John had been walking from the store back to Baker Street when his phone rang. Probably Sherlock.
John and the consulting detective had fought about who was going to go to the store this time. In fact, Sherlock has never gone. John reached the end of his temper and snapped on Sherlock. Unintentionally, the argument had turned into everything John didn't like about his flatmate. Finally, the argument ended with Sherlock storming out of the flat after John told him he had to learn not to be so heartless to people who did not meet his massive intellect.
John sighed and pulled out his phone. Opening it, he muttered, "Hello?"
"John." Lestrade's voice wavered, throwing John off. Sure, he wasn't stone-faced Sherlock, but this was a voice John had never heard come from the detective.
"Greg. How are you?" John questioned, confused at the already awkward conversation.
"Uh, ok, yeah, good. Um..Listen, are you close to Baker Street?"
"Yeah, I'm actually on my way back now. Is everything ok? Do you have a case for us?"
Lestrade sighed, breathing out air straight into the phone. "No, uh, it's Sherlock. I'm not sure what happened. But, you need to get here."
John's steps quickened. He was used to Sherlock's emergencies turning out to not actually be emergencies, but Lestrade sounded genuinely upset. "I'm not to far away. What happened? Is Sherlock ok?"
"I was coming over with a case for him and he wasn't here. Mrs. Hudson let me in and I waited for awhile. He got here and has been yelling since he walked in. He bleeding and won't let me get close to him. I'm pretty sure he came back from the bar."
"He's bleeding?"
"I think he was attacked, John. But he won't tell me anything."
"Isss that, John?" Sherlock's voice comes from far away on the other line and John can clearly hear the drunken tone.
"Yeah, hang on, Sherlock," Lestrade says, in a calming voice that John has never heard him use towards Sherlock.
John starts to jog, presses the phone impossibly closer to his ear. "I'm almost there, Lestrade. Keep him calm."
John can practically hear Lestrade nod from the other line. "Hurry, John."
John burst thorough the door and began pounding up the stairs to his flat. Immediately, he heard voices.
"Sherlock, please-"
Lestrade's voice sounded nervous.
"You said you were bringing me a case. Why are you even here? Did they send you here?"
John ran faster at Sherlock's words. He was making no sense. Definitely, a bit not good.
Finally, John reached the door of the flat. Lestrade turned towards him, but John's gaze was fixed on Sherlock.
"John. Will you tell him to leave? He is boring me."
John did not reply. Sherlock stood in the middle of the living room. His normally perfect white shirt was stained with blood. John knows it medically impossible for your heart to drop into your stomach, but he swears he felt it happen in that moment.
The left side of Sherlock's face is covered in blood and his eye is a nasty shade of black and purple. It has swollen enough that the eye is barely open.
"Sherlock, what happened?"
"What do you mean? Lestrade came to bring me a case and he has yet to tell me about it," Sherlock slurred, shooting a glare in Lestrade's direction.
The smell of alcohol hangs in the air. John takes in Sherlock's dilated pupils. So defiantly under the influence then.
"Sherlock, listen to me. You have been drinking. Your hurt badly and the alcohol is most likely numbing you from the pain."
Sherlock slowly drags his eyes down to his body. Taking in the blood on his shirt, he suddenly looks up and points to Lestrade. "He did it."
Lestrade would have laughed, if the situation wasn't so serious.
Sherlock laughs and shakes his head back and forth, trying to rid the dizziness overcoming him.
Noticing this, John takes a step forward.
"No, don't come near me," Sherlock huffs out, taking a drunken step back.
"Sherlock, why don't you just sit down and let me take a look at you?" John asked hesitantly, hands up in front of him.
"Why?" Sherlock yelled, running a bloodied hand over his face, trying to keep his balance.
John had to steady himself as he got full sight of the wound on Sherlock's stomach when the shirt lifted. There were three long, thin gashes, from beneath his heart to his hip. The crimson slashes made the consulting detective look even more pale than he already was. They did not look too deep, but the blood was at a constant steady flow. A small pool of blood was beginning to form on the floor beneath him. The effects of the alcohol are thinning his blood. John felt his own blood run cold.
"Sherlock." John was fighting to keep his voice steady. "Please sit down."
"John-John, I'm fine," Sherlock stammered. His eyes began to falter and John took an urgent step towards him.
Sherlock instinctively stepped back, but his foot caught on a curve in the rug and he fell backwards. He landed straight into his chair behind him. Landing harshly, Sherlock let out a cry as a shooting pain shot through his body.
Lestrade and John ran towards him. John reached him first, closing the short distance between them. John knelt in front of Sherlock.
Sherlock moaned and roll his head along the back of the chair. "W-why did tha- hurt? J-John?"
"I know. I need to check you over," John calmly stated.
"Hurts, John."
Taking that as confirmation John pushed apart Sherlock's shirt and almost gasped at the purple bruises coating the right side of his body.
"Jesus, Sherlock."
John heard Lestrade hiss behind him. John jumped, having almost forgotten the man was still there. "Lestrade, can you grab my medical bag from my room and a towel with a bowl of warm water."
"Uh, yeah. Of course," Lestrade responded, unnerved by the situation.
"John, wha- happened?"
"I was hoping you could tell me," John stated, running a soft hand over the bruises.
"Bar."
"Yes, obviously," John smirked.
"What do you mean?"
"You smell like a bar, Sherlock," John laughed and met Sherlock's tired eyes for a moment before going back to his ministrations.
John pressed over the bruises.
Sherlock let out a cry. "Why did you do that?"
"I have to check for broken ribs," John sighed.
"Well, your not very nice about it, doctor."
John laughed and turned when Lestrade set the requested items by his side. "He has a broken rib."
Lestrade let out a sigh, running a hand through his hair.
"It didn't puncture anything, but it's going to take a while to heal," John sighed. "Which means no cases for a while." John met Sherlock's drunken gaze with his own stern one.
"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock slurred.
"Lestrade, can you wet the cloth and lay it over his ribs."
Lestrade did a requested and Sherlock moaned for a moment before the warm cloth caused him to relax.
"So who'd you piss off this time?" John asked, beginning to clean the wounds. "This is going to sting."
Sherlock bit back a hiss. "It wasn't my fault. I only told the man he should tell his wife about the feelings he has for his best friend, who was a man. There were three of them," Sherlock stated, his voice starting to sound a bit more sober.
"And in your drunken state you couldn't fight them off," John commented. "Jesus, Sherlock."
"You just can't keep your mouth shut, can you Sherlock?" Lestrade laugh, receiving a tired grin from Sherlock.
John finished cleaning the wounds and wrapped Sherlock's torso is bandages, much to his dismay.
"I'm tired," Sherlock sighed, when John finished.
"Well, that's a first," John stated, standing up.
With the help of John and Lestrade, Sherlock made his way over to the couch and sank comfortably into it.
"I'll make tea," Lestrade said, receiving a nod of thanks from John.
John moved his chair to sit in front of the couch and plopped down into running a hand over his face.
"John."
John looked up at Sherlock. The man still looked pale, but much better than before.
"I'm sorry about earlier."
"Don't. It's fine," John said, leaning his head back on the chair and closing his eyes. "It's all fine."
"Thank you, John."
John's eyes shot open, surprised, but Sherlock was already asleep.
A/N I would like to add another chapter to this, but that depends on what you guys thought :) Please review!