"He probably didn't even get your name right."
"He actually did."
Once out of three times. Hey... they were getting there...
"What sob story did he tell you, Greg?"
"Sherlock doesn't do sob stories, John. You know that."
"I don't know what I know anymore."
Lestrade glanced from his position in the kitchen into the living room where Sherlock was sleeping on the couch, his face young and vulnerable. He looked broken even in sleep.
"You're stupider than you think, John."
There was an extended moment of utter silence over the phone. John broke it with: "I. Beg. Your. Pardon?"
"Meet Sherlock at Baker Street today, John. This time, try not to overlook anything."
"You're starting to sound like Mr. Deadalive Holmes himself."
"And try not to do any additional damage to him."
"Additional?"
Lestrade hung up.
Sherlock stepped through the door of 221b and closed it behind him. He removed his coat, folded it over his left arm, and mounted the stairs distinctly: one at a time until he reached the top and turned into the living room, startling slightly at the view of John himself sitting in his regular chair. The familiarity of it made his chest tighten painfully.
"J-John..." he said quietly. "Didn't realize you were here... I'll just go."
He turned to go, but John jolted quickly to his feet. "Sherlock?" He called stiffly, and the other turned correspondingly to face him, a questioning expression on his face. "You're... okay... right?"
"I didn't jump off a building, if that's what you mean," Sherlock informed him, and then, rethinking it, "Well... I didn't hit the ground."
"I'm aware," John said. He shifted onto his back foot, looking his past friend up and down. "You're not injured, are you? I mean, I know I hit you... more than once... and attacked you yesterday. But you're not injured beyond that, are you?"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed.
"Mycroft called you, didn't he!"
Well... that hadn't been the plan!
"No! He didn't! You're standing stiffly-"
"I'm always standing stiffly."
"-and you flinched when you hit the ground yesterday-"
"You were atop me."
"-and there's blood on the back of your shirt!"
He expected an excuse, but Sherlock only blinked once... twice... and then: "Oh."
It was all the confirmation John needed to spring forward two steps and say wearily, "Let me see."
"Why should I?"
It hadn't been the response John was expecting. He had expected Sherlock to melt at the opportunity gain John's concern. It would let him off the hook. He knew a concerned John let him get away with well-nigh anything!
"Because you're my friend," John replied, as though it was obvious, and then, as though an afterthought, "And there's literally blood streaming down your back."
"I'm your friend?" Sherlock laughed humorlessly. "Yeah... right..."
"I AM your friend!" John stated strongly.
"Yes, you are!" Sherlock clarified. "But that's not what you said last time."
John considered this for a moment, his heart breaking.
"Bet you wish I'd just jumped off the bloody building," Sherlock completed.
"I would never-"
"Shut up, John!"
Sherlock turned once more, flinging his coat around his shoulders and thrusting his arms into the sleeves. John sprang forward again, grabbing hold of Sherlock's shoulder, gauging his reaction. The detective's back was turned, but John still saw the flinch.
"Take. Off. Your. Shirt."
"I. Said. No."
"Then I'm taking you to the hospital."
"No, you're not. I'm walking out the door of this flat and going to..." he trailed off, not wishing to say aloud what was in his mind.
John was silent, waiting, and then he whispered, "Going to what, Sherlock?"
His voice and tone was so gentle, so quiet that Sherlock couldn't help but stand completely still, frozen. All the guilt pressed down on him, choking him. The thought of John begging him not to jump. The memory of John at his grave: crying.
"Doctor Watson is depressed, Sherlock."
"Don't be dramatic, Mycroft."
"I'm not dramatic, Brother Mine. You might want to hurry with whatever you're after."
That had been a year ago. Why had he not hurried?
"Going to what, Sherlock?"
John carefully walked around to face the other, his expression thoroughly concerned.
"John, leave me-" he breathed the final word, "alone..."
"Like you left me alone? No, Sherlock. I would not wish that on another. Especially not you."
"Why wouldn't you?"
The doctor couldn't believe he'd just asked that.
"Because I missed you."
Sherlock didn't reply. He was staring directly over John's right shoulder: unseeing, unfeeling, unhearing. John stepped forward slowly, one hand reaching to grip Sherlock's upper arm. The other hand circled his shoulder, being mindful of any injuries.
The embrace lasted a minute, Sherlock still frozen as John held him close, and then he reacted: carefully placing a steadying hand on John's bicep and looking down at his blond head. John released him, helped him out of his coat again, and then his fingers immediately went to Sherlock's top button, near frantically undoing it. He went down to the second, third, and fourth and was moving quickly to the fifth when Sherlock stopped him, covering his hand with his own.
"No, John. It's bad."
Though he had suspected it was, hearing it made him all the more eager to see whatever "it" was and do what he could about "it." His free hand moved to Sherlock's arm and he squeezed gently.
"I saw a war, Sherlock."
He stepped back as Sherlock finished unbuttoning his own shirt and carefully slid it off, but made no move to turn around. John took the initiative to view it for himself.
"Bad" was the understatement of the millennium.
Nearly every inch of Sherlock Holmes' back was covered with lesions and bruises. Knife wounds, lash marks, and wounds made by blunt force colored the normally pale skin. John inhaled sharply. He expect to hear: "I told you." Instead, Sherlock murmured, "I'm sorry."
"Mycroft didn't do this to you, right?" John clarified. He couldn't imagine the overprotective government official even raising a hand against his little brother, but he had to check.
"No. I was kidnapped during my... excursion. Mycroft rescued me, eventually. That's how I ended back in London."
Fighting back intense guilt, John reached up and touched one of the wounds, but Sherlock flinched on impact and the doctor's fingers quickly moved to the lightest bruise he spotted. Sherlock responded with a slight whimper and John yanked his hand away completely, crossing his arms tightly and stepping back to pace a small circle.
"Ok..." he murmured. "We can take care of this..."
"You don't have to, John."
"I know that."
He moved forward again, grabbed his medical bag, and took Sherlock by the wrist, walking him toward his bedroom. It was just as he'd always remembered it, up to the bed, still messy from the last time its occupant had slept in it. That had been the night before its owner had faked his own death.
John hastily changed the bedding out for fresher sheets and the guided his friend to lie down on his stomach. He flipped on the bedside lamp and then started his examination, treating Sherlock's tortured skin with the utmost care. He covered the bruises and lesser cuts with something soothing that took the edge off the pain and then turned his attention to the worse wounds. Two would need stitches, he noted, and three others would need bandaged. He stated as much and then reached for the necessary equipment to do the stitches.
Sherlock refused local anesthesia.
He kept his teeth gritted throughout the stitching of the first cut, his face absolutely buried in the pillow, but there was no doubt that the needle was causing unimaginable pain. John paused after the first one and tentatively touched the back of Sherlock's neck, hoping to offer some comfort.
"You don't have to be quiet, Sherlock. I'm not mad at you. I'm not trying to cause you pain."
"I know."
It was a tight voice that replied. John squeezed his shoulder and started on the second one, completing it as hastily as he could while still making neat stitches. He cut the thread at last and then put antibiotics on them and bandaged them. He rose, entered the bathroom, and washed his hands, drying them as he returned. Tossing the towel to the side, he moved to the bed and helped Sherlock move under the covers, covering him up.
Sherlock treated and in bed, John paused, staring across the room at a framed newspaper clipping of the two of them: Sherlock gripping John's arm, smiles on both their faces, and Lestrade off to one side. It had been their first case, and they had barely known each other at the time, but things had changed much.
There had been a time when John Watson could not imagine life without Sherlock Holmes; had not wanted to imagine it until he had been forced to live it as a reality. It had lived up to all his worst expectations, and no matter how angry he was at Sherlock, he couldn't deny that he'd missed him more than anything he'd ever suffered. He knew things had happen to them both while they were separated that the other didn't know yet. They had time to learn of all of it, and time to heal, but for now...
John flipped off the lamp and pulled the blackout curtains closed. He moved over to the other side of the bed and slipped off his shoes, sitting down on it. He shifted up against the headboard in a sitting position and felt Sherlock turn toward him in the dark.
"I'm sorry, John."
"I'm sorry, too, Sh'lock."
Why was he so tired?
He felt Sherlock shift closer to him, his head resting against John's leg. The doctor stretched out his arm and wrapped it around his shoulders pulling him even closer. His free hand moved to Sherlock's head, holding it against his side, gently rubbing it. Sherlock let out a soft moan, his face distressed almost to the point of tears.
"It's okay, Sherlock..." he murmured gently. "It's okay..."
Sherlock didn't reply. A shudder moved through his body and John theorized that it had stabbed his heart. It would explain the pain.
"I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock," he whispered. "We're okay."
They were okay. They were always okay when they were together.