Disclaimer: I do not own BBCSherlock, Sherlock Holmes, or John Watson.

A/N: Based on a conversation Aya Toshu and I had via PM. A situation in which Sherlock finds himself attempting to utilize the "Awkward Turtle" hand motion and failing. Miserably.

I didn't feel the story deserved to focus on that point, but I wanted to include it anyway. We thought it would be amusing. :)

Anyway, as per usual this is un-beta'd/edited, and reviews and critiques are both welcomed and encouraged. I hope I'll be hearing from some of you~ (I do respond)

Thank you for your time, your mind, and hopefully your Thoughts,
-Sel

John Watson wasn't quite sure what had possessed him to come along with Sherlock this time around. From what he could remember, there had been the mention of danger, potential bombs, and some several other nasty traps. Somehow those had all translated into "It will be fun" in his mind, as they usually did. Now, though, John began to wonder if he really did have a problem.

Sherlock had come barging in at the crack of dawn, barking some news about disaster in downtown London, villains at work, and the need to help the Police climb out of the grave they'd apparently dug within the three hours John had actually been able to sleep in. Somewhere in the ensuing chaos, Watson had donned his cream jumper and clambered into a pair of jeans, groggily protesting the time. Yet he couldn't actually remember contemplating staying in bed. At all.

Obviously, the younger Holmes brother had managed to brainwash him into a faithful companion. This needed to be remedied, otherwise the doctor might never sleep again.

At this point in time, however, it was not the lack of sleep that left John fumbling about, confused and dazed. There had, indeed, been bombs when they'd arrived on the scene. Bombs Sherlock had said would be fine, could be ignored, they'd take care of it. Bombs that had proceeded to explode, quite loudly, near John's ear.

Rubble had flown, as had the soldier, and curse words poured from his mouth. Only, much to John's dismay, he himself wasn't privy to hearing said words. Bombs exploding next to your head couldn't cause irreparable damage, though, of course, so John was fine. Only, as hours passed and his hearing remained impaired, the doctor was more and more concerned there may have been some rather unpleasant results internally.

However, as intelligence had repeatedly been denounced as one of John's weaker points, he followed Sherlock anyway. The pair had crawled the city nearly top-to-bottom by dusk, and were struggling on the outskirts, mucking through some rather unkempt foliage and enduring the disgusting squish of swamp-like surroundings. Watson, wishing to leave as soon as possible, had hurried his pace to keep up with his flatmate, only to find himself colliding into the detective's back.

Sherlocks' hand reached back, flattening against the man's chest to hold him off, staring at something close to his feet before turning around. Apparently, the brilliant mind had forgotten John's current state, as his lips were moving. Blank eyes met eager ones, and the realization clicked.

Sighing, Sherlock had shuffled about in the mud to face his companion, bringing his hands in front of him in what John could only assume was some form of sign language. Carefully, the detective placed one palm on the back of his other hand and focused intensely. One thumb twitched, then stopped moving. The other did the same. Confused, Watson watched in fascination as Sherlock's attempts at some fairly basic motor movements seemed to fall apart. Sherlock Holmes, proper genius, couldn't move his thumbs together to save his life.

Struggling to keep from laughing, John took the detective's hands in his own and shook his head. Attempting speech, the doctor forced out what he hoped sounded roughly like "I can't read sign language" and looked into Sherlock's face for a moment to see if he understood. When the detective's mouth turned sideways in a disappointed grimace, the soldier assumed he must be on the right track.

Carefully, ignoring the relentless cold seeping into his socks and soaking his feet, John peered around his taller companion's shoulder to see what the fuss was all about. Lying on its back in front of the detective was a turtle, or perhaps a tortoise, its feet wiggling about in the air as it tried to roll onto its belly. Amusement glittered in the detective's eyes, but was replaced with pain when the veteran slammed his fist into the lanky man's shoulder. Sympathy etched across Watson's face, and the soldier slowly bent to be on the same level as the animal.

Water, thick with dirt and disease, soaked through John's clothes and left him shivering to the bone. The doctor didn't care, he'd already be going to the hospital after their adventure was over anyway. Instead of worrying about his own issues, he focused on the animal in front of him and kept his movements slow, unthreatening. The turtle twitched, watching him and struggling harder to escape before collapsing in exhaustion. Even its attempts to duck inside its shell seemed hindered, and John frowned.

A faint buzzing could be heard in the background, likely signaling that Sherlock was having a tantrum of some sort, but the doctor didn't care. It was his job to help creatures, large and small, and he wouldn't be caught ignoring that. Strong tan hands enclosed on the soft underbelly of the tortoise-like animal, and slowly the soldier flipped the animal onto its stomach, moving it a little out of Sherlock's way and placing it down once more. He watched the animal look around, then begin to move, and smiled.

The buzzing had grown louder, and as John looked up he could see arms flailing about and a look of exasperation on Sherlock's face. Ignoring the man, Watson gripped his flatmate's jacket and stalked off toward the nearest escape from this watery expedition. Contentment filled him, warming the doctor from the inside. Sherlock's fussing slowly grew louder, still incoherent and unrecognizable in the doctor's ears. He didn't care. As far as he was concerned, he had saved a life. That, truly, was his allotment in life.

The walk to Saint Bartholomew's was lengthy and full of disappointing attempts at hailing a cab, but eventually the pair arrived. Watson was cold, shaking, and couldn't hear, but he was happy. Smiling, he was carted away, leaving Sherlock babbling in the waiting room.

A/N: John's a doctor. He fixes things. This is what he dedicated his life to. I can't see him standing for even small injustices. Meanwhile, I imagine Sherlock wanted to turn that into an experiment to see how long it would take before the turtle either 1, flipped itself back over, or 2, died. Just because he doesn't see why he shouldn't learn from the experience, versus help the animal along its way.

I hope you enjoyed it, an I look forward to seeing responses~

Thanks Again,
-Selvine