That day Sherlock was told he could go home. The sensation was euphoric. John came to collect him in a cab as soon as he could, and chuckled to himself as he watched Sherlock bound up the stairs to the door of 221B Baker Street. By the time John caught up with his flat mate, Sherlock was already making tea for them both. They settled into their chairs opposite each other and sipped at the striped mugs contentedly, already lapsing into the old routine they had become so accustomed to, enveloped in a satisfying and comfortable silence. Sherlock set down his mug with a disturbing finality, and hopped up further into his chair to fold his legs beneath him. He steepled his fingers, one thumb stroked the dip of his throat, his fingertips pressed against his lips thoughtfully, his elbows propped on both armrests. After some long moments of fixing John with an uncomfortably calculative glare, he tipped his hands forwards, palms pressed together. He seemed to consider this action self-explanatory, leaving a theatrical and unnecessary pause before speaking. Then, in his casual resonant tone, "I'll show you mine if you show me yours." He said with a lopsided smile.
John nearly spilt his tea.
"What?" he spluttered, setting the mug down carefully.
"Your scar, common sense dictates that you must have one after being shot in the shoulder." Sherlock lent forwards conspiratorially. John self-consciously touched his shoulder where he knew a pale, smooth, circle of his skin raised itself proudly on his front and back, they coincided with each other. The bullet had left a clean entrance and exit wound and branded him forever. Before he could protest, Sherlock had already begun unbuttoning his own shirt in deep satin purple. John watched him reproachfully as Sherlock pulled the fabric off and let the shirt pool on the floor. Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow and John sighed in reluctance. What was the harm after all? It was almost like his medal. He shrugged off his cardigan and draped it neatly over the arm of the chair, then his shirt. Sherlock rose quickly and came to kneel next to the arm of John's chair. He folded his hands over one another and his chin dropped on top of his knuckles contemplatively. John objected to the scrutiny, but didn't act on his distaste. Instead he felt Sherlock's eyes boring into him, feeling oddly relaxed by the unusual behaviour. Sherlock tipped his head and butted it against his friend's bare shoulder, sighing he walked to the sofa, still shirtless, and let himself fall down heavily onto the cushions. John stared after him, confused. "Well?" He said, tugging on his shirt awkwardly.
"Interesting" Came the reply.
"What is?"
"You"
"I am?"
"Oh yes, I mean, anatomically speaking."
"Right..."
"Left"
"What?"
"Left, your bullet wound is on your left side."
"I fail to see the point."
"We match." Sherlock smiled, stretching his arms tentatively above his head, groaning as the muscle in his left shoulder complained at him and point blank refused to comply with his movements.
"Your wound needs dressing."
"So it does." Sherlock said, without looking at the red stain already seeping into the bandage where he had broken the skin. He sat up and tugged the soiled dressing off, inspecting the tiny hollow in his chest. John frowned, striding to the kitchen to find some gauze. He returned, and took the bandage from Sherlock's hands, shoving him in the chest so he would lie back. Sherlock tipped his head against the sofa and squeezed his eyes tight shut against the pain as John dabbed at the wound with a cloth to clean it. "Stop being such a baby." John said, gently pressing the padding to his friend's chest and motioning for him to hold it there. Sherlock hissed in annoyance, but did as he was told. "Sorry." He murmured, watching John as he tightened the bandage around his torso. John flinched, the words sounded alien to him, coming from Sherlock. Sherlock grimaced, his tongue felt strange. John pinned the end of the bandage and Sherlock retrieved his shirt from the floor. "So why does it matter that we match?" John said at last, taking his seat. Sherlock shrugged with one shoulder.
"I like knowing that it's something to connect us, something we share, besides a crippling dependency on danger and a common death wish." He smiled again, privately to himself.
"We share a flat." John pointed out.
"Yes, but everyone knows we share a flat, this is more personal." Sherlock sniffed.
"I suppose, and I'm glad that it is the only way we are the same, because I rather like people talking to me and not plotting my demise." Sherlock laughed, a real, deep, tenor rumble that resounded around the room, only John could make Sherlock laugh like that.
"That's true." He said, smiling at John indulgently, little creases forming around his eyes. John did like being the same as his flatmate, and it gave him comfort that they didn't really have to speak as much anymore to understand each other, eye contact and body language was enough to convey emotion. Sherlock being shot had, in truth, brought them both closer together, and he basked in the warmth of understanding that came with sharing a bullet wound, odd as it was.
A few hours later, and Sherlock and John sat on the sofa together watching TV. The Doctor Who theme tune rolled on, reflecting in Sherlock's glassy eyes as he sat cross legged, a hot water bottle pressed to his shoulder to ease the stiffness, staring in rapt fascination at the screen. John always wondered why this was the only thing Sherlock would actually watch on the television in silence, usually he lost interest after ten minutes, but watching The Doctor running about gleefully and being incredibly clever and heroic effectively shut him up. Perhaps it was because Sherlock could relate to The Doctor, even if he was a fictional character. They were both so much cleverer than the little people.