Sherlock was a bit pale, but otherwise ok when John returned, he was tapping on his phone and in response to John's questioning gaze the consulting detective answered "Mycroft" and inclined his head towards the empty house which now held the body of Sebastian Moran and a knife with Sherlock's blood on it. John took that to mean that big brother was in for a spot of cleaning up, John didn't like to think what would happen to the body, suffice to say, no-one would ever find it.
The doctor drew up a syringe of lidocaine, taking care not to give too much, for fear of reawakening the addict inside Sherlock.
He helped the consulting detective off with his coat and shirt then tied a tourniquet above his elbow on his good arm. Seeing the expanse of Sherlock's smooth pale skin made John feel a bit lightheaded and he didn't dare look up, to where he knew the younger man's blue-grey eyes were fixed on him.
"Ok, sharp scratch" He injected the painkiller into Sherlock's shoulder and the consulting detective smiled at John's clinical manner.
"Thank you doctor." Sherlock almost purred the words and John could feel the man's voice reverberating around the tiny living room. Once again, his stomach flipped with the anticipation of something between them, like electricity strung out and passing from one to the other.
"Ok Sherlock, I'm going to look at this wound. If it looks deep enough to have hit bone, or damaged connective tissue, I'll have to take you to hospital."
Sherlock looked more annoyed than anything else with the prospect of attending A&E and the police asking questions, more questions on top of the one's he'd face about his return from the dead. But he knew there was no use arguing with John when it came to his health. He just nodded and scowled.
Luckily John was able to see that the blade had gone in at an angle, upwards and outwards, and was unlikely to have penetrated the joint capsule.
"I'm going to stitch this now and it'll hurt, but I'll be quick" The cleaning and stitching that followed was punctuated by a couple of whispered expletives and hisses from Sherlock, but otherwise passed in silence. Sherlock Holmes was an excellent patient. He wasn't squeamish, usually managed to remain still and conscious through his injuries and the medical knowledge he possessed allowed him to help out, by passing John equipment. But he always let John stitch him up, because John's stitches were neater than his.
In the times he'd needed John's medical expertise back in Baker Street, the army doctor had seen the evidence of badly stitched scars where Sherlock had sutured his own wounds. John never passed comment, but it had become an unspoken rule between them, if Sherlock needed medical attention, he would call John and John would come running, dropping everything else in the process if necessary, his work, a girlfriend, the shopping, no matter, Sherlock took precedence.
However, there had been one time where John had needed stitches and discovered that his hand wasn't as steady on himself as it was on others. That night Sherlock had cleaned the wound on John's thigh and had steadied John's shaking hand, before taking the needle from him. 'Let me' he'd said quietly, 'I'll be neat'. And although it had been slower progress than John would have liked, they were indeed the neatest stitches he'd seen an amateur perform. John had been immensely grateful and touched by Sherlock's show of kindness. That hadn't been long before Moriarty had arrived back in their lives and taken Sherlock from him. John had often remembered that last quiet moment between the two of them and the strange look in Sherlock's eyes when he'd traced the finished sutures with his finger and rested his hand briefly on John's leg, before going to make him tea.
John could feel a slight flush on his cheeks as Sherlock watched him now. Perhaps he knew he was remembering that night and working out how he felt about it. Perhaps he was thinking of what had happened between them earlier. John's hand trembled slightly again, but luckily he'd come to the end of the sutures and began to wipe the blood and iodine from Sherlock's shoulder. He then looked at his finished masterpiece; all the scars he'd seen on Sherlock's skin were masterpieces, because the man himself looked like a statue that only a gifted sculptor could have created. Before John registered what he was doing he reached out and gently traced the closed wound with his fingertips. He made to stand, to get a gauze with which to cover it, but Sherlock moved swiftly, grabbing John by his left shoulder, the wounded one.
"Let me see". John looked down, embarrassed, the flush on his cheeks no longer hidden.
"No" He pulled back out of Sherlock's grasp.
"Why not?"
"I don't know Sherlock, because it's ugly and I hate it" He stood then, grabbing a dressing and throwing it onto Sherlock's lap. "Put that over your stitches".
"You mean it's a sign of weakness and you feel guilty, because it made you leave your comrades behind."
"Piss off" John spat suddenly, twisting away from Sherlock's attempt to touch him again. "You haven't earned the right to start rearranging me again Sherlock."
"No John, I'm not trying to … I just thought that … well, I mean …" Sherlock gestured to his own wound and sounded vulnerable once more, but John eyed him suspiciously. He'd seen Sherlock put on this act before, when he'd pretended to cry to a witness, when he'd apologised to Molly; he wasn't sure it was genuine.
"I'm not your experiment Sherlock, I'm your friend and you can help me tonight by being ordinary and boring and going to bed. You take mine, I'll have the couch." With that John turned away and made as if to take his first aid kit back to the bathroom. But for the second time that night, he found a pair of arms wrapped around him from behind.
"Sherlock" he growled with a mixture of tiredness and anger.
"Please John" Sherlock whispered in his ear, "I know you don't show your scar to anyone, that you keep a t-shirt on, or switch the lights off during sex, that you dress before stepping from the bathroom, that you don't have a mirror that shows more than your face." John tensed and felt as though he might be on the verge of a panic attack. What was Sherlock doing to him? Why was he doing it? "But I want to be the one who sees it John, I want to make you pleased to have that scar, because it brought you to me, I want you to recognise all your best qualities in it."
"Why now?" John was on the verge of tears again and Sherlock still hadn't relinquished his hold on him; somehow it felt right to be here though, in Sherlock's arms, the consulting detective so close, whispering such wonderful things.
"It's a paltry comparison John, but I have an equal scar now. It seems right that I should have gotten this for your sake. You have healed my wound, I wish to do the same for yours."
And suddenly John realised that Sherlock wasn't just talking about the wound he'd sustained in Afghanistan, he was talking about the 18 months he'd been 'dead' and everything John had suffered as a result of his grief.
The army doctor nodded once, briefly, and Sherlock released him, watching him turn and gasp slightly to find Sherlock so close to him.
John slowly pulled the neck of his jumper to one side, but Sherlock shook his head. "No, take it off" John scowled. "Please, John?"
John sighed with exasperation and began removing his jumper, but Sherlock noted the slight trembling of his body and faint blush blooming across his face. As the jumper was thrown aside, John couldn't meet Sherlock's intense gaze. Instead he started filling the silence of the consulting detective's scrutiny with words.
"There you go you persistent git, it's ugly, I told you, Sherlock, we can't all wear wounds as bloody perfectly as you can." John made to move his hand then to cover the scar, but Sherlock's elegant fingers came to rest against the ruined flesh and began tracing the starburst of keloid scarring that stretched below the clavicle, over the glenoid and back, behind the scapula.
"Beautiful" Sherlock whispered and John looked up, mouth gaping.
"What?"
"It's beautiful John" Sherlock traced it again and this time the look in his eyes made John shiver. John swallowed thickly and then jerked away. Sherlock's hand hovered in the air between them.
"Why did you kiss me?" The words were out before John even registered that he'd said them. He blushed and looked at the floor, but Sherlock reached out and tilted his chin back up.
Sherlock stared at him until John couldn't take the scrutiny. He reflexively covered his scar with his right hand again and jerked his head away from Sherlock's touch. Sherlock kept opening and closing his mouth as if to speak, searching for the right words, but he couldn't seem to get them out.
"Look Sherlock" John still avoided his gaze, "it doesn't matter, we'll talk in the morning." John went to grab his jumper, but once again, Sherlock gripped his arm. John almost exploded in frustration.
"Are you going to let me do anything tonight, or are you going to keep manipulating me like a bloody puppet?"
"Because I've wanted to come home for so long John and you are my home."
"I'm sorry, what?" John looked at him then with a partly puzzled, partly annoyed expression.
"Why I kissed you, you are my home John. Was it wrong of me?"
"Fucking hell" John exhaled again, "I swear Sherlock, if you're playing me, I'm going to get violent; I'm not in the mood for this right now." but as soon as John's words were out, he regretted them, as he saw Sherlock's usually impassive face crumple and tears swim in his eyes.
"Jo…John" Although his tears didn't fall, Sherlock's voice cracked as he reached a trembling hand towards the former army medic's ruined shoulder and John dropped his own hand from his scar to allow Sherlock to touch him again, puzzled as to why this should mean so much to him.
"What's wrong Sherlock? What happened to you?"
"I'm not a good man John, not like you" He traced John's scar once more with a reverent look. "How do you become a good man?" John gripped Sherlock's wrist tightly and holding the younger man's hand against his scar, John moved his free hand to Sherlock's shoulder, tracing the new stitches, then to a pink scar on his chest, another on his arm, then over his ribs, cataloguing all the new scars Sherlock had sustained in his quest to wipe out Moriarty's network.
"All these Sherlock, they make you more than a good man in my eyes."
"I killed a child John" Sherlock's voice trembled and John froze, his mind screaming 'No, god no'.