VII.
Prevaricating
Molly Hooper is not the only person able to stitch an eyebrow back to its original situation, but she happens to be in the right place at the right time for this little piece of … fieldwork.
"Hold still- "
"Harridan."
"Idiot."
John offers a suture in lieu of his friend's bleeding head, but it appears his concerns are redundant.
The chase had been savage, bordering on the very limits of both John's athletic and prophetic abilities.
"Sherlock!" (ridiculous panting, ridiculous. Quite frankly, Richard at GymSync should be feeling pretty ashamed of himself right now) "Sherlock, stop!"
"What?"
(More panting; more running.)
Then, rounding a corner into bright, blinding light and the sickening crack of wood against bone, sudden darkness, then feet (two sets now) racing away down a side alley as Dr John H Watson kneels down to tend to his friend, crumpled at his feet, blood seeping through his fingers as he holds his skull.
"He… he had an… accomplice! Why didn't I ... realise the brother ... would come right in the end."
Doctor's hands, probing, feeling, assessing.
"Shut up, before you pass out," he grits out, pulling out his phone.
Back in Bart's, Sherlock sits, swinging long legs across as he sits high on the bench (where are all the bloody chairs in this place?), as carefree as a man in possession of a shot of novocaine about the temples can be.
"Head. Still."
She stands, bright-haired and tiny, but towering in her command in the place that is her battlefield.
(goodness, was she wearing something around her neck?)
"It was an unforeseen occurrence. I had not allowed for the bond of brotherhood to be so spontaneously resurrected -"
(She never wore jewellery, not for work)
Molly stops dabbing at the remaining blood for a second and Sherlock stops mid-sentence (a rare enough circumstance at any time) as they look at each other. John fancies he can hear the ticking of the clock and the neon fizzing in the tubes above.
"Missed your eye by millimetres." Her words are powerful, but their delivery softened. (It was a necklace… a brooch, on a ribbon) "You may have had a little more than concussion to deal with, Sherlock."
The King of the Last Word does not reply, but looks down - away from the exhortation in her dark eyes.
"I know," he whispers quietly, all cocky exuberance dissipated, then:
"I am sorry, Molly Hooper," he says.
~x~
By the following Tuesday, when Sherlock has been out for most of the evening, John sits ready for him as the key catches in the lock downstairs. Sherlock takes his sweet time removing shoes, socks, jackets; emptying pockets and pottering around the cigarette slipper (tragically empty), seemingly unnoticing of his flatmate's scrutiny, until:
"For goodness sake John, let's have it! You are virtually trembling with conjecture." Sherlock stands at the kitchen bench, rolling up his sleeves in preparation for the nicotine patch, one eyebrow raised whilst the other remained covered by a (slightly bloodstained) wound dressing (although John supposed that one to be raised also).
"Can I ask a stupid question?"
Sherlock smirks, ripping open the packet as he answers:
"Better than anyone I know." But there is little more than fondness in his tone, and John smiles back before plunging in.
"I was just wondering how the case was going."
Sherlock is casual as he applies the patch and reaches for the hidden packet of Bensons from the John's no-longer-secret hiding place.
"Which one?"
"The one that's been taking all your evenings up over the past few weeks. I assumed it was a case, unless you've taken up a night class down at the Arts Centre on Marylebone Avenue?"
Still, his flatmate is not taking his chair, but instead, rifling through numerous cupboards and cutlery drawers. It doesn't take a detective to know this detective is wishing to avoid eye contact of any kind. His head was now in the fridge (better his than Mr. Shaw's from all those years ago) but both of them knew there was little in the way of foodstuffs in there, even if Sherlock had felt inclined to rustle up a snack (which he never did).
"Criminals are as unpredictable as colds in the head, John." More attention now given to the freezer (also empty apart from a bag of frozen locusts and a battered bag of quorn, dated July 2010). "You never know when you're going to catch one. I need to be out and about when the need arises."
"Without my help, it would seem."
"Sometimes it is best to travel light."
"I see."
A few moments pass while Sherlock boils a kettle for a cup of tea he will never drink, and is peering at a pile of newspapers, teetering precariously on top of several cardboard boxes. For some reason, John reflected, the flat always looked as if someone was in the process of moving in, rather than somewhere they'd lived for almost eight years.
"Looking for something?" He continues, relentless yet prepared, soldier that he was.
"Mmmm."
"Your scarf? Seen it in Mrs Hudson's kitchen. Maybe your penknife? Stuck beneath the dining table for reasons I don't even want to be told about."
"Mmm?"
"If it's Lestrade's notebook, I saw that under the sofa (and you really should give it back) - "
Sherlock has quieted in his faux-searching, as if he knows what's coming.
"Or maybe," murmurs John Watson, sitting up in his chair and finding his flatmate's eyeline at last he holds up a smooth, expensive-looking Nokia.
"...maybe it's your phone," he says.
~x~