Neither of them have much to say after that.
It's quiet for several long minutes, both men too absorbed in fiddling with imaginary threads and not-so-imaginary bruises to acknowledge the double edged comment that hangs thickly in the air.
It's always been complicated, Sherlock supposes, and frankly, he himself has little to offer in the way of explanation. They are both fully-competent in the delicacy of the situation, the tricky business of this whole "coming back" fiasco, though Sherlock doubts that John understands the weight which his marriage (and subsequent choice of a life partner) has on his own, fragile universe crafted in the silence between.
His cheek is beginning to sting a little.
"I'm sorry." John says out of no where, and despite the inevitability of this break, Sherlock can't help but twitch at the sudden sound. "I'm so— I don't know what—" He shakes his head, as though ridding it of the excessive thoughts floating about in it, looking lost and slightly pained. "I'll get us both patched up."
John digs up the med kit, still opened, from beneath the coffee table, and Sherlock stumbles, blindly, back to the sofa, back yet again to be fixed at the hands of his destroyer.
"Split lip."
Sherlock hums.
"Sorry about that."
If he listens carefully, John doesn't sound very sorry at all. His doctor dips into the kit, dabs sweetly at his cheek. Sherlock forces himself to freeze, to stop, to cease all feeling of John's body against his own. He shrugs.
"It's fine."
It's not.
"Might be some bruising on your ribs too."
"Doubtful."
"We might as well check."
"There is no 'we' involved, John, they are my ribs, you are the one who is doing the prodding, and I'd rather not be bandaged by the same hand that broke them, thanks."
"Sherlock—"
"I said no, John. I said no—" He twists away, stopping himself as his left side screams in protest.
"Shit, sit down for a second, would you? You're just going to make them worse—"
"I know what—"
"Does this hurt?"
He sucks in a breath just in time to bite back a moan.
"That's a yes, then. Come on, let's see."
"I said no, John! Don't you—"
"Just lift up your shirt—"
"I said I don't want—"
And then suddenly everything is very, very, silent, and John's face crumples like paper, and Sherlock feels as all the air is sucked from the room as John's fingers hover, terrified, above the marred flesh.
"Jesus."
Spiderwebs of bruising pattern the pale expanse of chest, spilling over onto ribs, back, spine.
"Jesus, Sherlock."
Dark, black, purple, blue. Imprints of a boot. Tendrils of a whip.
"Who did this."
Sherlock snaps. What difference does it make to John? "Does it matter?"
John looks wounded at the question, an emotional punch to the gut as he struggles to find enough breath for words. He splutters. Sherlock maintains the calm.
"They're dead, if that makes any difference."
"Not particularly."
"No? I would've thought the whole 'eye for an eye' thing would be right up your alley." His brow furrows. "They're dead, John, they got what was coming to them regardless."
John breathes out shakily. "Yeah well I hope Mycroft beat the living hell out of them. I mean, Jesus have you seen yourself in a mirror lately? These are serious, Sherlock, have you even been checked out by a proper doctor? And don't lie, I might be an idiot but Mycroft is bloody well not, and if you don't tell me the truth I swear to god I will barge into that stupid club of his and demand to know what the—"
"What makes you so sure Mycroft would have stepped in and patched me up?" Sherlock snarls, eyes ripe with the glow of new fury.
John is taken aback. "What?"
"Mycroft. You're making it sound as though my dear brother has been following me around, offering little treats to keep poor, pathetic Sherlock from accidentally killing himself, when perhaps, if you weren't so absorbed with your own pitiful attempt at a life, you'd have noticed that had it not been for Mycroft complete ineptitude and indifference toward my- oh, how shall we put this- torture, I would not be here before you looking like a piece of poorly butchered meat."
He stares at John, cold and bitter and distant, and yet through his gated gaze, John can sense the faintest cry of pain; an agonized plea for help that perhaps only he can hear.