Most definitely my first fanfiction ever, so constructive criticism is greatly appreciated!

Based on a roleplay done on Omegle. I've changed Stranger's words, but the idea is the same. No harm or plagiarism is intended. If you recognize this, please contact me. Thanks, and enjoy!

The text came when John was out running errands. Simple things, like making a trip to the bank, paying bills, running to the Tesco for a carton of milk. He always wondered how on earth they went through so much milk in the flat. His tea really didn't take up that much, did it? He was heading for the Tesco then, when the text came, blog titles for their latest case running through his mind. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, already knowing who the text would be from.

I can't find your sutre needle. –SH

John blinked at his phone screen before typing a reply.

Why do you need it? –JW

Most likely some silly experiment that he would have to clean up later. John just hoped that it wasn't human organs like last time.

Nasty cut. Need stitches. –SH

What did you do? Do you need me to come home? –JW

Now John began to worry, his steps slowing on the sidewalk. Was Sherlock hurt? And if so, did he really intend to stitch himself up? Making a quick decision, John hailed a cab and gave him their address, hoping that traffic would be on his side.

No, I'm fine. Where is the needle? –SH

Coming home. Apply pressure until I get there. –JW

John typed back, doctor mode in full gear. Pushing down the panic that threatened to rise in his chest at the thought of Sherlock being hurt, he leaned back in the backseat of the cab. Panicking wouldn't help Sherlock. Panicking never helped anything or anyone. John would have to remain calm and do his best to help his friend and flatmate.

Fine. Just don't get angry. –SH

I'm not angry, I'm concerned! Just wait until I get there. –JW

I mean there is an awful lot of blood in the flat. –SH

How bad is it? –JW

Lost two pints. Stairs and sofa worst damage. –SH

Just don't move. Almost there. –JW

"Damn!" John cursed under his breath. Two pints of blood from a cut? What was that nutter trying to do? John knew that Sherlock wouldn't die from two pints of blood loss, but he didn't know how much more Sherlock would lose before he got there.

What was even worse, Sherlock wasn't texting like himself. Shorthand, and not in full sentences. John worried that he was close to passing out.

When the cab finally pulled onto Baker Street, John practically threw the fare at the cabbie and rushed for the door. It was unlocked. John looked up the stairwell to a sight that made his heart drop, despite all his experience as a doctor. Bloody footprints decorated the stairs, embellished by smears and droplets that stained the wood. Don't panic, John Hamish Watson, don't panic! He had to remind himself as he took the stairs two at a time.

The door to their flat was ajar, the trail of blood leading inside and over to the sofa, where Sherlock lay, blood soaking from his leg into the dingy fabric. His normally porcelain skin was even paler, his breath coming quick. His eyes were closed.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" John said rather loudly, taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. Sherlock's eyes flickered open, and he nodded. He sat up, slowly, murmuring, "I can fix it, just need the supplies,"

"God dammit, Sherlock, what happened?" John shouted as he ran to his room to fetch his medical kit and a towel. He knelt by Sherlock's side, trying to get a good look at his leg through the torn fabric of his pants. The bleeding seemed to have slowed, but the cuts were deep. Stitches for sure.

Above John, Sherlock took deep breaths and gripped the sofa with white knuckles as the doctor began to peel away the fabric of Sherlock's pants to reveal the multiple lesions in his skin. Lesions that happened to look quite like letters. Letters that spelled…

"Oh, my God, Sherlock," John gasped, his heart dropping into the pit of his stomach. He felt nauseous, and for a moment, the entire room spun. Carved into Sherlock's alabaster skin was the word 'freak.'

John clenched his fists. One doesn't simply happen across somebody who can carve such bitter slander into someone's skin without restraining them first. The image of Sherlock, restrained as a knife was buried again and again into his flesh made John see red, but he fought to stay calm.

"Who did this to you?" he asked between ground teeth.

Sherlock sighed and leaned back into the sofa, his eyes slipping closed. "Some old classmates from Uni. It doesn't matter,"

"I'm calling the cops," John said. "And an ambulance. We'll sort this out, I promise." He pressed the towel to the horrid word, hoping to cover it up forever, to take it away. All he did was wipe away the blood already dried on the wounds.

"No," Sherlock growled with a fierce intensity, his eyes shooting open to glare at John. "I don't want anyone else to know. Just you."

John stared Sherlock down for a moment, fighting with himself. Sherlock needed a blood transfusion, he needed anesthesia, he needed more care than an outdated army doctor could give him. But it was the fact that Sherlock wanted nothing else. It was that fact, and the fact that John would always bend to Sherlock's will that made him get up and go to scrub his hands clean. It was that fact that made him kneel once more before Sherlock and wipe over the cuts with an antiseptic wipe, blood welling up anew at the irritation.

John wiped that away, too, and carefully threaded his sutre needle. "I don't have any anesthetic," he warned Sherlock, who nodded, face pale.

John set to work, a grim look set on his face as he began to stitch up the gruesome 'F.' He apologized under his breath for the pain he knew he was about to cause Sherlock, and for the pain that had already been caused him.

As he mended Sherlock's marred flesh, he thought. Who on earth could be so brutal as to attack a lone man? A man who was bloody well annoying, but no one deserved this. John wished he could take it away, wipe the skin clean. Instead, he could only staunch the bleeding and bring the ragged edges together, solidifying that word, that horrible, awful word.

John felt almost as if he was making it worse. The stitches would help the lesions heal, of course, but they would scar. Sherlock would carry his curse written into his flesh and upon his heart, for all to see. People would continue to judge like they always had, judge and hate and misunderstand.

And John?

John would do his best to stand by Sherlock's side.

When John was at last finished, finished stitching and thinking and listening to Sherlock's pained breaths, he bound the wounds tightly in fresh gauze. He helped Sherlock up, and sent the man to go change clothes while he made tea.

Tea was served to a Sherlock clad only in a bathrobe and a cloak of exhaustion. John knew that the exhaustion wasn't only physical. So he sat next to Sherlock with his own mug of tea and allowed Sherlock to rest his head on his shoulder.

He would clean up the stairs and the flat tomorrow.

He would call Mycroft, and let the elder Holmes take care of those who had gone so far as to wrong his brother.

He would get them a new sofa.

He would be Sherlock's rock.

He would take the pain and the scars upon himself, if he could. But for now, he could only be there.

And he would.