It had been inevitable.

John hadn't been able to stop him.

Sherlock Holmes could not resist a case.

And so, when he found out that the Yard was wrestling with a new one-who knew how he did-he had insisted on paying them a visit, if only to see if it was fantastic enough. Normally he would have waited for them to 'come crawling' to him with it, but he must have known that they would still be hesitant to involve him for fear that he was not yet in hardy enough condition to withstand a case.

Of course, he probably wasn't.

But that had never stopped him before.

Despite John's warnings, pleas, and forbidding, Sherlock had buttoned up his dress shirt and slipped on his coat. His movements were still careful, in order not to cause any inadvertent pain here and there, and it hurt John to watch.

Because he knew Sherlock wasn't quite careful enough.

But he wouldn't show it.

In the end John was forced to put on his shoes and join him, because short of chaining the detective down and throwing away the key, there wasn't all that much he could do to stop him.

Sherlock seemed delighted to finally be free of the flat and out in the frosty evening air, their breaths like smoke in the coming dark and their footsteps ringing clear against the frozen pavement. A sort of in-between expectancy hung in the air, following the groups of rowdy young people as they traversed the long streets from club to club, or bar to bar.

But by the dull golden glow of the street lamps, John could tell that Sherlock was truly even more intoxicated than they were.

Drunk on the possibility of a case.

High off the prospect of a new danger.

John could only sigh quietly and repress a small smile. Somehow, regardless of the inherent risk of taking on a case in this condition, seeing Sherlock so full of excitement and life filled him with... something. Something warm, that dissipated the cold night's chills and made him think that maybe-just maybe-this wasn't such a horrible idea after all.

That notion was soon wrecked like a doomed ship on the jagged, perilous reef of Lestrade's case description.

Dangerous.

Double homicide.

Killer on the loose.

Probably very physically demanding.

That would be a no from John.

Not until the consulting detective was completely healed and able to go dashing across London at a moment's notice, which, right now, would be entirely out of the question. And much to Sherlock's chagrin, Lestrade agreed.

Sherlock sighed loudly in aggravation, looking from one to the other, sharp eyes searching for any crack in their resolve or loophole in their reasoning.

"Oh, come on." He rolled his eyes, even more vexed at finding none. "You can't possibly think I'd allow you to treat me like a five year old. This is ridiculous."

"Sherlock... I'm... we're just looking out for your well-being." John tried to sound soothing. "This case would be dangerous. It would take a lot out of you. Remember how grouchy you get when you're tired? I don't want to have to deal with that crap again."

"It's not that bad!"

"Uh..." John just gave him a telling look, raising his eyebrows.

Secretly John was thankful to Lestrade for backing him up. He wasn't sure if he alone could have been enough to hold Sherlock back in his eagerness.

"Look, Sherlock," Lestrade caught his attention as he turned. "He's right. This wouldn't be a good idea for any of us, no matter how much I'd love to have a hand with this one. You know how this goes. Yeah? You know what happens. You'd end up hurt."

Sherlock's eyes flashed, and he wrenched up his left sleeve and held out his exposed arm, still criss-crossed with the healing scars from Moriarty's vengeance and underlined with the red and white reminders of bad days gone by. He set his jaw with indignation and directed a hard gaze at Lestrade.

"You think I'm not strong enough to get past that?! You should know-I can beat anything! This, of all things, would be no problem for me! You know what I can endure. I'm stronger than your stupid 'danger.' Why stop me if you so desperately need my help?!"

Lestrade's mouth was hanging open slightly, but he seemed too distracted to realise and shut it.

John, too, swallowed hard, staring at his flatmate without knowing quite what to say.

No, Sherlock...

No...

Both were saved from their speechlessness as the door opened and Sally Donovan started in. She stopped short at the sight of them.

John could watch her eyes gravitate directly to Sherlock's uncovered forearm in a split-second.

Sherlock saw it too.

Behind the mask, he looked like he might be sick.