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He curls his arms around himself, touching the marks around his torso. Warm water slides over his skin. It doesn't take away the ache entirely but the warmth made him nearly able to forget about the cold where the wounds were inflicted.
He's gotten very good at not showing the twitch in his hand from the damage to his shoulder. Damage to nerves and deep tissue, something that is nearly irreversible. He wonders if anyone has noticed the way he carries himself is different, that his hand is no longer steady. Maybe they just assume his addiction has affected him and that's not something normal people find a pleasant topic of discussion. His hands brush over his torso again. It hurt.
No one knows. Well... no one knows of importance. If Mycroft did he wouldn't allow him to go running off on cases. If John knew he'd suffer from his pity, and that is not something he would willingly risk.
The water is starting to turn. He shuts off the taps and bundles a towel around his waist. Even alone in the flat he felt the need to cover himself, for protections' sake. Another towel goes around his shoulders and he begins to work on his curls, fluffing them dry, continuously switching hands to cope. It didn't use to ache so much.
He wonders if maybe he just didn't notice because he was constantly dulling his pain, but now its noticeable. He ought to see a doctor for such things. A doctor. John can't-
He shakes his head, knowing he is arguing with himself, but unable to help it. How would he explain his injuries to a doctor anyway?
I was protecting my friends.
I was caught and tortured, I knew things they wanted information I refused to provide.
Combat.
All give him too much credit. It would be easier if he could count on someone to look at him and deduce...
Steel pipe.
Bullwhip.
Nerve damage.
Chronic pain.
Post-traumatic ...
He puts the mousse on his hands and carefully into his hair. It curls naturally, but he needs to brush.
His fingers tingle. He switches the brush to the other hand, hating how difficult it is now.
His head aches. He looks terrible but either no one notices or they're too polite to say anything. He thinks he's just really good at hiding it. No one's noticed. Not beyond slight suspicion. Not enough to connect the dots. Not sure if he's grateful for how dim they are or if he resents it.
Hair brushed and slightly curled now, he moves the towel from damaged shoulders and exits the bathroom. The layers he dresses in are important now. A vest to hide the worst of it, the folds in such snug fabric hide the rest. Darker colors suit this purpose as well. He looks slimmer, fit, fairly healthy.
Despite the circumstances.
The coat and scarf make him look normal. Normal. Whatever his range of normal is.
He finally picks up his phone to check for cases. Fingers feel numb. He wants to go, this is why he won't go to a doctor. A doctor would say he shouldn't be pushing himself like this. But he doesn't know how not to and if he doesn't they will know something is wrong with him. Something is wrong with you. Something will always be wrong with you.