Change

Sherlock had been secretive before, but this was taking the piss. The man was near enough paranoid as he walked through the house of a morning, his dressing gown clutched tight to his body as if it were some soft of protective shield. Sherlock was usually a let loose kind of guy. Hell, the man had been to Buckingham Palace in nothing but a sheet! But now he was dressing himself with care, never showing too much flesh, as if to do so might be some horrible crime.

Of course, John immediately thought something was up, still weary after Sherlock's 'little disappearing act' as they now referred to it. Sherlock was acting suspiciously and John was going to get to the bottom of it.

"What is the matter with you? Clutching that ratty old thing to you like it's the bloody Turin Shroud." John sighed, frowning as Sherlock collapsed on the sofa with less of a billow of silk than normal.

"Its nothing." Sherlock replied, immediately turning his back to the room.

Oh, no… not again. Sherlock wasn't going to block him out this time. Not on his bloody life. John winced, that was a poor choice of words, even if he hadn't spoken them aloud.

"Sherlock, I thought we weren't going to hide secrets from each other. You know, for a change." John replied, setting his face and folding his arms.

Sherlock was silent. Boy could that man be stubborn at the best of times, but when it came to being personal, he clammed up completely. John took a deep breath and counted to ten inside his head, pretty sure he was damned close to hitting the boiling point of brain.

"Sherlock-"

"John, I don't want to talk about it!" Sherlock snapped.

"And I don't want you running off again!"

The words had sounded bitter, but their core was of fear. Fear of Sherlock leaving him on his own again, fear of loosing the best friend he'd ever had in his entire life. It made John hurt. It made him deeply sad.

Sherlock rolled over slowly and fixed John with a look, letting out a sigh and blinking a little bit when he saw how upset it made John. Nervous fingers struggled with the tight knot of the cord around his waist, freeing it. Then the old moth eaten grey shirt came up to show an ugly scar from just under his bellybutton to just below his fifth rib on the left hand side.

"I thought… I thought it would make you unhappy. Because I'm not the same Sherlock I was when I left." Sherlock said, his eyes front and centre.

John let out a sigh, his hand subconsciously touching the twisted scar on his shoulder. He gave a smile, not overly bright, but friendly and warm.

"Sherlock, its not what scars us that define us. Its our hearts, our minds. You're no different to when you left. Except maybe the fact you're a little more obnoxious." John said, the smile growing.

Sherlock gave a snort of indignation, laced with amusement and put his shirt down. His eyes flicked to John's then rolled up to the ceiling as he resumed his previous position on the sofa.

"Thank you." Sherlock said after a little while.

John just smiled and began The Times crossword puzzle.