So I know it's been a while; my apologies. Lots of testing, lots of work, excuses, excuses, excuses...
Whatever; that doesn't matter. What does matter is that I've got another chapter ready for you all to read.
Well, it matters to me. I'm always excited to get feedback. :)
Thank you Starcross123 for the prompt.
John winced as he limped along the sidewalk leading up to 221B, struggling to keep up with his flatmate.
"Sherlock, would you stop storming away from me for a moment?" he called, feeling a bit indignant. "I get that you're mad, but I'm the one who has the key to the flat."
Sherlock made no visible effort to leaven his pace per the doctor's request. Instead, he quickly ascended the steps leading up to the front door.
"Hey!" John snapped his fingers. "I have the key!"
Without the slightest hesitation, the detective turned the knob on the front door and pushed it wide open, revealing it to be very unlocked, much to the unpleasant surprise of John.
"I told you to lock it!" John practically shouted, the amplification of his voice due in part to the distance between him and his flatmate as well as the pain in his leg.
Sherlock simply marched inside and shut- slammed, really- the door behind him.
With a sigh, John hobbled the rest of the way to the front door and opened it to let himself inside.
"Git," he muttered, hissing when his injured leg hit the door frame; he swore under his breath.
John turned to shut the door, and when he looked back, he groaned; he'd momentarily forgotten about the many stairs he needed to ascend.
"Damnit."
He moved his hand from where he'd unconsciously placed it on his thigh to get a good look at the damage that bastard's knife had done in the alley.
Just a flesh wound, he decided. The bleeding did make the injury look worse than it was; all it needed was a good cleaning and a bandage.
Maybe some stitches.
But God, did it hurt; enough so that walking was a daunting task.
He cleared his throat and called up the stairs.
"Hey, Sherlock?"
There was no response.
"Sherlock, I could use a little help down here."
Still there was no response.
John tightened his lips and closed his eyes, feeling both exhausted and annoyed.
"My leg is bleeding, Sherlock, and I would really appreciate it if you would stop being pissed at me long enough to bring my med kit down here for me."
There was an audible sigh, a few footsteps and some rustling, and then the detective appeared at the landing, the kit in his hand. He stopped at the last step and pushed it out in front of him, beckoning John rather impatiently to take it from him.
"Thanks," John said, slowly grabbing it from his friend.
Before Sherlock turned around to head back upstairs in a huff, John grabbed his wrist and stopped him.
"Hey," he said.
Sherlock tensed.
"Unless your leg is in need of immediate amputation, I request that you release your hold on my arm and allow me to return to work," he said coldly.
"Are you going to be like this for the rest of the night?" John sighed.
"Like what?" Sherlock snapped.
"Pissy at me." John frowned. "Look, I get that you're mad at me for falling behind during the chase, but-"
"You cost us the potential apprehension of a dangerous man."
"Excuse me?" John tightened his grip on his partner's wrist. "I cost us the chase? Me?"
"Yes, John, you; would you like a notarised document of proof?"
John felt his jaw tighten.
"I didn't cost us shit. If I recall, he stabbed me; in the leg, mind you; and ran off. You left me behind to pursue him. If he got away, you have no one to blame but yourself."
Sherlock yanked his arm out of John's hand and turned around.
"You distracted me from the task at hand with your incessant moans of pain."
"Oh, well pardon me, then," John held up his hands in mock submission. "It was rude of me to allow myself to get stabbed-"
"Nicked."
"-stabbed by a raving madman. I should have known better."
Sherlock nodded.
"I am in agreement."
"That was sarcasm, you arse," John hissed. "I can't believe..." He stopped himself. "No, you know what? I actually can believe that you're that much of an arsehole. When have you ever been anything less?"
Sherlock furrowed his brow in frustration and anger.
"If you're so averse to criticism, then perhaps it would be wise of you to stop accompanying me on these cases."
"Okay, what you call 'criticism' is blatant finger-pointing."
"My point still remains valid."
"Well to rebut your point: maybe it would be," John bit back, hardly meaning the response seriously.
"Then stop," Sherlock told him.
"Oh shut it," John scoffed. "If I didn't come with you, you'd get yourself killed."
"That suggests that I need your assistance."
John felt a sharp pain in his chest.
"What are you saying?"
"To put it quite simply: I don't need your help."
It was stated so matter-of-factly, as if he were describing the weather.
John tightened his lips and looked down at the floor, trying not to appear hurt by the words.
There was a long period of palpable silence in which both men mulled over the nasty exchange that had just taken place.
"Okay," John said quietly, his voice cracking slightly.
Sherlock's expression softened, the harshness of his words finally registering.
"John-"
The doctor set the med kit on the floor and turned on his heel, his posture straightening into a soldier's. With a deep breath, he then walked back to the front door.
And he left.
Sherlock opened his mouth to call after him, but wasn't sure what to say. He could tell when he'd stepped over the line (at least according to John) and wasn't willing to risk jeopardising their relationship any further. He decided it was best to let the dust settle on its own; John would come back later that night and make tea, and they would talk a bit, and then they would laugh. And everything would be okay.
It always seemed to work out that way, anyway.
John felt as if he were an old man without a cane, his injured leg forcing him to hobble.
He really regretted letting that arsehole flatmate of his push his buttons.
But then, he thought, that wasn't really the case, here. Some buttons certainly had been pushed, but in all the worst places.
"Fuck him," John muttered to himself, tightening his grip on his leg wound.
If Sherlock didn't need him, then the smug bastard could bloody well rot for all John cared.
John found himself limping back in the direction of the empty streets from which he and Sherlock had just returned, surprised at his own speed. How long had he been walking for, exactly? Looking over his shoulder, he judged he'd been out for at least ten or fifteen minutes; he couldn't see the flat anymore, nor could he see much in terms of people. Save the spare car that passed through the street, it was pretty serene; for lack of a better word, seeing as the alleys sent cold shivers down his spine.
At this point, the doctor really had no intent as to where in God's name he was going; just as far away from Sherlock as physically possible, he thought to himself.
He felt his phone suddenly vibrate in his pocket; someone appeared to be calling him. He hastily pulled the small cell from his trousers, resenting the fact that it was on the same side as his wound, and checked the caller ID.
'Sherlock'.
He bristled at the sight of the name and quickly pressed 'Ignore', tossing the mobile into his other pocket and proceeding down the empty sidewalk.
Again, his phone began to vibrate. With an internal growl, he once again fished out the phone and ignored the call from his flatmate, resisting the urge to turn the phone off.
It never occurred to him that Sherlock Holmes never called anybody unless out of absolute necessity.
John continued to walk, the ominous silence making his footsteps sound incredibly loud and disturbing to his own ears.
What he also found rather disturbing was the sound of other footsteps behind him.
He immediately came to a full stop, unintentionally putting weight on his bad leg. He winced and gripped the fabric of his pants over his still slightly bleeding wound.
"Feeling alright there, mate?" came the sound of a young and gruff voice.
Wendell; the man they'd been after that night.
Before John had much time to even think, Wendell had his bad arm twisted behind him and shoved him into the nearby alleyway. The younger man pinned John up against the cold brick wall with his forearm on the doctor's neck; he then pulled out a knife, the sharp blade resting on John's cheek.
"Pretty ballsy of you to come back here," Wendell hissed; his breath, John noticed, smelled of spearmint and tobacco.
John coughed and narrowed his eyes at the man.
"Well, you know me," he wheezed.
"Don't do that," Wendell sneered. "Don't play cheeky with me; I'm not in the fucking mood. You and Holmes have given me enough shit tonight; I'm not having anymore of it." He grinned almost mockingly. "Holmes'll be back to save his girl, though, yeah? Blonde hair, blue eyes... you're a regular damsel, aren't you?"
"Oh, piss off," John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock isn't even-" He stopped himself, regretting having gotten too defensive.
Wendell quirked an eyebrow bemusedly.
"What?" He leaned in closer, the spearmint and tobacco becoming more oppressive to John's senses. "Is your boyfriend out at the moment?" He chuckled. "You two on a break or something? What is it, then? Trouble in bed? Some infidelity or something like that?" He pressed the blade of the knife into John's cheek, drawing some blood. "Have you been a naughty boy, Watson; running around with some other pansies like yourself?"
John's nostrils flared.
"Or is Holmes the slut?" Wendell laughed.
The young man was unpleasantly surprised by a swift and hard knock in the skull by John's forehead, and he released his hold on the doctor in favour of grabbing his head and swearing out loud.
"Bastard!" he shouted.
"Look who's talking," John rasped, rubbing his throat to massage out the trauma that had been done unto it.
"Alright, old man; you want to fight?" Wendell wiped his chin, as he'd started drooling. "I'll fucking fight you."
John knitted his brow.
"I'm in my forties."
The man suddenly lunged at John with the knife, aiming for anything he could sink the blade into. John, adrenaline pumping, was swift on the counter attack, stopping Wendell's right hand that held the knife by grabbing the wrist; he only barely kept the blade from plunging into the side of his stomach; and grabbing his left forearm. The two men wrestled like that for a moment, John having long forgotten about the pain in his leg and the earlier conflict with his friend, before the ex-army doctor finally overpowered the younger man and rammed him into the opposite wall, his own body colliding with Wendell's rather ungracefully.
"You know something, Wendell?" John grunted as he kicked the man in the groin, sending him over with a howl of pain. "I have not had the best night."
Wendell hopelessly sprawled on the ground, clutching his crotch.
"And the last thing I needed was a homophobic," John kicked him in the side, "nicotine-dependent," another kick, "womanising," kick, "unnecessarily vulgar," kick, "murdering dickhead taunting me because of his own insecurities stemming from a creepy and pathetic sense of maternal abandonment!" Once more, John kicked him, this time with full force in the ribs. "Usually I'm more tolerant of criminals' bullshit, but, to quote you,"
John stooped over Wendell and leaned close to the man's face:
"I'm not in the fucking mood."
Wendell spluttered and coughed as he gasped for air, and John, satisfied with the job he'd done, grabbed his own phone from his pocket. His fingers trembling from the surge of adrenaline, John typed out a quick text message to Lestrade, informing him of his location and sending a quick bulletin:
'Wendell needs an ambulance.'
John smirked at his own impudence, his smile suddenly fading when he felt a dull ache in his side; an ache that quickly turned into agonising pain with every movement.
He looked down, and noticed the hilt of Wendell's knife sticking out of his stomach.
"You've got to be kidding me," he groaned, barely able to support himself with the wall before falling to his knees.
He laid himself onto his back and weakly began applying pressure around the knife, knowing that an ambulance was already on the way; maybe. He hoped Lestrade had actually taken his text seriously. If not, he at least knew help of some kind was on the way.
He was aware of another vibration in his pocket. With his unoccupied hand, he fumbled around until he grabbed hold of the cell and took a look at the screen.
'Sherlock'.
And this time, he answered.
If worst came to worst, he at least owed Sherlock a farewell; even if the detective didn't really care.
Sherlock felt uneasy.
John had been out a good fifteen minutes, and without any obvious intention of coming back.
What if he was gone for good?
"He would have taken his things, you dullard," Sherlock chided his irrational thinking.
John would be back, whether it was to make tea or collect his belongings; either way, Sherlock had a shot at redemption.
And then there was the matter of John's leg. The fact dawned on him quite abruptly; John needed to clean out the wound, or he would risk infection and, as Sherlock had cynically joked earlier, potential amputation.
"Melodramatic," he told himself. "Stop overreacting."
Things would be alright. They would practically resolve themselves in the end.
Unless they wouldn't.
Sherlock made up his mind; he grabbed his coat and scarf and tugged them on; then he made his way back downstairs and headed out the door, shutting it behind him.
"John?" he called down the sidewalk, ignoring the judgmental glare from a woman across the street.
He proceeded back in the direction of the side streets he and John had earlier been weaving their way through, deciding that that's where John would have headed without a clear head.
Sherlock grabbed his phone out of his pocket. One quick text message wouldn't hurt; just in case John wasn't going to return of his own volition and needed some extra conviction.
Or a phone call; John liked those. Sherlock despised them, but perhaps the effort would make John understand that he hadn't really meant what he said.
Sherlock dialled his partner's number, discouraged after the call was quickly disconnected; a clear sign he'd been ignored. Determined, Sherlock dialled again, again disappointed when he received the same response (or lack thereof).
His long, frantic strides took him quickly into the rougher, quieter side of London; well, one of them, at least.
"John?" he called into the empty street, hoping to get a response. But why would John feel obligated to respond at all? Even as a self-proclaimed sociopath, Sherlock still understood the concept of anger and could see it when John had left. And whenever John was angry, John seethed quietly; silently; by himself. Perhaps it wasn't wise to go looking for him after all?
"John!"
A deep-throated groan erupted from one of the alleys, a homeless man having been awoken from a fitful sleep.
"Sod off, will ya?" he snapped at Sherlock, and immediately started hacking.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes in the man's general direction and kept walking.
He'd been wandering for at least ten minutes before he heard shouts coming from down the sidewalk a ways. Some pointless scrap between homeless folk, he assumed; he heard various kicks and grunts echoing throughout the vacant alley, followed by what sounded like hissed expletives; despite what John had once labelled as his superhuman hearing, Sherlock couldn't make them out. But there was something familiar about that voice; it had a certain authority and register that was reminiscent of...
"John."
It made sense; why Sherlock hadn't come to the conclusion was beyond even his own masterful reasoning.
Sherlock dialled John's phone again, and this time his call was accepted.
"Is that you I hear down the street?" Sherlock asked, making no effort to hide his panic.
John breathed heavily into the phone.
"Did... did you follow me?" He sounded taxed, as though it pained him to speak.
"Never mind that; are you alright? Who attacked you?"
"Bloody genius..." John chuckled, seemingly more to himself than his flatmate.
"It doesn't take a genius to recognise a scrap when he hears one. Now answer my question."
John coughed and groaned.
"Right... s-so... you know Wendell?"
Sherlock's stomach turned, and he broke into a run.
"What did he do?" Sherlock barked. "What did he do, John?"
The detective skidded to a stop when he spotted two writhing heaps on the ground of one alley, and he darted over to them. He slid onto his knees beside the body that he recognised to be his friend.
John looked up at him, his phone still by his ear.
"Guess I forgot he still had the knife."
Sherlock's eyes fixed upon the knife in John's side, and a knot appeared in his throat that made it hard for him to swallow.
"John..."
John pressed 'End Call' on his cell and coughed.
"So..." he rasped.
"Shut up." Sherlock ripped off his scarf. "Shut up shut up shut up."
He pressed the garment around the hilt of the knife, knuckles white; though he couldn't really tell in the dark.
"Sherl..." John groaned.
"Just shut up. Please." Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek and looked over at Wendell. "You've caught him."
John smirked tiredly.
"Called... called Lestrade... too." He panted as he spoke, trying to control the tears of pain that burned hot in his eyes.
"Good man; very good," Sherlock praised him. "You did well, John; very, very well. Perfectly."
"'Kay, s'enough," John waved his hand to cease the detective's rambling. He lazily looked down at Sherlock's trembling hands; the only thing really keeping the blood from slipping too far past the knife. "Doing good."
Sherlock swallowed hard.
"What else can I do?"
"M'leg hurts," John frowned.
"Your leg ought to be the least of your concerns." It thought occurred to him, then. "Did you call an ambulance?"
John began to drift, and Sherlock forcefully shook him.
"Stop that. Did you call an ambulance?"
John looked at him blearily and shrugged.
Sherlock gritted his teeth and pulled out his own phone. He sent off a quick text to Lestrade, instructing him to phone an ambulance for John.
"There. It's taken care of."
John smiled and nodded.
"Good... good... g'job..."
And he passed out, leaving Sherlock feeling angry, helpless, and alone with his dying friend and an unconscious criminal.
Sherlock didn't sleep, nor did he wish to. It was as if some part of him were under the impression that losing consciousness would surely mean the monitor beside John would suddenly cease its beeping.
To his relief, John only took a few hours to regain consciousness, though it was clear that the process was laborious.
"Hey," John whispered when he saw the detective sitting vigilant by his bedside, a ghost of a smile on his lips.
Sherlock, despite his elation, didn't budge, the only indication of his joy in his small smile.
John lifted up his blanket, sucking in a breath when he felt the pain from his wound intensify. Sherlock reached out to restrain him, but retreated when John waved him off. The doctor peered down the sheet at his leg and nodded, satisfied by what he saw.
"So they took care of the leg," he remarked.
Sherlock didn't say a word.
"Right." John slowly laid back down on his pillow, letting out a sigh when the tension in his abdomen faded. "So..." He cleared his throat. "Hey. Again."
Sherlock gave him a stern look.
"I didn't mean it."
John cocked his head.
"What?"
"What I said last night."
John frowned a little.
"Okay."
"John, I regret having ever lashed out at you. It led me to make a false claim, and caused you to run off and get yourself hurt."
"Are you saying you were wrong?"
Sherlock nodded emphatically.
"Yes, John; I was wrong. I was an idiot for allowing my frustration to impede my ability to rationalise." Sherlock looked sincerely at his friend. "I do need your help, John; I need you. And despite whatever I may say in the future contradicting such a profession ought to be ignored; know that what I say now is the truth. And... I'm sorry. Truly I am."
John smiled, looking relieved.
"It's good to hear you say that. You seemed so serious last night, I wasn't sure if..." He shook his head. "Forget it. A lot of shit was said last night; things that neither of us really meant. We were both tired and at the end of our tethers. So I... I accept your apology. And while we're at it, I'm sorry too; for running off."
Sherlock furrowed his brow.
"You should be; you nearly got yourself killed."
John chuckled softly.
"Sorry to have frightened you."
"Well, it wasn't exactly in vain, I suppose," Sherlock admitted. "You certainly did considerable damage to Wendell."
John turned red.
"Yeah, well; he was being an arse hole. Not unlike you, you know," he warned.
"Your meaning has been thoroughly understood, John, and I have taken it to heart." The detective winked cheekily.
The conversation settled, and Sherlock twiddled his thumbs awkwardly while John shifted in bed.
"Well..." Sherlock sniffed. "Lestrade instructed me to tell you that he hopes you, erm... get better. And that... oh, something else about apologies, I believe."
"That's nice," John nodded. "Tell him thanks."
"Must I?"
John pouted.
"I'm so tired and sore; I don't have the energy to."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes.
"I'm no fool; you're attempting to earn my sympathy by exploiting your own injury."
"Is it working?"
"Unfortunately, yes."
Both men looked at each other and smiled.
Things were going to be alright.