John was napping in the sitting room when his phone rang. It had been five days since Sherlock was attacked and he still had not heard from Mycroft or Lestrade. He was beginning to think he would never hear from them. He rubbed his eyes as he grabbed his phone off the coffee table. It was Mycroft, about time, John thought as he answered his phone.

"I want to speak with him," John said as he put the phone to his ear.

"It is good to hear your voice too, Dr. Watson." Mycroft responded sarcastically, "I'm afraid Sherlock isn't currently with me, but I assure you that he is on his way to your flat as we speak. I know that you were worried, but I could not call you until I was sure that Sherlock was completely detox." He explained poorly.

"If you honestly believe that I buy that Sherlock was drugged and he hallucinated, you must be an idiot. I know Sherlock would be able to tell if he was hallucinating, now tell me what happened." John demanded as he stood from the sofa.

"Dr. Watson, the story will not change no matter how many times you ask. Sherlock was injected with a hallucinogenic and believed to be bleeding to death. If you do not believe me, ask Sherlock when he arrives. He will tell you the same thing," Mycroft said dully as he hung up.

John groaned and tossed his phone on the sofa before heading into the kitchen to prepare tea. If Mycroft won't tell him the truth, then he hoped Sherlock would. It was a long shot, but he hoped that the madman would be honest with him. At least about this. He had just spent the last five days thinking the worst about the man.

The kettle whistled as the doors to 221 opened. Pulling the kettle off the heat John stood still and listened. He heard a set of footsteps, Sherlock was back. He smiled but it soon faded when he heard that there were two more sets of footsteps. Who the hell was with Sherlock?

"This way," Sherlock's voice instructed as footsteps made their way up the stairs. The door to the kitchen opened and Sherlock, followed by two men, came in. The men were carrying two boxes. One appeared to be a mini fridge and the other a Styrofoam box used to transport organs or blood. What on earth was Sherlock bringing into the flat now? "Down the hall just set them by the wardrobe, I'll take care of it later. Ah, John didn't see you there." Sherlock glanced at John before making his way to his room.

"Sherlock," John called tensely following the detective to his room, "Sherlock what the hell is going on?" John glared daggers at the back of Sherlock's head. He could not see any visible wounds on the detective but that did not mean he didn't have any.

"New experiment, John." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively as if that would stop John.

"Not what I meant Sherlock. Where have you been for the past five days? What happened to you?" John pressed as he saw the men remove the fridge from the box and plug it in.

"It'll take at least a few hours to be cold enough Mr. Holmes. Would you like us to put your supply in the kitchen?" One asked as he pointed to the Styrofoam box.

"No, that's quite alright. I can manage." Sherlock dismissed the men, leaving Sherlock and John alone. He turned towards John and raised an eyebrow, "You need to be more specific with your questions, John." He smirked as he brushed past the doctor.

"Bastard," John mumbled and walked after him to the sitting room. He was picking up his violin as John spoke again, "You call me during my date saying you're bleeding. Three hours later your brother gives me a bogus story and now five days later you return with not a word of what happened. Instead, you bring home God knows what from Mycroft and completely ignore my questions. I deserve an explanation Sherlock."

Sherlock said nothing as he raised his violin to his shoulder. He gently placed the bow on the strings and began to play. The melody was soft and calming. Sherlock closed his eyes as he let his mind think about the current situation. He chose to ignore John.

Something odd was occurring that he had not experienced. It was as if John's blood was…singing, for lack of a better term. No one else's blood did that. Why was John's? This caused Sherlock to take extra concentration to control himself from attacking the doctor. Mycroft had not mentioned anything about singing blood. Was something wrong with John? Or was it Sherlock?

"Sherlock," John said warningly, but it did nothing to pull the detective from playing. John's fist clenched as Sherlock continued to ignore him. He's lucky I don't punch him, John thought bitterly, "Really, now you're going to act like a child an-." John stopped as his phone started ringing. He groaned and made his way to the sofa to get his phone. Sighing again when he saw who it was, "Hello…well no one else can cover? Alright, alright I'll be there in thirty minutes," John hung up his phone and turned to Sherlock who had not stopped playing, "I got to go into work, but this conversation isn't over Sherlock. Not that it started," John mumbled the last part before grabbing his coat and headed out.

Once John left the flat Sherlock felt noticeably relaxed. Perhaps the singing blood was a onetime occurrence? John's body reaction to Sherlock returning home finally? That seemed like a reasonable explanation. Sherlock only experienced what the human body sounds like when it's frightened. Maybe different emotions sound different? An experiment was needed to determine this. If true, this could work for Sherlock greatly. Using this ability for cases could benefit him.


John returned from the clinic at midnight. An incident occurred with one of his patients. Unbeknownst to him, the man was deathly afraid of needles. So much so that he punched John in the face when he was trying to give the man a shot. It took John and three nurses to hold the man down. He would not calm down even after John assured the man, he would not give him the shot. The man started to scream and continue to thrash about.

In the end they had to call the police, file reports and wait to be dismissed. John had yet to check, but he was sure he had a black eye if not now, he would. Entering the flat he didn't bother to turn the light on. He just wanted some water and then he planned on turning in. It was too late, and he was too tired to try to speak to Sherlock.

"Hello John," Sherlock greeted from the sofa. He was lying in his usual thinking position with his eyes closed. John just grunted at him and pulled a glass out of the cupboard, "Not wanting to ask questions anymore?" Sherlock asked, sounding a little too amused for John's liking.

"Oh, so now that it's midnight and I had a miserable day...now you are willing to talk? Forget it. I'm too bloody tired and in pain to deal with you," John said as he turned on the faucet.

"Pain?" Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up. Not thinking he rushed to John's side. "What happened?" Sherlock asked, sounding concerned and much closer than before. John turned to see Sherlock at his side. When did he get up? Ignoring the thought John sighed and pitched the bridge of his nose.

"A patient took a swing at me and turned out he had good aim," John was trying to make it sound like it wasn't a big deal. Even though he was starting to get a massive headache and all he wanted to do was lay down. He just didn't want to talk about it. He talked about it enough with the police.

Sherlock studied John for a moment. Taking in the damage from the punch he received. It was clear that it would bruise, possibly swell. Indicating that John was not prepared for the assault and was close to the man as he was hit. The man was large and knew how to throw a punch judging from the amount of damage on John's face.

For some unknown reason all Sherlock wanted to do was find the man and rip him apart. He hurt John, his John. Wait, his John? Since when was John his and since when did he ever think that? Clearing his mind of the ridiculous thought he finally spoke.

"You should put ice on it, so it does not swell," Sherlock suggested. He then turned away from John and headed to his room.

Well, that was strange, John thought as he watched Sherlock's door shut. He sounded…tense. Why would he be tense? John was the one who was punched. John sighed and drank his water then headed to his room for much needed sleep. Forgetting about the ice that Sherlock suggested.