I got the title for this chapter from the American novel of the same name written by Alice Walker. The title is the only thing they have in common, however. :) I apologize for the brevity of this one.

Chapter 3 – The Color Purple

It's been several weeks since the rib incident and Sherlock is healing nicely, although every now and then he'll briefly still, statue-like, in the middle of a deduction or amidst a bored rampage through the flat. He still hurts, as he seldom bends over a victim when they're on the ground and only plays violin for very short intervals.

They are small details, most of which would probably be unnoticeable to everyone except Mycroft and myself, but they're also a big deal. Sherlock doesn't let his body slow him down. I know his injuries weren't so bad that he'd let himself be handicapped. So what in his mindset has changed to allow small signs of weakness to peek through?

I don't have work today, so I sit slowly typing up one of Sherlock's more recent cases. The detective had rushed out of the flat early that morning with a brief explanation of where he was going, so I wasn't overly concerned when he still wasn't back in the evening hours.

A loud door slam brings my attention up from my computer screen and then Sherlock is in the doorway, throwing off his coat and rushing into his room.

"John!" he calls. "Get dressed. We have to go to a gay bar."

I pause briefly before realizing what he's talking about. Undercover. He hates the word and chooses to omit it in favor of spouting sometimes shocking sentences.

John, get dressed. We have to go to the slaughterhouse.

John, get dressed. We have an embalming to attend.

John, get undressed. We have a meeting at a nudist colony.

Dramatic bastard is more like his brother than he thinks.

I knew it was coming eventually. There is no way two men who go about solving crimes together can escape having to do something of this sort at some point in their career.

I stand. "What would you have me to wear?"

"Wear something, you know…" His hand waves through the doorway in my general direction. "Feminine."

Letting out a snort, I head for my room. "Sherlock, do you really think a straight man keeps clothes of that sort lying around in his closet?"

His voice is muffled and I hear him throwing clothes about in his room. The man really has a ridiculous amount of disguises. "You'll figure something out."

Ten minutes later, he's pounding on my door, yelling for me to hurry up. I've made do with a few smaller items of clothes I'd fit in before the army, hoping that subtle was good enough in this case. When I open the door, however, I realize Sherlock has not gone for subtle. A dark purple t-shirt stretches tightly against his wiry frame, accompanied by equally tight-fitting jeans. While this might not sound over-the-top, when it's accompanied by whatever product he'd worked into his hair, it certainly has its desired effect. He really looks quite…gorgeous.

"Nice work," I say with raised brows.

The detective rolls his eyes and thunders down the stairs to get his coat.

Once we're out on the street, Sherlock hailing a cab, I decide to ask a seemingly important question from my point-of-view. "So…for this bit, are we, you know, a…well, a—"

"For god's sake, John. How do you ever say anything at all?" A cab pulls up in front of us and he opens the door and gives me a once-over before meeting my eye. "Yes, for this bit we're a couple."

What that word jolts through my system is absolutely ridiculous and I tamp it down before climbing in behind the gangly detective.

This whole situation reminds me briefly of a case we'd been working before the…well, before the Fall. We'd been in an ordinary and rather lively bar, inquiring after a suspect, when one particularly insistent woman had decided she fancied me a bit. Sherlock, who had quickly disappeared once we'd stepped inside the building, had suddenly appeared at my side, grabbing my hand and making it painfully clear to the poor girl that I was unavailable. Once we were back at the flat, I'd yelled at him, telling him exactly what I thought about him, in no polite terms, and reestablished that I was not gay, thank you very much.

"I was just trying to help, John," he'd said darkly.

Now, several years later and a lot more water under the bridge, I find myself in a similar situation, albeit in reverse. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock is quite attention-grabbing for others in the place, and he has to thwart several efforts before I take matters into my own hands, literally, and link our fingers before dragging him to a semi-secluded table in the back of the bar. I push him toward the chair that has a better view of the entire room and claim the other myself.

"If you were trying to be covert about this whole thing, you should have left that shirt at home."

He waves his hand dismissively, pulling his scarf off. "Inconsequential."

I roll my eyes and get up. "I'll get us something to drink, then?" I've figured out by now that this is more of a stakeout than something requiring Sherlock to interact with the persons present.

However, when I return, another man has taken my seat and is talking excitedly to Sherlock. The detective, looking completely uninterested, isn't even facing the other guy.

Setting down the drinks, I clap a hand over the stranger's shoulder. "Hey, mate. Sorry, I beat you to him."

The stranger looks at Sherlock, who shrugs an agreement. At least I think it was an agreement.

"Oh. I—Sorry."

"Don't worry about it."

He gets up and makes his way to another table as I reclaim my seat.

"I didn't mess anything up, did I?" I ask, taking a sip of the fruity concoction in front of me.

Sherlock fiddles with the straw of his drink, but doesn't take his eyes from the room. "Not at all. In fact, that's the reason I brought you along."

I chuckle. "To chase away the interested parties?" I tease.

"Precisely," he says, completely serious.

Shaking my head, I mutter, "You're a real dick, you know that?"

Still looking ahead, his mouth tilts up in that half-smile of his.

I've just made it to the end of my drink when Sherlock abruptly stands up and throws his coat back on, shoving the scarf in his pocket. "That's our man."

I look around, not seeing anyone particularly noticeable. "Where?"

Suddenly, a guy sitting at the bar makes eye contact with Sherlock as the detective walks towards him and jumps up. Before I can blink, we're chasing the man out into the dark streets. Sherlock had a bit of a head start, so I push myself to catch up. Despite this, his dark coat flaps around the corner to an alleyway, still in hot pursuit, leaving me behind. Before I reach the opening to the side street, I hear a loud grunt, fueling me to hurry. Sherlock is lying on the cold ground, trying to stand back up, but it looks like his ribs are killing him.

"Stay there!" I bark, continuing after the man I see a small distance ahead.

"You didn't bring your gun?" he all but yells.

"Where would I have kept it in this getup?" I shout back, running after the man.

Case closed, we head back to the flat, Sherlock taking shallow breaths on the ride there. He refused to go to the hospital once again, despite both myself and Lestrade trying to convince him otherwise. I'd succeeded in knocking the bastard out that had kicked Sherlock in the ribs, then waited with the mad detective until Lestrade arrived to take the man away.

Sherlock is silent as I poke and prod at his ribs once more. I fear at least one of them might be cracked again. He still has an angry red print from the man's boot on his pale chest. He has sensitive skin. The stupid purple shirt had been a bloody pain to get off of him without hurting too terribly, and the idiot wouldn't let me cut it.

"You need to take it easy. Just for a couple of days. He at least bruised your ribs." I stand up, heading to the medicine cabinet to get pain relievers.

Sherlock doesn't reply, just sits there on the couch, shirtless, staring at his lap.

I hand him the pills and he swallows them dry. "Sherlock, are you okay?"

It's a stupid question, really. Sherlock Holmes is the king of okay, even with injured ribs.

Shaking my head, I turn to go to bed, but then there are long fingers wrapped around my wrist. I look back.

His eyes drill into mine, silent, staring. Just as I start to get uncomfortable, he murmurs, "Thank you, John."

I wake up the next morning to find him smoking. He has the window cracked, and breathes out into the crisp city air. His dressing gown drapes over his skeletal form as he lounges against the window, and his cheeks hollow out as he takes a deep pull on the clandestine cigarette.

These are the moments when he makes me feel useless. Sherlock Holmes may be a brilliant man, but he's also a lonely one.

Reviews appreciated! :) -C