Chapter Text
John had been blankly staring at the tv screen for the past 3 hours. Image after image flitted past his eyes but he absorbed none of it. It was raining outside. The rain pattered against the glass in a dull thrum. To John it was the loudest noise he’d ever heard. His ears were numb with the roar of it.
The flat was otherwise silent and unmoving. Sherlock had left in a flurry of coat and scarf, shouting into his phone. He hadn’t asked John to join him. He hadn’t even looked John’s way, or shouted up the stairs for him to hurry up.
John had been trying to convince himself that it didn’t bother him. And most of all, he was trying to convince himself Sherlock hadn’t done it because of their fight earlier that week.
It started like most of their fights. You know the, ‘That better not be a decomposing arm in the bathtub, Sherlock!’ or 'Jesus Sherlock really? In the cupboard where I keep my good mug?'
-
Sherlock was poised as ever on his kitchen stool examining something under the microscope. John had tripped on a bag haphazardly tossed on the kitchen floor. He picked up the bag by one end and out spilled several shrunken heads. He recoiled, the hot tea in his mug sloshing onto his hand. He cursed and slammed his mug down on the kitchen counter.
'Mind those.’ Sherlock dead panned not lifting his gaze.
John snapped. 'You know what. No. How about YOU stop leaving these things all over the flat. I’m sick of this.’ He waved his hand furiously in the air.
'Come off it John, you couldn’t live without this’ Sherlock mimicked his hand flail. He chuckled into his microscope.
'You know what? Get stuffed. I could.’ John snatched his mug from the counter and stormed into his room to sulk.
-
He had ignored Sherlock for two days. It didn’t seem to even bother Sherlock. He went about his usual, laying on the couch and tinkering in the kitchen.
But today the soft chiming of Sherlock’s phone somewhere in the flat interrupted the dense silence. Sherlock slid off his stool and wandered towards his room. His blue robe hanging low on his shoulders revealing pale white skin. John looked away.
He was curious though, no one ever really called Sherlock. Anyone with his number knew better. That’s when the shouting and running and leaving John behind happened.
John rubbed his hands over his face and sighed heavily. He hated when Sherlock was right.
The sound of dripping in the doorway broke his train of thought. He jumped. Sherlock was standing in the doorway. Soaked to the bone. His thick curls glued to his face.
'Jesus Sherlock I almost had a heart attack.’
Sherlock blinked slowly and began to peel his coat off. His scarf was missing.
John squinted. 'You alright?’
'Mmm’ Sherlock hummed as he slowly walked towards their bathroom.
John stood and followed Sherlock into their dimly lit hallway. Something was wrong. His eyes roamed over Sherlock’s frame. He was wearing a deep blue button down shirt. It was soaked and clung to Sherlock’s body for dear life. John swallowed hard as his eyes travelled up towards his collar, it looked discolored.
'I’m fine.’ Sherlock turned in the doorway of the washroom blocking John from following him further.
John scoffed and pushed Sherlock into the bathroom. He needed to see Sherlock in better light. He flicked the light on, Sherlock’s eyes fluttered, he looked dazed.
John felt rage surge through him, 'Goddamit are you high?’
'What? NO. I just want to take a shower.'
John reached up and rubbed Sherlock’s collar between his fingers. They came away stained red. Sherlock swatted at John’s hand but missed, merely clipping his forearm.
John went to reach towards the back of Sherlock’s head, above the predominant stain on his shirt collar.
Sherlock managed to grab John’s wrist. 'Stop it.’
They wrestled with each other until John rushed Sherlock into the far wall. Sherlock let out a choked noise and released John’s wrists. He sagged forward, his forehead landing on John’s shoulder. The metallic scent of blood filled John’s nostrils and Sherlock softly panting for air filled his ears.
'Sit down Sherlock, let me see’ He said quietly into Sherlock's ear. Sherlock stood there hunched over for a few moments before finally sliding down the wall.
John leaned over Sherlock, light fingers parting hair and gently searching out the damage he knew was there. He grimaced as he revealed the oozing gash.
'Doesn’t appear to need stitches. I’m patching this up and you are going to go straight to bed.’ John bent down and opened the cabinet under their sink to pull out some supplies.
'I have work’ Sherlock mumbled.
'No, what you have is a gash on your head.’ Sherlock didn’t respond. 'Are you going to tell me how you got that?’
John turned back to Sherlock when he was greeted with more silence. Sherlock was unconscious. His head lolled forward, his long legs sprawled out and hands resting at his sides.
'Dammit’ John sighed heavily.