Well then. Short version. Not dead. ;)

John came trudging up the steps of 221B, wincing as every move jostled his badly beaten body. All he wanted to do was collapse right where he was and let the lingering threat of unconsciousness take over. But he just kept reminding himself that all he needed to do was get upstairs to his room and stitch himself up. Then he could swallow some pain meds and sleep in his own bed. His warm, soft, cozy bed.

Finally, he reached the top of the first set of stairs, stopping to take a few deep breaths before starting up again towards his bedroom. But before he could even brace himself for the long journey ahead of him, he heard Sherlock calling his name.

"You're late," the detective said as he stepped into the hall.

John nodded hurriedly.

"Yeah, sorry. Mike and I got talking, and-"

"You're a mess."

The words weren't said out of anger; in fact, if John didn't know better, he would have claimed them to be ones laced with concern.

"Long night."

He heard Sherlock take a step closer to him.

"You look as if you're in a great deal of pain, John."

"My head hurts. That's it."

John could feel his flat-mate's eyes boring into his skull.

"I'm going to bed," he said hurriedly. "'Night."

Before Sherlock could protest, John was already heading upstairs, biting back the pain that was caused by each step he took.

Safe inside his bedroom, he shut his door and limped over to his bed, dropping down onto it with a satisfied grunt. He sat there for a moment, taking in small, controlled breaths to relax his still rapidly pounding heart.

He suddenly heard the sound of violin music drifting about the flat, indicating that Sherlock had decided to leave him be.

"Thank God for that," he mumbled.

After taking another deep breath, John slowly eased himself up from the mattress, hissing through gritted teeth. It seemed like years to him before he was settled down once more with his med-kit beside him and his mirror positioned in front of him.

After managing to remove his sweat and blood-stained jacket and jumper, he was finally able to assess the damage.

He gently prodded the deep gash on his right bicep, noting the risk of infection and scarring.

"Stitches," he muttered.

He then lifted up his undershirt, taking in the large bruises on his stomach, one of them a bit purpler than he would have liked.

"...and painkillers."

John turned his focus to his mangled face. A black eye was definitely in its beginning stages, and his nose, while thankfully not broken, was still bloody, a slow river of red streaming from his left nostril.

"I can't just have one night out, can I?" John groaned. "Shit."

With a resigned sigh, John opened up his kit and laid out the necessary supplies for sutures.

"Okay..." he breathed.

Carefully, he picked up a few alcohol prep pads and worked on cleaning up the wound on his arm. It stung tremendously, but he knew it was for the best. He was a doctor, after all.

Now came the hard part: the stitches.

John was no stranger to self-operating on himself, but he always hated it. Every minute felt like an hour, and once all was said and done he was absolutely exhausted.

Biting his lip, he threaded the needle and aimed it where he wanted to begin.

"One, two..." he counted.

He took a deep breath and hit three before slowly pushing the needle and thread into his skin. It really did hurt, and John could barely stifle the numerous groans his throat seemed to want to make audible, but soon enough he was nearly finished.

Just as he was about to push the needle through one more time, he was startled by a sudden voice at his door.

"If you wanted to be successful in fooling me, John, you really should have locked your door."

John jumped, wincing as the still-tender skin around his arm throbbed.

"Jesus, Sherlock!" he cried, releasing the needle so it dangled from his arm. "Ever heard of knocking?"

Sherlock shut the door behind him.

"You're hurt."

John chuckled humourlessly.

"No shit."

Sherlock advanced closer to the bed.

"What did they take?"

John sighed.

"Just my wallet."

"Liar."

"Excuse me?"

"They took your wallet and your cell."

John raised an eyebrow.

"How did you...?"

"Whenever you arrive back at the flat, you always place your cell either on the kitchen table or your nightstand. Both areas were vacant while you were absent and once you returned."

John nodded.

"Of course."

The doctor picked up the needle again and went to resume stitching up his wound, when suddenly he found another hand stopping his own.

"Don't be an idiot, John," Sherlock said as he sat beside his friend. "Allow me."

John reluctantly let his hand fall to his side, allowing Sherlock access to his wound. Within a minute, Sherlock had finished up the job and was cleaning the area.

"Thanks," John mumbled.

"You honestly thought you could hide this from me?" Sherlock said as he gently cleansed the sutured area with another pad.

John shrugged.

"Well, I had hoped I could hold you off long enough for me to get myself fixed up."

"And why would you want to do that?"

"Because having you nurse me is bloody humiliating."

Sherlock paused.

"How so?"

"I'm capable of taking care of myself, Sherlock. So I hate it when you come in like a knight in shining armour to whisk me away from danger."

"Which would make you the damsel in distress."

John blushed.

"Yeah."

Sherlock set down the pad and turned John's head towards him.

"John..." he whispered, tentatively tracing his fingers over the numerous injuries on the doctor's face.

"It's not that bad, really."

"Quite the contrary, actually."

"It doesn't hurt all that much."

"Mhm."

John became indignant.

"I should know; it's my face."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Oh? What if I were to strike you across the cheek right now?"

The doctor scowled.

"I'd throttle you until you turned purple."

Sherlock nodded.

"That you would. Now, do stop acting like a petulant child. That's my job."

John, despite his own resentment, couldn't help but feel a bit relieved as Sherlock cared for him. He found the gentleness of his friend's touch on his own bruised and battered skin to be of great comfort; it reminded him a bit of his mother.

The touch and coolness of the water rinsing away the dirt suddenly left him.

"I will return shortly with ice and medication," Sherlock said.

He was out and in in about a minute, this time kneeling in front of his wounded flatmate.

"Take off your shirt," he commanded him.

John, still a bit dazed from the care he had been receiving, blinked himself out of his state as he registered the request.

"Pardon?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"John, I've seen you topless before. Don't act as if it's something new. I would like to see the damage done to your torso."

John swallowed and nodded, slowly removing his shirt.

Sherlock's already pale skin blanched as his eyes fell upon the unsightly shades of yellow, black, and purple decorating John's upper body.

"How painful?" he asked, his hand hovering over the patterns of discolouration.

John swallowed hard.

"I erm... not that painful, I suppose."

"You "suppose"?"

"Fine, it hurts like hell," the doctor sighed.

Sherlock grabbed one of the packs of ice he had earlier set on the nightstand and placed it gently on one of John's bruises, causing the poor doctor to draw in a sharp breath.

"Hold this here," Sherlock ordered.

John complied and held the ice in place as Sherlock placed another pack on another bruise.

"How does that feel?"

"Cold."

"Well, it's ice."

"Thank you, Sherlock. I wouldn't have figured that out without your powers of deduction."

Sherlock tightened his lips and looked John in the eyes.

"Enough with the sarcasm, John."

He grabbed the nearby bottle of medication and shook two pills into his hand. John hastily took them froM him and swallowed them satisfactorily.

"Now that you've been properly taken care of, explain to me exactly what happened," Sherlock demanded.

John sighed tiredly.

"Sherlock, I'm so tired and in a lot of pain. Can we just leave it until tomorrow morning?"

"Absolutely not."

"Fine," John groaned. "Two men, both caucasian, one brunette and one blonde. The blonde, the biggest one, was the leader; he threw the punches and had the knife. The brunette had a crowbar. I broke his nose and managed to kick the blonde in the nuts before he slashed me with the knife."

Sherlock laid the ice pack he was holding aside and picked up John's left hand, carefully examining the bruised knuckles.

"You hit the brunette in the left cheekbone."

John nodded.

"What else?"

"They, ah..." John rubbed his temples. "They... they recognised me. They knew I was your flatmate."

Sherlock's brow furrowed.

"What?"

"Yeah. They hit me a few times with the crowbar before one of them said I was "that detective's... "buddy"."

"Buddy?"

John turned red.

""Boyfriend"."

Sherlock nodded.

"I see. Go on."

"Yeah. That's when they grabbed my wallet and phone and ran off."

"Average muggers, then."

"Muggers who know and are scared of you, apparently."

"Rightfully so."

John removed the ice to take a peek at his bruise, now surrounded by a dark shade of pink from the cold.

"They certainly did a number on me."

"You shouldn't have provoked them."

John raised an eyebrow.

"And what would you have done differently in that situation?"

"Nothing."

"Then what place are you in to be scolding me?"

"I wasn't scolding you," Sherlock smirked. "Good work."

John blinked a moment before he smiled a bit himself.

"Thanks."

Suddenly, the detective hopped up onto his feet.

"A blonde and a brunette, you said?"

"Ah, yeah. Why?"

Sherlock rolled down his sleeves.

"I know who they are."

"What? How...?" John stopped himself. "You know what? Never mind. I shouldn't even ask."

"Give me thirty eight minutes."

"Do you really have to leave right now?" John asked, more desperation in his voice than he had intended.

Sherlock cocked his head.

"You want me to stay?"

"I mean..." John was flustered, "If you want to... I guess... but you don't have to."

Sherlock sat back down on the bed.

"I'll stay."

John cleared his throat.

"I mean, you have some criminals to apprehend, right? Go after them. I'll be fine."

"But you would like me to stay."

John nervously rubbed the back of his neck.

"Well..."

"I'll text Lestrade and give him the names of the two men," Sherlock said as he stood and strode over to the bureau. "I'll handle the rest tomorrow."

The detective opened a drawer and pulled out a pair of pyjama pants.

"Sherlock, you don'-"

"Hush, John," Sherlock said as he slammed the drawer shut and tossed his friend the pants. "Now put these on while I tidy up."

Despite his own hesitation, John did as he was told and climbed under the covers. He watched with some amusement as Sherlock whipped around the room like a Tasmanian Devil, putting things back in their proper place until the room was back to normal once again.

"Thanks," John smiled. "You really didn't have to do that, though."

"You're right. But I chose to do it, and now it's done." Sherlock put his hands on his hips. "Would you like another duvet?"

John nodded.

"That would be great, actually."

In the blink of an eye, the detective had whipped out a cream-coloured duvet and draped it over the doctor with a graceful flick of the wrists.

"Better?"

"Much."

Sherlock nodded and walked over to the light switch, flicking it downwards and thus eliminating the oppressive brightness emanating from the ceiling.

"Perfect. I'll be sitting right here if you need me," Sherlock said as he sat himself down in the wicker chair in the corner of the room.

"You really don't need to do that..."

"Again: I am choosing to. Now sleep."

John sighed and nestled into the warmth of his duvets as he closed his eyes, unconsciousness almost immediately taking over him. He hadn't realised how tired he actually was.

The last thing he heard before drifting off was the sound of Sherlock sending out a text. It was no doubt addressed to Lestrade.

I don't believe anyone in particular actually suggested this prompt. If someone did and I'm forgetting their name, please let me know and I will give them proper credit.

I always love reviews!