"John, answer the question," Sherlock remarks curtly, reaching out to grab John's arm to keep him from touching the bandages. "How long has it been? Weeks? A few months? A year? It's important."

A pause.

"Anyone would let me into a morgue with a riding crop, that's just common sense," Sherlock frowns faintly at John. "I needing to see the pattern-..." and he just waves a hand, because John already knows and there's really no point in going on about it.

Sherlock releases John's arm to button his shirt peevishly. "I'm fine." He's really, really not.