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Watson was studying the evening paper when Holmes entered their sitting room, or fell into their sitting room, he considered as he dropped the paper and hurried over to steady his friend.
"What the bloody hell happened this time, Holmes?" His non-answer was enough for Watson to know exactly what had happened again, as he helped Holmes into his bedroom and sat him carefully on the edge of the bed, then rose to check to make sure the heavy curtains were drawn before undressing the silent man in front of him.
"Damn it, Sherlock!" John muttered, as he half-dragged Sherlock up the seventeen steps, once again. "Why? Why must you always -?"
Sherlock was quiet for once as John settled him into his chair and looked him over. A split lip, a darkening bruise along his cheekbone, and his shirt had been ripped. "A stab wound?" John started as he poked his finger through the slash in Sherlock's bespoke shirt, the third one in two weeks.
"He missed - I'm fine, John. I just need a hot shower - and -" Sherlock tried to get to his feet, but his knees buckled, and would have fallen, except for John's strong arms holding him up.
"You're not fine. Please, let me help you?" Sherlock shrugged, then flinched, but leaned heavily against his partner and allowed him to help him into the bathroom and then into a warm bath.
"I've come to the startling discovery that love does not make me gentle or kind. Though upon reflection, Watson, considering what has been done through the centuries in the name of love, I shouldn't be that surprised. However. As of late, I have come to understand that love, my love for you, has not made me change my opinion of the general population as a whole. They are still, for the most part, unremarkable and quite unchangeable in their 'ouch' - that hurts! Prejudices."
"You have, at the very least a bruised rib, it might possibly be cracked or broken - another knife wound, Holmes?"
"Not a knife, precisely - I think it was -"
"Glass?"
"Hmm..." Holmes had closed his eyes as Watson carefully cleaned his wounds, then helped him out of his tattered and rather bedraggled trousers, he had been in disguise at least, this time.
"What was said this time?"
"Hmm?"
"What precipitated the confrontation this time?"
"There was another couple - younger guys - late teens - maybe early twenties - a comment was made, they kept walking, tried to ignore it, but they kept after them, got even more offensive - they probably could have handled it on their own, but..."
"Sherlock -" John gently felt along his ribs, checking for any serious injuries.
"Owwww!" Sherlock hissed. "If I, of all people, allow things to be said, in the middle of London, nearly at my doorstep, and not stop to do something..." he bit his lip and leaned back against John carefully as John ran his fingers through his hair.
"You're not getting any younger, you know." John whispered into the still dark curls. "I - I can't lose you again, love. Please. Just - I know, I understand, I do."
"It's too dangerous, Sherlock, even when you are in disguise, especially on your own, I know, you can handle yourself, but one day, perhaps, some ruffian may get the drop on you, and if I - if I ever - if anything ever happened to you, and -"
Holmes raised his head carefully, turning just enough to see Watson's look of, what, despair, perhaps? "My dear fellow. John. John. I - I forgot myself tonight, I - simply cannot - apologies, John. I will try harder to keep my feelings locked away, at least when I am out amongst those who would not understand - I am simply not accustomed yet - our - your - you are far too dear to me. I - will try harder, I promise, my friend." He raised his hand to settle lightly against John's face, cringing as the pain in his shoulder reminded him of the night's activities.
Watson closed his eyes at Holmes' touch and nodded. "I know, Sherlock. I do - let me make sure the doors are secured, and I will return shortly." He helped Holmes under the light blankets, and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead. "Rest, my love."