Sherlock growled to himself and glared at the grimy concrete he was seated on, starting to regret his decision of telling John to keep running.
It had been just another chase, another idiot criminal who had managed to be interesting enough to catch the consulting detective's attention. Of course, he had figured out the identity of the guilty man quickly, leading to an exhilarating chase through the ally ways of London.
And then the cretin had turned out to have an accomplice. An accomplice who had managed to sneak up on Sherlock while he was in pursuit of the first man. An accomplice who had managed to bust Sherlock ankle during their struggle.
John had rounded the corner right when the newcomer had shoved Sherlock to the ground. He had taken off when he saw John with gun raised.
John had been about to stop, but Sherlock had yelled at him to not let them escape.
Now he regretted that idea.
No, not because he thought his blogger couldn't handle the two imbeciles. He had full confidence in John's ability to hold his own.
He regretted it because he was stuck sitting on the cold, hard ground with a broken ankle by himself with nothing but a rubbish bin as company.
And how he despised being alone.
Yes, he flouted around his sociopath label and a year ago had lived up to that label to a tee.
Then an ex-army doctor had limped into 221B.
Sherlock hadn't 'needed' a flat mate. Not in the normal manner. Wanted was a better term.
He had wanted someone to handle all the mundane things in the flat. Making tea, getting the post, and be his sound board.
He'd had one before John, but that gentlemen had only lasted two days.
Sherlock had thought John would last maybe three days. Oh, how very wrong he had been.
John's first surprise for Sherlock had been in the cab, when he had called Sherlock's deductions extraordinary. Sherlock had brushed it off the first time, figuring John was just being polite. But he did it again at the crime scene.
Sherlock wondered if John knew he was speaking aloud. He'd question him and found that John was well aware of what he was saying.
And it hadn't stopped there. John had rejected Mycroft's offer. John had trekked across London at his call, even after he had left the doctor at the crime scene. John had defended Sherlock against the idea that he'd have drugs. And to top it of, John Watson had shot the cabbie to save Sherlock. And that was just their fist twenty four hours of knowing each other.
Now that he thought of it, being alone wasn't really the case.
It was that John wasn't with him.
Sherlock absolutely adored John's company, another thing Sherlock wouldn't admit aloud.
Yes, he'd say he liked having John around, but he never told the whole of it.
It had started out like that, just liking John being around for this and that. He just wanted John around as his assistant. But as time went on, Sherlock found that he felt content just sitting in the flat with John. Just being in the same room as John made him feel more at ease.
Now, Sherlock wished John had stayed with him.
The detective sighed and tilted his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. He knew he was being silly. John was catching the criminals, which was the important thing. The Work came before his wants.
Not before John, of course. n\Never before John.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of running foot falls.
He tensed, briefly thinking that one of the men had doubled back to finish him off.
His momentary panic was eased when he recognized the blond haired man with a slightly shorter then average stature running towards him.
"Sherlock!" John almost yelled as he skidded to a stop next to the taller male and knelt next to him. "Sherlock, where are you injured?"
'Good old John,' Sherlock thought. 'Always knows when something is wrong.'
"Ankle," He said aloud.
John nodded and set to work examining the injury, rolling up Sherlock's pants leg and gently prodding at the bruised skin just above his shoe, which was a fantastic shade of purplish blue.
"Definitely broken," John conformed and his eyes traveled from the injury to Sherlock's face. "Doubt you can walk on it."
Sherlock shook his head. He had tried to at least use the wall of the ally to limp after John earlier, but it had caused absolute agony just trying to get up.
John gave a sharp nod and repositioned himself so he was crouched right next to Sherlock side.
Sherlock frowned momentarily when the doctor looped one arm around his back and the other under his knees.
His confusion was cleared when he was lifted off the ground, held firmly against his bloggers chest.
He was actually quite surprised at the steady strength John had, skillfully yet unintentionally hidden under a warm smile and soft jumpers.
And John retreated such a wonderful warmth that Sherlock couldn't help but let his head fall onto John's shoulder, closing his eyes and sighing slightly in content.
Another thing Sherlock loved. Being close to John.
Another little guilty pleasure of the consulting sociopath detective.