John did not believe in karma. Not in the traditional sense, at least. He had served as a doctor long enough to know that good deeds did not always equate to a good life. He'd seen young men, boys, really, struck down within minutes of having saved another man's life. He'd seen bad people, really bad people, torturing a young lady, only to have those same men escape death by gunfire by the skin of their teeth. It wasn't luck, and karma had little to do with it; it was just life. Chaotic, broken, fucked up life.

Which was why, as John cleaned and bandaged Jim's brutalized body, he didn't feel much of anything. He had already made the decision to help the criminal, so he had tucked the question of the morality of that act away and continued to act as good a doctor as he could. No point in tearing himself up over a plan that had already been set in motion. He supposed that he should feel hatred or bitterness towards the man laying limp on the bed, considering that Jim had caused the explosion that nearly drowned John and Sherlock both in that blasted pool, but all John really felt was pity. A dull sort of sympathy for what Jim had suffered. Nobody deserved rape, not even consulting criminals.

He vaguely wondered if Sebastian knew. Of course John had suspected right away; Jim never would have fought hard enough to incur the sort of injuries he had if only defending himself against a simple mugging. Then there was the way that, even when only half-conscious, Jim curled onto his side and pulled his legs close to himself, as if defending himself against further assault. No, John was completely unsurprised to find evidence of rape as he cleaned the man up. It had been so obvious, he had almost been surprised that Sherlock hadn't announced it while they sat together in the cab.

And that brought up the one factor for which John was truly concerned. Sherlock. The detective had been entirely too helpful to have not raised John's suspicions. Sherlock had stayed at the hospital for hours, playing the "bereft relative bemoaning the plight of their sickly cousin" and quietly hacking into the hospital's computer systems to arrange for any additional tests that John required. And he did all of this without once inquiring further into the identity of their mysterious patient. John found this truly unsettling, and he half expected Sherlock and Lestrade to burst through the doors with every intention of arresting John's comatose patient.

John sighed as he finished binding the last wound and pulled Jim's gown back over his bony shoulders. John suspected from his too-prominent ribs and collar bone that Jim suffered the same affliction as Sherlock, and he refused to eat while orchestrating some brilliant scheme. John jotted a note about Jim's weight on a sticky tucked in with Jim's file. He had been doing this as he ran different tests in hopes of filling some of the seventeen-year gap in Jim's medical history. Thus far, all that he had managed to gather was a scattering of broken bones, a gunshot wound, and some strange scarring that had shown up on Jim's CT scan. At first John had assumed that it was residual damage from prior concussions, but the markings in the scan were too systematic to have been caused by a random bump to the head. They appeared on the right and left of the frontal lobe, almost directly in line with one another, and were both too severe to have been caused by anything short of taking a bumper to the skull if they had been inflicted by head trauma. At the moment, John had conjured a few theories as the the scarring's origins, but he hadn't taken the time to thoroughly look into it. He would examine the file later that night, once Jim was cared for and he was comfortably seated in his armchair at Baker Street.

"You're a lot of trouble, you know that?" John gave Jim a tight smile as he injected the day's last dose of pentobarbital into the IV line, ensuring that Jim would remain unconscious through the night. John then turned and left the room, nearly stumbling into Sebastian as he did so.

"Oh, hey, sorry. Didn't see you there. Anyway, Jim's all taken care of for the night. You're welcome to stay here with him, but I've had Sherlock arrange for nurses to check on him every little bit, so you don't have to stay if you don't want to."

"I'll be here." Sebastian's eyes were wondering over Jim's bed, stopping where the ventilator fed into his mouth. "How long do you think he'll need to stay in the coma?"

"At least three days. There was a significant amount of intracranial pressure caused by the swelling from the accident, so it's going to take a little bit before it's reduced enough to be safe."

"Right." Sebastian awkwardly rocked on his feet for a moment before clearing his throat and holding up a large brown paper bag. "I, um, got you some take out from that Chinese place down the road. I figured you'd be hungry."

"Oh, um, thanks." John slowly took the bag, thoroughly confused but equally aware of the fact that he hadn't had lunch that afternoon. "That was...nice of you."

"Well I was already out, and I accidentally ordered Jim's usual along with mine. Habit, you know. Anyway, I didn't want to waste it." Sebastian looked as if he would rather have been caught wearing nothing but a pair of lady's underpants than have been having this conversation, so John decided to have mercy on the man.

"Well, thanks. I've got to be heading out now, though. Just keep an eye on Jim, and I left my number on the side table if anything changes. Call me anytime."

"Right."

They parted ways, John walking as briskly down the hallway as he could while Sebastian ducked into Jim's room. Both let out audible sighs of relief as they broke away from tense awkwardness that had been their conversation.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

Sherlock sprawled across the sofa, his toes curling and uncurling against the arm rest as he pressed his fingers under his chin. His eyes took on the glazed appearance that they had while he was lost in thought, staring blankly into nothing as his focus turned inwards onto the inner workings of his mind. Minutes ticked by unnoticed while he examined relevant data and discarded that which did not matter.

John Watson was lying to him

It didn't often bother Sherlock when John lied to him, as he usually did so out of courtesy to the detective. Such as when he'd gone out to shag Sarah one night, but had informed Sherlock that they had spent a lovely evening watching a romantic comedy of some sort. Oh, they had probably started watching the film, but they certainly had not finished it. Not if the way John was rubbing his shoulder was anything to go by. Sherlock didn't mind these little transgressions of John's because they spared him the uncomfortable discussion of John's romantic life. This, however, was different. It was important to John, but in a different way than sex was. Somehow, it mattered deeply enough that John was willing to simultaneously ask for Sherlock's help while also lying to him about the circumstances that required Sherlock's intervention.

John Watson did not trust Sherlock Holmes.

Oh, yes, he certainly trusted Sherlock's intellect, otherwise he would not have asked for his help. He trusted Sherlock's ability to solve a crime, otherwise he would not accompany Sherlock to so many murder scenes. But John did not trust Sherlock with his friend. That much was evident by how he sheltered the man from sight, tucking his head against his shoulder so Sherlock couldn't see much else than a little peak of an ear. John was fearful of how Sherlock would react to the man, and thus had defended him against any potential meddling from the detective. This troubled Sherlock a little bit; he had, after all, been working on finding some semblance of self-restraint as far as his deduction making went. Beyond his emotional reaction to this revelation, however, was how John's lack of trust played into determining who this mystery man was. Clearly, he was someone John thought needed protection. This just raised more questions, though, such as: Did the man need protecting because he was close to John? Did he need it because he was in danger? Did this mean that John was in danger because he associated himself with this man?

None of those questions could be answered without further data, however, so Sherlock moved on to the next bit of information he had collected.

John Watson's friend had another friend.

Sherlock had seen the man often through the day, always within easy range of John's patient. He kept to the shadows and blended in seamlessly with the other masses waiting for news of their loved ones. He did this so well that Sherlock didn't truly take note until he was forced to sit in the third waiting room of that day, and he spied the brunette as he slipped into an empty room nearby. From then on, Sherlock kept a watch on the man, tracking his movements as he followed John's friend through the various corridors of the hospital. Sherlock could gather little from his fleeting glances of the man, other than the fact that he was carrying a pistol that was hidden beneath his jacket, and that he, too, had previously been in the army. While this supported John's assertion that "Bill" was an old friend from his days of military service, Sherlock suspected that there was a deeper connection between John's friend and his shadow. From the man's stance, Sherlock gathered that he, too, felt defensive towards John's friend, which yet again raised the same questions as before regarding the patient.

All in all, Sherlock had decided that he didn't like any of this. He was frustrated at the lack of information, frustrated with John's refusal to reveal the actual identity of his patient. Above all else, he was frustrated that it seemed he wouldn't be able to solve the mystery without directly asking John about it. To him, this was on par with being forced to ask Lestrade who the murderer was; degrading, really. Sullenly, he twisted onto his side and stared at the back of the sofa until he heard the familiar sound of John clomping up the stairs. Finally. Sherlock was glad to smell the thick scent of greasy Chinese as John crossed the threshold.

"Decided to come home, then?"

John gave Sherlock a weary smile as he sank into his armchair and began unloading their dinner onto the coffee table. "Sorry. I know it's awfully late, but I brought dinner home."

Sherlock gave a haughty sniff as he rolled off the sofa and tugged his dress robe back into order. "Better late than never, I suppose. Your friend is doing well." A statement, not a question. John wouldn't have left the hospital otherwise.

"Yes, I think he'll be right as rain in a few weeks' time. The next few days will be a little touch-and-go, but I'm sure he'll make it through alright."

"Good." Sherlock sat across from John before promptly snatching the container for which John had been reaching. He gave John a triumphant smirk as he stuck his fork into the box. "Would you be a dear and get the soy sauce from the fridge?"

"There's soy sauce in the packets right there."

"Yes, but I like it better cold."

John gave his usual long-suffering sigh before pushing out of his chair and going to the fridge. "Can I bring you anything else, princess?"

"A glass of water would be lovely. Oh, and while you're up, could you move the fingers in the fridge to the water bath on the stove? And don't forget to turn the heat to low; I wouldn't want my experiment ruined at this vital stage."

"Right." John appeared back in the lounge a few moments later, tossing Sherlock the soy sauce and sinking back into his chair. Sherlock frowned at his decidedly non-existent glass of water as he smothered a box of rice in the sauce.

"John..."

"There weren't any clean glasses. The last one was sitting in the fridge with severed fingers in it."

"Oh." Sherlock pouted but continued tucking into his dinner. He had already taken at least three bites out of each container by the time John had returned. He frowned, noting that the order contained different entrees of different quantities than what John usually ordered. "Feeling a bit experimental, then?"

"What? Uh, no. Just thought this looked good tonight." John shifted uncomfortably before stuffing his mouth full of noodles, thereby preventing any further conversation. Lying again, then, but why was he lying about the Chinese?

"You know, Sherlock, I'm feeling a little tired. Been a long day and all that. Do you think you could clean this up so I can get off to bed?"

"Sure." Sherlock smiled as pleasantly as he could manage while watching John clamber up and disappear up the stairs to his room. Apparently he actually was tired, because he forgot to grab the miscellaneous paperwork he had brought home, leaving it sitting among the scattered Chinese containers. Sherlock's eyes fell on the manilla file folder stuck beneath sheets of other papers, considering the odds of it holding something useful. He waited for the tell-tale sounds of John sliding into bed before snatching the papers off the table and thumbing through them. The first few were just letters taken from the box that morning, but the others below were print outs of various test reports from that day. These were all printed under the heading of John's friend's pseudonym, Jensen Ackles. The file folder, however, was emblazoned with a different name: Doyle, James Adair.

Curious. Apparently Sherlock had been correct in his assumption that John had given his friend a fake name. This meant that his true identity needed protecting, too. Sherlock thumbed through the papers within, quickly scanning each one before settling down to read them more thoroughly.

The first couple of years were rather unremarkable. Young James had received the usual shots at the recommended ages and was deemed healthy despite being rather small for his age. At age three, however, the boy had apparently gained a sense of curiosity, and therefore a sense of how to get himself into mischief. He had quite a few visits to the surgery for minor broken bones, enough that one of the physicians had made a note concerning the possibility of child abuse. By age four, the boy was sent to a behavioral therapist. He was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and ADHD shortly thereafter. As he grew older, the injuries diminished in frequency, dwindling down to a broken arm or leg once a year or so. His visits to therapists increased, however, until he was seeing two or three at a time. He was on a constant rotation of medications, but apparently none seemed to help because the dosages were consistently heightened or abandoned for a stronger prescription. The therapists' reports that were kept in the file varied in their analysis of the boy's psychological welfare, but each noted a hesitance to talk and an animosity towards adult figures, particularly his mother.

At age sixteen, the reports became quite irregular. James was seen by a doctor concerning some injuries incurred while "engaging in homoerotic sexual relations," and despite the injuries being consistent with victims of rape, it was noted that they were acquired consensually. For months after that event, the boy was consistently in the hospital for other minor injuries, including chemical burns and lacerations that needed stitching. Suddenly, however, he stopped seeing both his physician and his current therapist for some months. It wasn't until shortly after his seventeenth birthday that James came to the doctor once again, this time suffering from electrical burns. He began seeing his therapist once again a while later, but things seemed to have changed somehow. The psychiatrist noted that James was now talking almost incessantly, giving voice to whatever thought that passed through his mind. These reports were continued until late in his seventeenth year, after which the file went completely blank.

Sherlock flopped back down onto the sofa, allowing what he had just read to pass through his processing facilities. He puzzled over the information for a bit longer, considering the vast implications of what he had read. Once he had drawn his initial conclusions, he flipped the file open once more and began reading the notes that John had left scattered throughout. There were several sticky notes listing poorly healed broken bones, another describing a gunshot wound to the arm, and still others recording evidence of drug abuse and self-mutilation. Apparently, John had been trying to fill in the gap in the medical history of his "friend." What concerned Sherlock the most, however, were the various scans and x-rays that John had taken that day. In particular, there were the CT scans on which John had noted both the swelling caused by the recent head trauma, and two spots of scarring on either side of the frontal lobe. Sherlock chewed on his lip, his curiosity regarding the entire situation only heightened by all the puzzling little clues he was being fed. In some way, it all made sense, the picture it built forming a logical conclusion that Sherlock just had yet to see. He knew the answer was close, if only he tapped the right brick and said the right words.

He groaned, silently cursing John for being so utterly enigmatic and bringing this new mystery to him. He knew that John wouldn't approve of his prying, but the need to know exactly who this man was and what was going on would drive Sherlock around the bend if he didn't figure it out. He tossed the papers aside and closed his eyes, tapping his fingers against one another as he sank into his mind once again. He saw John's scrawled notes floating through his mind's eye, saw images of bones and brains hovering within sight. For some reason, his mind kept focusing on the ribs. Ribs which had been broken at some point, probably when the man was younger, judging by how the ribs on the left had developed normally, but those on the right weren't quite evenly spaced or properly shaped. The damage would have been obvious if the man were wearing a particularly tight shirt, much less if his chest had been bared.

But Sherlock hadn't seen the man's ribs, couldn't have seen anything with the way John had him all bundled up. Come to think of it, the last time he'd seen anyone bare-chested was after he accidentally stumbled into John immediately after John had showered. Figuring that this was as good a place as any to start, Sherlock began thinking backwards, working his way through a list of everyone whose ribs he had seen before.

So, John: Other than the scar crawling across his left shoulder, John's chest was fairly typical looking. No disfigured ribcage to be seen. Besides, John couldn't very well have duplicated himself and had his clone get his brains smashed in. That would, however, explain why John was so intent on hiding his patient.

Lestrade: Admittedly, Lestrade hadn't been completely shirtless when Sherlock had seen him, so his conclusion was not completely reliable. After having forced the DI to strip down to his undershirt so Sherlock could use his button-up as a towel after following a criminal into the Thames, however, Sherlock had seen enough to be fairly certain that his ribcage was perfectly normal. Although he ought to get that mole checked out.

Mycroft: Sherlock suppressed a shudder when he thought about how he had stumbled upon his topless older brother, and simply confirmed that Mycroft's ribs were completely intact in his haste to put the terrible memory back into the recesses of his mind once again. He had never forgotten to knock before entering Mycroft's office since this incident, and Mycroft was being insufferably smug about having finally taught his little brother some manners.

The girl not named Anthea. Ditto the above.

John: post-shower once again. Perhaps he ought to invest in buying John his own dressing gown.

Molly: The awkward, fumbling experience had been enough to confirm that she did not suffer from damaged ribs. He hadn't seen anything, but he had certainly touched enough to be sure of this conclusion. He had also confirmed his status as asexual; a rather successful experiment, all in all.

Anderson: It was difficult to ascertain whether or not Anderson's bone structure had been compromised, what with all the flailing he had been doing while stripping. Honestly, Sherlock didn't understand why he'd been so upset; he'd been warned not to touch the beaker on the far left of the counter. He was just lucky that it hadn't come into contact with any bare skin. Sherlock crossed him off the list, however, because John would have no reason to try and hide his identity. Unless he thought that Sherlock would attempt experiments on him while he was hospitalized.

John: This time it was post-the pool incident. The paramedics had cut off his shirt to expose his chest while they worked to restart his heart. Sherlock had only been vaguely aware of all this while he muddled between consciousness and blissful unawareness. When he had next come around, John was alive and breathing once again. He'd made sure of it by gripping his hand for hours until he woke up and smiled at Sherlock.

Jim from IT: He had been wearing an absurdly tight v-neck shirt, the kind that teenagers wore when they were pretending to be under-appreciated musicians. This image was complimented by the dog tag necklace tucked under the fabric and the scars running up his wrist, barely concealed by a wristwatch. The shirt was so tight, in fact, that Sherlock had been able to make out the lines of his belly button (outtie), and the distinct shape of ribs underneath...

Oh.

Oh.

Suddenly John's notes were flying before Sherlock's eyes while his mind darted over the memory of Jim's appearance. Everything matched, from the scars on his wrists to the dent in his right side showing where a kick had broken bones to the faint scar that was just barely peeping out below his shirt sleeve. It fit. It fit with such perfect ease that Sherlock was completely certain of his conclusion. He just couldn't fathom why. Why would John feel compelled to save Jim's life after he had nearly ended both of theirs? Why would John hide it from Sherlock? If he were so certain that Jim should be allowed to live, then he should have been able to convince Sherlock of this. Sherlock listened to John about issues of morality more than anyone else; John should know by now that Sherlock wouldn't storm Jim's hospital room and stab him in his sleep. Cut him up a bit, maybe, but certainly not stab.

With a start, Sherlock rolled off the sofa and strolled into his room, carefully dressing himself in the appropriate layers to go out. He couldn't just sit quietly through the night, not now that he knew. He had to see, to look at the man with his own eyes, before he would believe what John had tried to hide from him. He was none too discreet as he left the flat, allowing the door to slam shut behind himself as he strode into the cold night air. He almost wanted John to follow, almost wanted the confrontation out in the public, out where everyone could hear and see how John had betrayed him.

Author: So, funny story- Originally I had thought this piece would only be about 15,000 words long. Yeah, I know, we can all see how well that went over. I'm not sure how much longer it will be, though. I guess as long as I care to write character backstory. Maybe an actual plot will develop sometime. Anyway, I hope you have enjoyed reading this. I must admit to enjoying thinking of terrible explanations for Jim's life story, sadistic as it is.