Buzz.

John glanced at his phone where it had vibrated on the table. It was flashing, and with a sigh he picked it up.

Are you at the flat? – SH

Rolling his eyes John punched out a reply. Why couldn't Sherlock just call him instead of texting all the time?

Yes, what is it this time? – JW

John set down the phone and turned back to the book he was reading. Even after becoming Sherlock's colleague he still enjoyed reading a good murder mystery – even if he could work out who did it fairly easily by now.

Buzz.

Sigh.

Prepare your stuff, I've been injured – SH

WHAT? Sherlock! You need to stop getting yourself hurt! I'll have everything ready. – JW

As if I decided to get hurt – SH

John could almost hear the sarcasm in Sherlock's text it was so blatant. He turned the corner of his page and went into his bedroom to find his medical kit, before flicking the kettle on in the kitchen. Whether he'd need it to sterilise his instruments or make tea it was still a good idea to have some hot water ready.

Sherlock passed through the door of Baker Street and made his way upstairs, limping towards the couch. He sat down, wincing as he did so.

"I'm here," he called.

John walked out of the kitchen and saw the tears in Sherlock's shirt, the rips in his trousers and the blood seeping through, He sighed heavily and approached the man on the couch.

"So what happened this time?" He asked as he pulled on his gloves to start his examination.

"Wasn't a good day," answered Sherlock, "Some guys pushed me against a wall and started playing with their knives." He shrugged, trying to act nonchalant, but another wince ran down his face.

"Some guys?" John raised his eyebrow, being highly sceptical that they were just 'some guys'. Most people didn't attack Sherlock, they just hurled verbal abuse instead.

"I was on a case, and I was chasing them in a dark street. They weren't the type who just insult me John," replied Sherlock, knowing what John was thinking.

"Hmmmm. It looks like they knew what they were doing with those knives though…" John frowned at the cuts on Sherlock's leg. There was a pause. "Sherlock, you're gonna need stitches."

The detective stared down at his leg, face blank. He was tired and his whole body was in pain, although it was more irritating and distracting than agonising. He completely ignored John's last sentence.

"The worst thing is that Lestrade didn't even manage to catch them." He commented instead.

John recognised avoidance strategies when he saw them, so he paid no mind to Sherlock's attempts to get out of having stitches.

"Come on, lie back, I need to cut off your trousers below your knew so I can actually do my job. And no, don't make that face, they were already ruined anyway, I'm just ruining them a little bit more. So Lestrade didn't get them? What had they done?" John was focussing more on getting the task done than how Sherlock had actually gotten the injuries he was treating.

"Drug dealing and murdering. They were killing all their clients so they could keep both the drugs and the money for themselves," answered Sherlock, lying down on the couch. He winced slightly as his head touched the armrest.

John noticed the wincing and told him he'd grab some painkillers in a minute, whilst the antiseptic lotion numbed the area where he needed to put in the stitches.

"Well they sound just lovely. Lestrade'll get them soon enough. In the meantime, you're not going to be doing much running for a few weeks."

Sherlock sat up sharply at these words.

"I have things to do John, I-" He stopped to cut off a groan of pain. "I'm perfectly fine."

"Tough. I'm your doctor, and you're going to listen to me for once. You could do some real damage if you rip these stitches open. And you're not fine so stop lying."

John tossed the bottle of paracetamol at Sherlock from across the room, who deftly caught it in his long fingers. He rolled his eyes, but he took a couple pills anyway. Sherlock stayed in silence as John began to stitch up his cuts. His head was hurting him more and more, so he closed eyes to block out the light.

"Right, I'm finished here, let's have a look at your head. How does it feel? And be honest with me, don't pretend you're A-OK, because I know you're not." John cleaned up Sherlock's leg, wound a bandage round it to keep the other, more minor wounds free of infection and moved to kneel next Sherlock's head.

"It hurts from there," he pointed to a point on his forehead, "to there," moving his finger round to the back of his head.

John peered more closely and saw that Sherlock's hair was matted with blood. He frowned and apologised before pressing around the area with his gloved hands, trying to assess the damage. Sherlock's eyes squeezed tighter, a wince of pain showing on his face.

"Sorry," John muttered. "Right, it doesn't look too bad, but it'll be sore for a while. Do you want me to give you a whole head bandage or can I trust you not to get it infected with any of your experiments?"

"You can trust me," he said, thinking that from the way he was feeling he wouldn't be moving for a while. He opened his eyes and met Jon's worried look. "What?" he asked weakly.

"Just, I keep thinking that one day you're gonna get hurt and you won't be able to bounce back from it. You're lucky you don't have concussion or I'd have to take you to the hospital." John was serious, but he hated the way Sherlock's eyes kept staring at him. He hated seeing him like this, so weak and vulnerable. He turned away and started to collect up his things.

"John…I…thank you." Sherlock said, the words sneaking unintentionally out of his mouth. John, embarrassed, tried to brush it off, but he knew Sherlock would see right through him anyway.

"Just doing my job," he mumbled under his breath.

Sherlock closed his eyes again, completely wiped out now that the adrenaline had drained out his body.

"Look, I-" John began, but he chickened out of what he was going to say, and said something else entirely. "I'll get you some sleeping pills when I'm at the clinic tomorrow, and some stronger painkillers."

Sherlock couldn't help but grin at John's voice. He rubbed his face and opened his eyes, lazily, staring at the ceiling.

"What? What are you grinning at me?" john asked, fake annoyance in his voice.

"You're trying to avoid telling me something," replied Sherlock, not moving, just grinning a little more.

"Your point being?" John had gotten rather adept at avoiding these sorts of 'touchy feely' topics – maybe Sherlock had rubbed off on him.

"Tell me." Sherlock said calmly, still looking at the ceiling through half closed eyes.

"Do I have to?" John whined, like a stroppy child.

Sherlock grinned again weakly.

"Only if you want to."

John rolled his eyes at his flatmate. Sherlock always knew exactly how to manipulate John into doing anything he wanted.

"Fine. I was going to say you don't need to thank me for doing this. If you were in a hospital or at the doctor's you probably wouldn't thank them. I'm doing what I was trained to do. I'm just glad there is someone to do this for you, and I'm glad that someone is me. I guess what I'm trying to say is, I'm glad you trust me enough to do this for you. I hate seeing you hurt, so I'm glad I'm able to fix you." John sighed, finished with his outburst.

And then Sherlock said it again. "Thank you…" He closed his eyes. "I don't mean it just for this time, I mean it for everyday…thank you…for being here."

John froze, stunned into silence. It was rare that Sherlock ever talked about his emotions, but this, this was on a whole other level. It was so heartfelt and earnest that a lump formed in John's throat, which he had to swallow away before he could reply. 'I…um…it's a privilege Sherlock. It's a privilege to be here, with you, every day."

Sherlock smiled faintly. "I'd be alone without you…I'd be lost." He whispered quietly, so that John couldn't quite hear all of what he had said.

John smiled back. He hadn't quite been able to catch the last bit, but he had an idea of what Sherlock had said. "Well, I'll always be here for you to come home to."

Sherlock turned slightly on the couch so he could see John across the room. He was tired and hurt, but his little grin sent another thank you his way. John smiled lopsidedly back at him, and came over to gently squeeze his shoulder saying, "Get some sleep now, you need the rest."

"Can you call Lestrade for me? He told me to inform him when I got home." Sherlock asked, his eyes following John's retreating back.

"Yeah, sure, don't worry." John walked off to get his phone, which he'd left in the kitchen next the kettle, pausing to look over his shoulder where Sherlock had closed his eyes with a contented little smile on his face.

For once, he hadn't complained about being told to go to sleep.