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BOYS OF BAKER STREET:

An A-Z Almanac of Hurt/Comfort

Secondary Genre: Adventure

Rated: T for swearing

Character: John Watson

B is for Broken Bone

The case which John takes a nasty stumble whilst in pursuit of a criminal and breaks a bone.


It had to be the Storm of the Century – of course it bloody did. The rain was torrential, roads were flooded and thunder echoed through the night with such alarming regularity, it was like the planet was fit to shake apart. It was a night to be curled up on the sofa with a blanket and a good book, not chasing criminals across hazardous rooftops.

John Watson was not a young man anymore, and despite his sense of adventure and thirst for danger, he very much did not appreciate being dragged out of the cosy depths of 221B to pursue a murder across London at two in the morning.

He didn't quite understand why he hadn't just told Sherlock where to stick his early morning wake up call, but while his mind was screaming at the detective to fuck off, he was already half dressed – heart pounding in anticipation.

Now, Sherlock was quite a bit ahead of him, and the bad man that had started all of this was further ahead still.

John had lost count of how many buildings they had leapt across, following the detective as he soared gracefully over the gaps, Belstaff a flutter like the wings of an overgrown bat – but his energy was starting to seriously flag. Add that to the utterly abysmal weather and it was the perfect recipe for disaster. He kept thinking that, one of these days, Sherlock would miss a ledge, or land on a weathervane and impale himself – and whilst lost within his turbulent thoughts, John completely missed the hidden shelf at the edge of the building.

The problem with racing around London with Sherlock; was that John never spared a thought for himself. He had been a Soldier in a warzone, he knew how to do this shit, thank you very much. So it came as quite a shock to him when his foot caught on the precarious ledge as he was about to jump.

A wave of terror washed over him as he was suddenly airborne, and it was just pure luck and possibly a bit of prayer, that the next building was slightly lower and the alley that may well have been his deathbed, was narrower than most.

It didn't mean that his landing wasn't rough.

When one takes a fall, it is the body's natural instinct, a kneejerk reaction, to break said fall; so as the roof rushed up rapidly to meet his face, John flung an arm out to minimize the damage to his body – and maximised it on a single point instead.

He hit the floor, bloody hard.

The upside was, he was very much not dead – but that was really the only thing going for him, because fuck…the pain.

Fire lanced across his clavicle, leaving absolutely to room for coherent thought as he curled into himself, vision greying at the edge. Dimly, he remembers hearing a dull crack on impact and as a doctor, he realised that while the pain was bad now, it would be a helluva lot worse once the adrenaline wore off. The rain wasn't helping matters either.

'JOHN!' he heard Sherlock bellow over the sound of the storm. Fantastic…he could see no possible way that this night could get any worse.

He didn't have the energy to respond, the pain was nauseating and Godammit, he should have told the detective to piss off the minute he came barging into his room.

The next call of his name was slightly higher in pitch – a question, and a rather frantic one that was a lot closer than it had been seconds ago.

'Mmmmfffffuuuccckkkk,' he managed ineloquently, eyes screwed up and jaw clenched to stop the scream from clawing out of his throat.

Brightness flashed across the lids of his tightly closed eyes and John couldn't be sure whether it was lighting or if the pain was doing stupid things to his brain.

Harried footsteps approached rapidly and if John thought that Sherlock couldn't possibly beg for another punch in the fucking mouth (contextually, of course) – he ruined the moment by opening that great, ignorant word hole on his face and speaking.

'John, do try to keep up!' The detective hissed scathingly. 'The criminal has escaped my grasp, because you managed to go and do something as mundane as trip.'

The Doctor took a deep breath, and remembered the Hippocratic Oath: Do no harm.

Instead, he rolled over with a grunt and opened his eyes, flinching at finding Sherlock's face mere inches from his.

'I can kill you without leaving a trace.' John offered, trying to sound angry – but his voice was inexplicably weak and shaky.

'John…are you alright?' Sherlock asked, not quite concerned – but certainly getting there.

He opened his mouth to reply, but vomited instead.

Sherlock jumped back and in the gloom, John could see those quicksilver eyes flicking over his person, cataloguing symptoms and freezing close to John's neck.

Then the concern came, and didn't that just increase the shock factor.

Hesitantly, dexterous fingers fluttered around the collar of his jumper before lifting it gingerly and peering beneath.

Their gazes met and John was a little put off by what he saw in Sherlock's eyes.

Sentiment.

'You're hurt.' He stated; his baritone aquiver with worry.

No Shit Sherlock, John wanted to reply, but instead – stupidly – he nodded. Agony sheared across his clavicle and everything went away for a moment, a choked cry dying on his lips as his eyes rolled back.

He can't have been out for very long, but it was long enough for Sherlock to become frantic.

The storm raged around the pair, showing no sign of abating, and for once in his life – the Consulting Detective had no idea what to do.

Through the haze of pain, John noticed Sherlock's discomfort and his rage at the young man abated somewhat.

'Sh'lock,' he stuttered through chattering teeth – with the shock and cold, the Doctor was slowly becoming useless. He tried to sit, to take charge of the situation, because clearly, Sherlock felt out of his depth. This was something that only occurred rarely and John found himself mildly humbled that Sherlock cared enough for him to show his concern so openly.

The sitting thing didn't go as smoothly as planned, because now, he was able to see what had gotten the "sociopath" so riled up. His beige jumper sodden with not just rain – but a rather sizable swath of blood. John tipped back dizzily; distantly grateful when Sherlock gently pressed into his back to stop him from falling the rest of the way.

'Fractured clavicle,' the detective murmured shakily. 'Open, I'm afraid.'

Yes, well…fuck, actually.

John had seen many gruesome things, hell; he'd amputated limbs, performed hours of bloody surgery in the heat of the desert and had taken a bullet, to boot. While that had been quite exceptionally painful, a bone prodding through ones skin, grating nerve and muscle and flesh with every breath, certainly overshadowed his previous wound. Perhaps it was because he had received pain relief almost immediately from a field kit.

The Doctor…Captain…tilted his head back, peered at this friend in the dark and bloody whimpered.

Sherlock stiffened, and hesitantly brought a hand up to rest on John's brow.

'Easy John…deep breaths, you're in shock and we need to get back to Baker Street,' the detective spoke gently and reassuringly – which didn't half freak John out.

'Hospital,' John groaned brokenly, surprised out how much he wanted fucking Morphine right now.

Sherlock nodded in the gloom. 'Yes John, I know it hurts. I know…but the roads are flooded. I can easily get you home from here, where I will be able to administer decent pain medication and phone my brother for assistance, but a hospital, even Bart's, will be quite a bit more challenging.'

'Fuck…whatever Sherlock…just please get me out of this bloody rain!' John spat, not even wanting to consider how they would get off the roof in the first place.

Sherlock didn't reply, he just tucked his biceps under John's armpits and heaved.

John didn't stay conscious long enough to endure the trip home.


He was warm, when he woke. Warm and floaty, the insistent pain at his collar had dulled a bit – for which John was immensely grateful. John opened his eyes to see Sherlock hanging over him, his broad palms and nimble fingers press firmly against where the bone had been poking through his skin. They were slick with blood.

The Doctor giggled, thinking distantly that it should hurt a lot more than it did. The detective's brow pinched with worry as their gaze met.

'John, I apologise – I simply cannot get you proper medical care at this stage. The power has gone out and we have no signals on our phones. Lightning must have struck the nearest signal tower, I'm afraid.' He explained clinically, peeling his hand away and examining the wound.

'S'ok mate…ughhhh fuck,' John replied, his head lolling to the side. He was on the floor of the living room at 221B, enclosed within a nest of blankets and situated next to the fireplace…with barely anything on.

'You took my clothes off.' John slurred. 'People will talk.'

Sherlock merely smirked. 'Yes, well next time I shall leave you to freeze, if you'd prefer.'

The Doctor shook his head and grunted as the movement sent spikes of agony skittering across his collarbone. His vision flickered briefly and he concluded that the pain would only stay dull if he kept still.

'John, you need to keep still,' Sherlock berated almost soothingly. 'You've been unconscious for three hours and the pain medication is wearing off. I will prepare your next dose but you must not move.'

John blinked his acquiescence, and the lanky Detective clambered to his feet, disappearing for a few minutes. His clavicle was now throbbing insistently and the doctor had to breathe deep to keep himself from crying out. A pitiful noise scraped the back of his throat just as Sherlock returned, wearing a look of unease as he swept down and prepared John's arm for injection. Of course the bastard had figured out where he kept his emergency stash of morphine – squirreled away on the off chance that Sherlock injured himself and refused the hospital.

'John, I'm – ah…terribly sorry for waking you this morning and insisting you come along. It was wrong of me and my rash decision got you hurt.' As he depressed the plunger, John felt the warmth of the drug spread through his veins and numb the fire near his throat.

'Jesus, Sherlock,' John sighed in relief and closed his eyes for a moment. 'You always manage to surprise me. You're showing compassion to another human being in suffering. Is it facetious to admit I'm proud of you?'

Sherlock snorted, and gave his wrist a little squeeze.

'Dear Watson, you seem to forget that you aren't just any human being. You are my friend and despite my attempts at keeping you at arm's length, you have unknowingly created yourself a room within my Mind Palace. You ought to feel special.'

Oh, he did. That was truly something to revel in, Sherlock admitting he cared for someone.

John snorted and gave a quirk of his lips.

'You're going to claim this never happened, when I'm well. I am delirious with pain, after all.'

The Detective gave him a rare, genuine smile. 'Of course I am, John…but for now I'll indulge your sentimental side.'

Slowly, John drifted off – confident in the fact that Sherlock would look after him.


Just a quick side note – not all of these will have visible conclusions. As above, obviously Sherlock will get him medical care when it's possible.