The remainder of that day passed agonisingly slowly. No sounds interrupted John's sorry mood save Sherlock's fingers on computer keys, and the violent coughs and gagging from whenever Isobel threw up. (They had fished for her name during the cab ride.) Sherlock, continuing with his uncharacteristic sympathy, had sacrificed an experiment on her behalf, which impressed the doctor to no end, although he found it a little bit creepy. Sherlock had never been so apathetic about tampering with his chemical supplies for any reason other than experiments, or God forbid, his danger nights. To even touch the sacred supply was to know the true meaning of bitterness. Like messing up the sock index. Except maybe a little more extreme.

At present Sherlock was busying himself with something on John's laptop. Isobel was practically clinging to him, which brought twitches across the detective's shoulders now and again. At one stage he even stopped typing and took a deep breath, attempting to quell his irritation. The deepened quiet in the apartment drew John's attention- Sherlock's typing had halted too abruptly. John couldn't see his friend from where he stood at the kitchen sink, washing out a basin, but his controlled breath plucked him from the room to assess Sherlock's situation.

"Isobel, you're making Sherlock uncomfortable." She glared at him, and tightened her grip on the detective's sleeve. He immediately pulled away, but she latched on stronger and threw him a concerned pout.

"Excuse me, but I don't take kindly to being man-handled."

"But..." she faltered. "I... I need... You're the only one who can... Give me what I... What I need..." John took a step forward. "You've had all that's safe, any more and it'll just make it worse. You need sleep, that's what's what. Come on."

His reaching hand was swiped unforgivably away, accompanied by a pained whimper from the back of her throat.

"Isobel..." Sherlock growled.

She buried her face in his shirt and reached for his face. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry I just need it... Just GIVE IT TO ME!" Within seconds he was throwing her off, four red scratch marks tingling with blood on his left cheek. John's eyes were fixed on them momentarily before he turned to the girl and barrelled into her, picking her up by the waist unceremoniously. She thrashed wildly in his arms, but he paid no heed, and wrenched her up the stairs to his room, wherein she was locked until she stopped threatening them through the door.

oOoOoOo

Her shouting had stopped for about an hour before John dug out the first aid kit and tended to the cuts on Sherlock's face. The living room was oddly quiet again, with the curtains drawn for no apparent reason, and Sherlock seated with his hands steeped below his chin in thought. John paused with a wet cloth in hand to inspect his patient's battle wounds.

Right on those perfect cheekbones.

Wait what? Shut up.

Sherlock caught his gaze. "John?"

The doctor crouched down and shook his head slightly in exasperation. "You're bloody ruined, you idiot."

"It's fine. You needn't bother."

The older man glared at him without any true malice, just as though he was scolding a child. "Do you want these to get infected?"

"... No.

"Didn't think so. Now grit your teeth, this is gonna sting."

Sherlock watched his flatmate intently, cataloging that moment in the John Room of his mind palace. It was rare nowadays for the two of them to really have a moment without an underlying feeling of numbness or even bitterness, but this here was like old times. As if he had never pretended to be dead and John still thought the light shone out of Sherlock's arse. Like it was still simply "Holmes and Watson, Team Deduction, out to solve crimes and annoy people."

With an internal sigh, Sherlock scrolled through their most recent interactions. John being unbearably distant. John flitting between moods. John reluctant to help with cases.

And yet here they were. His blogger was concerned about him. He apparently still cared. Sherlock found himself smiling gently at his friend, and filed the moment in a special place on top of the John Room mantelpiece. The doctor paused at the buckling of his work-space, and looked brightly at the genius.

"You OK?"

"Quite, yes." His eyes flickered to his feet, and the smile dimmed.

Stupid.

John licked his lips, cleared his throat, and got back to cleaning the cuts.

oOoOoOo

Isobel was curled in blankets when Sherlock entered the room. Her sleep was uneasy; she shuddered and muttered now and again. A particularly loud creaking footfall of Sherlock's stole her from unconsciousness. He stood by the window, watching her turn slowly to face him.

"Booster?" He held a syringe to the watery light leaking through the glass. Isobel's eyes widened with anticipation. "Really? After my um, freak out earlier?"

Sherlock moved and sat beside her on the bed, and took hold of her arm, turning the inside towards himself. "I clearly hadn't given you a large enough dose. These things are always relative." He drove the needle through her skin without much thought of being gentle, but she hardly seemed to notice.

"Thanks for this."

Sherlock didn't respond. He simply finished, stood and began walking to the door.

"And Sherlock- I'm sorry for scratching you. I didn't mean to, I swear. This whole situation just, it drives me insane."

Sherlock turned around to regard her sorrowful expression. "Don't worry. I've got John to patch up such injuries. Now get some more sleep. I'll convince our resident doctor to bring you up some fresh water." He left her to herself and went to his own room, where he began searching for something under his bed.

oOoOoOo

John had just put back the first aid case properly when Sherlock came bounding into the kitchen. "Bring Isobel some water. I'm going out. This case with the candle wax in the sewers won't solve itself." John looked him over. He was wearing those horrible tracksuit bottoms again.

"I thought you'd forgotten about that."

"Don't be absurd." He sounded only mildly insulted. "You're the one who forgot."

"I'm not your secretary, Sherlock. It's not my job to- is that the scimitar?" He pointed dumbfounded at the weapon tucked into the detective's belt. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"...Yes."

John grinned happily at him. "So I needn't have bought you that harpoon then. Shame."

The genius pursed his lips but couldn't bring himself to give any kind of retort, as John's chuckling was so seldom heard these days that he didn't want to interrupt. He waited for his friend to go quiet before advising, "Don't wait up. I may be some time."

He left the apartment swiftly, only just hearing John's farewell.

"Don't get killed!"

CAN'T YOU SEE WHAT'S GOING ON?! *breaks shit*

So yeah this chapter was a total pain in the ass to write. The feedback on the last chapter indicated that y'all were cool with what I was doing with our newest character, so thanks for that. Just to be sure, I got my friend to beta my idea for her behavior (she doesn't actually read this- not a Sherlock fan, but a very good writer) and she gave it the all clear, so I hope you're alright with it too.

I also think at this point that I should say- I don't have anyone Brit-picking this. I'm literally just hoping for the best.

Last thing- WHAT THE HELL FORMATTING. LINE BREAK. SERIOUSLY. It simply refuses to work, and it's been bugging me since I started this fic. Hence why I've started with that annoying oOoOoOo thing.