Over the next few days John found himself to be fairly busy, what with work and all, but sometimes on his lunch breaks he made it a point to see if he could go visit Sherlock in rehab.

It wasn't always a pleasant experience.

The consulting detective was as snarky and terse as he'd always been—sometimes even more so. But John tried to remind himself that it was just a side effect of everything he was going through, and tried to be diplomatic about it.

But the last few times he'd visited... something was just the slightest bit couldn't exactly put his finger on what that something might be, but even he could tell there was a subtle change in Sherlock. The staff seemed to think it was just the drugs wearing off, and he decided to at least try to believe that too.

What else could he do?

Sherlock certainly wasn't going to tell him.

But still…

Sherlock had… well, quieted down a bit, for one. The shouting had stopped, and for that John was grateful—and yet, it was odd. The complaining, too, seemed to have taken a back seat in the consulting detective's daily agenda, but he had now focused in on the one thing he wanted more than anything.

Sherlock wanted out. No two ways about it. Every time John came to see him he made that one point quite clear.

As clear as the shadows beneath his eyes, or the jut of his cheekbones.

Rehab really didn't seem to be agreeing with Sherlock Holmes… but at the same time, the drugs would have killed him. He needed to quit. And he didn't seem to be able to do that on his own.

So John would just have to try and convince him to stick it out, and somehow make it a little easier for his friend.

However the hell he was supposed to do that.

On Sunday afternoon, after getting the green light from Mary, John unchained his bicycle and headed out for yet another visit to the rehab center prisoner patient. The sky was merciful, and had finally stopped raining, but the breeze that had picked up kept threatening to choke him on bugs at every turn.

Mouth closed, jaw set.

That was the way he found him.

Sherlock was stretched out on his bed, hands clasped over his chest and his eyes focused on nothing in particular.

Thinking.

"Sherlock?" John shed his coat and hung it over the back of the one chair in the room, now uncomfortably warm in his choice of jumper.

The detective hardly looked up. "Mm?"

"Doing alright?"

"If you distracted them for at least two minutes, I'm sure I could slip out unnoticed…"

"Sherlock, no. We've talked about this. But I'll take that as an 'I'm not doing so well, thanks for asking,' shall I?"

Sherlock only groaned in response, and started to roll over and turn his back on the room.

"Hang on—" John frowned, taking a step closer. "Did you fall or something?"

"Leave me alone." Sherlock scowled darkly and tried to draw his arm back as John attempted to get a better look at his wrist.

"It's bruised. Nasty one, too."

"I know that. Leave me alone."

John could only purse his lips and sigh under his breath. "Okay… well, did you at least get somebody to look at it? Bruise that much, you might have broken something. Better safe than sorry."

"No! That's… I would know if I had. Besides, you're a doctor, and you just looked at it. Good enough."

"No… not really. I hardly even got a good look, because you wouldn't even let me. Why don't you let me take another look? Save you the hassle of talking to some other idiot."

Sherlock hesitated, and after a moment John just had to take that as a yes.

Better safe than sorry.

As he pulled up the cuff a bit the detective masked a flinch, which didn't go entirely unnoticed.

"Sorry… Well, I can't really be sure it isn't broken without an x-ray, but it does seem a little…" John's eyes narrowed. "Wait. What the…"

Sherlock followed his gaze up his own wrist to the shadow of a second bruise peeking out from higher up under his sleeve.

"Sherlock, how many of these have you got? And how—"

"None of your business. You're not my doctor anymore."