Two weeks later a suspect threw John to the ground and he cried out in an unusually loud manner. Sherlock caught the man and cuffed him within seconds and crouched next to his friend who was already starting to sit up.
'Are you hurt? You sounded like you were in pain.' Sherlock ran worried hands over John's arms and chest checking for possible injuries. When he reached John's right hand he found his friend flinching away which gave him all the sign he needed. He pulled up John's sleeve to find an unpleasantly swollen but not broken right wrist.
It had dark bruises covering the outside which was partially fading and turning yellow indicating that the injury was not recent but had in fact been there for a couple of days. The discolouration was so obvious it was laughable, fingers wrapped harshly around the wrist, pulling with considerable force, but why?
'John, what happened?' he asked as he ran gentle fingers over the injured arm.
'It's nothing, I'm fine' John tried pulling away but Sherlock persisted. 'You are going to tell me what happened' he urged trying to be gentle with John's injured wrist.
'It was an angry patient that's all. He hit me when I tried to help him' John shivered slightly when Sherlock's hands brushed over the bruise on his arm but made no noise. Sherlock nodded hesitantly accepting the excuse but not believing it. John hadn't been hit, he had been grabbed and jerked forward, of that Sherlock was certain.