A/N: HELLO AGAIN. I know I should write more in my chapters but short snippets is more my style and it's more fun that way. I've decided no slash, but I might do a different one with a bit in. This is purely friendship based.
Enjoy
R
...
Once John had eventually calmed Sherlock down from his previous clankings in the kitchen, he decided to sort the mess he'd make of his arm out. Sadly, Sherlock did not want to be so cooperative and insisted he was fine, skulking off to his bedroom, though ten minutes later John managed to drag him back to the sofa by his good arm for proper treatment.
'So, are you going to tell me who that man at the door was?' John's eyes traced Sherlock's stone-dead face, his gaze pointed to the rather large gash in his arm. John had cleaned the mess, including the smashed test tube and the big machete blade Sherlock had tried to hide in is rush to cover up the conundrum as he heard John stumble through the door.
Honestly, he wasn't that stupid. He was bound to notice the wound was too big to be caused by a simple gash from broken glass or a cut from a sharp corner...no, this was the work or a huge sharp metal thing that looked like an oversized meat cleaver.
'I don't see why I should...' Sherlock sniffed, and then took a sharp intake of breath as John dabbed antiseptic onto the wound. It stung and tingled, which Sherlock really did not appreciate, and he began to shift uneasily in his seat, tapping his foot rapidly.
'You should because I am now cleaning this' John nodded down at the gash 'which is probably his doing!' he exclaimed. Sherlock shrugged blankly, John sighed and went back to treating Sherlock's arm. They sat there for the next ten seconds in silence, one of them occasionally flinching whilst the other jerked backwards, until the taller of the two could stand the quiet no longer.
'So! How was she?'
'Who?' John asked, vaguely alarmed as the deafening silence was cracked by his low, rumbling tones.
'Your new woman? Is she adequate enough for you?'
'what!' John gawped. She was barely a woman. She smiled at him in the supermarket and slipped her number into his coat pocket: the coat that he had thrown onto one of the hooks on the walls downstairs when barging through the hallway.
'DON'T ask how I know that. I have no desire to show off today.'
'Seriously: What is wrong with you?' John put his soaked cotton wool down but still held Sherlock. He had a feeling that the other man wanted to move from his grasp any second now. He was jigging about and was looking over to the door, then at the clock, and then back at the door again over and over. 'Nothing. He just came to "fix the dishwasher", but since we don't have one, I sent him on his way.'
'What, with a bloody nose and a black eye?' John said accusingly. 'I do not want to have to squeeze every last piece of information out of you, but I might have to if you carry on like this! You are ridiculous sometimes!' John stood up angrily to get the first aid kit from the kitchen table when he saw Sherlock's vacant expression, misty eyes and dry lips. He was rather pale...
'I'm an idiot.' His voice was quiet from behind John, who paused in his step towards
'Finally you admit it. I'm not the only one then?'
'No, John, I've done something bad.'
By this point, John was more than a bit worried. Sherlock looked practically green and had slumped on the sofa.