A/N: So I know I've been gone for like...a really long time...sorry. Basically, I've been horribly busy with a. college, b. work, c. personal writing projects. (On the bright side, I wrote 2 novellas so yay!) HOWEVER! I do miss my first-love which is fanfictions so this is what I'm going to do. I'm gonna TRY to keep these short (try being the operative word here)...

Also, these are all based on tumblr prompts basically lol

Enjoy(?)

Prompt 1: Broken Glass Wounds

Summary: This one's not so heavy on the whump, more focused on the comfort (and John's beautiful snark).

The first time John's mobile pings, he ignores it. It's three in the morning and he's only just laid down after getting Rosie back to sleep for the third time tonight. The second time it pings, he sighs heavily and rolls over in his bed, sandwiching his pillow over his ears. It's only Sherlock-he's the only arsehole in all of London who'd have the gall to text someone at three a.m.-and whatever he wants, it can wait till morning. That's when the phone begins to ring.

John's heart jumps into his throat at the shrill noise piercing the careful silence of his suburban home. Instantly, Rosie begins to sob in the nursery.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock!" John jumps up furiously, snatching the mobile off its charger as he runs to the nursery. "Coming, darling," he says softly, opening the door. "Calm down, daddy's here." As he rocks his sniffling daughter, John swipes right on the glowing screen. "This had better be important, Sherlock," he whispers. Rosie's tiny hands are playing sleepily with the buttons of his night shirt as her frightened wails turn to yawning hiccups. When there's no response, John blinks and takes the phone away from his ear, glancing at the screen. Yes, he's connected. "Sherlock?"

Rosie coos at the familiar name, groping for the phone. John smiles and shakes his head, craning his neck to keep her tiny paws off his mobile.

"Sherlock? Come on, it's three in the bloody morning. Are you there?"

The call ends abruptly, as if the connection was lost. John frowns at the screen, laying Rosie back down in her cradle as her eyes drift shut. Carefully switching to vibrate in case of another call, he opens his messages. The number isn't Sherlock's but the messages are signed with his signature.

Baker Street now

-SH

Now John. Otherwise Mrs Hudson is going to call an ambulance.

-SH

John blinks at the second text, feeling his heart rate increase slightly. Peeking into the cradle to be sure Rosie is asleep, John vacates the nursery and stabs out Sherlock's speed dial, holding the phone to his ear as it rings out. "Come on, Sherlock... Pick up."

"You have reached the voicemail box of 020-"

"Oh come on, you cock. This had better not be another one of your damned tricks." John hangs up and swipes through his contacts, but Mrs. Hudson doesn't answer either when he calls.

Standing in the middle of his living room in his pajamas and slippers, hair mussed, face still marked with pillow creases, John scowls at the ceiling.

"Fine," he mutters to himself. "Fine. I'll go to bloody Baker Street." John grumbles under his breath the entire time he's throwing on his coat and lacing up an actual pair of shoes. He stops only once he returns to the nursery, scooping Rosie into his arms, wrapping her in a blanket, and grabbing her diaper bag.

Thankfully, his next door neighbor is a god send. A retired widow who has made it exceedingly clear that any time, any day, she will be happy to watch Rosie for him. She reads his blog, evidently. So when John jogs across the lawn to the little house next door, knocks, and the woman opens up to find him half dressed and peevish with Rosie in his arms, she just laughs and cradles the baby against her chest.

"Tell Mr. Holmes I said hello," she says.

John smiles thinly. "I will. And thank you so much."

"It's my pleasure, dear."

With that, John hops into the car and veers out onto the road, gunning it toward central London.

Jesus Christ, what's happened?

John parks along the sidewalk, throwing open the car door. A small crowd has gathered outside the flat, including one very perturbed looking police man who keeps shuffling from foot to foot and looking around. The front door hangs open and the road and sidewalk are littered with broken glass, one of the windows overhead is busted out. The officer's eyes land on John as he rushes over, squeezing through the crowd.

"It's alright, I'm a doctor," he says when the officer tries to stop him.

"John?" Mrs. Hudson suddenly appears before him just as he's breaking the line of the crowd. "Thank goodness you're here. Maybe you can talk some sense into that funny head of his! He certainly won't listen to me. I mean, who gets pushed through a second story window and then refuses to go to the hospital?"

"Pushed through a window?-Sherlock." John finds his friend sitting just inside the doorway on the steps. His face is littered with cuts, some deeper than others, blood staining the collar of his white shirt. He looks incredibly pissed off, scowling to himself even when he notices John.

"Before you ask," he says before John can even speak. "No, I have not sustained any head injuries, nothing is broken, and for the last bloody time, I do not need to go to the hospital."

"Yeah, good morning to you too, Sherlock. Turn your head." John kneels in front of him, prodding Sherlock's head to the side, where a long line of blood is running from his scalp. Could be the great detective made an error concerning that head injury. "How'd this happen?"

"Got pushed through the window."

"By whom?"

"Client. Well, he said he was a client."

"And I'm assuming he wasn't."

"Yep." He pops the P for emphasis, glaring at the crowd past John's head. "Why are they staring at me?"

"They're concerned." John moves his examination to Sherlock's neck and shoulders, which are also cut to ribbons. Nothing too deep, though.

"What for? I'm a complete stranger to them."

"Follow my finger." John holds his index finger in front of Sherlock's eyes, moving it slowly back and forth. Surprisingly, Sherlock plays along with only a minimal amount of grumbling. "Where'd this 'client' go?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Ran off. I'll text Lestrade the details later so he can apprehend him."

"Why was he trying to kill you?"

"Don't know. Didn't get a lot of time to ask him as I was falling out the window. Ow-what are you doing?"

"That hurt?" John looks up in surprise. He'd been feeling around Sherlock's legs to be certain nothing was sprained or broken, as he said.

"I said ow, didn't I?"

"Alright, straighten your leg. Let me see." Sherlock draws a sharp breath and jumps a bit as John straightens his left leg.

"Mrs. Hudson," he yells, startling the poor old woman just outside the flat. Through gritted teeth, he snaps, "Stop being such a git and shut the door!"

"Sherlock," John mutters, glaring at him. "Be nice." Mrs. Hudson huffs in anger but obeys, closing the door on the dozens of curious onlookers. After that, she stomps past the boys and into her own flat, slamming the door so hard a picture rattles and falls off the wall. "You're going to apologize to her later, you know."

"I don't apologize."

"Yeah, I know..." John finally manages to roll up Sherlock's black pantleg past the tender spot. Pursing his lips, he sighs heavily. "Well, that would explain it."

Sherlock hums.

A large piece of glass is imbedded in Sherlock's skin, so deep it was almost unnoticable under the slightly torn pant leg. Barely any blood seeps through, the shard acting as a cork in a bottle. John chews the inside of his cheek. "Well, looks like you are going to the hospital after all."

"Oh, please. Don't be so dramatic."

"Sherlock. You've got a shard of glass half the size of my hand imbedded four inches from a major artery. Yes, you're going to the hospital."

"For God's sakes John, you're an army doctor. You've dealt with gun shots, shrapnel riddled bodies, even the occasional severed limb, I'd imagine. I think you can handle a little piece of glass." With that, Sherlock stands straight up and walks up the steps.

Well, halfway up.

"Woah, woah-" John has to jump up to catch him as his punctured leg suddenly fails him. As he loops Sherlock's arm around his shoulders and they slowly, clumsily make their way up to the living room, John's phone pings in his pocket. He deposits Sherlock on the couch and heads to the bathroom for first aid supplies, glancing at the text as he walks. It's Lestrade.

Heard there was some excitement at Baker Street. Everything okay? Couldn't get ahold of Sherlock.

Just the usual. Actually we could use some help from The Yard. I'll get the details from Sherlock, John replies.

Loaded down with the necessary equipment, he returns to find Sherlock inspecting his injury. "Don't touch that, you could make it bleed. Also text Lestrade the details of your "client"."

"Can't."

"Why not?"

"Mobile's broken. Landed on it when I fell."

Ah, so that's why John couldn't get through earlier. "Use mine." He hands it over and Sherlock starts tapping at the keys. It's impressive how natural he's acting. There's no way that injury doesn't hurt like hell. Still, it's about to get a lot worse... "This is your last chance to change your mind, Sherlock. I don't have anything to numb you."

"Pain is just a trick of the mind. It's your brain's way of telling you you're hurt. I already know I'm hurt, therefore pain is useless. Mind over matter, John."

John pauses, a pair of small metal tongs in his hand. "Are you trying to tell me you're going to somehow shut off your pain receptors?"

"Of course." He doesn't even look up from the screen.

John sighs. "You know that's impossible?"

"Nothing's impossible. I see this as the perfect opportunity to test a hypothesis of mine. That a great mind is capable of controlling its body's functions through a combination of anatomical knowledge, will power, and discipline."

Throwing his hands into the air, John shakes his head. "I guess we'll see." Bracing Sherlock's knee with one hand, John grabs the end of the shard with the tongs. With a sharp tug, it slips out. For a second, John thinks Sherlock must have been right somehow. He doesn't jerk, doesn't make a sound. He glances up and smirks thinly. His friend's face is red, his eyes closed against the obvious pain.

"Alright, Sherlock?"

"Yeah-t's fine." He clears his throat, shifting slightly. "Completely...fine."

"I did warn you." John soaks a rag with alcohol and cleans away the blood as it spills out. "Now, you have two choices, Sherlock. One: you stop being a child and go to the hospital so they can numb you for stitches. Or two: I give you stitches without any numbing, using Mrs Hudson's sewing needle. It's very big you know. Her eye sight's not what it used to be..." Sherlock scowls down at John, who just smiles meekly up at him. "So shall I call a cab?"

"Yes, fine. You win." Sherlock winces as John wraps the bandages quickly around his leg and dials the number.

"This is indeed one for the history books," John says as the mobile rings. "The Great Sherlock Holmes admits he's wrong. Maybe I'll write a blog about this monumental occasion."

"Shut up, John."

A/N: And there you have it :) (can't believe I actually succeeded in keeping this short wow)