Summary: Sherlock gets hurt upon his return after three years of absence. Unlike the last time he saw him bloodied, John can actually help him now. Mostly fluff.

Rated: T for one tension-easing sexual joke.

"Where are we?" John stumbled into a random apartment two blocks away from where they had just gotten into a traffic collision. His head was spinning and he was pretty sure he was having a panic attack, but he refused to go with the paramedics to get checked out. He needed to know he wasn't crazy. He needed to know that it really was Sherlock Holmes who saved them from Moran, not just his hopeful imagination.

Lestrade was leaning up against the hallway wall, eyes slightly vacant. Their eyes connected and John knew that his eyes mirrored Lestrade's; they both saw- rather, heard- Sherlock. It was too dark to actually see him, but they would know that voice anywhere.

Mycroft was standing next to them looking more at ease. He pushed passed the two men and into the living room where Molly was turning lights on and setting her gun on the table.

"This is Sherlock's flat. He's been staying here for a little over a year now to keep closer to the action."

"Sherlock lives here?" John asked, voice tight.

"No," Molly shook her head. "He doesn't live here. He only stays." Her eyes turned gentle, knowing.

The flat was relatively small and messy, but much more organized than Baker Street had ever been. It was as if Sherlock never really settled here, like he had no intention of settling.

"Where is he?" John's voice was barely over a whisper.

"Right here."

As Molly shuffled off to the kitchen to grab something, Sherlock Holmes stood in the doorway of the living room, tall as ever, still quite lean, but with a new definition of muscles that made him look dangerous. They contrasted dramatically with his face. His hair had been cut short, only the bangs hanging down slightly, and dyed dirty blond. His eyebrows and sideburns matched perfectly, and if John didn't know any better he'd say this was actually Sherlock's natural color. The color softened his face, and that slight pull of his lips made him look more friendly than he ever had.

"Sherlock," John breathed. He pulled his eyes away from Sherlock's to stare daggers at the cut on his face. When they were escaping the building Sebastian Moran brought them to, Molly pulled up in a black car and they piled in, speeding away to safety. Nobody expected one of the guards to follow them, nor did they expect the guard's jeep to smash into their small car, head-on facing the passenger seat, knocking Sherlock over into Molly. By the time the paramedics got there, Sherlock was nowhere to be found and Molly told them not to mention him.

But here he was, standing in black pants and a dark gray t-shirt, a cloth pressed to his bleeding forehead. He swayed a little and both Lestrade and John reached out, grabbing him by the elbow to sit him down. John grabbed the cloth from him to inspect the cut.

"You won't need stitches, but you will need that glass taken out." Molly reappeared with a first-aid kit and set in down on a table in front of John.

"Let me, John." Sherlock reached for the kit; his hand was promptly smacked away.

"No, no, I'm doing it. Hold still." He pulled the tweezers out and pushed Sherlock's head back for better light.

"Really, John, I can handle this-"

"No, stop it!" John cut him off angrily. "The last time I saw you with blood on your face, you had just jumped off a building! You weren't breathing, and there was nothing I could do to...to s-save you," his voice cracked and he paused to compose himself. Sherlock was watching him with mournful eyes. "Now your head is bleeding again, and I can help you. So I'm going to do just that, and you're going to shut the hell up and let me!"

Everyone watched John cautiously. Most of them probably thought he was pissed off at Sherlock, but, truthfully, he was just so relieved to have him back. Sherlock apparently knew, because his eyes watered up a little and his lips tugged up into a smile.

"I'm oddly aroused right now," he joked. The tension instantly evaporated in a fit of laughter. John smiled fondly at the younger man and tilted his head back once more.

"Now hold still."

"Yes, doctor."

They couldn't say the things they needed to, not in front of the others. But they shared a look, soft and loving, that said more than words ever could. Sherlock was alive and safe, and John was whole again.

Sorry about this, guys. I really wanted to write this scene that you have here, but I didn't feel like writing the back story (i.e. John, Mycroft and Lestrade being taken, Sherlock and Molly swooping in to save the day, the car chase, and finally the flat scene where this fluff happens and Sherlock explains everything). I mean, I wish I could (maybe I will at some point) but for now I don't have the attention span for all that. Anyway, this scene seems a little lacking for that reason, and I apologize for that. Please review anyways, though!