Sherlock staggered towards the bathroom, blood dripping from his mouth, his eye swollen shut, trying not to collapse, lest Victor come after him.
And John. What was he going to do about John? He almost felt like crying. This was just too much.
He opened the door to the bathroom and, without looking up, stumbled in and fell to the floor.
The next thing he knew there was a warm, familiar hand on his back. "Sherlock?" a worried voice said. "Sherlock, are you all right?"
Sherlock turned over and John gasped. Sherlock spoke carefully, blood dripping from his mouth, staining the alabaster skin and perfect lips scarlet red. "John…I'm…sorry…so sorry…he's…he's an old…old friend…made me do it…can't say no…but I did…no, not this again…John, I'm…I'm falling, John, catch me, please catch me!" his voice rose in hysteria.
John took in the sight before him with wide eyes. "Sherlock…Sherlock, just calm down, love, and tell me exactly what happened."
Sherlock looked up into John's face. "He…he threatened to…"
Just at that moment Victor Trevor appeared in the door of the bathroom. "Ah, Sherl, there you are!" Victor leaned over and pulled the consulting detective up onto his feet, causing him to wince. "Come on, buddy, let's get you home."
John stopped him in the doorway. "Wait, just wait a minute, Mr. Trevor. What happened to Sherlock?" he said, very concerned now.
Victor leaned in close, as though what he had to say was secret. "Went down to the pub last night, the two of us did. Ol' Sherl was being a freak, as always, and said the wrong thing to the wrong person, and so got beat up real bad, like so." He said, all in one breath. He sighed. "Sherl never could resist showing off for everyone. We were at uni together; we were lovers for a while, and then Sherlock had to leave for work elsewhere. But here we are, together at last." He smiled fondly and smoothed Sherlock's curls.
He looked up at a dumbstruck John. "Well, we really have to be going; things to do, people to avoid!" he said cheerily. "See you soon, Johnny!"
He left, dragging a semi-conscious Sherlock along with him.
John shook his head. That couldn't be right. Why would Sherlock have to leave for 'work elsewhere'? He could always get work, no matter where he went. And why would he get in a fight at a pub? No, a better question would be; why was Sherlock at a pub? The man was not a drinker and did not socialize well. So what had he been doing at the pub last night? If it was a case, he would have called John…wouldn't he?
John frowned, his eyes darkening. Well, whatever the reason, John didn't care. It was obvious that Sherlock had played him for a patsy, just using him until his real lover came along. John could have spit, he was so furious with himself. He would never speak to that two-faced bastard again, he promised himself.
That night, John went out with Sarah on his first real date in months; those months when he and Sherlock had started…dating, or whatever one called it when one started snogging one's flatmate. But, he found that he really enjoyed it. He had missed women, he decided.
And for once, John Watson didn't end up sleeping on Sarah Sawyer's couch.