A/N: Right... this is my first Sherlock piece, my first posting here in quite some time, and I've only recently watched the first two series of Sherlock, and really only because it's dreadfully cold and rainy and I was bored. It doesn't belong to any specific place within the show's timeline, my characters may be out of character, and the writing itself may be utter crap. But I had fun, and I'm no longer bored!
"Go sit on the sofa, with your feet up," John instructed, stepping back to make room for his companion to pass by.
Sherlock let go of the stair railing and stretched his hand towards the doorframe, stumbling from one support to the next. "I need to look after my experiment," he responded tersely, then nearly fell as soon as he entered the flat and ran out of architectural features that could be pressed into service as a crutch. John shot him an irritated look, halfway wondering why the detective was even trying to act like all was well.
"You need to get that foot up before it swells further," John answered, giving his friend a gentle shove away from the kitchen and towards the sofa. "Otherwise your shoe might not fit for days, and then where will we be?"
"That experiment is very delicate, John," Sherlock explained, in that patronising tone that always made John feel like Sherlock thought John was goading him. "If I don't add precisely 0.84cc's of hydrochloric acid in the next ten minutes - "
"Then exactly nothing will go wrong with it," John answered. "I'm well aware that if it were that time-sensitive, you wouldn't have begun it during a case. But if it will make you feel better, I will add the acid for you, right now."
Sherlock opened his mouth, prepared to argue, then stopped. "0.84, John, and not one molecule more. And then it must set perfectly undisturbed for 12 more hours." John rolled his eyes at the repeat instruction, but he measured the substance carefully and dripped it into the… er… whatever concoction Sherlock was experimenting on this time.
The contents of the dish bubbled slightly and turned an alarming shade of periwinkle with the addition of a new ingredient, but settled down shortly thereafter. "Do you need me to tell you what it looks like now?" he called towards the doorway as he watched.
"No," Sherlock answered. "It didn't explode. That's all I need to know for this step."
"Explo-" John almost asked, then decided it really wasn't the sort of question he'd want an answer to. He shook his head as if to clear it, and collected his things. Medical kit that Sherlock couldn't be arsed to put away after he'd stolen it from his bedroom, sack of frozen corn that Mrs Hudson, for some reason, believed they would be willing to ingest. Or maybe this was precisely the use she had in mind when she'd bought it.
"Let's see the ankle," John instructed. Sherlock made to ignore him, reaching for a nearby book. "Sherlock," John snapped. "Did you say, again, just tonight, that I'm your doctor?"
"Only to keep that nosey bystander from-"
"Did you?!" John asked, now noticeably closer to yelling. Sherlock glanced at him, clearly irritable.
"Yes," he answered in a tone that John was never sure if it was haughty or guilty.
"Then as your doctor, I am ordering you to take your shoe and sock off, right now." Sherlock stared him down for a moment, then very slowly and deliberately removed his left shoe, then peeled off the sock underneath. "Very funny. And now the other one." Sherlock started to argue, something about how he should have been more precise in his original request, but John simply cocked his head and waited. After a momentary battle of stubborn glares, his flatmate began removing the other shoe with a huffy sigh that sounded suspiciously like a concealed grunt of pain.
John's experience in dealing with the most horrifying trauma, and the most gruesome mundane clinic complaints, really didn't do much to prepare him for the sight of the swollen, purplish-blue, possibly misshapen ankle he was staring at. He gasped, then covered it over with a harsh sigh. Something about the injury being attached to his best friend, made it seem like the worst thing he'd ever seen. "I'm sorry," he said softly, "but that looks worse than I expected. I've got to touch it to make a proper examination."
"If you must," Sherlock answered, sitting back on the sofa. John reached tentatively, only to be thwarted when Sherlock jumped with a distressed moan.
"I haven't even touched you yet, you big jessie," John groused, grabbing his friend by the shin to prevent further hassle. "Wasn't even that serious, you just fell on a bit of ice. Worst of the injury is probably to your pride." With that, he touched the injured ankle properly, prodding and stroking over the various bones, looking for signs in both the injury and Sherlock's reaction to the exam, that would help differentiate a sprain from a break. Sherlock jumped and let out a squeak at one particularly tender spot. "Sorry, love," John muttered, wincing in empathetic pain. "Sorry, sorry," he practically chanted as he continued. "Almost done, then we'll ice it and I'll get you some paracetamol." As promised, John put the bag of corn on Sherlock's twisted ankle, then went to the loo for pills.
Which was where he was when he realised what he'd said. Sorry, love? Really? Oh god, what if Sherlock had noticed… maybe he hadn't; typically he coped with pain by turning the self-absorption to maximum strength, and it's not as if he was any good at understanding romantic hints in the first place. But… oh god. John blew out a frustrated breath. All this time, he'd successfully kept his feelings to himself, and now a bit of black ice had very nearly outed him. Well, only one thing to do now. Make use of his military training to keep firm control over himself, and ignore the slip-up as ferociously as possible. He carefully returned his expression to a cringe-free neutral one as he fished two pills out of the bottle.
"I'm fairly sure it's just a sprain," John pronounced as he returned, mostly to fill the space before anything more awkward could occur. "But to be safe, keep as much weight off it as possible for the next 48 hours. You can use my cane," he said, retrieving the long-forgotten device from the corner and adjusting it to suit Sherlock. If this had been any other friend he had a crush on, it would alarm him that he was so intimately acquainted with the other person's height and arm length. With Sherlock, however, who couldn't be bothered to wash his own laundry, it seemed only natural to know the man's measurements well enough to know how he'd prefer his cane. "Put the corn back in the freezer after twenty minutes, and for the love of Pete, Sherlock, you have a bed, please use it. I don't want to wake up and trip over you sleeping wherever you happen to collapse." He could hear the snarky remarks as he cleaned his teeth in the bathroom, but John had long ago learned to tune them out, merely hearing the sarcastic tone that - when he didn't clutter it up by actually listening to the words - amused him so completely.
John wished Sherlock a good night as he closed his bedroom door, and then flung himself into his bed for his requisite ten hours apart from his flatmate. In spite of his crush on the younger man, he enjoyed this quiet time to read, relax… play candy crush, if he wanted… all without sarcastic interruption. It refreshed him, leaving him free to more fully appreciate Sherlock's company during the days. Tonight, he'd already decided, he wanted to read a book on the messy, fallible nature of brain function, a portion of the body that it turns out Sherlock might be right to treat with suspicion. With a tired smile, he opened his book and settled in.
