As John sat on his couch, typing away at his computer, quite satisfied with his cuppa and the clanking coming from his keyboard, he heard a knock. He groaned, setting his computer aside and heading to the door. He bit back the cruel remarks he had planned for his visitor when he saw Sebastia leaning against the wall, holding her bleeding side. He waved her inside, glancing around to make sure no one was watching before he closed the door. He turned around to find that she had disappeared. He grabbed his small first aid kit and headed to the loo, assuming correctly that it was where she had disappeared to.

She was lying in the bathtub, considerate enough to try to keep the blood off his floor. His new landlord wasn't as forgiving as Mrs. Hudson when it came to destruction. She smiled up at him weakly as he prodded her into a sitting position, wincing as she lifted her arms so he could peel off her dirty shirt. He frowned at the gash on her side, grabbing a damp rag and dabbing gently at it. She suffered in silence as he went about his work, doing what no clinic would do. Patch her up without asking questions. That is, until he saw a nasty bruise on her raised wrist. One that looked a lot like a handprint. He took her hand gently to examine it, giving her a look when she tried to pull it away.

"Alright. What's this?"

She frowned up at him, but there was persistence in his gaze. "It's nothing, John," she huffed, like a child tired of being coddled.

"No, no it's not nothing. How did anyone get ahold of you long enough to leave this?" He moved his hand to match the scar. Hands held above her head. He raised an eyebrow at her.

She sighed bitterly and looked down at her lap. "He got the jump on me. I took care of it, though."

Dead now, John was sure. He didn't press the matter any further. He simply released her hand and nudged her arm back up so he could finish cleaning her side, stitching her side with tenderness and taping gauze over the area to protect it. He made a satisfied noise, pleased with his handiwork, and she stood. She kissed his head, pulled her messy shirt on over the gauze, and disappeared through the door. He heard the front door a moment later. She wasn't staying then.

He knew it was silly, feeling so protective of her. It was like trying to coddle a hurricane. She could take care of herself. Except when she couldn't. The thought flashed through the back of his mind, just to torture him for a second. He pushed it away and turned on the shower to rinse the blood out of his bathtub, letting the stray thought drain with the crimson.

He hated that bruise.