Sherlock knew that something was wrong before he even opened the door to 221 Baker Street. It wasn't anything that he could easily identify: something was just off and it made all of his wolf instincts light up like a Christmas Tree. His hair stood on end as he walked into the foyer, and a low growl escaped his throat when he saw Mrs. Hudson's wolf lying crumpled and unconscious at the foot of the stairs. He quickly checked to make sure that she was still breathing before hurrying upstairs. What he found was less than comforting. Jo was missing, but everything else in the flat, save for the kitchen, was exactly as normal. He took a deep breath before dialing for Lestrade, who thankfully picked up after only a few rings.
"Jo's gone," he said without preamble.
"What do you mean gone?" Lestrade asked, sounding concerned.
Sherlock practically growled. "I mean she's gone! The kitchen is trashed and Mrs. Hudson is unconscious by the stairs. Someone took her!"
"Alright," Lestrade answer, his voice as calm as possible. "I'll be right there. Don't touch the crime scene."
"I'm not an imbecile," he bit out. "I know procedure!" He hung up without saying anything else.
Sherlock pocketed his phone and stepped gingerly into the kitchen. There was a carton of ice cream that had been knocked over and was now melting on the counter next to an overturned bowl. Another bowl lay shattered on the ground next to most of Sherlock's science equipment; he allowed himself a small smile as he saw that Jo hadn't gone without a fight. After only a few minutes he had pieced together what had happened.
By the time that Jo got home she had calmed down considerably and was feeling more than a little guilty about yelling at Sherlock. She took a quick shower and changed into her pajamas. She was in the kitchen getting herself a bowl of ice cream when she heard the front door open. She honestly hadn't expected Sherlock to be home at all that night, let alone so early; she froze for a moment, not quite sure what to do, but she quickly decided to give a peace offering.
"Sherlock," she called, trying to keep her voice light, "I'm making some ice cream. Do you want some?" He didn't answer her, but she was knew that there was a good chance that he was just too wrapped up in the case to register someone else speaking.
"Did you hear me?" She asked, raising her voice. "Do you want ice cream? It's not even vanilla." She didn't wait for a response and just got down a second bowl from the cupboard. She heard steps on the linoleum behind her and, as usual, assumed that it was a sign of silent acquiescence. She didn't realize just how very wrong she had been until the needle plunged into her neck. She tried to fight back, but the drug quickly took effect and Jo fell unconscious.
"Not Moriarty," Sherlock mumbled to himself. "Moriarty likes to play. This isn't a game; this is almost military. Oh. Stupid, stupid! Of course, the others were just messages, but there has to be someone to get the messages. I said it myself, she's the only one who could have known all those things. But who? It would have had to have been someone at the banquet." He paused, thinking back; it was then that he caught the scent, vaguely familiar and definitely antagonistic. He gasped when he was finally able to place it. "Obvious."
He was still standing in his crime scene of a kitchen when the paramedics, along with Lestrade, arrived. By that time Mrs. Hudson had already roused herself and put her bathrobe on, and although she let the paramedics examine her, she refused to let them take her to the hospital, opting instead to go up stairs and make sure that Sherlock was alright. He was standing in the living room, surrounded by members of the met and typing vigorously on his phone. He was visibly restraining himself from growling and snapping at anyone who dared to even look at him, and Mrs. Hudson felt her heart break for the man; what would happen to him if Dr. Watson wasn't alright didn't bear thinking about in her opinion.
She put her hand on his arm; it was just a gentle touch to draw his attention to her. "I'm sorry Sherlock. I didn't realize anything was wrong when he first came in - I thought he was you - but then I heard the struggle and came out to make sure that everything was alright. He hit me over the head before I had the chance to do anything. I'm sorry."
"It's my fault," he replied, briefly placing his hand over hers. "I should have seen this coming. It was obvious, and I just didn't observe. I'll get her back; I promise."
Mrs. Hudson nodded. "Of course you will. I didn't get a great look at him, but I can give you a bit of a description if you think it'll help."
"There's no need Mrs. Hudson," he answered, his voice almost kind. "I know who it is. Colonel James McGovern." Sherlock pulled his arm away from his landlady as Lestrade approached the pair.
"Are you sure that it's him, Sherlock?" He asked with a sigh. "I mean I'll trust your judgment on this, of course I will, but you have to be absolutely positive."
"Of course I'm sure," Sherlock growled. "He's the only one it could be; no one else, other than Jackson and it's obvious that it couldn't be him, showed any interest in Jo. And I can smell McGovern here. He didn't get close enough to either Jo or me for his scent to have traveled any other way than him actually physically being in this room."
Lestrade nodded, all traces of doubt immediately evaporating. "Right then. Any idea where he might be?" A pained look crossed his face.
"No," he murmured. "He's never left any traces behind."
The DI nodded again. "Well we'll find him. It is our job after all, and we're not completely inept." If Sherlock had been in any less of a foul mood he would have given Lestrade a small smile at that (or a scathing remark contradicting him), but as it was he just gave one curt nod and hoped that the older man recognized it for what it was; he did.
Jo really felt as if she should have seen this whole thing coming; McGovern had had it out for her since she met him, and she always suspected that one day he would just snap. Unfortunately her pleasure at having been right was severely outweighed by her despair at her current situation. Whatever McGovern had given her was strong and she could barely get her limbs to respond at all, let alone with enough force to properly defend herself. He had obviously been unsure of the dosage, however, because she was already able to stand, albeit a bit shakily, on her own. She knew if she could just hold out long enough to get her body back under control, then she would be able to incapacitate McGovern; unfortunately that was easier said than done. She and McGovern were facing each other and as she was waiting for the next blow to come when he pulled out a knife. He lunged at her and she couldn't help but think that survival really was easier said then done. Pain bloomed in her chest as he sliced at her, cutting open her shirt, but she was able to turn away from the blade and avoided too much damage. She managed to bring her arm up and dig her fingernails into his cheek, taking morbid satisfaction in his grunt of pain and the bloody scratch marks she left behind.
Sherlock paced back and forth. All signs showed that McGovern had taken Jo back to his house, which was really a very stupid thing to do considering how brilliant the man had been in the commission of his other crimes, but Sherlock wasn't inclined to complain when such stupidity raised Jo's chances of survival significantly. He was surrounded by officers preparing to storm the house, and he was itching to be let in on the raid. Lestrade finally came back from where he had been discussing tactics and gave Sherlock a searching look.
"Alright," he said sternly. "You can come with us, but only if you get yourself under control."
"I am under control," Sherlock bit out, ignoring the growl that rumbled in his chest.
Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Barely. I can see your skin shifting from here. You're one push away from changing, and that's not going to help anyone." Sherlock glared fiercely at him, but the DI didn't back down and after a few moments Sherlock closed his eyes and took deep breath. After a few tense seconds the lycan's entire body seemed to settle and when he opened his eyes again the only sign that he wasn't as completely calm as he seemed was a slight twitching in his cheek. Lestrade nodded curtly and turned to rally his troops.
As soon as he was inside the front door Sherlock could smell Jo; his heart leapt at that, thankful for the knowledge that at least they were in the right place. He followed the scent, which led him to what looked to be the sitting room. There was a fire roaring in the fireplace and it looked like it had been at one time a very well decorated and tasteful room, but now it looked like a battle ground. Tables and chairs had been knocked over, the sofa was definitely shifted out of place, shards of glass from a broken lamp were scattered on the floor, and in addition to the fresh stains on the carpet there was blood smeared on the walls. The blood was still wet and Sherlock took comfort in the fact that there were no signs of the blood having pooled anywhere. He was still trying to work out exactly what had happened when he heard shouts coming from the basement. His heart was pounding as he raced down the stairs, he had to push through the crowd of people to actually get into the room. Once he was in he froze, his eyes flicking around and cataloging everything.
McGovern was on his knees in the middle of the room, cradling what looked like a broken wrist with his uninjured arm; there was a bloody knife laying just out of his reach. Jo was leaning against the far wall, her chest heaving. Her favorite old gray t-shirt had been sliced from collar to just above the hem and was hanging open, giving full view to her now blood soaked bra; Jo seemed completely oblivious to her partial nudity, but Sherlock was pretty sure that his friend wouldn't care at all if anyone was so immature that the sight of her bra created an overwhelming distraction. Her whole torso was rising and falling rapidly as she tried to catch her breath, and her blood stained military id tags glinted from where they hung, as usual, from around her neck. There was a slash across her chest, mostly in the space between her throat and her breasts, and another cut on her stomach; thankfully, neither wound looked very deep. Her pajama bottoms had faired slightly better than her top, but only slightly; they were covered in rips, tears, scorch marks, and blood stains that were never going to come out. There was blood smeared in her hair, which was falling out of it's typical pony tail. Her face was battered and several dark bruises were already blooming; there was a gash above her left eye and her bottom lip was split open. She was barefoot, but seemed to have been lucky enough to avoid stepping on any of the glass chards either upstairs or back at Baker Street. When her eyes finally focused on Sherlock she grinned, causing even more blood to flow from her lip.
"You're late," she said breathily.
Sherlock choked out a laugh that was closer to a sob. "I am. But you know me, always one for dramatics. I thought that a police raid would be suitably theatrical. It seemed better than me just dashing in on my own."
"Very appropriate," she answered, her voice gaining strength. "Although you can be impressively affecting on your own. When you've got a good swish on with your coat it almost looks like a cape, and don't even get me started on your cheekbones. I swear you make them more dramatic on purpose."
He laughed again, still sounding slightly miserable. "You can blame my mother for my cheekbones."
"I'll blame you all I want, thank you very much," she replied, still smiling. "I wouldn't put it past you to alter your own genetics in utero."
He shook his head. "Your science isn't making any sense. What did he give you?"
She shrugged. "Hell if I know, but it's wearing off. You know, you look kind of like Batman when your coat gets all swishy." They were both studiously ignoring the man crouching on the ground between them; the police stayed in the background, confused by the friends' reaction to the situation.
"I can't be Batman," he replied, rolling his eyes. "Because then you'd be Robin and that's simply unacceptable." After a slight paused he added, "I'm sorry." He was fairly certain that she would be able to decipher everything he meant by that.
Jo smirked before licking at her lip, obviously trying to catch some of the blood before it dribbled down her chin. "At least I didn't have my date with me this time."
Sherlock nodded and his returning smile was as close to self-deprecating as the man ever got in public. "Yes, he was too busy being an insufferable idiot to see what was right in front of his face." At that she burst out laughing, but quickly cut it off with a wince.
"Ow, don't make me laugh," she said, still smiling through her grimace. "I think he cracked a couple ribs." The comment drew Sherlock's attention back to her attacker and a low, menacing growl escaped his throat.
He looked back up at her and forced lightness back into his voice. "Well come on then, there are paramedics outside. Let's get you taped up." Jo froze, her smile fading instantly and her gaze dropping to the man on the floor. It took Sherlock a moment to realize that Jo wasn't just leaning against the wall because she needed its support; it was also because she was afraid, almost terrified, of the man cowering between her and the door.
He nodded curtly. "Right." He stepped forward and grabbed McGovern by the arm and wrenched him to his feet. He practically through him across the room towards the officers waiting to arrest him as he growled again, this time sounding even more menacing. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself down before turning back to Jo.
"Come on, let's go," he said, reaching for her arm so that he could help her. She jerked away from him.
"I can walk on my own," she bit out, her eyes flashing with something close to anger.
He pulled his hand back and nonchalantly put it in his pocket. "Of course you can." He nodded to the door in an indication that they should leave. Jo took a deep breath and pushed herself off the wall. She kept her left arm pressed tightly against her side, her elbow crooked so that she could curl her forearm around her torso, and she was limping heavily. The officers parted and let them through without any interference. It was slow going but Sherlock kept pace with her the entire time. She stumbled once or twice, mostly on the stairs, but her personal high functioning sociopath was always there to catch her, letting her go as soon as she had regained her balance.
When Sherlock had first appeared in the basement Jo had thought that he seemed remarkably calm, aside from the growling which was really to be expected. She wasn't offended by this, she knew that Sherlock cared for her, it was obvious in the way he indulged in her ridiculous banter, and she honestly found it comforting; it was like he was her anchor in a storm. But once the were closer, side by side as she stumbled along in a sick parody of their usually matching strides, she could see how not calm he really was. The man was literally shaking, and Jo was sure that she could actually see his skin beginning to shift; she was really quite impressed that he was able to keep from completing the transformation. He seemed to understand her need to make it out of the house on her own, and she didn't think she had ever loved him more. Once, as they were trying to exit the front door, one of the forensics officers accidentally bumped into Jo, casing her to give a small cry of pain. Jo thought that Sherlock was going to take his head off - if the amount of growling and extremely aggressive posturing was any indication - but he quieted immediately when she took hold of his arm, pulling just a bit.
They finally made it to the waiting ambulance, although Sherlock did have to growl threateningly a few times in order to convince the paramedics to let Jo walk the rest of the way on their own. Once she was seated in the back, however, the EMT's completely took over and all of Sherlock's growlings were subsequently ignored. Jo's strength reserves seemed to be completely tapped and she almost melted, letting the paramedics manipulate her limbs any which way they pleased as they tried to assess her injuries. They seemed to get more and more agitated at her increasingly dreamlike state and her apparent unwillingness to answer any of their questions; in fact, she seemed content to completely ignore them, keeping her eyes focused intently on Sherlock. She finally reacted to their presence when one of the men grabbed her id tags and yanked on them to get her attention.
"What type of Lycan are you?" He demanded loudly, still gripping the tags and shaking them for emphasis. "Tell me what classification you are!" Jo recoiled, grabbing the chain around her neck and trying to pull it away from him. She hid it well, but Sherlock saw the glint of fear in her eyes.
"She's not a lycan you moron!" He yelled, grabbing the man and pulling him away from his friend. "Those are her military tags! They're not even shaped right!" He yanked his own identification tags out from underneath his shirt. "These are what lycan tags look like, you complete imbeciles!" Jo seemed to rouse herself from her stupor and was obviously trying to get up, but the paramedics kept pushing her back down; she was getting more and more agitated and Sherlock could see that she was working herself up into something nearing panic, especially when one of the female paramedics started pushing Sherlock away, telling him that he had to leave because he was upsetting the patient. At that Jo redoubled her efforts, getting almost violent. Sherlock saw one of them begin to prepare a sedative and decided to put an end to this madness that was very obviously leading nowhere good.
"Jo," he said, his voice commanding yet kind. "It's okay. I have to go check something in the house, anyway." Jo nodded and seemed to deflate a bit before rousing herself once again and steeling herself to deal with the paramedics. Sherlock allowed himself a small smile at her resilience before turning to go back into the house and make up a reason for his being there.
Jo put up with the paramedics fairly well right up until they wanted to start giving her stitches, and then she gave up on cooperation all together when they started insisting that she be taken to the hospital. She forced herself to her feet several times only to be firmly pushed back down, which was doing nothing for her throbbing shoulder; all of her protestations went completely unheeded. They were once again talking about preparing a sedative when Lestrade came walking up. She looked at him pleadingly, silently begging him to help her; the DI didn't fail her.
"Right then," he said matter-of-factly. "I need to take Dr. Watson's statement." One of the paramedics started to protest, and while they were all distracted Jo managed to get to her feet and dodge all of the hands trying to press her back down.
She stood firmly next to Lestrade. "I'm fine. I'll give my statement and then take a cab home. It's not a problem."
"But you need stitches," one of the women protested.
"I'm a doctor," Jo answered, almost yelling. "I can do it myself. Look, I don't have a concussion, the cuts are shallow and mostly superficial, and my ribs are cracked but not broken. I'm going home, this is not a discussion. I am not letting you touch me again."
"But your leg," she continued forcefully.
"It's psychosomatic," she bit out. Lestrade recognized the look on her face as one very similar to the way Sherlock looked right before he made someone cry.
He reinserted himself into the conversation, taking Jo gently but firmly by the arm. "Come on Doctor, let's go. I've sent someone out for coffee and they should be back any minute now."
"Gregory Lestrade, you are a saint," she answered with a smile as she began hobbling away. He just grinned at her and easily matched her pace in a way that made it seem like he wasn't walking slower that he head since his last child became proficient enough to run.
As soon as they were in a more secluded location, and after Lestrade had retrieved a cup of coffee for them both, Jo gave her statement. It matched Sherlock's description of events almost exactly and was professional, practically military in its precision, and utterly impersonal; so impersonal, in fact, that Lestrade was beginning to worry that disassociating herself completely from the attack. He eventually decided that if that was the case, then this was neither the time nor the place to bring it up; he would make sure to stop by and check in on her later in the week to see how she was doing. Once Jo finished detailing what had happened, the DI was horrified to realize that there was one more, very important question that he had to ask. The question ended up being poorly worded and awkwardly delivered, but Jo just laughed him off, assuring him that the attack hadn't been in any way sexual, or at least not overtly sexual. Lestrade nodded, immensely relieved.
"Sociopath my arse," Jo muttered, smiling fondly as she looked over the DI's shoulder to where Sherlock was flapping about, apparently trying to convince one of the sergeants to allow him to speak with McGovern. She sighed and then continued. "Do you think you could keep him occupied for a few minutes; I just need a bit of a breather."
Lestrade frowned. "Are you alright?" He knew it was a stupid question as soon as it left his mouth, but Jo just smiled at him.
"I'll be fine," she said reassuringly. "I just need a few minutes on my own to process. I'll see you later Greg; you know where to find me if you have any more questions about my statement." She didn't wait for him to answer her before turning and limping away.
Jo walked away from the house until she found a spot where a tree would mostly hide her from those in the front yard; she knew that it wouldn't take Sherlock long to come for her, but she really only needed a few minutes. She sat down on the curb and pulled the atrocious orange shock blanket that the paramedics had given her tighter around herself. She fished around in the absurdly large pockets of her pajama bottoms and pulled out her phone, thankful that it had survived the experience relatively unscathed. She quickly scrolled through her contacts and found the one she wanted, not giving herself time to talk herself out of it. She knew that the chances of someone actually answering were extremely slim, and she tried to pretend that she wasn't disappointed when she got voice mail.
"Hey Liam," she began, keeping her voice light so that her friend wouldn't worry. "I just thought I'd call and check in. It's just been a difficult week, and I uh, I just wanted to say that I miss you." She had to pause in order to keep herself under control. She decided to ring off before she completely gave herself away. "Well, I'll talk to you when I talk to you. Don't worry about calling me back. I love you Lee."
After she hung up Jo squeezed her eyes shut and focused all of her attention on not crying. She rested her elbows on her knees and gripped her phone in both hands; her head was bowed almost as if in prayer. She was so deep in thought that she didn't even notice that she wasn't alone until Sherlock touched her hands. She looked up sharply but relaxed when she saw her friend. The detective was kneeling in front of her with his hands folded around hers. Her blanket had fallen open, but Jo didn't move, figuring that it was too late for a false sense of modesty.
She cracked a smile. "Your trousers are going to get all dirty."
"I have a very good dry cleaner," he answered, quirking his lips upward.
She smirked at him. "But what will people say about the state of your knees?"
"Any number of things, I'm sure," he responded dryly, his voice rougher than usual. Jo suddenly realized that her hands were shaking and tried to pull them away, but Sherlock tightened his grip, refusing to let go.
"You don't have to be so strong all the time," he whispered, trying to force her to make eye contact.
"I can take care of myself," she insisted, stubbornly keeping her eyes trained on their hands.
He nodded. "Of course you can, but you don't have to. It's okay, Jo."
She shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut again as a tear escaped. "No it's not." Sherlock reached up and wiped it away with his thumb. This small gesture weakened her strict control, and before she really knew what was happening Jo was sobbing. Sherlock pulled her into a hug, rubbing what he hoped were comforting circles on her back. Their positioning was awkward and everything hurt, but Jo clung to him like he was her lifeline; she buried her face in his neck and and clutched his jacket in her fists. Sherlock held onto her as tightly as he dared, whispering nonsense words in her ear in a desperate attempt to help his friend. Jo was shaking almost violently and Sherlock could feel as well as hear her struggling for breath; the only thing keeping Sherlock from going and literally ripping McGovern to shreds was the fact that he didn't want to leave Jo alone again. Eventually her sobs subsided and she started to pull away; this time Sherlock let her go.
"I'm sorry; I got you all bloody," she said, wiping ineffectually at the blood smears on his neck and cheek.
He forced a smile. " Already told you, have a very good dry cleaner. Don't worry about it."
She huffed a small laugh before sighing and looking down at the blood that had already started to seep through the temporary bandages the paramedics had given her. "I need stitches."
"Do you want to go to the A&E?" He asked quietly. When she shook her head he continued seamlessly. "Alright, we'll take care of it at home." He carefully helped her to her feet before taking off his coat and helping her into it, ignoring her weak protests and leaving the shock blanket in a pile on the ground.
"I've called a taxi," he announced once she was buttoned in properly. "It should be here soon if it isn't already." He offered her his arm and after a few seconds she took it, leaning her weight on him as they walked slowly to the road.
When the cabbie saw Jo, barefoot and covered in blood he tried to say that he had changed his mind about taking them, but after a few well chosen words from Sherlock he decided to let them in anyway. Sherlock helped Jo into the car before sliding in next to her and closing the door tightly against the chill. Jo's still shaking hand found his and they intertwined their fingers as if it was something they did everyday instead of only after nearer-to-death-than-usual experiences. Jo leaned her head against her friend's shoulder and let her eyes fall shut and her breathing even out.
"Hey," Sherlock said a few minutes later, giving her hand a squeeze, "don't fall asleep. You might have a concussion."
"I don't have a concussion," she answered petulantly. She opened her eyes anyway and Sherlock squeezed her hand again in thanks.
A few minutes later Jo spoke again, her tone dangerously close to whining. "These pajamas are completely unsalvageable."
"I'm sorry," Sherlock replied. "I'll buy you new ones."
She sighed. "That's not the point. It took years to get these ones worn in properly."
"Well then I'll give you a pair of mine," he answered, smirking.
She rolled her eyes. "You just want me to smell even more like you." Sherlock just hummed in response and she rolled her eyes again.
When they reached Baker Street, Sherlock paid the fare while Jo got a head start towards their flat. Mrs. Hudson met her at the door, but the landlady was exhausted herself, and, after letting her fuss for a moment or two Jo sent her to bed. She deposited Sherlock's coat on it's peg and then made her way upstairs under the careful supervision of her friend. She collapsed on the couch, unwilling to attempt the second flight of stairs up to her room without a small break first; she closed her eyes and focused on making her breaths as deep as possible without causing excessive pain. Sherlock barely paused before darting upstairs. He retrieved Jo's medical kit from underneath her bed and a flannel and a bowl of warm water from the kitchen. He came back into the sitting room, being careful to make enough noise so that she wouldn't be surprised when he knelt down in front of her. She opened her eyes and frowned down at him in confusion.
He tried to smile at her reassuringly. "I'm going to stitch you up now, alright?"
"Okay," she answered tiredly. "Start with the one on my chest; it's deeper. Do you need me to move?"
Sherlock shook his head. "No you're fine. I can reach."
"Of course you can," she answered, rolling her eyes. "You tall, lanky git."
He smiled at her as he straightened up so that they were eye to eye before reaching out and carefully peeling off the bandage. He dipped the flannel in the water and cleaned the wound. Jo may have been the actual doctor at 221b, but Sherlock had more than enough practical experience to make him at least as proficient as any medical student. He took extra care with Jo, far more than he would have if he was just sewing himself back together, making sure that each stitch was even and precise, not pulling the skin in a way that would be uncomfortable. By the time he finished with the slash across her chest he was quite pleased with himself; he doubted if it would even leave much of a scar. He moved on to the cut on her side, which was both smaller and straighter and thus required far less attention to detail. It quickly became monotonous and tedious, so Sherlock began looking for a way to start a conversation; he had always despised the habit doctors had of trying to make small talk during exams, but he understood it now.
He pointed at an older scar that sat low on the right side of her abdomen, dipping below the waist of her pajamas. "Where did you get this? It's old."
"I was in a car accident when I was fifteen," she answered calmly. "A piece of metal went straight through - there's an exit wound on the back. Luckily, it missed most of my internal organs."
He noted her wording and raised one eyebrow. "Most?"
"It went through one of my ovaries," she clarified, "and it nicked my other fallopian tube. The surgeon tied of my second fallopian tube because with my scar tissue pregnancy would most likely be fatal. So I still menstruate every month, but I'll never actually get pregnant."
"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered, feeling that that was the appropriate response.
Jo smiled at him. "Don't be, I've had a long time to get used to the idea. And besides, it's not like having children has ever factored into my lifestyle. I like my life just fine without them."
"What about when you settle down with a nice man?" He asked, unsure of why he was pushing the issue.
"If that ever happens, we'll adopt," she said, matter of factly. "Although the likelihood of me ever settling down is rather slim."
Sherlock frowned. "Why? You have many qualities that would make you a more than acceptable mate."
"Thank you," she replied with a small laugh, taking it for the compliment it was. "But I don't want to settle down. Why would I want to leave this?"
He rolled his eyes. "Oh I don't know; maybe because I'm currently trying to stitch you back together."
"To be fair, this probably would have happened if I was living with you or not," she said kindly. Sherlock had halted his work at the point and the friends were looking intently at each other; he wasn't quite sure when this had gone from small talk intended to stave off boredom to something much more serious.
He huffed at her. "But this isn't the only time you've been hurt! And what about Moriarty? You wouldn't even be on his radar if it wasn't for me."
"Are you trying to convince me to move out?" She asked, shaking her head.
He sighed, letting the fight leak out of him. "Of course not. I just don't know why you would want to stay forever; nobody else does."
"Sherlock," she said fondly, drawing out the vowels into something similar to a singsong. "I love this. I was miserable before I met you, and now I'm not. It's worth any number of wounds to keep chasing after you, and I'll keep doing it until you get bored with me." Sherlock's lips quirked up in that shy smile he had when he was really very pleased by something and didn't want to show it.
"Well then you'll be stuck with me for a good long while then."
Jo's resulting grin split her lip open again. "I look forward to it." Sherlock nodded once before returning to the task at hand; he steadfastly ignored the set of five long, nearly parallel scars on her left side and hip that he knew could only have been caused by a lycan whose claws were only partially extended. He quickly finished her stitches and put a bandage on the cut over her eye before sitting back on his heels and looking at her appraisingly.
"Is there anything else?" When she shook her head he pressed forward. "What about your leg?"
"It's psychosomatic," she answered, sounding almost reassuring. "It'll be fine after a hot shower and a good night's sleep." She levered herself off of the couch and smiled down at her friend. "Speaking of which, I'm going to go shower now. I'll be down in a bit, and you can help me bind up my ribs." He nodded and she made her way up the stairs, her limp noticeably less pronounced than before.