Sherlock's arm is bleeding and he's pretty sure his arm is broken. He keeps his collar turned up to conceal his face even though it is the middle of the night and there are only a few people passing him on the street. He has experienced pain before but this time he doesn't have any supplies to stop the bleeding and patch himself back together. The man he brought along to help with the elimination of this den of Moriarty's men is dead. He looks down at the blood. Damn it's too much. He needs a doctor. He examines where he has come out of the underground. He is only five blocks from 221B Baker Street. It is strange that the men have led him here from Paris but somehow he knows that this chase will always lead him back to Baker Street.
He thinks it is probably a bad idea. Actually he knows it's a terrible idea considering it has been two years and eight months and fifteen days since he jump from St. Bart's roof while his best friend watched him. But he needs a doctor, his doctor.
Sherlock knows John still lived in the flat. Mycroft had rented out a room across the street to have John watched because he knew if anything happened to John his brother would never return. He starts to walk down the street. For once he cannot deduce a good enough reason to turn around and walk away. He continues to try and find one as his feet carry him toward his former flat.
Suddenly Sherlock is in front of 221B and he knows he can't leave now. He uses his good arm to pull the key out of his coat pocket where it always occupied a space among the different identities and passports. He shuffles up the stairs. He knows the blood loss is making him weaker and tired. Is he really losing that much blood? It probably doesn't help that his heart is pounding against his ribs like he has run all across London. He slips the key for the flat into the lock.
As he steps into the flat, he feels like he has really come back from the dead. He smells John's soap, his cologne and the distinct smell of tea and take-away from earlier that night. He looks into the kitchen. There are no experiments brewing, no eyes in the microwave, but all the experiment supplies are stacked in the corner. He smiles. Then he heard the click of a gun being cock.
"Don't move." John's rough but sleepy voice came from the shadows.
"John, I am bleeding all over your clean floor you might want to let me move to the sink," he heard John shuffle a bit and turned around. Sherlock reached for the light switch and flipped on the light blinding them both for a moment.
John started at him. He obviously wasn't expecting his dead flatmate to be standing in front of him. He sees the shock change to acceptance then anger. John slowly puts the gun down on the table. The solid stare of the soldier with cold eyes and the mouth in a hard line was difficult for Sherlock to read especially when his arm was aching.
"My absence has been hard on you. You've…"Sherlock began to deduce John. He had to. It was the only way for him to try and make things normal again but John cut him off.
"You bastard! How dare you? Don't even tell me how hard it's been on me. I should know I was here." John shouted. After that the silence is deafening. The only sound is the drip of blood onto the linoleum floor. Sherlock knows he needs help so he tries a different approach.
"John. I know you are upset but please help me," something flashes across John's face but Sherlock can't identify it fast enough.
"Take off your coat…shirt too," John orders. He disappears but returns moments later with a medical kit. Sherlock's coat is now on the kitchen table and he takes a moment to survey his arm in the light. The skin is ripped from his shoulder almost to his elbow. The gash is fairly deep and long but not along any major veins. The bleeding is steady but slowing. There are several other shallower cuts on Sherlock's abdomen where the man with the knife, who is now dead, caught him.
John's eyes survey the damage on Sherlock's arm. He stitches together the torn flesh and cleans the wound. His careful hands move quickly and skillfully over Sherlock's skin. He determines that the arm is not broken but could be fractured. Sherlock should get an X-ray. John's words are curt and forced.
His next project are the cuts on Sherlock's core. John pauses only a moment when he sees the scars that litter Sherlock's skin. He sees burn marks, a gunshot wound, more knife marks as well as other injuries he cannot name a weapon for. The creamy skin makes the damage stand out even more. Sherlock has already started to bruise from the most recent fight. John pulls out more bandages and cleans the wounds with warm water. The soft noises of John working silently comfort and frighten Sherlock. John isn't yelling at him which is a plus but John obviously hasn't forgiven him at all yet either. As he finishes patching up the detective, John pulls away. The contact and the presence is gone and Sherlock shivers. Sherlock puts his blood soaked shirt back on and picks up his coat. John is washing his hands at the sink with his back to Sherlock. The tension, anger and sadness were plain on his face and his body language.
Sherlock begins to wonder if coming was a good idea. He has made John angry, alienated him, and even more susceptible to plots now that Sherlock has come back to 221B even if it was for medical attention. Even sociopathic unfeeling Sherlock knows that is not the only reason he had returned.
"I am sorry John. If I could convince you it was the only way to keep you safe, I would explain it to you but I don't think you would forgive me anyway." Sherlock apologized.
John was silent but turned and watched Sherlock with those sharp eyes.
"Well then, I'll just be going now. Thank you John I may have bled out except for you expertise," Sherlock jokes half-heartedly trying to seem unattached. He started to leave the flat. His heart was heavy with disappointment. He hadn't expected John to be overjoyed to find out he had lied to him for over two years, but Sherlock had hoped he would at least be happy with his return. He was upset but remained expressionless. He was in the door frame when he felt a hand grab his wrist and pull him back into the flat.
"Don't leave me, not again." Sherlock smiled and pulled the door shut. It felt good to be home.
A/N: Input is appreciated. Thanks for reading!
Ps: There is now a version of this that is from John's POV and its called An Unforeseen Arrival.