It was absolutely ridiculous to be so excited over one simple text message. John knew this. Yet he could not stop himself from practically bouncing around the kitchen while making dinner. Just to make sure that he really had not misunderstood anything, he picked up his mobile and double checked the text:
"I might be home for dinner tonight. Case is going well. SH"
It was ridiculous to be so excited. It only meant that he got painfully disappointed when no detective showed up for dinner. John tried to drag it out, to postpone dinner time. He let Hamish eat first - arguing for himself that Sherlock probably would appreciate to have a bit of calm around him when he came back from a case. When Hamish was fed Sherlock still had not turned up. John bathed his son, put him to bed and read him a story. Still no Sherlock. John sat down at the table and stared at the cold food. He had made an effort with that dinner. It was a nice dinner. And now it was cold and not appetizing at all. He gave Sherlock another ten minutes to show up, and then he put the food away, made a single plate for himself, gave it three minutes in the microwave and sat down in front of the telly. It was hard to eat when so many conflicting feelings were fighting for space in his stomach. Hurt, disappointment, worry, anger... He sighed and put the plate away.
John was still seated on the sofa, head lolled sideways in an uncomfortable way, lightly snoring when Sherlock carefully opened the door and shuffled in. The ex-soldier snapped to attention as soon as a careful foot thread on that one squeaky floorboard.
"Sherlock!" he exclaimed, "Jeez! Are you trying to scare me to death?"
"Sorry, John", Sherlock said and actually looked as if he meant it, "And sorry about dinner. I hope you didn't wait for me."
John was about to tell him where he could shove his sorry, when he noticed that the detective was moving awkwardly. He kept one arm tightly against his body, his shoulders were stooped, he had bruised knuckles and a growing bruise on his brow. In addition to that he was exceedingly dirty.
"Why are you holding your jacket in your hand? And God! What is that smell?"
Sherlock shuffled closer to the sofa, ignoring the question.
"Do you think you could help me remove my coat? I don't seem able to do so myself."
In his head Calm and Collected John told Sherlock to stuff the coat and then swept off to his room. In reality Always Considerate John frowned with worry and got up from the sofa.
"What's the problem? Have you broken anything?"
"No, I don't think so. I just have some trouble lifting my arm."
The coat was incredibly dirty, John noticed on closer inspection. It also smelled like a dumpster. Sherlock himself smelled as well, but this time of stale frying oil. With careful fingers John took the heavy coat and eased it off the detective's stiff frame. The formerly white shirt he found underneath was greasy beyond description. It was also smeared with blood around the right shoulder. John snapped into full doctor mode at once.
"Is this your blood? What have you done? Do you need stitches?"
Without waiting for a reply he started to remove the shirt.
"I'm fine!" Sherlock protested, "It's just a scratch."
"It's blood. It's not fine."
"John! People will talk if they see you undress me like this!"
"They will only talk about your smell..."
The usually smooth alabaster that was Sherlock Holmes was marred all over the right shoulder. A huge bruise was forming all over that side of his torso. He also had bruises on his right hand, and a sprained wrist.
"Okay. Unless it's classified information that will lead to Mycroft kidnapping me again, you need to tell me what happened to you for you to look like this and for you to miss our bloody dinner."
John's tone of voice did not accept no for an answer. Sherlock sighed and sat down on the edge of the desk.
"Me and young Hopkins have been staking a high-profile restaurant owner down in China town. We have every reason to believe that he is working as a laundry service for fake five pound notes. We hoped that we could catch him red-handed, so I have spent the last 23 hours hidden in the ventilation drum in his restaurant. I only managed to sneak a text to you when I had to crawl out to use the bathroom. An hour ago they had a minor accident in the kitchens. A pan caught fire and smoke started to fill the ventilation system. I would have sat it out but I managed to cough once and they heard me. I had to get out at speed. Hopkins had placed a plank against the wall so I could climb in and out through the ventilation grill, but my shoes had got greasy in the drum so I slipped, sliding down the plank on my side. I managed to pick up my coat from the dumpster where we hid it. I also managed to catch a cab and get back here before they could see me. Unfortunately my shoulder now seems to be a bit stiff."
John provided one dry bark of a laugh.
"Of course it is stiff: it's full of splinters. And you almost managed to break your hand as well. Good thing it's just your right hand. You will still be able to hold the bow. If it had been the other hand you wouldn't been able to use your violin for at least six weeks."
Sherlock looked properly horrified at this theoretical prospect.
"Now: go and get a shower. Clean yourself up thoroughly. I will take a look at your shoulder and hand when you're less greasy."
When Sherlock came out from the bathroom ten minutes later, John had set up his medical bag on the table and Hamish had joined the party. The little boy was dressed in his pyjama and was thoughtfully sucking at a mug of milk.
"Ello Schlock", he said casually and leaned against a leg of the kitchen table.
"Hello Hamish", Sherlock rumbled back and sat down on the chair John pointed at.
"Lean over the table slightly, thank you", the doctor ordered.
Sherlock was dressed in an old pair of pyjama pants and nothing else. When he did as told and leaned over the table all of his ribs were clearly visibly through the delicate skin of his back. Little droplets from his still wet hair fell on the shiny surface of the table.
"Have you got any injuries that I can't see?" John asked with a certain amount of tact.
"A huge bruise on my hip. Nothing else. Do you want to pull off my pants and see for yourself?" Sherlock's tone was sarcastic, but John could not stop himself from blushing nonetheless.
"Not unless you got something good to show me", he retorted and pressed an iodide soaked wad against the irritated skin on Sherlock's shoulder. The detective hissed and John felt a guilty pang of glee.
Carefully and methodically John cleaned the mess of splinters, bruise and scratches that was the formerly perfect shoulder of his flatmate. He pulled out all the big splinters and did as good as he could with all the tiny ones that were stuck in the pale skin. He took a good look at the sprained wrist and wrapped it in bandages. They talked little while this was going on. Occasionally Sherlock would hiss at some sharp pain. Hamish leaned against his leg and gave his knee a comforting pat everytime this happened. Little droplets of sweat had soon joined the water drops on the kitchen table.
John could not keep himself from ogling the torso presented in front of him. The skin was a perfect smooth surface of white silk, but it had been marred since he last saw it. Several ugly scars were as insults on that beautiful canvas. In the past John had sometimes (and he knew this was utterly silly) imagined his flatmate as made of silk, rubber and steel. It felt so wrong everytime that illusion was broken and Sherlock bled as any other man.
"There," he said, "I'll just give you something against the pain and then we're done."
Hamish perked up.
"Tiss bette?" he asked helpfully.
"Yes, of course you should kiss it better," John conceded.
"What?" Sherlock asked and gave them both a suspicious look over his shoulder.
"Surely your mother or one of the nannies must have taught you that a kiss makes everything better and takes away the boo-boo?" John asked innocently and removed his rubber gloves.
"That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard! Really John, as a trained medical professional you must know that this is nonsense. What are you doing?"
John had picked up Hamish and now the little boy was hovering over Sherlock's shoulder.
"No John! The amount of bacteria that is in the human mouth..."
His protests went unheard as John lowered Hamish so that he could place a small peck a good distance from the actual scratched area.
"Well done Ham! There you go, Sherlock. You are now kissed and on your way to a speedy recovery. Congratulations. Now we are going to bed, and you are cleaning up this mess. There's food in the fridge. Good night!"
Sherlock glared after them as they disappeared down the corridor. A kiss to make a wound better? Pah! Stupid. Still... The memory of the little peck fluttered against the skin on his back. Perhaps it could have a placebo effect on people of less intelligence? He might have to run a test sometime. But for now he needed to focus. The case was far from closed. It was going to be a long night.
