Hello, Sherlockians. I have decided to write a series of one shots from the letter A to Z, each letter featuring an injury (which obviously happens to Sherlock). If you have any ideas, prompts or suggestions, review or PM me.

The more the reviews, the faster the updates.

Hope you enjoy...

Abrasion.

The clock was just chiming eight in the morning, when the relative silence was broken by a whining voice.

"Oh God, what new stupidity is this?"

John looked up from the newspaper with a frown.

"What are you watching?", he asked, making his way to where Sherlock was hogging the couch in front of the T.V.

"I don't know. It has some blue things in a forest. And some flying beasts", came Sherlock's reply, as he crossed his arms and scowled at the screen.

"Avatar? That's a fantastic movie. How can you not like that?", John asked incredulously, plopping down next to Sherlock.

Further debate whether the movie was fantastic or not was suspended when a shrill ring cut through the air.

"Boys, you've got a client", Mrs. Hudson's voice drifted upstairs.

Exchanging frankly manic grins (In their defense, they hadn't had a case in days) and switching off the telly, they made their way to their respective armchairs.

There was a knock at the door and a man of about forties entered, apparently let in by their landlady.

"Ah, Good morning. Do sit down", John motioned to the 'client' chair. Sherlock was regarding the man with his usual deducting gaze and John could practically see the cogs turning in that brilliant mind.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. I need your help", the man sat down in the chair, wringing his hands nervously.

"Yes. That's obvious. Now, is it murder?", Sherlock asked in his usual ... friendly, way.

"Sherlock!", John said, a little of Captain Watson entering his voice.

"What? No. But, I guess I'd better introduce myself first. My name's Billy Murdock. My wife's Laura. I am working ... "

"You are working as a cab driver, judging by the ID visible in your pocket. You have a boy of less than a year and a five year old girl. You take care of the baby at least every morning and night, judging by the speck of baby food and drool on your left shoulder and you also don't get enough sleep due to the boy crying and waking you in the middle of the night. In the afternoon, while you are out driving, you hire a babysitter for them. Your wife works as a nurse in the hospital near your home. You were engaged in coitus with her this morning, judging by the perfume ... Chanel, hers, that you smell of. So the children were not present. Most probably they had gone to a relative's house for the day. You are obviously happily married. Your ring is well polished. No trouble in the family. No murder. Then why are you here?", Sherlock ranted off in high speed and there was silence for a moment or two when he finished, as Murdock sat in slight shock and strangely, annoyance.

"I must say, Mr. Holmes, you are every bit as good as they tell. And, well, I lied. I am here on a case of murder. Yours".

In the blink of an eye, several things happened simultaneously. John who had seen the gun a split second before Sherlock, tackled his friend to the floor. At the same time, a gunshot sounded and a bullet passed where Sherlock's head had been a few milliseconds ago. Both the detective and the blogger crashed to the floor in a tangle of limbs with John on top of Sherlock.

Murdock, however, recovered swiftly and fired another shot at the pair. John and Sherlock dodged in the opposite directions.

With a lunge, the army doctor knocked the client down and kicked the gun away, while Sherlock retrieved John's revolver and pointed it at the client's head.

"Bad idea, Mr. Murdock. You forgot that John here was a soldier. Now, I suggest you talk unless you want him to make you suffer while still keeping you conscious."

"So basically, he was just looking for more money. Willing to kill you and then disappear with his family to someplace nice", John remarked, with his hands in his pockets, as they watched Lestrade load the criminal onto the police car.

"Yes. Cabbie salary not enough. Obviously he loved his family and would do anything for them. The question is, who wants to kill me?" Turning, Sherlock led the way back to their flat.

"Well, a lot of people do. Hell, sometimes even I do."

Sherlock smirked.

"But then, life would become dull, wouldn't it?"

"Unfortunately, yes", John replied, smiling back.

"For God's sake, let me look at it. It could get infected. Who knows when the flat was cleaned last."

"Don't be silly John. It's just a slight scratch."

"It's not a scratch. It's a severe abrasion of your skin and it's bleeding considerably. Now, let me look at it."

They were seated at the flat. It had been a quiet ten minutes before John had noticed Sherlock's wince when his arm brushed against the couch seat.

"You alright?", he had asked, running his eyes over Sherlock's posture.

"Of course, I am. Why wouldn't I be?", had been Sherlock's instant reply.

"Show me your arms."

Sherlock had looked at him with a hint of fear in his eyes. And quickly replied with a firm 'No'.

"Sherlock ...", John's voice held a warning.

And so after much wrangling, threatening and pleading, they now sat with John eyeing Sherlock's scratched, red arms but unable to tend to it.

"Well, to be honest, if you hadn't tackled me so forcibly, I might not be sitting here with my arms burning."

"Would you have preferred a bullet through your brain?", John asked, smiling venomously.

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Anyway, you are in pain. I can help with that."

John fetched his medical bag and withdrew the salve to soothe abraded skin and slight burns.

Snatching Sherlock's arms towards him and ignoring the detective's protest, he cleaned the wounds with a little water and disinfectant, smirking slightly when Sherlock flinched occasionally.

Then, reaching for the tube of salve, he applied the cool cream, raising his eyebrows and smiling smugly at his friend's relieved sigh("Oh, shut up, John"). Finally, he finished by wrapping both arms in a light bandage.

"There, all done. That wasn't so hard, was it?", John asked, patting Sherlock on the shoulder and getting up. "Anyway, I'm gonna take a bath. And you should too. But not right now. I'm not changing your bandages again."

"Bathing. Boring. I'd rather watch Avion", Sherlock scoffed, switching the telly back on.

"It's Avatar. And I know you like it. Ah ah, don't try to deny it. We'll rent it later if you want", John made his way to the bathroom, grabbing a towel and a bath robe (His' or Sherlock's, he didn't know) on the way.

"John."

"Yeah?"

"Um ... well, I ..."

"You're welcome, Sherlock. Don't mention it", John's voice drifted from inside, "And stay out of the bathroom."

The bathroom door slammed shut and Sherlock smiled to himself, turning back to his movie.

He would be lost without his blogger.

John relaxed as the warm water soothed him. He loved showers. Though his priority was always baths. But he didn't dare to spend more time than necessary away from Sherlock.

God knew what mischief he could get into without him. Explosions, assassination attempts, body parts in the fridge ...

That man was sending him to an early grave.

John smiled.

And he loved every minute of it.

Hope you enjoyed. Please read and review.

Ta,

Laila.