A/N If anyone is also reading my fic 'Sleepless nights' I am in the process of writing two further chapters for it. They will be finished at some point soonish I hope.

As for this one, enjoy. Implied John x Sherlock but so mild if you blink you might miss it.

Ambiguity

John looked up as Sherlock burst through the front door of the flat, slamming it soundly behind him and dropping into his chair.

"You forgot your coat again," the doctor remarked dryly, turning over the page of his newspaper. "You'll get ill in this weather."

Sherlock made a noise that loosely translated as 'Weather? Weather is boring.'

"So where did you go?" John asked, folding the newspaper in half and laying it to the side. "You know I can't fit the shopping in the fridge because you have so many body parts in there."

Sherlock had stopped staring into space and was scrutinising the doctor with piercing eyes.

"Did you have an argument with the checkout again?" he enquired.

"No," John muttered, remembering the multiple evils of the machines. "I went to the till, why?"

Sherlock gave a shrug and settled back to contemplating the ceiling again.

"You seemed unusually put out."

John got up and went into the kitchen, putting the kettle on and bringing out two cups. If Sherlock was going to sit there perfectly still after coming in from the freezing conditions outside then John would just have to take measures to ensure that he got warmed up since he clearly didn't care about the effects of hyperthermia in the slightest unless it was of consequence to a case.

"It might be something to do with the fact that I asked you to go out and do the shop, and when you didn't I had to because you were too tired…"

"Tired," Sherlock muttered, "I actually said tired? That was a give away."

"And when I got back you were gone!" John continued, not breaking off his tirade for Sherlock's interruption.

The detective let silence fall, not bothering to fill it or explain and listened instead while John poured the water into the mugs, making the cups of tea. Finally the doctor reappeared and shoved the scalding drink into Sherlock's waiting hands.

"So what were you doing?" John repeated, finally settled in his chair.

Sherlock waited a suitable number of seconds before speaking, deliberately creating a semi-dramatic effect.

"I was chasing after a man who's been hanging around for some weeks now," Sherlock clarified. "I caught up with him. Didn't get his name but I got all I needed to know to identify him and where he lives from his clothes." Sherlock turned his head to fix his gaze on John, who was staring dismally into his tea. "I didn't invite you because it was you he was after," Sherlock explained wryly, "and besides…you were shopping."

John lifted his head and blinked.

"Sorry…after me?"

"Hmmm," came the noise of assent as Sherlock placed his mug of tea on the side and shut his eyes. "He was shadowing you to the shops. Had a rather beautiful and rare knife." John made a strange noise that was a mix between a sharp intake of breath and a sharp exhale of disappointment.

The detective smiled to himself. Even when John was the target of a murderer he seemed more concerned about the fact that he'd missed the excitement rather than that there was a person out to kill him.

"Sherlock, what is that?"

The detective's cool demeanour shattered as John grabbed his shoulder, pushing him back into the seat, his other hand trapping Sherlock's wrist against the chair arm.

"John!" the surprised yell came.

The doctor was examining a tear in the fabric of Holmes' jacket where underneath blood was beginning to seep through a makeshift bandage.

"What is that?" he asked again, refusing to let go of the arm, brown eyes warning Sherlock that he better damn well answer truthfully.

"Probably a knife wound," came the petulant reply. Sherlock was clearly not happy about it being made a fuss of. "He took a swipe at me. I noticed it was bleeding and bandaged it up."

Reading between the lines of this comment, John took it to mean that there had been more appealing things for Sherlock to be thinking about at the time than a dull, uninteresting knife wound, and so he'd ignored it. John glanced at the hurriedly tied up wound and back up. "Sherlock, this does not constitute as a bandage." He sighed. "Take off the jacket. I'm going to dress it properly."

He let go of Sherlock's arm but the detective wasn't moving. His eyes locked onto John's in a way that would normally make the doctor feel uncomfortable.

"Leave – it – John."

It was a clear warning and normally John would have given up and left the detective to himself but this time the doctor was not backing down.

"Take off your jacket," he repeated, resolve hard in his eyes and turned away to get his medical kit from his room. "I don't care if it's boring," the yell echoed down the stairs as he disappeared up them, pre-empting Sherlock's sneering comment.

For a moment the detective toyed with the idea of not doing as the doctor ordered, but rationally he knew that the wound needed to be looked at and infections were so tiresome. John would be unbearable to live with if Sherlock tried to conduct cases whilst in a state of delirium. Smiling at the other man's determination he shrugged the jacket off and tossed it over the back of the chair. That didn't necessary mean he had to make it easy for him though.

"I'm ready for you John," Sherlock called in an amused voice, a mischievous smile on his face. It faded slightly, replaced by a more appraising look, as the doctor walked back into the room looking wonderfully efficient with his case in his hand and his sleeves rolled up to the elbow.

"Don't say that again," John muttered, "ever."

Nonetheless John's eyes ran unbidden over the attractive man standing jauntily in front of him, with his shirt collar unbuttoned to reveal the cream skin at his throat, and his eyes bright with amusement. Just one look at Sherlock's face and John felt slightly more apprehensive about treating the injury. Here was a man who had probably climbed out the window as a child to avoid taking his medicine. A doctor's nightmare.

It didn't take long for John to rip the arm of Sherlock's shirt open further and examine the wound. There was a small, sharp jolt in his chest as he observed the cut in the soft, pale skin, blood seeping from the opening, colouring the surrounding area with red. It was reminiscent of the feeling that had swelled in his chest when he had watched Sherlock about to take the possibly deadly pill, and he had seen the Golem with his fingers around Sherlock's throat, and he had spotted that horrible red circle of death dancing on Sherlock's brow. John's fist clenched involuntarily. Taking a deep breath he slowly uncurled his fingers and began to clean and dress the wound.

Sherlock watched John's fingers deftly working for the first few moments with a simmering interest but quickly got bored and turned his mind to a new source of entertainment.

"Why did you only rip the arm John?" he pointed out. "Surely it would be easier to rip the whole shirt off?"

John gritted his teeth and concentrated on the dressing.

"I – thought – it would be too – wasteful."

"Or suggestive?"

John lifted his head and shot the smirking detective an irate look.

"Are you trying to make this awkward?"

"Doesn't take much does it?" Sherlock replied with almost childlike glee.

John rolled his eyes and quickly finished up.

"You're lucky it's only a flesh wound," he added as he moved purposefully over to the sink and washed his hands.

Sherlock quickly glanced over the work of John's hands while his back was turned and promptly decided that the doctor was rather good at his job.

"You're surprisingly gentle you know."

John's hand slipped from the tap and his elbow smashed against the sink. Swearing under his breath he shot the detective a poisonous look over his shoulder.

Sherlock was looking at him with an irksome faux innocence.

"What? We're not allowed to make potentially ambiguous statements anymore?" He turned his blue eyes from John's murderous browns and examined the tear in his shirt. "I can't wear this anymore. You might as well have ripped the whole thing off."

Shaking his head John reached for the tea towel but stilled his hand over the rather suspicious blue stains, and instead grabbed a new one from one of the drawers.

"Besides," the detective added almost smugly from the other room, "you started it."

Of course, John thought wryly, the off-hand comment at the pool about ripping clothes off in the dark that he made to lighten the mood because he was slightly hysterical and had thought he was going to die, or worse that Sherlock was going to die. The rather annoying thing about that particular comment was that he couldn't quite decide whether it had been joking or wistful. Quickly shaking the confusion back into the box in his head, John made his way back into the main room where he snapped his case shut.

"Is there any point in telling you to keep it clean?" he asked as he gathered up the items he'd used.

"I'm going to need a new jacket," was the only muttered response he got as the detective lifted his torn item of clothing up to the light and investigated the tear. "Although the effects of that knife on this particular fabric are rather fascinating…"

Sighing John put 'making sure Sherlock keeps the injury clean' on the mental checklist that also included 'making sure Sherlock takes a coat with him' and 'making sure Sherlock eats something, anything at some point during the day'.

"Along with making sure he doesn't sneak off while I'm at the shops and nearly get himself killed," John muttered under his breath as he climbed the stairs back up to his room, the case in his hand.

Sherlock watched John discreetly until he disappeared and sprang into action. The laptop screen was flung open as his fingers skimmed speedily across the keys. The information swiftly jumped onto the screen and in the next instant Sherlock had thrown on his ruined jacket and headed for the door.

"Now," Sherlock muttered with fire in his eyes, "to find out who is trying to kill John."

He didn't even notice as his hand reached automatically for the coats on their pegs as he headed out the door.

A few moments later the doctor could at least console himself with the fact that the detective had taken a coat this time, even if it had been John's.