I mean, the title says it all lmao
Based on this prompt ^^
(I'm having trouble with this prompt not showing up properly, so tell me if you can see it lmao)
Genre: Angst with a happy end, because that's all I do apparently. Also hurt/comfort
CW/TW: Homophobia/ homophobic slurs, assault (nothing sexual, just beating someone up)
Ship: Johnlock babey (and implied Mystrade near the end)
Also, this is like, the longest story I've written, so sorry 😅
Enjoy!
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Sherlock was seething. That much was clear. The silence in the room was so incredibly unusual for them both, and John felt like it was suffocating him. He wasn't used such a tense atmosphere; even when Sherlock was in his mind palace for days on end, that quiet environment became something close to peaceful. But this? This was different.

Sherlock retrieved a tissue from the sink where he had put them. They were both squished into 221B's cramped bathroom, with John sat on the edge of the bathtub and Sherlock crouched in front of him. This close proximity only made it more tense as Sherlock reached for the tissue box.
After finding a tissue, he gently reached his hand up to John's face, holding his chin and tilting it for a better look at the damage caused.

Cuts of varying size were scattered across John's face, as well as some bruises that were just starting to form, including one surrounding John's left eye. One which Sherlock knew would hurt like hell tomorrow. The cuts were mostly small, however there was a rather large one scarring his right cheek. There was blood smeared all over his face, and he looked downright miserable.
To be completely honest, he looked awful.

He brought the tissue up to John's face, softly cleaning up the blood and muttering a gentle "sorry" every time John hissed, even slightly. John sat uncomfortably on the bathtub, staring blankly at his knees while Sherlock wiped away any remaining blood. He knew Sherlock would have questions, he had found John beaten and bloody in an alleyway not far from their apartment, pieces of broken glass surrounding him and tear tracks on his face. Even now, under the caked-on blood and grime, his face was still puffy around the eyes.

They had been in silence for almost the past ten minutes as Sherlock examined the bloody face of his partner, until he finally finished and abruptly crumpled the tissue up in the sink. Keeping his gentle grip on John's face, he tilted his head up so he would look at him. He did with some reluctance, his heart skipping a nervous beat as he saw the pure anger in Sherlock's eyes. His beautiful, iridescent eyes held a look that comforted John, reminding him that it wasn't him that Sherlock was so angry at.
With his rage barely restrained in his voice, Sherlock asked,

"Who did this to you?"

John bit his split lip as he tried to think how he could explain what had happened to him.

*Flashback to earlier that evening*

It was a cold evening, with the wind whirling leaves and litter around John's ankles as he walked. He shrugged his coat closer around his body, hoping he could get home soon because it looked like it would start raining any minute, if the thick grey clouds above him were anything to go by. He could see the sign for Baker Street growing closer and he sighed happily. Sherlock had promised him that he could pick what to order for dinner tonight, and he had finally nabbed the killer of their most recent case, so he was bound to be in a good mood. John couldn't wait to see him. After all the stress from being at the clinic, he was looking forward to a relaxing evening with his boyfriend.

That was, until...

"Hey bud, got any cash?"
John turned, only to be greeted by a particularly disgruntled looking man.

Late thirties, heavy London accent and a smoker by the sound of his voice, not homeless yet asking for cash?

He brushed away his Sherlock-like deductions and addressed the man properly.
"Sorry, mate. I don't carry cash on me." He offered a limp smile as an apology and was ready to start walking away. That was, until he heard muttering behind him. It sounded like the guy was talking to someone else. Rather than looking behind him like a normal person, John began walking, hoping that he wouldn't get any hassle. After a moment of no one calling him back or chloroform under his nose, his shoulders relaxed slightly, thinking maybe it was just a poor homeless guy and he'd gotten it wrong. He wasn't Sherlock Holmes; his deductions couldn't always be right.
However, suddenly he felt a hand roughly tug his arm back. Startled, he turned back to the guy, only to realise there were three now, all dirty looking and seemingly pissed at him.

"Oi, we weren't done with ya yet." Feeling his mouth go dry, John watched the guy closest to him, the original guy, hold up the twenty that Sherlock had given him to get groceries earlier (The shop was closed; he'd completely forgotten it was a Sunday).

Holding up the twenty, he snarled,
"Yer' a liar." He smiled menacingly as he watched John gawk at him in growing fear.

"No, please. I would've given you any change I had, I swear. That's for my boyfriend, he leant me it and I need to give it back-" He watched the guy's mouth contort in disgust, while the other two chuckled behind him. John realised what he'd said after he'd said it, and immediately regretted speaking. He didn't know these people and yet he was spilling that kind of information?
The guys nose crinkled in dislike.

"So yer' a liar and a fag? An' you think that's alright? To be honest with ya' mate," He emphasised the "mate", clearly mocking John's earlier comment, "I dun think thas' alright. Nun of us do, do we, boys?" John's jaw clenched as he watched the other two, obviously his followers or something, shake their heads while still grinning stupidly.
"I think you should be taught a lesson."

John didn't know why he didn't run. It would have been easy to just punch the guy and bolt, but he just stood there, shaking with suppressed rage and fear.
Without warning, the two assholes lunged at John, grabbing his arms and pinning them behind his back. John hissed in pain as they pulled his arms violently. He yelped but leader covered his mouth roughly with his hand.

"Shut the fuck up, ya' brought this on yerself, fairy. Now, les' see what else you've got on ya." He smiled evilly as John struggled, desperately trying to break free. Suddenly, the thug yelled out as John bit down on the hand covering his mouth. John knew it was generally considered a bad idea to do that, but he had no other plan and God knows what could happen to him if he didn't.

The guy looked at his hand in disgust, then at John in fury, his glare hardening. John took that moment of general shock to kick the guy where he knew it'd hurt, which made him almost keel over for a moment.

"You little shit!" John's head flew backwards as the guy's fist connected with John's face, sending both him and the guys lurching backwards. John fell to the floor, and was only further hurt as one of the thugs violently flung a bottle at John's face, causing a large cut to start oozing blood on his cheek.

By the end of the assault, John lay in the alley just two roads away from his home, from Sherlock. They hadn't taken his phone luckily, claiming "that shit is useless, ain't gettin us nothin'".
Unfortunately, the phone lay about a foot away from John in the dingy alley, literally just out of his reach. He was sure it was dead anyway. Too in pain to get up, he propped himself up against the wall, briefly feeling a surge of pain pass through him, and prayed Sherlock would find him.

*Back to later that evening*

"I didn't know the people, Sher. Just some random assholes, okay?" John groaned, taking Sherlock's hand in his own, giving it a light squeeze. Sherlock's lips drew in a thin line as he stared in a mix of anger and concern at the marks on John's face.

"Okay."

"O-Okay?" John was honestly not expecting that kind of answer, but it was still welcome either way.

"You're right; they were just 'random assholes'. So, I'm going to put some names to faces." John shook his head, still holding Sherlock's hand.

"Sher. It was 7pm in November. You won't be able to see their faces, let alone put a name to them. I was hardly able to see them." Sherlock had stopped listening as John tried to convince him to just drop it. His mind was already racing about who he could talk to about this. Giving John's hands one last squeeze and a kiss on his uninjured cheek, he stood up, saying "I'm going to go make a call." 

John just sighed and nodded, trying to stand up but immediately crying out and falling back down, the bruises in his legs aching too much to move. At the sound of John in pain, Sherlock whipped around and picked him up wordlessly, careful not to hold him by any hurt part of his legs or back. With the gentleness of an angel, he carried a surprised John over to the sofa in their living room, lowering him down into it before proceeding to go into the kitchen, pulling his phone from his pocket and quietly sliding the door closed behind him.

**

"So, anything gonna happen?" After the call had finished, Sherlock had reentered the room with a look of triumph on his face, plopping down next to John in the sofa, wrapping an arm around him and carding his hand through John's hair.

"I talked to Graham," He began, smiling cheekily when John glared at Sherlock's ongoing "Greg" joke, "He said he's gonna talk to Mycroft, convince him to look at the security cameras from around that area and the time it all happened. He is furious by the way, Gordon is. You should have heard the stuff he said he'd do to the lot of them if he got his hands on them. It sounded like he was planning their murder while on the phone to me. I can't say I disagree with that plan, though." He finished, resting his head on top of John's.

"Wow that's... awfully nice of him, actually." John stated, a hint of confusion tainting his tone. Sherlock just chuckled.

"Well, you know he like you more than me." John scoffed.

"Not true; you solve all his cases for him."

"Yes, but you actually talk to him while I solve them. That, and you get his name right." They both laughed, and John leaned his head on his partner's chest.

"Yeah, but you know he secretly finds it funny."

"Hmmm, maybe." He hummed in agreement, smiling down at John.

To the joy of both of them, they discovered that John was not the first person they'd mugged. Which sounds bad, but that means that they were all given a two year long sentence for repeat offences, with a little help from Mycroft sticking his oar in, of course.

//
Aahhh I don't know how to write endings. I hope you enjoyed, though! 😅