made Holmes stand less than straight. "You forget that not everyone plays by your rules! You're lucky you weren't shot, you know that right?"
Sherlock scoffed. "Shot? My dear Watson, they wouldn't have shot me."
"Oh? And why not pray tell?" John paced a small circle in front of couch.
Sherlock stepped gingerly around him and flopped onto the sofa. He propped his feet up on the arm rest, ankles crossed, and raised his arm to cover his eyes. "Because they were caught. There was no benefit in it to shoot me." An involuntary twitch was the only outward indication he gave of pain.
"Caught? Dear god, man, do you hear yourself? They thought nothing of beating you with that pipe -"
"Part of a tire iron." Sherlock interjected.
"Who cares what they hit you with - the point is that if I hadn't been able to decipher that note you left me you'd have been down that alley alone in the middle of the bloody night with no back up." Honestly, the note had been unintelligible to him. He'd followed a hunch and gotten lucky, but the detective didn't need to know that. Holmes didn't believe in intuition and gut feelings, only what could be seen and deduced, but John knew that sometimes you just had to go by instinct.
"Note?" Sherlock rose, less smoothly than usual, and stood in front the doctor. "I didn't leave a note."
"Yes. You did. On the table." He motioned towards the cluttered sideboard.
Sherlock covered the distance in three long strides, snatching the paper John indicated. His eyes flicked over it and a slow smile spread across his lips. He turned, slight smirk curling his features as he looked at John. "This?" A nod from the shorter man. "This is a list of cases I've solved reading the papers this week. It has nothing to do with my whereabouts tonight."
Dumbfounded John snatched the scrap from the detective and scanned over it again. "I... Well. Then." He closed his mouth, turned on his heel, and strode toward his room. He spoke over his shoulder. "You should clean those cuts. The cheek shouldn't scar, but you'll have a hell of a bruise. If the ribs are just bruised, or broken, the treatment stays the same and you won't abide. You should take it easy and rest." He shook his head, chuckling ruefully. "But I know you won't."