John's fingers twitched into a fist as he glanced once more up at the clock.

Maybe letting Sherlock go out on his latest case alone in favor of going out with…Jane?… hadn't been the best idea after all.

John had anticipated Sherlock being home before John's date with his newest, and, as usual, strangely uninteresting conquest. But it was midnight, four hours after John had cut the date short with some weak excuse or another after ‒ Jolene, was it, maybe? ‒ had spent a little too much time talking about her phone and giggling loudly.

Where on earth was that bloody man? What had happened to "some small thing, won't take long"?

John stood, dropping his newspaper as he made up his mind. He wasn't going to let Sherlock be so flippant and…

Well, worry him.

He grabbed his coat, wrangling it on as he grabbed for the door handle just as it silently swung outward.

John's eyes came up to meet two blue-green-hazel ones, one wide, one…

"Sherlock! Dammit!"

Sherlock's uneven eyes lowered to the floor as he brushed past his bristling, shorter friend.

"What the hell happened? I thought it was a small thing!"

"It was." Sherlock pulled off his own coat with some difficulty, slinging it across the back of his chair ‒ not on its hook in the mudroom, where it wouldn't wrinkle and where Sherlock usually immediately hung it, John noted, his eyes narrowing. He started to follow to examine his friend's face more closely when Sherlock, slumping into his chair and beginning to loosen his scarf, spoke again, effectively freezing John in place.

"I didn't want to wake you. I was going to bed."

"Sneaking in?" John gaped. "Do you think I don't bloody care that my best friend's been beat up, Sherlock? What…"

"Go sleep, John. I'm sure you've had a long night with Joanne."

That was her name.

"No, I didn't. I ‒"

"You left early because you were bored and tired. And you won't see her again." Sherlock tossed his scarf over the chair and leaned back. "Get some rest, John."

"I'm the doctor, you dick. You don't want to tell me what happened? Fine. But you're going to sit your sorry arse down and let me patch you up."

John knew where the first aid kit was. He also knew the time it took to dig it up from its drawer in the bathroom would be precious time that Sherlock would probably spend finding a place to hide ‒ in this mood, he might as well be a large child.

"Stay," he told his drooping friend's back sternly, not expecting his command to be followed.

But to his surprise when he returned from the bathroom, kit in hand, Sherlock was curled in his chair as before, albeit arms folded sullenly around his knees.

Kneeling in front of him, John coaxed the great detective to unfold, which Sherlock did, with a sulky expression on his face.

John clucked sympathetically as he took Sherlock's chin to inspect the damage. One of his high cheekbones had bled down to his chin, leaving a gory mess. A yellowing eye was steadily swelling shut, and the dark shadows around his nose and mouth told John an arm had been swiped across his face to remove yet more blood.

"Well, let's clean you up, hmm?" John prodded more gently, and Sherlock's scowl softened.

"Shirt off."

Sherlock's eyebrows jumped and his eyes returned to the floor.

"I know more than your face got hit here, idiot, don't look so guilty. No use pretending you're fine. The shirt goes off. Doctor's orders."

Sherlock pressed his lips together and started unbuttoning his purple collared shirt.

Upon seeing all the cuts and slowly forming bruises littering Sherlock's torso, John ran his tongue over his teeth, something akin to anger rising in his throat. He could feel Sherlock watching him passively, and forced himself to his feet, trying to keep his face as neutral as possible. "Need hot water. I'll just go put the kettle on, shall I?"

"John."

"What?"

"There's old towels in the closet for…for cleaning up as well."

"Oh. Thanks."

Sherlock winced at the soaked, hot towel, and flinched at the sting of peroxide as John carefully dabbed at the gashes along his back.

John silenced his conscience ‒ which stabbed at him with every twinge of Sherlock's ‒ by justifying the pain with Sherlock's attempted silence on the entire mess.

"I still want to know why'd you want to sneak past me rather than get help."

Sherlock didn't answer as John began to unroll a strip of cloth bandage.

"Oi."

"I didn't want to bother you."

John's hands stilled their bandaging of Sherlock's back.

"John?"

"Sherlock, I don't want you to think ‒ that ‒ that I wouldn't help you. That I wouldn't drop everything in a heartbeat to fix something. I…care, all right?"

Sherlock turned his head, quizzically speechless. "You…you care?" he repeated. John could see his profile, eyebrows drawn together, his lips slightly parted, as if trying out a word foreign to him.

"Yes, of course, you idiot." John shoved him, and Sherlock grunted in surprised pain. "Come on, let me get your face now."

Sherlock turned in his chair, awkwardly making eye contact, and just as awkwardly avoiding it.

John bit back the smile, but Sherlock was doing the same.

The snicker was out before he could hold it back, and Sherlock's dark chuckles soon joined him as the blogging doctor cleaned up his consulting detective.

(You can find the beautiful coverart under the title "JOHNLOCK 1" by Slashpalooza. I would definitely give you a link but unfortunately FF sucks and hates links, but please look the art up and send the artist lots of love!)