221c - A Sherlock Fanfiction

John

My phone began ringing, and I arched to pull it out of my back pocket, seeing as I was sitting on the sofa.

"Hello?"

"Your friend's an idiot."

"Hello to you too, Allison. Shall I talk some sense into him?"

"That would be lovely, but at the moment, impossible."

"Erm, why?"

"Oh, he's unconscious."

"UNCONSCIOUS!?"

"Yes, and he likely has a concussion. Oh, and he fell on a letter opener, so he's gonna need stitches."

"YOU SHOULD HAVE STARTED WITH THAT!!!!"

"Sorry."

"You could have told me, 'John, my boyfriend fell down the stairs and needs IMMEDIATE MEDICAL ATTENTION!'".

"I would have done it sans shouting."

"I don't need your smartarsery. I'm coming over with a first-aid kit!" I bid adieu to my wife and hopped into my car, driving as fast as I legally could to 221b.

Upon arrival, I threw open the door. Allison was crouched down by an unconscious Sherlock, who had a giant gash in his abdomen. There was a bloody letter opener clutched in his hand. Allison was holding a flannel to the gash, applying pressure in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood.

I immediately went into doctor mode, ordering her around. She did as she was told, no questions asked. She cleaned up the blood on the floor around him, and helped me strip off his shirt. It was quite the cut. It stabbed into his stomach, but snaked around to his back, as if it had happened and he rolled a bit. I started stitching up his stomach after prepping the area, and slowly rotated him onto his back.

I gasped.

His back was a roadmap scars. Scars that crisscrossed in perfect lines, like lash marks. Others were jagged, like poorly healed knife wounds. Allison didn't say anything, and when I looked up to see if she was there, I discovered that she had left. Huh.

"Oh Sherlock, who did this to you?" I murmured, tracing some of the scars. I suddenly remembered that I hadn't finished sewing him up, and went back to doing that.

Once he was sewn up, I faced the dilemma of getting him up the stairs and into 221b.

"Allison!" I called, needing her help. She appeared out of 221c. "I need you to help me get him up the stairs."

"Okay," she said, softly. She came over and helped me pick him up. We slowly got him up the stairs.

Once in 221b, we got him onto the sofa. "Do you know where all these scars are from, Allison?" I asked her.

She shook her head fervently. "No, I don't."

Sherlock groaned, and I was instantly attentive to him. "Ally..." he moaned. I felt a pang of something in my chest. Grief? Remorse? Regret? There was a time when he would call my name when he needed assistance.

"No, she went out. I'm here, though." I said in a deep, quiet voice.

"John?" He twisted his head around.

"Yes, I'm here. Don't worry. You likely have a concussion, and you cut yourself open on your letter opener, so I had to stitch you up."

"Oh."

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"What are all those scars on your back from?" Sherlock fell silent, not meeting my gaze. "Well?" I prompted, trying to get him to answer me.

"Those scars," he said slowly, as if with great difficulty, "Those scars are from my time undercover. From after when I... When I... Faked my death. I faked my death so that Moriarty would succeed. If I didn't die, you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson all would have been killed. I, after my 'death,' proceeded to take out Moriarty's network. These scars are from that time."

The whole time he was saying this, my eyes were welling up with tears. This was not what I was expecting him to say. "Those scars are for me? You died for me?"

"Yes."

My breath caught in my throat, and the weight of it all came crashing down upon me. Here was a man whom I had been mad at because he left for two years and showed up unannounced back into my life. I had thought he was being selfish, but in truth, he was destroying the remnants of the network that could hurt those he loved.

He counted me among those.

What a friend I had in Sherlock Holmes. The greatest mind of our kind (sans Mycroft) paired with an average joe, such as myself. The prospect was amusing, and no doubt others thought so too.

But he was special. He would, to me, always be the best friend anyone could ever want, anyone could ever have. He was a good man.