Summary: Captain John Watson has graduated from army medic to full on soldier. Sarah Sawyer has taken his place.
Obviously, Sarah is very often not there, and though she is good, John Watson is undoubtedly the better doctor.
Also obvious is the fact that John Watson is extremely prone to injury.
The first time he shows up at her door, she almost shuts the door in his face- partially because John shows his face around too often, but also because, okay, it is 3 in the fuckin' morning.
Thankfully, he is wearing that particularly pale, honey-colored jumper, so the giant bloodstains show up luridly against the cream knit, which almost perfectly matches the sickly color of his face.
Sherlock swoops in just as she's about to close the door, still garbed in the black coat, lapels flying, and looking vampiric in the dim light of her hallway save for the purple bruise he's sporting.
She needs twelve stitches to seal the wound, along with gauze, tape, and profuse amounts of disinfectant (John insisted, no anesthetics), and by the time he leaves, the man is about a pint lighter than before.
Sarah says nothing as she tends to the cut, even when she pulls out a sliver of wood, a centimeter wide, 9 long, and splintering.
The next time this happens is about a month later, with John cradling his injured arm against his chest, and Sherlock holding a wad of toilet paper to his head.
This time, there are two stitches, painkillers, and physical therapy involved.
She dreams of London that night.
She's having a bit of a lie-in one cold afternoon, flicking aimlessly at the telly and nestled in a cocoon of down comforters.
There are three knocks at the door, for propriety only, before John lets himself in (it seems that despite the breakup, things between them will always be just on the left of friendly).
He smiles as he settles himself on the sofa with her, wincing slightly as he does so, and the words leap unbidden from her throat.
"Can I- can I see them?"
John is startled for a second- he shrugs, and pulls off the lumpy pullover.
During their brief tenure as a couple, they had only been really intimate once- after a particularly bad day at work followed by a particularly insufferable 20-something genius.
They'd broken up a week later.
The scars mapped out on his chest and back and arms are in various states of healing- the newest (4:52 am; John had landed hard on a gravel driveway, Sherlock had a split lip) still pink and shining, the oldest (the shot, the unfortunately chipped shoulder blade and clavicle and severance of several tendons) a pale, puffy white.
She traces the lines softly- here, a vague pinprick was an IV, a number of shallow slices across his back suggestive of whipping. Sarah runs her hands over the bullet wound, wraps her hand around the front to feel the exit point.
He shivers, the plain of his back a quivering pattern of roads and streams and dips, of war stories and trauma and an ingenious map of military strategy carved more permanently than a tattoo on his bones.
Sherlock's, on the other hand, speak of an intellect- one evening, he appears at her doorway alone, his unhealthy pallor even more emphasized by the owlish black circles under his eyes.
Almost belatedly, she remembers that (Captain) John is at a commemoration for a fellow soldier, and she ushers the marble man in.
As Sarah stitches up a sizable gash on his left arm, she nearly misses the soft swelling of skin under her fingers, and the subtle darkness around the region.
Each scar is just a bare hint, a gesture against his skin, signified only by a slightly raised surface on the interior of his elbow.
They are lined up like little goose-bump soldiers in a neat, straight, line- a series of direct orders that are meticulous and excruciatingly, exactingly intelligent.
She says nothing, just follows their barking command with thread and forceps.
The day is bright, in the morning- despite the young detective currently passed out on her sofa (apparently, the two fighter-flatmates have taken on her home as an additional place of residence).
She feels for her forehead, for the faint lump left by the unfortunate Chinese circus incident, and feels vaguely depressed.