It is six weeks after the day that the nameless, faceless girl walked into John's office and told him she thought there was a chance she might have HIV. Today she sits in his clinic, face pale and drawn.
"How are you feeling?" he asks her gently, wrapping the tourniquet around her arm and preparing the syringe. She looks up at him, her eyes haunted.
"I'm fine" she says, and he wonders if he sounds this unbelievable when Sherlock asks him.
He knows that taking a blood sample is usually a nurse's job but in this case…he just wants to be there. It's ridiculous; he knows nothing about this girl, has nothing to gain from spending time with her. He tells himself that it will be easier on her to be seen by the same doctor, without much belief in his convictions.
She hisses slightly as the needle goes in, and he does his best to smile reassuringly.
"Sorry" he apologises, "Just a couple more seconds and you'll be all done."
She nods wordlessly, staring over his shoulder at an ironically placed safe-sex poster as he withdraws the needle and caps the tube.
"So we send this off now, and it'll be around ten days before you get the results back."
"Dr Watson?"
She still doesn't meet his eyes, her hair hanging down in front of her face.
"What happens…if it is positive?"
He smiles at her reassuringly.
"If the test does come back positive, there's plenty we can do. There's been a lot of research in the area and while you'll have to take tablets for the rest of your life and be extra careful about infection, it shouldn't have any impact on your life expectancy. There's lots of help and support out there."
She doesn't look hugely reassured but there's nothing he can say really, and she thanks him dully as she collects her bag and coat and leaves the room.
John himself decides to have his blood test done anonymously and travels across town to a sexual health clinic where he hopes to god they won't recognise him as a doctor or as Sherlock's sidekick.
The nurse has seen enough patients that she asks no questions and isn't overly gentle when she takes the blood, but on the other hand also doesn't mention the red lines in various stages of healing on the inside of his right elbow. She takes his work address and tells him the results will be with him in ten days, and he doesn't even look her in the eye as he leaves.
The first time it happens, he is dashing down Shoreditch High Street hot on the tails of his flatmate who is hot on the heels of a portly drug baron. They're on the verge of catching him and closing their third case this week (Sherlock has, for whatever reason, been working exceptionally hard recently) and the thrum of adrenaline in his ears wars with the sound of their feet slapping against the wet tarmac, the ragged breathing of the man running ahead of them.
In front, Sherlock lunges at the man, tackling him to the ground in a swoop of black coat and triumphant glee, and as John slows down he's overcome by a peculiar sensation; at first it's like someone's blocked his ears, the sounds outside becoming muffled. He can hear Sherlock's voice but it sounds as though it's coming from underwater, and sparks explode in front of his eyes as though he's been looking at a bright light. With a thrill of horror, he realises that he's going to faint; these are all the signs. He's never fainted before; he's lost consciousness a few times but this…well, this is just embarrassing.
He feels the roughness of the wall behind his back and slides down, resting his head between his knees until the roaring dulls down and he feels like he might be able to focus again. When he straightens up and takes a deep breath, Sherlock is looking at him with an expression he can't read, sat comfortably on the criminal's back, one hand texting someone (Lestrade, hopefully, though it wouldn't be the first time they had both assumed that the other was alerting the police and been sat in the cold for hours) and the other hand pinning the man's wrists together.
"Are you alright, John?" he asks evenly as the sirens begin to wail a few streets over and blue light bleeds through the alleyway.
"Fine" he lies easily, rubbing his side, "Just a stitch."
When they stop for takeaway that evening, he forces himself to eat until his stomach complains, and tries not to notice the curious look on Sherlock's face.
The second time is happens is less than a week later and Sherlock isn't in the flat. John has done nothing more than stand up too quickly from his bed at the sound of the doorbell ringing, and as the bell dies down the ringing in his ears picks up.
This time he isn't quick enough, and the last thing he feels as he crashes to the ground is a flash of pain in his injured leg as it hits the wooden floor first.
He wakes up, probably only seconds later, with his cheek pressed against the wooden floor and his hands trembling. The doorbell rings again and he picks himself up gingerly, waiting for the world to stop spinning and tilting before he goes down the stairs and allows the gas man to take a reading. He makes his way painfully upstairs, his knee already swollen and bruising, and makes himself a nice cup of tea with a splash of milk and a sugar, and soon he feels right as rain.
When Sherlock comes home that evening, he avoids moving for as long as he can, until it becomes apparent that Sherlock isn't going to bed any time soon and John is going to fall asleep on the chair if he doesn't get up. Hoping the detective won't notice, he levers himself up and has a blissful moment as the pain holds off for a moment before shooting needles through his neurones, and he gasps in pain and crumples to the floor.
Smooth.
Thankfully Sherlock doesn't rush to his aid; he looks at him over the top of the paper.
"Would you like a hand, John?" he asks, and John shakes his head with a forced smile.
"I'm fine"
He grips the arm of the chair, nails digging into the fabric, and tries to use his good leg to push himself up, but it's futile. Too long being sat down as well as his overall exhaustion has rendered his leg utterly useless; he can feel it buckling underneath him even as he tries to put weight on it. Hoping vainly that it will stabilise in a few seconds, he stands experimentally and lowers his weight gently.
Pain ricochets up his leg agaim and he tries to catch himself, but his arms are weak and his bodies natural reaction is to move away from the pain, and he falls heavily again. The thump he makes as he lands doesn't sound as painful as it feels and he lies face-down on the floor, biting his lip against the burn of tears at the back of his throat and the sting of humiliation. The one person he's been trying so hard to appear strong in front of is now watching him at his most pathetic.
He doesn't hear Sherlock move, but feels his presence behind him, radiating warmth and a strange but subtle smell of chloroform which is probably something that John doesn't need to be thinking about right now. He can't even bring himself to bristle or feel embarrassment as Sherlock manoeuvres him so his back is against the bottom of the chair and his legs sprawled in front of him and rolls up the leg of his jeans.
"Hmmm" he says; gets up, walks into the kitchen and returns with a bag of frozen…John doesn't want to know what, but it doesn't actually feel bad, laid surprisingly gently on his knee.
"What did you do?"
"I fell" mumbles John, refusing to meet Sherlock's eye. "The floors are very hard here."
There's a hint of a smile on Sherlock's face when he raises an eyebrow.
"They are made of wood, John."
John sleeps on the sofa that night. He can't decide whether it's coincidence that Sherlock decides to sleep in his own bed, or his flatmate being kind. If he wasn't a sociopath it would probably be an easier distinction to make.
He feels relatively refreshed the next morning when he gets up. He has a mug of tea and an apple and straps a bandage around his knee, taking two ibuprofen to manage the pain and inflammation, and for once actually catches the bus to work rather than having to walk in the rain and turn up late.
The envelope is waiting on his desk, plain and white, with his name printed on the front: "John Watson"
No 'Dr'.
He knows what this is; not least because it's been 10 days since his blood test.
His hands are perfectly still as he opens the envelope, slides out the letter and skims down.
He feels the colour draining out of his face, the rise of nausea in his gut, the roaring in his ears. The room spins slowly; once, twice; he lays his head on the cool wood of the desk and takes a deep steadying breath, looking at the letter again.
Fuck.