Mycroft must have used his powers as a minor government official because Sherlock was swept away to x-ray immediately without having to wait in the A&E queue.
There was only a short stop to get Sherlock's wrist splinted, which involved much protest from Sherlock and looks from Mycroft.
John was mostly thankful that Sherlock didn't make the x-ray tech cry, as he had done before.
Mycroft had left by the time they were done, muttering something about a national crisis, and Sherlock and John were left alone in a curtained off little cubicle.
The x-ray tech came in a short while later and handed an envelope to John.
"I've been told you're his doctor," he said.
"Yes. Yes, thank you," John replied, slightly shocked.
The man left and John unstuck himself from the chair and headed over to the lightbox, flipping it on.
"A bit archaic now," he commented. "But it works."
He stuck the films into the box and scrutinized them.
Sherlock was rather irked that John stood directly in front of them, preventing him from seeing them.
Probably on purpose.
John giggled.
"What?" Sherlock demanded. "What is it."
"Look at it Sherlock," John informed him, pointing his finger at the x-ray.
Sherlock sighed dramatically, but obeyed.
"Look at what?" he asked flatly.
"This really obvious fracture."
Sherlock squinted. "Indeed," he observed.
"Who was right?" John asked, smirking.
"Could it be you?" Sherlock replied, examining his fingers.
"Yup."
"How fascinating..."
Sherlock grumbled throughout the entire time John was speaking with the orthopaedic specialist.
Finally, John turned to him, and told him "Sherlock, if you do not shut up, you will get no say in cast colour. I think you'd look good in a neon lime green."
Sherlock glared at him, but stopped.
"Will surgery be necessary?" John asked the ortho doctor.
"No," he replied. "Non displaced and we caught it in time, so it should heal well enough if we cast it."
John nodded.
"Don't I get any say in this?" Sherlock called from the bed, bored of picking at the splint. (Over bored really, but he could finally say something interesting.)
John rolled his eyes.
"You are not having unnecessary surgery," he informed Sherlock bluntly, walking over to the bed. "And that's what it is. Unnecessary."
"I don't want a cast," he whined.
John folded his arms across his chest.
Oh dear. That means he's serious.
"Even if you did have surgery, you'd still need a cast afterwards. But you don't need the surgery. There are too many risks."
Sherlock glared at him, then turned to glare at the other doctor, who was standing behind John, nodding.
"Whatever," Sherlock replied flippantly, waving the hand that wasn't strapped into the splint.
John grinned slightly.
"Good choice. And, you can choose the colour."
Sherlock was silent as the doctor removed the splint and positioned his arm, although John knew it had to hurt at least a bit. The doctor moved on to pulled what looked like a shiny sock, but less fluffy, up Sherlock's arm. John was thankful that the doctor felt no need to make small chat, because Sherlock would surely rip him apart.
"Hey!" Sherlock protested as the doctor pulled the material up far past his elbow. "What are you doing?"
"It rolls down," John informed him, nodding at the man to continue. "So just sit tight."
"How else am I supposed to sit? Loose?" he spat.
John fixed a glare on him and Sherlock looked away, sighing dramatically.
The man smoothed the material out before wrapping Sherlock's arm with what looked like fluff on a roll.
"Padding," he explained. "To protect the bony parts of the arm from the fibreglass. Makes it more comfortable."
Sherlock acted as if he didn't hear. And it was entirely possible that he hadn't. Mind palace.
Sherlock snapped back to reality when the man rolled padding around Sherlock's elbow and above it.
"What the hell are you doing?" he snapped.
The poor man looked at him, shocked.
"Padding," he stammered.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Obvious. But what is it doing all the way up there?"
"Padding. Obvious," John interjected, taking pity on the poor doctor who looked like he was just out of med school.
"But-" Sherlock began, only to be cut off by John, who was not finished.
"And if you do not sit there and shut up and let him finish, I will call your brother."
Sherlock glowered at him. "You wouldn't," he hissed.
"Oh I most definitely would," John replied, crossing his arms.
"Fine," Sherlock muttered. "But first you have to explain the rational behind it being so erroneously large."
He sat there glaring between the two of them, daring the doctor to touch him before he explained.
"Well... the scaphoid-"
"No, not you," Sherlock snapped. "John!"
John rolled his eyes. "I'm not an orthopaedic specialist, Sherlock. I'm not sure!"
"Best guess."
John sighed. "Well..." he began, pondering. "The scaphoid has a relatively poor blood supply. And your break is much nearer the wrist than the thumb, which is where the blood supply is worse." He glanced to the other doctor, who nodded his approval, and John continued, more confidently. "The scaphoid is also unique in that it's the only bone that spans the two rows, so if it's broken, the two rows are essentially pulling the fragments apart."
John stopped and looked at Sherlock triumphantly.
"Fine."
John gaped. "I gave you that lovely explanation and that's all you have to say? Fine?"
Sherlock shrugged minutely as the doctor resumed rolling out padding on his arm. "I just wanted an explanation. I wanted to make sure this wasn't just a 'Sherlock' thing."
John rolled his eyes. "Right."
"What colour?" the doctor asked, having finished up with the padding.
"Blue," Sherlock declared.
"Which shade?" The doctor held out a sample rack. There were three different shades of blue: a light blue, a dark navy blue, and a sort of sky blue colour but a darker shade. John bet on the navy to match Sherlock's scarf.
"That one," Sherlock told him, pointing with his unbroken arm to the sky blue colour. The doctor nodded.
"Interesting choice," John noted as the doctor left to get the packages of fibreglass.
"If you say that to blue, I can't imagine what you'd say if I chose pink," Sherlock smirked.
John wisely chose not to say anything, only watching as Sherlock's entire arm was encased in blueness.