Author's Note: Amazing. I wrote something contrary to my headcanon of Sherlock staying at Mycroft's place for six months. This is an accomplishment.

Hmm, I just realised... This will be the third piece in a row (counting the latest chapter of "Returning To Tomorrow") in which someone gets hurt. I should probably stop and figure out what's wrong with me. xD

Anywho, enjoy!

Wounded

Rain, heavy and cold, thundered off the surfaces of the city. The deluge seemed to dull the sensory awareness of anything but itself - obscuring light, muffling sound, washing away scent - a thick, impenetrable curtain of impersonal water. Movement was occasional, and strange when it occurred. Even the few people who might have had some questionable reason to be out at this time of night had been driven to find shelter, coming to the mutual conclusion that their affairs could be put on hold until a more favourable sort of weather presented itself. This was not the sort of storm in which one did well to become caught.

Unfortunately, an intimate acquaintance with such inclement weather was sometimes unavoidable.

In an unnamed alleyway in one of the less reputable districts of the city, a figure staggered through the downpour. He wore no hat, and the coat pulled tightly around his slender frame lacked any sort of hood; nor did he carry anything which he might have been able to hold over his head in a half-hearted shield against the rain.

Splendid night for a stroll.

His shoes slipped slightly as he tried and failed to navigate around a particularly nasty-looking puddle. He stumbled, and threw out an arm to catch himself against the wall of a building next to him. The jolt sent a fresh wave of pain through his lower back and side. Exhaling deliberately, he paused, then decided for now to let the wall do most of the supporting that his body needed.

He wiped water from his face with his left hand, as his right was busy trying to staunch the flow of blood from beneath his coat. His arm was aching from being bent in such an awkward position for so long, but keeping pressure on the wound was the only treatment it was going to get right now. He closed his eyes for a moment, hardly feeling the roughness of the wall scraping against his numbed cheek.

Two days back in London, and already he'd got himself knifed. Well done, Sherlock Holmes, he told himself acidly.

Gingerly, he shifted position so that the good side of his back was pressed against the wall. Now he could look in either direction down the alleyway; at least no one else would be sneaking up on him here. He doubted he'd be able to afford another incident like that, particularly in his current condition.

He let his head fall back against the hard brick, blinking away the water that immediately dashed itself into his eyes. This wasn't the first time he had found himself in a similar position – alone, physically uncomfortable, mentally brooding – in fact it had been quite the contrary over these seemingly endless months. But he was starting to find the situation a bit wearing, frankly. And even though he had anticipated, even expected, that he would be injured multiple times during the course of dismantling the remains of Moriarty's network, that didn't make experiencing it any more pleasant.

And this, he reminded himself, hardly counted in that tally. Getting shot, for example, when he got a little too close to the centre of a criminal branch was rather different from getting knifed by a common thug in search of an easy target.

He pressed delicately at the bloody rent in his clothing and received a flash of agony for the effort. He drew in his breath sharply. Although in no doubt that the wound would heal, he was extremely put off by the inconvenience of receiving it in the first place. He couldn't afford to lie around and wait; he had to keep after his target and run him into the ground without giving him any room to pause and think.

Unexpectedly, Sherlock felt a faint smile twitch across his face as he looked at the broader scope of the situation. It was strange, really, he thought idly, how similar this was to an incident of several years ago. Of course, circumstances being what they were, things had turned out rather differently. When he had been stabbed that time, near his shoulder, he had had somewhere to which he could return, and everything overall had been of significantly lesser importance than at the present time….

Several years previously….

The first thing that Sherlock heard upon reaching the landing was his flatmate's raised voice from the living room, demanding to know where on earth he had been at this hour and in this weather. Sherlock only let out his breath in a short sigh of exasperation, declining to reply. He took the shortcut through the kitchen and into his room, calling instead, "John, I need my laptop!"

Wincing slightly, he shrugged off his damp coat and spread it facedown on the bed, examining the tear in the right shoulder with interest, and then annoyance. Longer than he had initially thought – he wasn't even sure it could be mended. The thought wasn't a pleasing one.

He looked round immediately as John entered. They had been sharing a living space for only two weeks now, but had already settled into some sort of a routine dynamic. Sherlock still hadn't quite got used to it yet, but then, he suspected, neither had John, judging by the confused look on the man's face and the fact that he was not carrying the requested object.

"Where's my laptop?" asked Sherlock, giving John a quizzical look.

"In the other room, where you left it," was the clipped reply.

"I asked you to –"

"Sherlock, you're perfectly capable of walking in there and getting it yourself." John glanced between Sherlock and the coat, frowning. "What're you doing?"

"It's got a tear in it," explained Sherlock in disgust, turning away again to take a closer look. He heard John's sudden intake of breath behind him.

"What the hell happened to you? Are you okay?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock straightened again – bit too quickly, he thought, as a spasm of pain went through his shoulder. He looked back at John. "Oh, yes, fine, nothing to worry about…"

"Nothing to worry – Sherlock, you do realise you're bleeding, right?"

"Obviously."

Sherlock suddenly felt fingers on his shoulder, touching lightly at the wound, and he winced at the unneeded exploration. "What're you doing?" he demanded, trying and failing to glance back, due to the fact that John casually pushed his head forward again. "I need my laptop –"

"No, what you need is medical attention." John's voice was half-worried, half-annoyed. "How long have you been walking around like this? And stop moving," he added sharply, as Sherlock tried to ease away.

"Not long," muttered Sherlock.

"Your shirt is soaked. And I don't mean with rain."

"It's not as bad as it looks."

"No?" John sounded highly sceptical. "How would you know? You can't see it."

Sherlock let out a growl of aggravation. "My laptop –" he began.

"– can wait," John finished for him firmly. "You're going to the hospital to have this looked at."

"What?" Sherlock finally managed to jerk away and fix the other man with an incredulous stare. "There is absolutely no need for me to go to the hospital," he said flatly.

John's returning look was equally disbelieving. "It looks like you've been stabbed," he said loudly.

"I'm not the least bit surprised," replied Sherlock, in that distinct tone which meant he was having to explain the obvious and hated every moment of it, "seeing as that's essentially what happened. More accurately, someone tried to stab me and I managed to partially avoid it."

John stared at him. "Is this a regular thing with you?" he asked after a moment, sounding as though as knew what the answer was going to be but was hoping against it anyway.

"Is what a regular thing with me?"

"Being injured and then acting as if it's not important."

"I'm not going to panic over it, if that's what you're asking. I've experienced worse than this." Sherlock gave his flatmate a look, as though trying to end the discussion.

"That's what worries me," said John, rolling his eyes slightly. "You're taking this way too calmly."

Sherlock shrugged, then almost immediately regretted it, flinching at the movement. "I'm not letting you drag me to the hospital over this," he said emphatically.

"It needs stitching up," protested John. "It's not deep, thank God, but you've got a slice in you about this long." He held his hands apart to demonstrate.

Sherlock was about to refute that, but glancing at the rip in his coat again, he couldn't really find a plausible way of denying it. "So, stitch it up," he said after a moment. "You're a doctor. I expect your medical kit upstairs has all the necessities."

John pressed his lips together, looking as though he had quite a few things he wanted to say to that. But apparently, he came to the conclusion that this was as far as Sherlock was going to go in terms of cooperating, because all he said was, "Fine." He pointed in the direction of the bathroom, indicating that Sherlock should go in. "I'll be right back."

A few minutes later, Sherlock was to be found seated in the bathroom, his hands twitching impatiently as John carefully sutured the long gash closed again. He kept glancing back out of the corner of his eye, trying to read his flatmate's expression, but it was difficult when John repeatedly told him to stay still and face front.

"I'm surprised you haven't asked how this happened yet," remarked Sherlock after a few moments.

"I wasn't sure you'd tell me," came the conversational reply. "Either that or you'd embark on some breathless explanation that I wouldn't understand two words of."

Sherlock felt the slightest bit of surprise at that. Had John really become so accustomed to his new flatmate in the short time they had been together?

"Fair enough," he murmured, after a pause.

"You said you've had worse than this?" John enquired then, frowning slightly as he worked.

"Yes."

"But… you've never had a flatmate before."

"Correct."

"So what did you do then? Actually go to the hospital?"

Sherlock twisted around enough to give the other man a pointed look. John took the hint, and then patiently turned Sherlock's face forward again.

"So what did you do instead?" he asked.

Sherlock craned his neck slightly, trying to see how close the other was to finishing. "I fended for myself," he answered, in a tone that did not encourage further probing into the details.

"I'm surprised you're still around," said John blandly. "There."

He straightened, allowing Sherlock to turn around fully. The consulting detective immediately put a hand to his shoulder, feeling the neat line of stitching, and John just as quickly slapped his hand away.

"Don't fiddle with it," he instructed. "And don't make any sudden movements. I don't want you ripping the stitches out, because then I will drag you to the hospital to get them done over again."

Sherlock gave him a level look. "You do nice work," he observed mildly, before rising, walking past his flatmate, and exiting the bathroom in search of a fresh shirt.

A soft sigh fell from his lips as he pulled himself from the depths of recollection. That had been the first time John had been forced to deal with one of Sherlock's many injuries, and the doctor had quickly realised that it wouldn't be the last. Even Sherlock had been surprised at how quickly the other man adapted – or resigned himself – to the idea that he was going to be patching up his flatmate quite a bit during their time together. And the strange thing was, after the first few times, John really didn't seem to mind. He made a fuss, of course, complaining and uttering pointed remarks under his breath, occasionally yelling if the circumstances seemed serious enough to warrant the effort. But Sherlock had learned to see past all that. He had learned to notice, when John thought he couldn't see it, the slightest hint of a smile on his flatmate's features, the one that re-iterated what he had once said to Mycroft: "I'm never bored." And John had clearly meant it in a most positive way.

Sherlock hardly even noticed the smile fading from his own lips. Standing here, soaked through and shivering, he had to admit that the pangs of loneliness and melancholia were more than just his imagination. He missed those days more than he could really comprehend; the wild sprints through the unmentionable corners of London, always with his attention fixed ahead, never looking back because there was no need. He knew John would be there, a step behind, stumbling occasionally around a sharp corner but always regaining lost ground nearly instantly; following unquestioningly, if perhaps with a dash of disbelief, this fevered madman who alone could share with him the thrill of an unconquered challenge.

But there was no John with him now, no John to watch his back or stitch it up when he got himself stuck just a little too deep. He had been running alone for nearly three years now; and suddenly, with a force that made him want to reel back against the wall again, Sherlock recognised that he wanted this solitude to end. Body and mind were weary of constant movement, of always pushing grimly forward with no one to fall back on if he needed to catch his breath. Any stumble taken was his own, any wound suffered was his to endure. He alone was forced to weave together the pattern of his survival.

But then, this path had been his choice.

For a few moments, his brain entertained the soothing notion of making his way to Baker Street. He watched the scene play out in his mind: fumbling to unlock the front door with the key still hidden away inside his coat, and dragging his sodden form up the stairs to the flat, where John might be sitting by a dying fire, reading perhaps, or else staring at nothing, or maybe even asleep in his armchair… shaking him awake, and watching the rapid flicker of expressions across his worn face, first surprise, then shock, then probably anger, followed closely by panicked concern upon taking notice of the bedraggled, injured state of Sherlock Holmes….

Sherlock shook himself back to unwelcoming reality, and exhaled along with his breath any temptation he might feel to act on those yearning thoughts. John was no longer at Baker Street, he reminded himself, attempting to be firm. John didn't even know he was alive, and had probably begun to move on many months ago. But the admonishment lacked conviction, weakened by the thoughts which he hadn't allowed himself to contemplate in –well, how long he didn't know, exactly, but a long time indeed.

No. He bowed his head against the rain, breathing slowly and deeply. No. It wasn't time yet. He still had tasks to finish, the tasks he had set himself that night, only days after Moriarty's death. He alone had the knowledge and the willpower to permanently sever the strands of the web, to ensure that no one could come along and spin again the threads that had brought so much, to ruin. And until that had been accomplished to his grim satisfaction, he could not deviate from his path, or even pause for breath.

John would have to wait. He would have to wait. At least – he hoped this was so – at least he was finally close to finishing it. And then he would be able to go home, and let John tend to his wounds, skin and flesh and deeper still.

Sherlock tried not to think about the alternative.

Halfheartedly, he pulled the collar of his coat higher over his neck, a rather futile gesture in light of his already drenched state. His eyes, tired but still alert, glanced warily around through the scything downpour. It seemed that he hadn't been followed, fortunately; had anyone pursued him with hostile intentions they would have acted by now, not waited around in this infernal weather to see if he would move. He supposed that the rain had its good points after all.

Closing his eyes, he turned his face upward against the torrents, letting the water spatter hard across his skin. There. Now he could firmly attribute any wetness on his cheeks to the rain. It was better that way.

Sherlock carefully levered himself away from the wall with his free arm, swaying slightly as he adjusted his balance. Time to find shelter, patch himself up as best he could with minimal effort and loss of time, and then get back to his target. He recognised that the more quickly and efficiently he did all of this, the sooner he would be able to end it. And at this point, that was all he really wanted.

Resolutely, he pushed John and Baker Street into the back of his mind again, into the warm corner where his friend would be protected and untouchable, until it was safe to re-open that door. Sherlock straightened as much as he could with one hand still pressed to his back. With forced, half-hurried steps he set off down the alleyway, a lone figure that soon dissolved into the sheets of darkening rain.

Any thoughts/comments you may feel inclined to leave would make me feel most gratified. May the Force be with you.