Doubt: A feeling of uncertainty, or lack of conviction.

The seventh of April, 4:10 am. 221b Baker Street, London.

Sherlock had every foreseeable intention of returning to 221b at a reasonable time that evening. Surely he would have to explain to John; give him a small lie for placation. But at that moment, he shut the front door behind him and let himself forget about that. His body involuntarily leaned against the back of the door. He took a deep breath, and let the pain set in.

The first layer of Sherlock's skin was, no doubt, damaged beyond a simple burn cream remedy for his right hand, opposite leg and part of his face, swirling into his jaw line and neck. His finger traced underneath an eye, surveying the once-smooth porcelain skin that now undeniably resembles craters of the moon, oil-like liquid remaining on his finger.

He felt as if his skin were on fire. Well, it was, for a second. A minute. A minute and forty seven seconds, to be exact. But he still felt the burn; still felt the top layer of his skin desquamating much like sunburn-which Sherlock has experienced before, too. But this was worse. So much worse. And visible. Undoubtedly visible. He propelled himself slowly from the door and moved towards the hall.

His legs refused to pick themselves up the way he required them to-his feet shuffled against the carpet of the living area, and he let his coat slip onto the floor behind him. Toeing off his shoes, Sherlock looks down. He immediately wished he wore jeans more often. They might have held the flame better, might have not burned through as quickly as the now holey dress slacks did. He could feel part of the pant leg attached to his skin, as if he had taken a needle and sewed it there himself. His right ankle looked the way his face felt. His right arm, too…and he didn't dare look at the damage his coat might have endured. He turned to head into the kitchen, and hit John's tea mug right off the table. It made a clear sound in the silence, even as he leaned to catch it. Shut up, he thought to himself. He set the mug back down.

Blazer off (that would have to be replaced), shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up. Swift movements now being slowed down by pain and stiffness- and the chance John might hear. He'd see Sherlock's burns, after his surgery. But at least Sherlock would wear pants that weren't ripped and stuck to his skin-he could wear his pajama bottoms and dressing gown to cover his wrist. Nothing would require him to go out much- for a few days, at least. He'd feel no desire to, in his state. At least until his face heals. He could hide this solitary thing from Mycroft until then.

No. No, he couldn't. That was a stupid thought. Sherlock mentally chided himself for letting the thought slip in, and threw it away. The news of the building would set his "governmental" alarm off at the very least, and soon Mycroft would be at the door, with questions. Sherlock deleted that thought too; He didn't need to waste time focusing on a possibly problematic (and unwanted) visit from Mycroft.

If Sherlock moved just quickly enough, he'd chance that he had fifteen minutes before John might be able to notice his presence at home, twenty if he was quiet in addition. But the water on his skin felt good, so cool, it almost seemed to negate any effect the fire had; and Sherlock hated to pull his arm away. He flexed his right leg a bit, hissing at the pain it caused instantly. He leaned his head on the counter, arm propped up beside it, under the stream of water. He didn't think of the time passing.

Then Sherlock let another thought slip in, uninvited. He refused to pay attention to it, but it nagged at the back of his mind. It pushed its way through, and Sherlock sighed.

Why did he think this would work?

"I did it for you," he breathed. And that statement alone made him feel a little less pain. Sherlock glanced at the watch on his left wrist, the undamaged one.

4:20 am.

He heard something, and didn't dare move. John was standing at the bottom stair- no, Sherlock though-he was on the floor now, bare feet against wood.

"Did what?"

Heal: v. to patch up.

The seventh of April, 4:10 am. 221b Baker Street, London.

John's eyes fluttered when the front door of 221b shut; He told himself it was a dream.

Then, something glass toppling; just his imagination. He closed his eyes, and an eternity passed.

But his eyes opened at the sound of running water, and he sat up quickly, looking at the clock. He slipped his house shoes on and padded over to the doorway, then down the stairs quietly. He was half asleep-the running faucet sounded so much louder than it should, and Sherlock made a sound before mumbling something John wasn't exactly sure he heard right.

"I did it for you."

John stopped at the bottom of the stairs, and rubbed his eyes. "Did what?" he croaked, turning to shuffle into the kitchen. Sherlock's coat was on the floor-what? His blazer, too, and Sherlock was leaning into the counter as if it was the only thing holding him up.

Sherlock straightened himself up immediately, turning the faucet off and pushing his sleeve back over his wrist. He buttoned his shirt to the second button, pulling his collar up. He took a deep breath in; he smelled tea and shaving cream, jumpers and John. Sherlock composed himself and held his head up.

"Did what?" He repeated, confused-like. John shifted behind him. Sherlock could feel his eyes, noticing things. He turned and kept his left profile to John- he hadn't even seen himself yet, no count for how he looked yet. It could have been dark enough to be unnoticeable but he wasn't sure. He glanced to John, who cleared his throat and spoke, fully awake now.

"You said it, not me. What were you doing?" Sherlock stepped slowly (mostly due to the pain) to the far end of the long side of the table.

"I believe you're hearing things, John. You should go back to sleep." His fingernail scratched at the table's edge. John slowly stepped in the same path he did, but Sherlock moved a little more quickly around the other side of the table to leave the kitchen. "In fact, I think I'll sleep too. Good-" But John interrupted.

"It smells like you've burnt something in here. Did you make toast or something?" He looked at the counter and then to Sherlock. Sherlock turned his head just a little more away, just in case. The moonlight could be bright enough.

"I've never had a proclivity for cooking, as you know." This wasn't entirely true (Sherlock quite liked cooking, but it wasted time), but that was irrelevant. Sherlock took another step. "I apologize about dinner." John moved closer to him, and he spoke quieter this time.

"Sherlock, what happened?" His hand leaned on the table, sliding toward Sherlock's body, and Sherlock's shoulders dropped just a bit before he took a deep breath.

"Unexpected case came up. Couldn't text; No service." Again, not entirely true. He threw in a few vague details to harden his shell of lies. "It was…irritating, honestly. An offer I couldn't refuse, though."

John sniffed. "Gasoline, that's the other thing. Where the hell were you?" He moved closer, again, and Sherlock felt tense. He wasn't used to all of these questions, the interrogation. Coming back to the Clarendon apartment was so different from coming home to Baker Street. He needed explanations just to get into the front door and into bed here, an answer for every injury and a response to every location inquiry. It was bittersweet, coming home to John. It was a perfect blend of feeling irritated and cared for.

"I'm sure you'll hear soon enough," he started, thinking of Mycroft, but John took that the wrong way. He headed to the television box and turned it on. Sherlock used this opportunity to keep walking towards the stairs, but John switched to the early morning news (impeccably timed, of course), and Sherlock heard something about a fire. He rolled his eyes. There went the logic of keeping it quiet. The newscasters were annoyingly quick-moving.

"No bodies have been found in the abandoned building, but police aren't sure whether this fire was for arsenic reasons. But it did start inside, and spread fairly quickly before the fire department even reached it." The words stopped as John turned the television off. He turned to Sherlock.

"You burned down a building." It wasn't a question, but Sherlock felt the need to answer.

"No, that was…" Sherlock was going to say the client, for lack of a better response, but his lungs felt full and he coughed. John automatically went for a glass of water, mumbling something about smoke. Sherlock felt a small pang of panic; John will want to hand the glass to him. Which could only mean-

But his thoughts weren't fast enough (was that because of the burns? Did those have affect of brainwork? Or maybe it was John, John's presence and John's breathing and John's voice), because suddenly John was already in front of him. Sherlock's head was down, and all he could see was the glass of water he held out to him, and the brown slippers John wore, underneath the edge of his sleep pants.

"Do I even want to know?" John asked, stretching his arm out an inch further. Sherlock swallowed. He honestly could answer no to that one. If John knew it would be ruined before it even started. That last thought didn't even make sense in Sherlock's head. Maybe it was the shock. He was still recovering. Running for your life out of a fiery cage probably would do that to you; temporarily suspend quick thinking. It was hugely irritating.

And apparently it made you forget things, because for a split second Sherlock forgot was he was trying to hide and picked his head up, involuntarily using his dominant (and very badly burned) right hand to grab the water. John took a sharp breath inward at seeing his face, reminding Sherlock too late.

John set the glass down and reached his hand up to Sherlock's face, making Sherlock's pulse pick up. His fingers were just a millimeter away from his burn-and it almost hurt, but Sherlock didn't dare move. He looked into John's eyes, and then to the worry creasing in his forehead.

Heal: v. to make sound or whole.

There was a moment of silence, all quiet but for the pounding in Sherlock's ears. Even his mind was quiet, anticipating and wanting and not wanting the touch of Jon's hand on his own face. He tensed his jaw.

"How-"John stammered, shaking his head slightly, "How did you-?" he fingered the edge of Sherlock's collar, pulling it aside. Were there burns there too? Sherlock felt nothing there-perhaps it was numb. He wasn't exactly sure what he could feel anymore. Sherlock took a step back and swallowed.

"Obviously it wasn't me that did it, I told you." He started to roll his sleeve down to cover his wrist. "If that were the case, surely I wouldn't be injured. That would be quite the representation of my arsonous skills." But John only stepped forward, edging closer to Sherlock.

"I want to see. I need to make sure-"

"You've seen enough." Sherlock was getting irritated now-he wanted John to see, he wanted John to help. No, he didn't he didn't need help. He sighed and stepped past John quickly, to move into the bedroom and shut the door. But John followed, two steps behind him. This was probably due to the fact that Sherlock couldn't help but limp slightly, because of the burn on his leg.

"Sherlock." John now had a firm tone, and it stopped Sherlock in his tracks, wanted or not. God dammit, the words sliced through his mind. He rolled his eyes.

"John, as lovely as it would be to have a nice little chat over tea, I think some sleep is in order, for the both of-." But he felt John's hand on his left arm, and that was all he knew. John gently guided him backwards, and Sherlock was floating along the floor. The couch's cushions felt a dream, and it took Sherlock a moment to realize he'd been had. John was rolling his sleeve up again, turning his wrist over.

Sherlock huffed. "This is getting-" He started to move against John, trying to stand. But John pushed his chest back with one hand, holding the wrist with the other.

"If you were going to say ridiculous, then you're right, Sherlock. This is getting ridiculous, bloody ridiculous. You don't even text and come home at the ungodly hour of 4 am, only to try to refuse my medical help. You could have been in bed by now, had you let me take care of this." And Sherlock had nothing to say after that, because John made sense, of course John made sense. He sat back, looking at the ceiling.

John looked down. "You leg?" Sherlock didn't even glance. "Mmm." His leg throbbed underneath the trousers, but then again the trousers felt almost a part of him now, connected by gas and flame.

"I'll have to cut it." Sherlock could feel John picking at the hem of the pants, trying to find a way to fix the burn otherwise. Sherlock said nothing, he wasn't even sure he heard.

But then John was cutting his trousers and he felt the cool blade of scissors lightly touching his skin, cold air rushing into the new opening. He leaned his head up to see. John lifted his leg gingerly and tugged the pant leg aside (without pulling the skin, of course), cutting a jagged line around it just above the knee. Sherlock's leg stood out bright against the dark night. He took a breath.

John worked at where the pant leg was attached to the burn next, resting Sherlock's foot upon a box so he could reach easily. He snipped and wiped along the burn carefully, making Sherlock bite his lip. After a few moments most of the pant leg was separate from his actual leg, except for a few bits at the worst burns. John sighed and walked into the bathroom for a minute, returning with a first-aid kit. Sherlock sat up, swallowing. He felt uneasy now, not sure what to say or what to do. He pulled out the medical scissors and bandages. Then, glancing around, he realizes the lighting situation. He steps over and flips the main light switch, turning back to Sherlock.

He stopped.

Sherlock's heart pounded harder, if it could even do that. Why was John…was he staring? Why?

The burn on his face panged again, and he started to get up. John rushed to stop him.

"Your leg, don't." He pushed him back again, taking his leg and resting it back on the box.

Sherlock glared. "I want to see." But John shook his head. "Not until I'm done. It's not that bad."

Sherlock breathed in, shoulders rising. John's voice said the exact opposite. It was that bad. He's such a horrible liar. "I want to see, John." His right hand gripped the sofa cushion underneath him, and he ignored the pain it caused. John looked up from the kit, into Sherlock's eyes.

"It doesn't matter, Sherlock." John knew of Sherlock's hidden vanity, the reason for the suits and the expensive coat. He could probably make the burns better in a few days. Hell, they'd look better in two minutes if he could work on them.

But Sherlock wanted to see himself. It was one thing being burned; it was another to being the only one in the world who can't see how you are seen to the world.It was always like that-a downside to being as clever as he was. He saw the world differently, alone. The world saw him differently, together. He just wanted to see, too.

"John!" Sherlock hissed quietly, even though there was no one else to accidentally wake in earshot. He was frustrated now, and the demand sounded like one of a child. John sighed and left, returning with a compact mirror in hand. "Don't ask where I-"

"Sarah left it." Sherlock snatched it from John's hand and opened it with his left hand. John clicked the table lamp on beside Sherlock, and kneeled in front of him, sighing.

It really wasn't that bad, Sherlock had to tell himself. It wasn't bad in the way that it would take long to recover. But the burns against a smooth, pale skin like Sherlock's stood out. He seemed to have a frame for his eye (he was lucky his eyebrow wasn't singed), and there was a trail of white blisters cradling it. There was a second line of them, near his ear and into his jaw line. Past that, it looked like a splash of red, one finger of it nearly reaching his Adam's apple. The first layer of his skin there looked melted in a way, and then pushed toward the edges of the burn. That was almost identical to his wrist. His face looked more like his ankle, bubbles of liquid surfacing.

Take that back, it was bad. Sherlock kept looking into the mirror long after John started to work on his ankle, removing the remaining fabric from the burns and putting cream on. He looked up.

"Second degree, all of them. Superficial, mostly. Except…" He looked at Sherlock's wrist and up to his neck. "Your face got the least of it. Moving your head and neck will bother you though."

Sherlock angled his head to look more at the burns of his neck. "How long?"

John unwrapped some gauze from the roll. "Few weeks?"

Weeks…Sherlock didn't have that much time.

"Hard to tell. I have to…take the extra skin off the worst parts first." He wrapped the gauze gently, fingers barely touching the burns. Sherlock picked at the curled skin of his neck lightly, repositioning the mirror.

"Stop that-" John took the mirror out of his hand. "I'm the doctor, not you." But Sherlock only rolled his eyes in reply.

"I've been burned before. I've had worse. I so remember one night in particular, I was testing the theory that the skin on your wrist was much more likely-"

"How did you get on, before me?" John shook his head and pulled Sherlock's hand to him. Sherlock stopped and looked down at it.

"Not entirely sure, to be honest." He spoke quietly, and looked up at John, who smiled and cut nearly an inch of skin from Sherlock's wrist. "I am the ideogram of danger."

"It's a miracle you're even alive, at this rate. This 'case' better be worth it."

Sherlock thought of the cabbie just then, and the gunshot. "He wasn't a very nice man."

"No, he wasn't."

"It is." Sherlock looked at John- he was peering over his hand, tweezers pulling at his skin.

"It better help pay the rent, too. Mrs. Hudson's' asked again."

"And frankly, a bloody awful cabbie."

Sherlock breathed out a small smile and leaned his head back. "She'll be fine."

John's smile grew wide. "You should have seen her, though. We'll be rightly kicked out soon."

"Hmm, a homeless consulting detective and his blogging doctor at his side. The adventures we'd have."

"We have enough adventures. I just want a place to sleep."

"Sidewalk's not all that bad."

"A bed's more my taste, believe it or not." John laughed and added cream to Sherlock's wrist, rubbing it in gently. Sherlock's breath catches, and John looks at him, worried.

"…Cream's cold." Sherlock looked away. John moved to grab the gauze again.

"I suppose I'll have to do you testing for you now, for a while."

Sherlock smirks. "Not too different from before."

"Guess not."

And now John was moving closer to Sherlock, switching to the other side of his legs and scooting close to his face. Sherlock refused to face him until told. This was, in all honesty, confusing to Sherlock. He wasn't thinking straight.

It was the shock; that was it.

The shock.

John's face was inches away from Sherlock's, hand even closer, and Sherlock couldn't help but turn to face him. John's index finger lightly pushed Sherlock's forehead to turn it again, away.

"Can't see if you move, Sherlock." Sherlock huffed and closed his eyes, thinking of strings and tea, stripes and colors.

It felt n hour, it felt a day, before John spoke again.

"You're going to get yourself killed."

Breath bated, Sherlock's eyes opened.

"That is inevitable."