"Morphine or cocaine?"

"Sorry?"

"Which was it, morphine or cocaine?"

"Cocaine. How did you…?" Sherlock furrowed his brow, casting a suspicious glance at the man now efficiently (and surprisingly gently) stitching the gash in his side.

The doctor simply smirked, completing his work in silence. Posh bloke, defensive wounds on hands covering older versions of the same, skeptical yet hopeful expression about the eyes.

"Did you get him, then?" Dr. Watson inquired, snapping off his gloves and tossing them with practiced ease into the bin.

Sherlock snapped back to reality. "Who's that?"

"The criminal you were chasing. One who gave you that," he gestured to the already-healing stab wound he had just treated. "He was aiming to do some real damage, I'd reckon. But seeing how widely he missed his mark, I'd wager you were the victor in the end."

Sherlock looked up from his shirt buttons, seeming to forget for a nanosecond what he was doing. Then, neglecting to fasten the top three, he turned toward Stamford with a slightly irritated expression.

"You told him about me, then," he accused in a disappointed tone.

"Not a word," came the almost gleeful response.

Stamford was left to thank the doctor for both of them, and as he closed the door behind his unexpected patient, John chuckled to himself. Eyeing the computer screen still glowing on his desk, he flexed his fingers and opened his browser. Search: Sherlock Holmes, detective.

The following Wednesday evening, Dr. John Watson placed the final patient chart in the "completed" bin, stretched, and opened his office door. Before he could register one word of the argument breaking out at reception, he raised his voice in a cheerful tone.

"The doctor will see you now."

Sherlock aimed a smug smile at the nurse before sauntering into the exam room. Without a word, he began stripping off his coat and scarf, laying them carefully on the exam table before casually tossing his jacket and shirt onto a nearby chair.

"What've we got today then, hm?"

"Bruising along my back and lower ribs on the left side," he replied matter-of-factly, drawing himself up to his full height as he stood before his new caretaker. Doctor, he corrected himself swiftly. Though if it would mean replacing Mycroft…

"Your brother has been managing care of your stab wound well," Dr. Watson commented as he studied the green and purple contusions on Sherlock's wiry frame. There was no answer, but John could feel the tension increase in the other man's spine. "Well, it was a near miss to your stitches. Lucky that. No internal bleeding. Nothing to be done, really. I'd tell you to rest," he glanced at the other's bored expression, "but something tells me my efforts would be futile."

He sat and made a few notes in a chart, then realized his patient was still standing, half undressed, behind him. He spun slowly, letting his eyes linger just a moment on the lean yet unexpectedly muscular chest before meeting the other's eyes. "Was there something else?"

Sherlock appeared lost in thought, blinked suddenly, and began dressing as though he was in a great hurry. "No. Thank you. I… no," he answered without meeting the doctor's gaze. As his fingers wrapped around the doorknob, he paused briefly, then shook his head and tore through the waiting room into the cold London night.

It was precisely 4:59 the next evening, and Sherlock had just opened his mouth to utter abuse at the nurse when he heard a familiar voice to his left.

"Mr. Holmes." Dr. Watson was standing in the exam room doorway expectantly, chart in hand. Uncertain whether he was more bothered by being a foregone conclusion or impressed by his physician's intelligence, he simply nodded and proceeded calmly into the room.

"Let's check those stitches, shall we?" He motioned to the exam table, where Sherlock reluctantly took up his perch before removing his layers. John removed the bandage, inspecting the wound and surrounding bruises without speaking. After several minutes, he wheeled back to his desk and wrote in the open chart.

Sherlock inhaled deeply. "So –"

"Afghanistan. And no, just because it's psychosomatic doesn't mean I can just shake it off."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I go mad if the milk carton is left empty in the refrigerator. I don't discuss my therapy sessions or the reason I attend them. I blog about anything interesting that happens in my life and that may include your work. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other, don't you think?"

Sherlock looked stunned. "Who said anything about – "

"Flatmates? Who else would a recovering addict who sustains frequent injuries ask to go in on a flatshare? Since you're willing to accept money but not help from your brother, I'll assume you've already found a place. Central London, I'd say."

"221B Baker Street. Sorry… how did you guess that I came about a flat?"

"I never guess," Dr. Watson stated, opening the door. "Tomorrow evening. Seven o'clock."

Sherlock nodded dumbly as he walked through the waiting room and out into the biting wind.

"Oh, and one more thing," John called, catching up to him on the pavement. "Fell out of your coat."

The detective hoped the sharp winter air accounted for the sting in his cheeks as the doctor returned his riding crop.