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"Show me your hands."
"What?" He was fumbling the mug again. It looked like he was trying to pick it up without touching it.
"Show me your hands, Sherlock. You just pulled a man from a fire with your bare hands."
"Not bare. I was wearing gloves."
"And now you can't pick your tea up."
He scowled at the offending mug.
"It's nothing."
"I'm a nurse, Sherlock. I know you'd prefer a doctor, but I think we should let him sleep, don't you?"
He gazed through the kitchen doorway to where John was dozing on the sofa, his expression unreadable.
John was sleeping off the effects of the tranquilizer, the mild concussion and the smoke inhalation. He had, of course, refused to go to hospital, insisting that he would be fine at home. Sherlock had practically carried him back to their place before trying to escape back to Baker Street. Mary was having none of that, and had dragged him into the kitchen to ply him with tea and get to know the man that had returned from the dead a bit better.
"I should go." He tried again.
"Hands, Sherlock."
He huffed in frustration before eventually he giving in and holding his hands out. The palms were red and angry looking.
Mary took them gently and carefully inspected them.
"Looks mostly superficial."
"I told you it was nothing."
"Still painful though. Hang on a moment-" As she moved his right hand into the light to get a better view of the burn, his shirt sleeve rode up, revealing his wrist. "Sherlock..."
He hissed in pain as he pulled his hands out of hers.
"It's. Nothing." He spat out.
"Not nothing." Mary turned away from him and started rummaging through the cupboard above the sink. "Those wounds are about a week old, I'd say. What were you doing?"
"Breaking down Moriarty's web. As I said."
"And the older wounds underneath?"
"It was very large web."
"And dangerous." It wasn't a question.
He was quiet for so long that she thought he wasn't going to answer. She was about to change the subject when she heard him sigh quietly.
"Yes." He said.
"Not just for you. For anyone who knew, who could be helping you." She looked over her shoulder.
Sherlock was staring at his feet. In the short time that she'd known him she had never seen him so still.
"Yes."
Mary turned her attention back to the cupboard desperate not to break the moment, not to spook him.
"That's why you couldn't tell him." She said softly.
"I couldn't risk it." He whispered "They would have thought he was helping, could be used to get to me. I wanted to tell him, but it wasn't just John. Mrs Hudson and Lestrade were at risk too. And then there was you... I just couldn't..." His voice trailed off.
She heard him sniff and straighten, gathering himself.
"And besides," he added, sounding more like himself. "He's a terrible liar."
Mary didn't dare ask if the wounds on his wrists were the only ones he bore. The answer was painfully obvious. She wanted to shake John awake right now and make him see that his friend had suffered too. Force him to give Sherlock the hug that they both needed and deserved.
Instead, she poured another cup of tea into the insulated travel mug she had finally found in the darkest depths of the cupboard and handed it to him.
"Welcome back, Sherlock." She looked him in the eye to let him know she meant it. "And thank you," She smiled. "For making him get rid of the moustache."