Hello, there! I've received many messages that tell me many of you like my fic, since you've put it under Alert of Favorite lists. For that I am grateful. So forgive me if I moan a bit, but I tried in the last chapter to not beg for reviews. That resulted in only 2 reviews. When I try so hard to write a great fic with approximately 2000 words/chapter, I would like some response. FF . net tells me several hundreds are reading my story so know that I do welcome your thoughts. That's how I can become a better writer, you know! That's it. ;) And I'm free from uni now, so expect more chapters, soon!

Chap. 10 The change

Just as John had expected, Sherlock wasn't happy with his decision to go back to the clinic.

The very childish detective had altered between loudly protests, sulking, refusal to eat, and promptly shut his mouth whenever John asked him about his secret errand. But John hadn't let his behavior ruin his own mood, especially since one part of him suspected that Sherlock in his unique way just wanted to let John know he was worried by the early return to the work.

Nevertheless, John felt ready so when the next Monday morning arrived, he left for the closest underground station that would take him to the clinic. While Sherlock actually told him that it would require too much of him to travel so far and work four hours every day, John hadn't budged. And that was how he found himself checking his watch when the last girl trotted out from his office with her mum before his break.

'12.30 p.m. What to eat?' he asked himself as he tidied his desk from papers when there was a knock on the door. He whipped his head up and discovered Sarah who stepped inside, dressed in a brown trench coat and a matching beret.

"Care to join me for lunch?" she wondered and wiggled her eyebrows. John brightened and reached behind him to grab his jacket from the chair.

"Alright, Sarah. How about our old place?" He meant the small shop nearby that was cheap but made adequate fish and chips. Sometimes John brought leftovers from home, or went to a restaurant but this day he was up for some fast food.

"Good choice. I took my fancy pumps today so I didn't really want to hike to the other place," she laughed and they left the building.

"Ah, Dr. 1 and Dr. 2! What can I get you?" the bald but very happy and bronzed man behind the counter exclaimed the second they entered the small shop.

"Hello, Samir!" John answered with a grin. He liked the spirit in the Lebanese. "Just the usual…" he began with a glance at Sarah who nodded. "Two big meals with some lettuce on the top and water, please."

"It won't be long," the cheery shop owner announced and disappeared behind the plastic curtain. John guided Sarah to a table outside so they could enjoy what probably would be the last lovely autumn day for a while and he truly had missed the sun while he was recovering in the new flat.

"Wasn't it strange that so many children came to us today?" he uttered to his colleague as he made himself comfortable on the bench. But Sarah threw her head back and laughed before she explained.

"I forgot to tell you about the hectic last week. Apparently the season for colds has begun. It's the northern winds that are behind it, if you ask me. Though, I hope the flood will decline before the annual flu strikes when winter comes."

John rubbed his fingers to get back some warmth in them. "Christ, I must have forgotten last year's children. But I never expected so many to be so ill they had to come to us."

"You were with Sherlock last year," Sarah interrupted with a telling frown. "I still remember how many times I had to wash my hands and change gloves each day."

"Oh," was all John could think of to say as a response and felt a little bit guilty. That time Sherlock had demanded he accompanied the detective as he solved The Case with the Fake Firefighter when an admirer went too far and impersonated real firefighters because they were his heroes. It had been hard, even for Sherlock, to distinguish the imposter who was known for conveniently showing up exactly when one more pair of hands was needed.

Thankfully Samir arrived with their plates at that moment and saved John from the subject.

"So, how do you feel now after your first day back?" Sarah let out before she took a bite of her crispy fish.

"I'm okay. A bit weary but I suppose I have to get used to the pace again."

John didn't inform her how terribly his back itched and that his shoulder throbbed; partly because he wasn't much of a whiner and partly because he was aware that sometimes the places where injuries had been itched when the body sent particles there to mend the old wounds. And he had to learn to move his shoulder in a normal manner so the tiny bruising inside could disappear.

"I'm knackered, too, to be honest. I can't wait until Christmas. I'll be at a beach with a drink in my hand and hopefully within eyesight of a good-looking lifeguard," Sarah uttered and got a dreamy expression all of the sudden, whereas John almost choked on the water.

"Well, eh, good luck with that," he mumbled and tried to not imagine his accomplished friend in a bikini.

"I'm sorry! Did I make you uncomfortable?" she asked just as bluntly as her revelation but John vigoursly shook his head. "Forget it. I'm an uptight Englishman who gets shocked in every conversation. Carry on." He gestured at her to continue sharing her plans for the holiday with him but to his dismay, Sarah wasn't so easy to distract.

"You're anything but uptight, John. Remember your flatmate whom you so happily accompany whenever there's a mysterious murder in the town?" she said with a grin before she wiped her mouth with a white napkin and grabbed her purse to pay her half. And come to think about, John could admit to himself that he already missed Sherlock, only a tiny bit but still. Perhaps he had gotten used of the detective's presence on a daily basis these past weeks. But now his day was over and he could head back to the flat, take some painkillers, and watch Sherlock make progress with the innumerous phone numbers.

Sherlock has gotten a case from Lestrade; a cold, boring one about illegal immigrants who five years ago had committed a series of crimes that the newspaper back then had written a lot about. Lestrade's proposed files didn't appeal to the Sherlock at all, but John would probably bite his head off if he didn't take on the case and provided some money for the groceries John kept bringing back to the flat every other day, even though Sherlock kept telling him he didn't require that much food.

Furthermore, Sherlock was a bit discontent with John's workload. John had told him about the increasing number of patients he saw every day and knowing that the doctor hardly would refuse to examine snotty children and unwell adults, Sherlock knew it was only a matter of time before John chose to spend more hours on the clinic. That kind of stress was never good for a human who needed to recover slowly from serious injuries.

And as expected, Sherlock soon found himself working practically alone on the case and making all the phone calls to the men and infrequent women on the long list.

One late afternoon when John was in his room, Sherlock used his time to stay in the living room and call more soldiers and veterans. Quite unexpectedly, he discovered a man who had been involved in a pretty intense combat and afterwards had been awarded with a medal and sent home with a few fingers missing. According to the colonel's documentation, the soldier had refused to engage in talks with therapists and psychologists and more or less isolated himself after his return to England.

Sherlock searched his name on the internet and found out the hero nowadays openly declared he despised every authority in Britain.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he read the text on the screen and he experienced a flare of interest by the information but suddenly remembered what he had promised John; to tell him if something happened with their case. And so, Sherlock stood up from the chair, listened to the protesting creaks from his knees and began to march towards John's room.

Without hesitation, he thrusted the closed door open, only to see John standing with his back uncovered.

John stood between the wardrobe and the foot of the made bed, facing the large window so Sherlock could get quite a view of his back, and through the corner of his eye, he detected the rectangular mirror on the wall beside him that showed a reflection of the man.

John had his checkered shirt hanging by his elbows, which created a captivating band of creases on the loose, curtain-like fabric from the small of his back to the lower line of the belt in his jeans. Sherlock's thoughts about the case vanished, as if the new information about John without further delay needed to be processed by his mind.

He had never seen John's naked back, but it turned out the ex-soldier's body was in shape even though more than two years had passed since his retirement; without doubt the life style with a consulting detective was responsible for that. Now, Sherlock oddly enough felt compelled to study the body presented to him, to store how broad the shoulders really were when they weren't hidden under layers of jumpers.

Sherlock's sharp eyes scanned downwards and he was intrigued by how little John's shoulder blades stood out compared to his own, surrounded by muscled flesh as they were. Then came the surprisingly elegant sway on John's lower back and it occurred to Sherlock during this rapid and yet thorough scrutiny that there was not a hair on his friend's exposed back, nor abnormal colours on the healthy beige skin.

John turned his head a second later with confusion going on embarrassment visible on the face. Sherlock clenched his jaw upon suddenly sensing something strange coil in his stomach. A brief scent reached him and he recalled the fragments that defined the doctor; pleasant soap, food and the John-smell. Then John cleared his throat and brought his shirt back up. His cheeks had turned red.

"Sorry," he blurted out over his shoulder before he with fumbling hands started to do up his shirt and kept his head bowed down. The classical posture of a human who felt ashamed; Sherlock recognized this despite his sudden dazed state.

While the faint sounds of buttons being pressed through narrow holes filled the room, John added, "I, eh… I was only checking my back. You know, for scars. They are still very big." Sherlock flinched and steadied himself with a hand against the doorframe, practically clinging to it with long fingers. His brain hadn't even registered the scars that remained after the fire in the flat and that was bewildering to a man like Sherlock. How could he not have noticed them?

"They are not prominent at all. By this time the new skin is protecting the old wounds well. It always takes time for the human body to let the fibrous tissue do its work and then disappear. You will be fine," Sherlock found himself saying in a monotone voice and John turned around to face him, his arms hanging unassuming by his sides, one corner of the shirt's collar pointing upwards, and as the doctor lifted his head, Sherlock saw the very subtle glance at his left shoulder. The one where another scar rested.

John sighed and finally met his eyes, his face becoming collected again but carrying an almost pained look. "So, what made you dash through my door?" he asked.

Sherlock swallowed with difficulty, as his tongue felt slightly swollen inside the cavity of his mouth. And blood pounded in his ears which certainly was disconcerting.

"The scars don't mar you, John. So don't let them maim your self-esteem," Sherlock emitted quietly and those brown eyes stared back at him for a moment. Then the detective found the way back to his previous purpose and launched himself into the news concerning the case.

"I've found a suspect. Or so it would seem. Do you want to accompany me as I call him?"

John straightened his back and took a trusting step forward, seriousness etched on his face. "Let's head back to the living room," he said briskly and gestured to Sherlock to move from the doorway. Sherlock did so and walked back to the laptop that displayed the phone number of a certain Miles Stewart and forgot about the whole unusual episode upon hearing John's steady feet following in his wake. As always.

Is it hot here, or is it just me? :P Tell me what you think, please.