Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

I am on fire … this is great! Without a prompt, I have found another story to share with you amazing people =) And this one isn't a repeat of one I've done for another fandom or even anything similar to what I've done for Sherlock. I don't expect it to be more than 3 chapters … but that's a few days off. I hope you enjoy this first chapter! Oh, and in case you're squeamish, it's not super graphic but there is mentions of blood and pus … you've been warned!

"You okay?" John glanced sideways at the consulting detective. They were sitting in an office, waiting for a client. Sherlock was facing straight forward, eyes locked on the view outside of the window.

"Fine." Sherlock's answer was instinct.

John didn't answer but studied his friend, concerned. He had never seen Sherlock so pale before, dark eyes accented by half-moon crescents under them. However, John knew Sherlock was a grown man and could take care of himself – more or less – and didn't press the issue any further.

That evening, John and Sherlock were back in 221B, exhausted. They had been all over London and, of course, it had been pouring rain for most of the day. They had gotten home, made dinner, and sat down to eat quietly. Sitting across from each other at the table, John watched Sherlock eat slowly.

"Are you sure you're okay?" John asked after having a mental debate if he should.

"Would you stop asking me that, please?" Sherlock exclaimed, looking up.

"I'm sorry." John said, eyebrows knit together. "You look like crap, though."

"I am fine." Sherlock emphasized each word.

"Alright." John said, backing down. Inside, however, he decided to keep an eye on the detective.

After the dishes had been washed, John went for a shower and Sherlock, waiting till he had gone upstairs to dress, locked himself into the bathroom. He leaned against the closed door and took a deep breath before advancing to the sink, rolling up his right sleeve. Sherlock peeled away the large gauze bandage, wincing as the tape pulled at his skin. The long gash along his forearm was oozing blood and pus and the once-white bandage was now stained a dark brown colour. It was a good thing Sherlock had been wearing a black shirt; the bandage was soaked all the way through. Sherlock drew in a sharp breath, somewhat bothered by the fact that his own wound disgusted him so much.

Pressing a tissue to his arm, Sherlock dug around under the sink for the hydrogen peroxide. He opened the bottle and held his arm over the sink, generously pouring the liquid over it. The moment it made contact, the clear liquid turned to white foam and dripped into the sink. Gritting his teeth, Sherlock found another strip of gauze and taped it into place before cleaning the sink. He didn't want John to know about his wound, although he could tell the doctor was becoming concerned. Sherlock's arm had been bleeding and oozing for almost a week now and showed no signs of getting better. Sherlock was beginning to feel ill as a result of infection and he was pretty sure he was running a temperature. Doing one last rinse of the sink, Sherlock left the bathroom and went into the kitchen.

"Tea?" he asked John, who was watching some reality show on the telly.

"Thanks." John answered without taking his eyes off the screen. Sherlock watched the kettle boil, statically staring as the water bubbles rose, before fixing two cups of tea. He carried them into the living room.

"Here." Sherlock set John's cup on the end table before taking his seat, sipping his tea precautiously.

"Thanks." John picked up his cup and then turned to Sherlock.

"You're going to watch?"

"Do you mind?"

"No, of course not." John answered. "But you hate the telly I watch. Anytime it's on, you start to play your violin."

"I don't do that, do I?" Sherlock feigned innocence. Of course, he knew perfectly well that he did just that – he hated reality telly. John was still watching him over the edge of his tea cup.

"I'll be good, I promise." Sherlock said, trying to get John's gaze off of him. It made him squirm uneasily. Normally, he didn't have a problem not sharing things with John – which had a tendency to drive John crazy during their cases – but this was one thing he knew he should be telling John about. He didn't want to, though, because he knew John would drag him to hospital, where they would most likely admit him to keep him under observation due to the infection, plus they would stitch up the long cut, which meant making appointments to go back to get the stitches removed. Overall, it wasn't worth the hassle it would cause.

Sherlock tried to block out the noise coming from the telly – in all honesty, he wished he could pick up his violin and bow and begin making music to drown out the noise but he knew if he did, the cut was prone to start bleeding more heavily. Instead, feeling tired, Sherlock finished his cup of tea and stood up, wordlessly heading for bed.

Before Sherlock saw it coming, John reached up and caught him by the arm. Sherlock gasped, dropping his tea cup. It shattered into a million pieces but all Sherlock could think about was the intense pain shooting up from his arm. John hadn't missed Sherlock's audible gasp and had stood up immediately.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?"

Sherlock swallowed hard, trying to pass it off. He forced a smile.

"Nothing, I'm fine. You just startled me."

"I'm not buying it." John said. "Sit."

John pointed to the chair and Sherlock sat, vainly trying to get control of the throbbing in his arm. He bit the inside of his cheek, hard enough for the bitter taste of blood to fill his mouth. John stood before him, arms crossed.

"What's wrong, Sherlock? I know something is bothering you. Is it the case? Was there something that didn't fit together?"

"No, the case works perfectly." Sherlock said, somewhat offended. How dare John imply that he ever solve a case incorrectly.

"Then what is it, Sherlock? You look exhausted and you haven't played your violin in almost a week … you're not using, again?"

John's eyes grew, horrified by the realization of the possibility.

"You need to tell me, Sherlock, and we can help you. It's not too late to get clean again. Mycroft and I, and Mrs. Hudson, we will all - "

"John." Sherlock interrupted. "I'm not using again. I'm not stupid."

John uttered a big sigh of relief before continuing.

"Then what is going on with you, Sherlock? Just tell me and I'll do whatever I can to help."

"You have to promise me something first."

"Anything." John said.

"No hospitals." Sherlock said, unbuttoning his cuff. A look of confusion crossed John's face.

"No hospitals? What are you talking about?"

"This." Sherlock rolled up his sleeve the rest of the way, showing the gauze bandage that was already starting to show colouring through.

"What happened?" John asked, kneeling in front of Sherlock and taking his arm in his hands.

"I cut it on something when I was searching through a skip last week."

John carefully pulled the tape off one end of the bandage and pulled the gauze back. His face went pale when he saw the wound.

"Sherlock, you have to go to the hospital."

"You promised no hospitals."

"That was before I knew what was wrong. This is seriously infected, Sherlock. It needs stitches and you'll need antibiotics."

"I'm not going to the hospital, John."

John had tapped the bandage back in place and stepped back from Sherlock.

"What do you want me to do, Sherlock? I can't stitch you up here."

"Yes, you can. Will you is the question."

John raised an eyebrow.

"You want me to stitch up your arm … with what? And what about the infection?"

John leaned forward and felt Sherlock's cheek with the back of the palm.

"You've got a fever." he said. "This is only going to get worse, Sherlock, are you're going to get really sick if we don't get it taken care of properly."

"I know." Sherlock said. "And I want you to take care of it here."

John sighed. It was becoming clear that Sherlock was not going to budge on the hospital front. While he really wanted his friend to go straight to St. Bart's, he would rather take care of it himself than have it not taken care of at all.

"Fine, I'll do what I can but if you've still got a fever in a few days, I'm taking you in. I don't care if I have to call an ambulance, Lestrade, and Mycroft, you will go into hospital."

So, what'd you think? Reviews very much appreciated!