John was woken by the sound of his mobile ringing. His movements clumsy with sleep, he reached for his phone, automatically fumbling for the button to reject the call and silence the device.

Then his look fell on the caller's ID and he felt like being thrown into icy water. 'Sherlock Holmes' it read.

"Sherlock?" He stumbled out of his bed. "Sherlock, are you all right?"

John didn't know what time is was exactly, but it was still dark.

"I want painkillers."

Sherlock's voice sounded crotchety and John felt his heart rate calm a little.

"I'll be there in a sec", John said whilst rushing down the stairs. He silently cursed himself for deciding to sleep in his own bedroom instead of somewhere closer to Sherlock's room.

Sherlock was lying on the bed just as John had left him but his expression looked pained.

"I can't sleep", he spat, shooting John an angry look as though it was his fault.

John sighed. "You know Mycroft doesn't approve of giving you too much pain medication.

"And so do I", he added, as he saw Sherlock opening his mouth to protest.

Sherlock looked at him with wide pleading eyes and John felt his resistance melting.

"Okay", he sighed. "Where are you hurt?"

"Why do I have to elaborate? I'm in pain, so you give me painkillers!"

John shook his head. "No, you're used to be an addict. I'm not going to offer you any drug based on an overall feeling of pain. It is normal to hurt when you have broken several bones."

Sherlock looked away making a pout.

"If you're not going to help me, you can leave alone!"

"I AM trying to help you! If you convince me that the level of pain is nothing you can bear I'll give you the pain meds."

"All right", Sherlock snapped. "My collarbone and my rips hurt when I breathe and when I adjust my position just a very slightly. My ankle hurts too but it more like a constant ache being magnified whenever I accidentally move in my sleep. It has woken me four times already and takes ages to wear off!"

John studied Sherlock expression closely; he could spot real despair on the detective's face. "All right," he sighed, "I'll give you some painkillers and a sleeping pill."

Relief crossed Sherlock's face and John felt a little bad for questioning his flatmate was in pain.


John spent the rest of the night in Sherlock's room. The fact Sherlock had had to call him still shocked him, even though the Detective probably would've done the same if John had been in the living room or comparable close by.

The Detective's sleep appeared to be deep and he didn't wake another time what John was quite thankful for.

When Sherlock woke early in the morning, he seemed to feel rested and filled with a concerning amount of energy.

He insisted on getting up alone but John wouldn't allow that. They had an argument, which was finally won by John as Sherlock's attempts to get up on his own failed.

Walking was still difficult for the detective – how could it not be with a splinted leg?- but his movements had gotten faster and more determined and when he finally reached the couch after a short visit to the bathroom he wasn't as exhausted as the day before.

"I don't want to lie down again!", he snapped at John when the doctor arranged the pillows so Sherlock could put the injured leg on them. "I feel fine!"

"You will stop feeling fine very soon when you don't elevate the ankle properly." John explained and reached for the injured limb.

"No!" Sherlock made a pout and shifted away from John.

"Sherlock!"

They hold each other's gazes, a silent battle being fought.

"I don't want to just lie here all day", Sherlock mumbled, but allowed John to help him lie down. "It's boring!"

"You could watch TV", John suggested.

"TV is the manifestation of boringness!"

"Then, read something. I'm sure Lestrade or Mycroft can organize some files."

"But I wouldn't even be able to confront the culprit with my deductions! Imagine Anderson would take the price for my work or something…

Wait! Where are you going?"

Sherlock had just noticed, John grabbed his jacket.

"To work", the doctor said, adjusting his collar.

"You want to leave me here alone? Like an abandoned lion cub in the desert?"

"An abandoned lion cub? There does this come from?
Anyways, you're not alone. Mrs Hudson's is downstairs and Lestrade said he could come over, if you need company."

"But you would be gone." Sherlock's looked at him with wide eyes and John couldn't help indeed being reminded of an abandoned cub.

"I told you already that I would go to work. And now promise you won't do anything stupid, so I can leave."

Sherlock just stared at the ceiling huffily.

"Come on! It's just some hours. And I promise we can do something you like afterwards... Another round of Cluedo, for example? You could sit up all time and I won't complain about you blaming the victim..."

Sherlock didn't seem very content with the arrangement but finally nodded. John let out a sigh of relief. "And you promise you won't try to do anything that will have bad effects on your health?"

There was another nod and John left the flat wondering if this promise was really something he could count on.


John should've known it was too early to leave Sherlock alone. It was just past noon when he received the call of a Mrs Hudson drenched in tears.

It took him some time to calm her down and to figure out what had happened: Apparently Sherlock had tried to walk and fallen, but she couldn't tell for sure as she couldn't enter the flat as she'd left her key inside when she had brought Sherlock some tea.

When John asked her how she'd known Sherlock fell she said she had heard a rumbling sound and when she asked if everything was okay Sherlock had told her to leave him alone.

The last part of the statement calmed John. If Sherlock was in pain he would've probably made a big fuss about getting painkillers and the fact he answered showed he wasn't unconscious.

Nevertheless, John abandoned his work instantly and rushed to Baker Street.

He found Sherlock lying right next to the couch. Apparently his tries to walk had ended before he'd even gotten up.

"You know, you have scared the hell out of Mrs Hudson?" John asked, as he lifted Sherlock to the couch again.

"I just wanted to go to the fridge", Sherlock grumbled.

"Sherlock! You have a sever ankle fracture, which is not even in a proper cast yet and you can only use one crutch because you've broken your arm. How can you even think about walking without someone there who can help you if you fall?"

The Detective simply glared.

John took a deep breath and ran his hand through his hair.

"Have you at least not hurt yourself when pulling this stupid stunt?"

Sherlock shook his head and John examined him quickly with the same result. Only the swelling of the ankle was a little worse than when he left, but this was probably because the joint hadn't been elevated properly while Sherlock had lain on the floor.

Still John decided to stay with him for the rest of the day and he called the surgery to tell them he was taking another week off.


The following days were hell. Sherlock's mute was bad and constantly changing. He complained about everything and no matter how hard John tried there wasn't a way to please him. Worst was eating. John who admittedly wasn't a great cook spent hours in the kitchen only to find the food rejected by Sherlock.

"It tastes wrong!" Sherlock exclaimed and pushed the dish away with so much force it went over the edge of the living-room table. John reached forward but couldn't catch it before the food was spilled all over the carpet.

"Was this really necessary?" he asked while he tried to pick up the warm and sticky rice.

The Detective didn't answer but had another request. "The position of my leg is uncomfortable. Can you shift it a little to the right please?"

"I'll just finish cleaning this up, all right?" John replied through gritted teeth. It was the third time he had to clean the carpet after Sherlock had shoved a dish of food on it.

"No, my leg needs to be shifted now! It starts to hurt!"

John rolled his eyes and changed direction, walking Sherlock instead of the kitchen. He grabbed Sherlock's leg and moved it a little to the right.

"Ouch! You're being rough!"

John ignored Sherlock and turned to the carpet again. The sauce had been dark and would probably leave a urgly spot.

"Hey, I said you were rough! You hurt me!"

"Sherlock, I have only done what you asked for!"

"You could have been more gently though..." The detective made a pout.

John took a deep breath to calm himself. "Okay, I'm sorry. I should've been gentler. Satisfied?"

"You don't mean it..."

"Sherlock! I have only moved the your injured leg – the one you've recently tried to walk on, as I might point out- a little roughly. Be sure even if it might have hurt a little it didn't influence the healing process in any way."

"Okay", Sherlock grumbled, "I might forgive you if you bring me a slice of pizza."

"Sherlock, we've phoned almost every delivery service in London during the last few days and you've taken no more than a bite of the pizza!"

"Because it didn't taste the way I expected it!"

"Then you should probably reconsider your expectations!"

Sherlock glared, then he mumbled "All right, I promise I will eat at least a quarter of the pizza no matter how awful it tastes."

"A half" John insisted, but already reached for the phone.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "All right, three eighths."

While they waited for the pizza, John tried to read a new paper article about the newest reforms the government planned for the military. He had wanted to read it for the last two days, yet he'd just finished the first paragraph when Sherlock said: "I want to have a cigarette."

John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, we've discussed this already. Smoking is not good for your bones. Furthermore, I don't see why you need the nicotine anyway. You complain there isn't enough to think about and if you think faster you will have yourself occupied for even less time."

"I'm on painkillers, I don't have to think rationally!", Sherlock snapped.

"In fact, you're not on painkillers. You didn't have any for two days."

Sherlock looked to the ceiling and John frowned.

"Wait? You didn't have any, right?"

Sherlock didn't answer but suddenly seemed to be quite interested in the structure of the couch.

"Sherlock!"

"Well, I might have asked Mrs Hudson for one or two."

"One or two?"

"Three or four..."

John just kept his piercing look fixed on Sherlock.

"Okay, there were twelve in total!"

John sighed. This explained why Sherlock had stopped asking him for painkillers and why he didn't wince when his injured limbs were moved.

"You know you shouldn't take this too easy. Painkillers are something you can get easily addicted to and if you're sedated too much you might not realize, if you do any further damage to your limbs when moving."

"Yes, Mycroft!" Sherlock snapped.

"Sherlock, I'm not doing this to annoy you. If you are in pain, I will give you something but I'd rather know if you are on drugs."

John frowned. "Speaking of Mycroft; I haven't heard from him ever since your first day in hospital... Has he phoned you or anything?"

"No, fortunately not."

"Strange... I would've bet that he would check on you all time."

Sherlock shrugged. "Probably he talks to the doctors in the hospital. Why bother to see me if can have files?" He spat the last word.

"But the doctors didn't see you for the last five days. Their knowledge is hardly up to date."

"Maybe he trusts you to keep from doing anything I shouldn't."

"Yeah, probably..." John said but couldn't help wondering about the lack of Mycroft's interest in his brother. "By the way, as you probably know your surgery is scheduled for tomorrow. You won't be allowed breakfast so you should really consider eating the pizza..."

Sherlock scowled. "I don't think I feel hungry for pizza anymore..."

John rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to make you anything else!"

"Really? Not a little steak even?"

"A steak? No!"

"But it has proteins and calcium which would be good for my bones..."

"Sherlock, I don't know how many times I told you but I will no longer cook anything what you don't eat anyway. You didn't even drink the banana juice I brought you on…" He paused to clear his throat. "…that day..."

Sherlock's expression went hard. John knew very well Sherlock didn't want to be reminded on the day he'd wetted himself but now the damage was already done.

"You didn't bring me banana juice. It was banana milk", Sherlock said quietly and John couldn't help feeling a little bad. No matter how infuriating Sherlock was, he still had to consider what the situation was like for the Detective. He was almost immobilized, had to rely on him for everything and probably his bones were hurting even with the painkillers.

"All right... You wanted a steak?"

Sherlock nodded and John got up to practise his poor cooking skills once again.


I hope you liked the story so far and I'd be really glad if you left a review to tell what I can improve and what you liked!