My thanks to those of you who have left reviews for this story or are tracking it. It means more than I can say!

Disclaimers:

1. I don't own Sherlock, but I sure wish that I did.

2. This story has not been beta-ed or Brit-picked, so all errors are my own, and I apologize for them.

Research and Plot:
My research on concussions indicates that the full effects of this form of traumatic brain injury can evolve over the course of hours - or even days - so while John seems relatively uninjured as he's walking with Sarah while Sherlock stops to speak with Dimmock, the full effects of getting pistol whipped and knocked unconscious are still developing.

This chapter is set immediately after the events in the tramway tunnel in "The Blind Banker."

Evolution of Faith and Trust in D Minor

Chapter Two: It's Where Two People Who Like Each Other Go Out and Have Fun

"I am not an idiot!" John complained as he stumbled out of the cab behind Sherlock. He rummaged around in his pockets for the keys to their flat, but Sherlock was already unlocking the door and crossing the threshold before John even remembered that when last he left the flat, he hadn't been afforded the chance to grab his keys.

"Says the doctor with a concussion who refused medical treatment at a crime scene despite the fact that he was knocked unconscious for 30 minutes," Sherlock said, voice dripping with sarcasm. He reached out one long arm to grab John by the collar of his jacket as the doctor's balance gave out, yet again, and hauled him carefully yet none too gracefully down the hall and up the 17 steps to their flat.

"You refuse treatment all the time," John pointed out, clawing at the bannister for balance as they made the turn onto the second flight. So as not to disturb Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock had forgone the light in the foyer, and with flat above dark as well, the staircase was much blacker than usual. To top if off, John's vision was starting to blur a bit, and even with Sherlock's help, he feared taking a tumble.

Sherlock's head spun to face the man he was practically carrying up the stairs now. "I have a doctor at home. You do not." His voice was a dark as the stairs. The detective was clearly annoyed about something.

"I am your doctor at home."

"And as such you cannot treat yourself for a concussion and a bleeding head injury which is why you should have accepted treatment at the scene. 'A physician who treats himself has a …"

"'Fool for a patient'," they said at the same time.

"I am not a fool," John insisted.

"No, you're an idiot. Are you not paying attention, or should I count this as another symptom of the concussion?" Sherlock demanded as they reached the landing in front of their door. "You know you can't tend to your own wounds, so that means I have to do it." Sherlock propped John up against the open door to their flat with one hand as he searched for the light switch within.

"I'll be fine. I'll take care of it myself. Just drop me in my chair, and I'll – " John's voice trailed off as Sherlock's searching fingers found the switch and the room was bathed in light. "Oh, my God …"

"Seating seems to be at a bit of a premium right now," Sherlock said dryly. He pulled the two strips of blue and white tape from the doorway and tossed them to the floor. Dimmock's people had been at 221B while Sarah, John, and Sherlock were giving their reports and filling out paperwork at the tramway tunnel, but the police only processed crime scenes; they didn't actually clean them up.

The room was in complete disarray. The crates of books had been up-ended; the contents of John's desk – including his laptop – had been knocked to the floor, cushions ripped up from the chairs and the sofa.

While the untrained eye would only notice that the room had been tossed, due to his months as Sherlock's colleague, John's eye was no longer completely untrained. Yes, the Black Lotus had clearly searched the room for the Empress pin, but it had been a cursory search at best. There were darker, subtler signs that something far more troubling had taken place here. The crooked pictures on the wall to his right, the overturned desk chair, the scuff marks on the corner of the coffee table in front of the sofa, three fresh gouges – from fingernails? – scraped through the old paint of the door casing. All signs of a struggle.

Sarah.

"Sarah's fine, John," Sherlock said. "You examined her yourself when the medics were done, and Dimmock's people have taken her home." He shrugged out of his coat and scarf and tossed them on the sofa, all the while keeping one hand firmly planted on John's left shoulder to keep him upright. "Feisty one, your date. Wouldn't go quietly even when they threatened her with a gun. That's why they couldn't search but this room and the kitchen. Made too much noise."

The doctor's mind barely noticed when Sherlock tucked his shoulder under John's left arm and all but carried him through the kitchen and down the short hall to his bedroom where he sat John down gently on the bed. "Stay right there," Sherlock said and then left the room.

John's mind whirled with the memories of the night: waking up in the tramway tunnel, confused and disoriented; the damp, musty smell of disuse; the heat of the fires burning in the dustbins; General Shen's threats; the horrifying yet empty click of her handgun when she pulled the trigger; Sarah struggling at her bonds beside him; the bolt of the crossbow aimed at her heart. Things could have gone so wrong if Sherlock hadn't shown up when he did …

Sherlock passed his hand through the stream of water that flowed from the tap in the bathroom. Still too cold. Typical. The pipes in the building were old and the boiler in the cellar older still. Waiting for the conduits to fulfill his demand, Sherlock pulled several clean towels from the linen cupboard and set them under John's medical bag where he had set it on top of the closed seat of the loo. His fingers lingered on the well-worn leather of the kit and a slight shudder ran through him when he considered how close …

Sherlock had been euphoric over the fact that he had decoded the cipher. So much so that he failed to notice the blood on the front stoop, the abandoned place settings on the kitchen table, the –

For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes had understood the cliché, but the truth of the matter was "heart dropping to the pit of his stomach" didn't even begin to cover the sensation. Not. One. Bit.

Sherlock gripped the edge of the washbasin. How many precious seconds had he wasted staring in shock at the ominous cipher scrawled across the windows?

Dead man.

John!

His brain, his "massive intellect," had failed him in that moment and his emotions took control. John was gone. John was in danger. Not the girl. Not at first. Only John. Why? Finally, the adrenaline of panic that rushed through his body – a biochemical, "Move your bloody arse!" as it were – kick-started his mind and snapped him back to action.

The ride from the flat to the tramway tunnel had been interminable. Rarely had Sherlock ever taken note of traffic lights and roundabouts; all they had ever been were a sort of "visual white noise" to the symphony of his thoughts, but their dull humming had turned to an antagonistic roar of laughter as heavier than usual traffic kept the cab from quickly traversing the few miles between. How they mocked him and his desperation to reach his friend. He had arrived in time, though ultimately, it was John himself who had prevented Sarah from being skewered by a crossbow bolt and, consequently, kept Sherlock from being strangled to death by an over-zealous acrobat with a silk fetish.

Even the bravado of his taunts at General Shan had been just that, boldness and bluster, neither of which he had actually felt. His only concern had been to get John – and, yes of course, Sarah – out of there, and in his haste to free the woman from her bonds, Sherlock had failed to take note of the assassin in the shadows.

During the relative silence of the cab ride home – punctuated occasionally by John's grunts of pain as the full extent of his injuries began to manifest themselves– Sherlock attempted to deduce why he had reacted so viscerally to John's abduction.

He had long since concluded that John was an invaluable part of his life. Over the last several months, John had more than proven his worth as the "trusted companion" Sherlock had described that night at the Chinese restaurant.

John was steadfast and loyal, had a stout heart and kind soul, so the ferocity with which the good doctor – no in those situations, the good soldier – protected Sherlock from danger had come as a bit of as surprise, yet it served to highlight the fact that John Watson was neither just "doctor" nor just "soldier." The two were as intertwined within his nature as were honeysuckle with hazel – neither part surviving without the other.

Sherlock counted John as a friend, perhaps his only friend, but was such a response typical of friendship? Sadly, the result of Sherlock's analysis was unsettlingly inconclusive. There just wasn't enough comparative data.

An ancient yet familiar rumbling from within the wall pulled Sherlock's attention back to the present. The boiler had decided to surrender its treasure. Pushing thoughts of "what could have happened" to the back of his mind – utterly pointless they were, really – Sherlock took up the ceramic bowl he had brought in from the kitchen. He had his blogger to patch up.

Moments later, Sherlock's brisk stride echoed in the hallway. "Here. Take off your shirt and press this to your shoulder," Sherlock handed John one of the icepacks they kept in the fridge.

John woke from his reverie and looked up from the icepack in his hand to the room in which he sat. His brow furrowed with confusion. "Sherlock. Why am I in your bed"

Sherlock gave John a pointed stare before answering. "Your on my bed, not in it. I wasn't overly interested in tidying up the living room before setting you to rights, and I am definitely not going to haul you up another two flights of stairs," he muttered by way of explanation as he set down three towels and a bowl of water on the bedside table. He then dropped John's medical bag on the bed and began pulling out various items from its depths: gauze dressings, surgical tape and cotton, scissors, a compression bandage, a few plasters, antibiotic ointment, latex gloves. He took a small bottle of antiseptic solution and poured a measure of the liquid into the bowl of water.

"Are you going to take off that shirt or not?" Sherlock demanded as he pulled up a chair and sat in front of John.

"It's a head wound … "

"And a strained right shoulder and lacerations to both wrists." Sherlock huffed with frustration as he took the icepack from John's still fingers and set it on the bed. He leaned in and started to undo the buttons on John's striped shirt.

John jerked back at the unexpected contact. "I can do it," he protested.

"The adrenaline rush should be nearly spent by now, and you had your arms tightly bound behind your back for over an hour. Yes, please show me how well you can move them then, won't you?"

John moved his shoulders slightly to prove Sherlock wrong and grunted in pain and irritation when all he did was manage to prove Sherlock right. Damn but he wanted to rip that cocked eyebrow right off of Sherlock's face sometimes, the bloody git.

"John, you placed the responsibility of your care into my hands tonight," Sherlock said softly, his eyes intent on the doctor's. "Please, let me do the job you charged me with."

John sighed but nodded his consent.

Given the frustration Sherlock had exhibited since leaving the tramway tunnel, John was not prepared for the gentle manner in which he unbuttoned first the long row of buttons down the center of John's chest and then the ones at the cuffs, carefully avoiding the abrasions that marred John's wrists from the rough ropes that had been used to bind him.

Sherlock eased John's arms out of the sleeves and tossed the hideous shirt to the floor – we really need to get you to my tailor, John, Sherlock thought – before turning his attention to the undershirt. A few quick tugs released the white cotton from the waistband of John's trousers, but he quickly realized that getting John's arms out of this would be more problematic than it had been with the dress shirt.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow in silent query.

"Just do it. I'm not overly attached to it anyway," John said.

After a few quick cuts with the surgical scissors, Sherlock was able to pull the tatters of cotton away from John's torso and was greeted with his first glimpse of the bullet wound that had ended John's military career. The site was indeed a mess. A mass of pink scar tissue – some caused by the initial wound, some from the surgeries – wrapped its way across the top of John's shoulder as well as under his arm, but it was the subtle depression below John's left clavicle that caused Sherlock's heart to lurch for the second time that night. The doctor had once vaguely described his injury and indicated that he had contracted a staph infection that nearly claimed his life. Clearly, medical treatment had included surgically removing a noticeable portion of the infected tissue.

It took Sherlock only that moment between one heartbeat and another to gather his inferences, so John was thankfully none the wiser. He wouldn't appreciate the inspection. Yet as Sherlock stood to assess his friend's most recent injuries, he tried to push back the sensations that pulled at him when he considered the pain that John must have been in, that he might still be in, for it has not yet been a year since he was wounded, treated, and discharged. Sherlock was unsuccessful in doing so.

He leaned over John's body to inspect tonight's damage to the right shoulder. He palpated the tender skin, though why he did, he didn't know. It just seemed the thing to do.

"A few scrapes and the beginnings of some swelling. The bruising has potential, though."

John's responding grunt was a cross between a chuckle and a groan of pain as Sherlock pressed the icepack to his injured shoulder and began wrapping the compression bandage around John's torso and under his arm to keep it in place. John didn't feel at all uncomfortable as Sherlock's fingers brushed at his skin with each pass of the bandage. In fact it was rather comforting given the stress of the harrowing evening.

Odd, that. But perhaps not really all that odd. He trusted Sherlock implicitly and knew that despite the man's grumblings and protests to the contrary, he would give John the best care he was capable of providing.

Once the bandage was secure, Sherlock pressed his hand to the crook of John's neck to indicate that task was complete, then shook out one of the towels and draped it over the small lamp on the table before switching it on.

John smiled his thanks and was warmed that Sherlock had though to do so. Though sufficient for Sherlock to examine his shoulder, the light from the hallway wasn't enough for the detective to tend to the rest of John's injuries. Realizing that the concussion would likely make John sensitive to light, Sherlock had used the towel to shield it. There was now enough light for Sherlock to work, but not so much as to cause John any undue pain.

Sherlock slipped on the latex gloves and dipped a square of gauze dressing into the water. The solution was warm against John's skin as Sherlock carefully wiped away the blood from his temple. He tossed the used square into the bin at his side and grabbed another, and then another repeating the process until the blood was entirely cleansed from John's head, hair, ear, and cheek. Sherlock's ministrations were so gentle that John found his muscles relaxing for the first time since they'd taken on this bloody case. He closed his eyes and felt himself drifting under the care of his friend.

"Open your eyes, John," Sherlock said, tugging on his chin. "Not time to sleep yet. Concussion, remember?"

Yeah, right. Concussion. John opened his eyes and was met by Sherlock's close, gray stare as he evaluated his condition. John's breath caught in his chest at the unexpected nearness of the man.

"You're pupils seem to be appropriately reactive, but based on the way you're blinking, I'd say you're having a hard time focusing," Sherlock offered. He applied some antibiotic ointment to a cotton swab and then coated John's laceration liberally with it.

"A … a bit yeah," John stammered, trying to recover his composure. He swayed a touch where he sat. How much was from the concussion and how much was from – Stop it, John! Pull yourself together man! This is your friend, your flatmate, your colleague, and you're straight, remember?! "Umm … how'd you get so good at this?"

"I observe and apply," Sherlock said patiently as he affixed two butterfly plasters to John's cut and covered the lot with a gauze dressing he taped into place. Though the answer was obvious, Sherlock was willing to cut John a little slack tonight for he certainly wasn't himself. "You've been patching me up with some regularity since you moved in. It stood to reason that sooner or later I might have to do the same for you; I paid attention. I'm just glad that stitches are not required."

"Why are you so annoyed with me?" He hadn't meant to ask that, but it had been itching at him since Sherlock had turned taciturn in the cab coming home. John was becoming inured to Sherlock's silences – he had learned to interpret these moods from observing the man's body language – but this one was strange. It just hadn't felt like the others, yet by the time they pulled up to the kerb in front of 221B, Sherlock's silence had been replaced with frustrated monologue tinged with hints of anger.

Sherlock turned over John's left hand and carefully unbuckled the band of his wristwatch, setting it at the base of the lamp. "It's not like I walked up to the Black Lotus and said, 'Here I am! Please pistol whip me into unconsciousness and kidnap me and my date.'"

Sherlock didn't answer him. Though the detective was still mostly a mystery – John really hated the iceberg metaphor, but it was damned accurate in this case – he determined from the subtle expressions that flashed across Sherlock's face in the half-light of the room that he wasn't being ignored. No. Sherlock was wrestling with something. Something he wasn't sure how to express, which meant it was probably emotional in nature. Sherlock rarely had difficulty expressing anything else, after all.

So John would wait. He watched silently as Sherlock focused his outward attention on washing the wounds on John's wrists just as he had his temple: first the right and then the left. Dip, wring, swab, dab, toss. Dip, wring, swab, dab, toss. He even went so far as to use his pocket magnifying glass and a pair of tweezers to ensure that no rope fibers remained that might generate infection. The movements of Sherlock's long fingers were surprisingly graceful for their inexperience at the task; John found the motions almost hypnotic, and when his left hand started its trembling again – as it always did when the stress of battle left him – Sherlock lightly gripped the back of John's hand in the palm of his, stilling the tremors, and continued with his attentions.

As Sherlock worked, the open collar of his silk shirt shifted and John noticed the dark bruises and swelling coming up around Sherlock's neck where Soo Lin's brother had nearly strangled him with the silk sash. "You'll want to put some ice those soon," John said, indicating the welts. "And take some paracetamol."

Sherlock's quick nod was John's assurance only that the other man had heard him, not that he would comply.

When he was done taping the gauze dressing around John's more seriously injured left wrist, Sherlock quickly yet silently packed away the supplies, tied up the bag in the bin, and was about to take the basin to the bathroom when John boldly reached out to grab Sherlock's arm before he could escape to the loo.

"You didn't answer my question, Sherlock."

The detective clenched his hand into a fist where it hovered over the surface of the bloodied water. Then he sighed and dropped his arm. His fingers tangled briefly with John's as the doctor's hand slid off the silk sleeve and dropped along with Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock took one deep breath and then another, nervously tapping out a rhythm against the fine weave of his trouser leg as he sought for a response to a question he didn't fully understand himself.

"Get some rest, John," Sherlock said finally, looking over his shoulder at the man on his bed. His voice was at once so quiet and so deep that John thought he felt the words rather than heard them. "I'll wake you in two hours."

And with that, Sherlock took up the basin and the medical bag and disappeared down the hall.

John sat there for several minutes, debating whether he should follow Sherlock or Sherlock's instructions. The events of the evening had hit his friend in a way he was not expecting and Sherlock was having difficulty processing them. That much was clear. What was puzzling was why. He and Sherlock had been in dangerous situations before, and always Sherlock had come out the other side of the adventure buzzing with energy. While this case, and the way it was resolved, was definitely worthy of a multi-chapter post on the blog, they had been victorious. It had been dicey, but they had come home safely as they always had done before. What was different?

John was about to rise from the bed when achingly melancholic strains reached his ears. Though Sherlock insisted that playing his violin allowed him to think more clearly, John was increasingly convinced that the sounds elicited from that instrument had nothing to do with what was inside the brilliant man's head but was, instead, a reflection of what was trapped inside his heart. Based on the soft, sorrowful melody drifting through the flat, any overture that John attempted to make would be met with silence.

John sighed. Toeing off his shoes, he lay down gingerly on the luxurious duvet beneath him. As he sank into the comfortable mattress, his worry about his friend dissipated under the weight of his exhaustion and his injuries.

Each time John woke at Sherlock's quiet urging, he noticed subtle differences in the room: The knitted throw that covered him and kept him warm; the paracetamol pressed into his hand followed by cool, refreshing water; an extra pillow beneath his shoulders propping him up just a bit more comfortably.

The third time he followed his body's command to sleep, John noticed Sherlock settle his long frame into the chair he had pushed back under the window. A dark profile in an even darker room.

"Sherlock?" John mumbled, raising his head in query.

"Get some rest, John," Sherlock replied. His baritone was no longer tense and brittle but deep and soothing.

Hopeful that perhaps Sherlock had come out the other side of this adventure after all, John slept.

Reviews make for happy (and more prolific) writers. If you liked what you read or have some constructive criticism you'd like to offer, please, please, please write a review or send me a PM.

The next chapter will focus on the events of "The Great Game."

Ciao for now!

~ Sarah