So I just moved all my documents to a new computer, and that meant I was going through them to decide what was good to keep and what wasn't worth it. And I found this. It's a fic I wrote at some point that I forgot to post. My beta remembers reading it, but neither of us know why it wasn't posted after she was done reading. I've reread it and I really like it, so I'm sharing.

...

...

The Doctor's Capable Hands

Sherlock is injured during a chase. John sits watchful at his bedside in the hospital and wonders. He wouldn't leave Sherlock alone like this. Especially not if Sherlock wanted him to stay.

…

…

Hospitals, John finds, are not pleasant places.

He's known this for years. He's a doctor, after all. Hospitals are where people go when they're hurt, sick, or dying. Families that come in to hospitals are rarely happy. Many people that go into a hospital never come back out. But a hospital is where John wanted to work. He wanted to help people to leave hospitals better off than they came in. But that didn't mean he liked hospitals.

He hated hospitals as much as the next person, especially when he was a visitor and not a doctor.

John jolted awake and groaned. His back, neck, and left shoulder were killing him. Why hadn't he asked for a cot the night before? God, he regretted it. He stretched his abused muscles as best he could without actually standing up and then looked at the bed. His eyes softened and his shoulders drooped.

Sherlock.

"Yes. It seems even my brother isn't totally indestructible," a very familiar voice cut in.

John jumped and turned to face the far corner of the room. Mycroft sat in a chair there, his umbrella acting as a stand for his clasped hands. He looked as impeccable as ever. He wasn't smiling, but he didn't look particularly upset either. Still, John knew the Holmes brothers, and he knew Mycroft was worried sick. He was here, after all.

With a slight sigh, John turned his eyes back to the bed. "No. It may surprise some people, but he is actually human, you know." A tiny smile alit on his lips, but it didn't last.

"He'll live," Mycroft said, as if answering a question.

John looked up at Mycroft. "He'll be insufferable." He tried to say it lightly, but it didn't quite happen. "Getting hit by a car is…..He'll need physical therapy."

"And he'll get the best in the United Kingdom, I can assure you," Mycroft interrupted smoothly.

John shot him an aggravated look. "I wouldn't be surprised," he half snapped. "What I meant was…Well, you know him better than I do-," Mycroft made a dismissive noise but John ignored it, "You could get him the best doctor in the world and he still probably wouldn't listen to them because he thinks they're an idiot." He waved his hand at Sherlock as if he were proof itself.

A strange smile crept onto Mycroft's face. "Well, perhaps that is true," he agreed. "However, I do believe I know of one doctor he'll listen to."

John looked from Sherlock's sleeping face to Mycroft again and raised a curious eyebrow. "Really? Who?"

Mycroft shook his head, still smiling. He used his umbrella to push himself to a standing position and then tapped it on the ground lightly. "I shall take my leave then. He would not be too pleased to wake up and find me here."

"Oh. Right. Yea," John agreed. He watched Mycroft cross the room, and even turned in his seat to keep his eyes on him until Mycroft was at the door.

There Mycroft paused. He turned back to face John. "I leave my brother in your capable hands, Doctor." Then he was gone.

John shook his head and turned back around. He didn't think he would ever understand Mycroft Holmes. Or Sherlock Holmes, for that matter. There were times when he thought he understood….but most of the time they both just left him completely nonplussed. He was willing to spend the rest of his life figuring Sherlock out, though.

Movement on the bed caught John's attention. Sherlock shifted his head to the side, toward John, minutely. He gripped the sheets lightly. Then his eyes slid open; slowly, like a cat that's been lounging in the sun all afternoon. At first they were hazy, but John watched as they quickly cleared. Sherlock glanced swiftly around the room, rolled his head to the middle of his pillow again, and sighed.

"A hospital," he droned. "Johnson got away?"

John shook his head. "No. Lestrade took him away." He didn't mention how he'd tackled the guy. He ran the fingers of his left hand over the knuckles on his right hand. He wouldn't say how he'd beat the man, either. "You got him, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes roamed over John momentarily, and then a strangely proud expression donned his features. "Good job."

John didn't ask how Sherlock knew. This was Sherlock after all. But maybe John was getting better at this whole 'deduction' thing too. He didn't need to ask what Sherlock was referring to, after all. He simply nodded silently in acceptance.

"How bad is it? I'd say at least one of my ribs is broken," Sherlock huffed, shifting on the bed.

"And you'd be right," John said like an admonishment. "So stop trying to get up."

Sherlock shot John a wide eyed look. Since he hadn't actually tried to push himself up, he must be surprised John noticed his intentions. But like John'd thought before, he was getting better at reading Sherlock. He gave a little smile and a tilt of his head.

"Your left leg is fractured in several places. Three of your ribs are broken. Another is bruised. Half your body is bruised, actually." He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. "You hit your head pretty hard on the street, but luckily there was no lasting damage." Sherlock frowned deeply, probably imagining losing his mind to a car. "Your left shoulder was badly dislocated, but they've managed to set it right and it's well on the mend. You've been unconscious for a few days now."

"Hmm."

Sherlock shut his eyes then, but John knew he wasn't asleep. Every few moments he flinched and John wondered what hurt the most. Practically every bit of Sherlock that was visible was either bandaged or bruised. There were even small scrapes on his face. Most of them had healed within a day, but there were still some traces of them on his angular features.

"You haven't eaten."

John blinked out of his thoughts. "What?"

Sherlock's eyes were open now and he was staring at John in that oddly penetrating way of his. "You said I've been unconscious. You haven't eaten since we had dinner that night. And you've slept in that chair at least twice, given your odd posture and mussed appearance. And the bags under your eyes."

John hurriedly rubbed his hands over his face and then through his hair in an attempt to correct his appearance. He caught Sherlock's expression part way through his hair and stopped. Sherlock was grinning, trying to be discreet, in amusement. John frowned and lowered his hands to the arms of the chair.

"I going to see what they've got for food here," he said stiffly.

So Sherlock was right and he hadn't eaten or slept, but that didn't mean he could laugh about it. John had been so worried and Sherlock didn't appreciate it at all! He pushed himself out of the chair, more roughly than he'd meant to, and made to head to the door…but stopped.

He glanced down to his side, to the edge of his jacket. Sherlock hurriedly retracted his hand and looked away. John stared. He couldn't help it. Sherlock had…reached out and grabbed his jacket…

Looking at Sherlock now, John was surprised by the amount of emotion he could see. Sherlock's eyes had been wide when he pulled away, and even though he was no longer facing John, John could see how he was glaring at the wall. Or no. Trying to make it seem like he was glaring at the wall. His eyes were scrunched up. He was…upset with himself? Was that it? His mouth was set in a deep grimace of distaste and his hands were lightly gripping each other across his chest. It was all subtle - Sherlock trying to pretend he hadn't done anything out of the ordinary, and wasn't now. But he was.

John felt all of his anger evaporate with this image of Sherlock. He glanced at the door, back to Sherlock. "I could just call it in, I suppose." Sherlock's hands relaxed. "Do you want me to stay?"

Sherlock tensed again, but in a different way. "Don't be an idiot. Whether you stay or not won't make me heal faster or feel better. It wouldn't make any difference."

Instead of saying 'That's not what I asked,' John just smiled. He couldn't help it. Sociopath? That was a load of crap if John had ever heard it. He settled back down in his chair, feeling more at ease than he had in days.

"Mrs. Hudson wants to make a visit," he said conversationally.

Again, Sherlock seemed to relax. Even his expression softened as he turned to look at John. "That isn't necessary."

John shook his head. "Oh, but she wants to. And you know her. When she decides on something, not even you can stop her."

Sherlock rolled his eyes with a huff, but John knew he was admitting John was right. The good doctor shrugged with a smile.

"Mycroft was here earlier." And, as expected, Sherlock's expression turned sour.

"Why on earth would he do that?" Sherlock asked, as if he was trying to make John admit he was joking.

John almost laughed. Really, the feud between the two brothers was mostly one-sided it seemed, and it made no sense at all. He controlled himself and shrugged again instead. "He said he was going to get you the best physical care physician in all of the United Kingdom."

Sherlock scoffed. "Met him. He's a buffoon."

"I told him you'd say so," John informed him. Sherlock looked pleasantly surprised. "But he said he knew of a doctor you'd actually listen to. I asked him who it was, but he wouldn't answer me," he explained, seeing the curious look in Sherlock's eyes.

A look like one might get after eating a particularly sour lemon crossed Sherlock's face. "I see." He glanced at John briefly as his expression, if possible, grew more sour. "I suppose he isn't a total idiot, then."

John blinked. "What?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Nothing. It's not important."

But John's interested was piqued. "No really. What do you mean? Who was he talking about?"

Sherlock turned his face away and shut his eyes. "I'm feeling tired. I think I'll take a nap. Faster healing and all that." He waved his right hand dismissively and then lay still.

John scowled. "Sherlock." Nothing. Just even breathing. "Sherlock," he repeated, and got the same reaction. Throwing his hands up, John grumbled.

He may be human, but Sherlock was also completely infuriating.

Maybe John would go down and find some food. One glance at Sherlock's falsely content face held him in place though. He wouldn't leave Sherlock alone like this. Especially not if Sherlock wanted him to stay. And he knew Sherlock wanted him to stay.