Days passed, and he was beginning to think that the Tea Incident was nothing more than an aberration, a glitch in the otherwise orderly workings of his mind. He was well on his way to forgetting about it entirely, when another event proved that life cared nothing for fairness when it came to Sherlock Holmes.
It began innocently enough, with a chase through the ground floor of an office building, culminating in a desperate, stupid lunge through a glass partition. Adam Curtwright, full time accountant and part time rapist, had fallen onto the gleaming white tiles with shards of glass embedded in his arms, and Sherlock had followed right after, intending to subdue him before he could recover himself and flee. The toe of one expensive Loakes shoe caught on the lip of the partition, however, and Sherlock fell hard beside Curtwright, momentarily stunned by the sharp, slick feel of glass grinding into his shin.
Curtwright scrambled to his feet with a groan and may have made good his escape, if a compact body hadn't leapt through the jagged opening and sent him face first to the tiles again. Sherlock found his feet in time to see John plant a boot against Curtwright's T9 vertebrae, holding him firmly in place while he fished out his phone.
After the police had hauled Cartwright away and Sherlock explained in no uncertain terms why he wouldn't be visiting hospital, John and Sherlock went home. Mere seconds later, Sherlock was entrenched on the couch with his injured leg propped up on a pillow, forced there by his tyrannical flatmate. John went to fetch his medical kit from the bathroom as Sherlock plucked at his shredded trouser leg, trying to ward off a truly epic sulk.
When John returned and knelt on the floor beside the damaged limb, Sherlock asked, "How does it look?"
"Your shin is a bit torn up," John said, lifting up the torn fabric to peer at the injury, "but I think you'll-"
"Not me, John. The trousers."
John snorted; a rather inelegant gesture, Sherlock thought. "The trousers are dead, I'm afraid, and I've got to get to the wound." Without warning, he gripped both sides of the torn fabric and pulled sharply, tearing the fabric open from ankle cuff to mid-thigh. Sherlock groaned, his head flopping back dramatically. John, the unrepentant git, merely grinned. "I think you'll survive the loss. Your wardrobe seems to be self-perpetuating, anyway."
"Your cavalier attitude is most distressing."
"I've had the same complaint about you for a while. Now hold still. I need to pick out this glass."
There was silence for a time as John slipped easily into doctor mode, snapping on a pair of disposable gloves and tearing open a pack of medical tweezers, before hunching over to pull out tiny shards of glass. The discomfort was minimal, thanks to the dregs of adrenaline in his veins, and Sherlock watched without comment, strangely fascinated by the deft and gentle hands that moved over his wound.
"It's not as bad as it looks," John said, speckles of bright blood decorating his gloves. "Give me a moment, and I'll lay down a few stitches."
A sterilized swab moved carefully over the raw flesh, making Sherlock hiss, and John shot him an apologetic glance before pulling open a packet of needle and thread. He worked quickly and efficiently, drawing the torn skin together and tying knots with fingers that moved like music, his deep blue eyes narrowed in concentration.
For reasons he could not begin to fathom, Sherlock shivered.
If John was aware of this strange reaction, he chose not to draw attention to it. "Done," he said instead, after taping down a patch to protect the wound. "Just make sure you keep it clean, and try not to run around for the next few days."
Something close to amusement pulled at the corners of Sherlock's mouth. He leaned forward, the leather cushions groaning as he shifted, and ran an appreciative hand over the neat bandage. "You know that won't happen."
"Hope springs eternal, and all that," John quipped, pulling off the gloves and neatly packing up the remains of his medical kit.
Still somewhat captured by the doctor's hands, Sherlock's gaze sharpened on a curved strip of scar tissue in the pad of flesh between John's thumb and forefinger, the thin skin highlighted by a dusting of latex powder. His concept of personal space had always been iffy at best, so he felt no compunction about gripping John's left hand and drawing it closer, so he could peer closely at the scar. If there was a hiss of surprise, Sherlock ignored it entirely.
Upon closer inspection, its origin was obvious.
"You were bitten. Fifteen years ago, by the fading. Your sister?" He looked up to see John's lips thin, and the way his eyes darted to the side told a clear story. "You confronted her about her drinking, and there was a fight."
"Right, very good," John said, making a halfhearted attempt to pull his hand away. Sherlock merely looked at him steadily, and his flatmate sighed, relaxing into the touch. "It wasn't the first time I tried, but we both lost our tempers that day, and I started dumping her bottles down the drain. Harry didn't like that much."
Sherlock's eyes flicked down, narrowing as he drew a thumb across the scar. "Your sister is an idiot."
"The thing is, she's really not, except when it comes to liquor. We all have our blind spots, I suppose."
"Some bigger than others," Sherlock murmured, tracing the little dots of tissue left behind by the teeth of an addict.
"Sherlock…"
Those weren't the only scars, though. Keloid scars marred the knuckles, a legacy brought about by punching with his dominant hand, and a small, rough scar stretched along the pad of a finger. A hot gun barrel, perhaps?
"Sherlock?"
He turned John's hand over, tracing past the scar and down to the palm, fascinated by the odd combination of calluses gliding beneath his fingertip. John's fingers weren't as long as his own, but they were strong and capable of delicate maneuvers. Hands perfectly suited for a healer with the strength of will to kill.
He wondered if gun oil would still be present on his skin, sharpening the smell of latex powder. He wondered-
Another hand, solid and so very warm, curled around his wrist and squeezed once. "Oi!" John said, snapping Sherlock from his reverie. "What's wrong?"
Secretly mortified, he let go of John's hand and stood with as much dignity as he could muster.
"Nothing," he said, and walked calmly to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.
The darkness of the room was soothing, and he bowed his head with a sigh. His skin felt too tight, his treacherous fingers tingling with the memory of a callused palm, and he rubbed them against his damaged trouser leg, attempting to banish the feeling. It didn't work.
There was no doubt now. Something was very wrong with him.