John cut up the last of the apples, looking at the red blob squirming around his feet. "Alright, alright. Sit."
Rogan plopped down against the tile, catching the slice mid-air. John smiled; the pup was smart, easily trained. They'd only had him a week, and already Sherlock was eating consistently, walking on a daily basis, and even attempting to teach the dog tricks himself. The detective was far too impatient for anything to actually be taught, but John still found the effort sweet.
Mary ran a hand along John's back, pecking him on the cheek with a grin. "What's gotten into you?" he asked, pecking her back.
"My husband's cooking dinner, my daughter's asleep, and the detective is obeying every order you give the dog. Perfect day, I'd say."
John looked out the kitchen, finding Sherlock at the kitchen table.
"Sherlock, what are you doing?"
"Sitting. You told me to sit."
Mary turned to hide her laugher, busying herself in the cabinetry.
"I was talking to Rogan." John couldn't hide his grin. "The dog?"
Sherlock's face fell and turned an alarming shade of pink. "I, uh…" He stood clumsily, making his way back to the living room."
"No, no, come back. Dinner's almost ready. Give Rogan his, will you? He's smooching off of ours."
Sherlock obeyed, scooping several cups of dogfood into the bowl on the floor.
John stopped him as he rose. "Did you just groan?"
"What? No, I wasn't complaining," Sherlock said, defensive, already again retreating to the living room.
"Not what I meant. Stay."
Sherlock froze.
"Come here."
Sherlock did so, tense as John looked him up and down. "Take off your shirt."
The detective's face was indignant.
John widened his eyes. "I wasn't asking. Come now; you groaned when you bent down to feed Rogan. You haven't let me check your ribs in a few days."
"They're fine," Sherlock said, his words soft.
"Then let me see. Your body's been through a lot; it needs normal check-ups."
Sherlock lifted the shirt to his naval; John eyed him, clear that half-obedience wasn't enough. The detective removed it completely, vainly attempting to suppress his pain. The doctor felt the bones, even the tenderest of touch causing Sherlock to wince.
"You didn't tell me it was this bad."
"It's fine."
"You need medication."
"I'm trying to get off drugs, John, not back on them."
"Don't be smart."
Sherlock huffed. "You saw these scars before we went to America, John. They're no surprise. Please don't overreact."
"Your body is weak and abused; you're going through enough turmoil as is. Have you been sleeping alright?"
"Yes."
"Fibbing, Sherlock," Mary called from the dining room.
Sherlock threw his hands up, whimpering at the stupid decision. "Okay, not great. But that's got nothing to do with—"
John handed Mary the dinner, walking to the front door and grabbing his coat. "Put yours on. We're going to Bart's."
Sherlock began to argue but a raised hand quickly shut him up. "No. Go find your coat." The tone was firm enough to incite obedience; Sherlock retreated to his room.
Mary grabbed her husband's shoulder. "I know he's not well, John, but he honestly doesn't look any worse than before. Why the reaction?"
"It's not his ribs or bruises I'm worried about," John said, shrugging into his coat. "There's fresh puncture marks on his skin."
