A/N: Actually, I had another idea besides this one for this series, but I wanted to do a little something extra before that bit. Not sure when that will be written or posted, but I had this for the meantime. :) Enjoy :)

The day started off with a sudden epiphany from Sherlock which evolved into an invigorating chase. They split up near the end, with John sneaking around the back while Sherlock thrust himself in the suspect's path. John tackled the thug from behind and used his own length of copper pipe against him in a chokehold. Sherlock texted Lestrade one-handed while congratulating John on his outstanding use of brute force. Once his phone slipped back into his pocket, he crossed his arms over his chest in a way he hoped looked natural.

The attempt was unsuccessful.

John didn't say anything until their suspect had been properly cuffed and installed in the back of a panda car. Perhaps he had noticed Sherlock's arms were less crossed and more cradled, or that Sherlock was not accompanying his deductions with his usual vigorous gestures.

"Did you take a blow to the arm from that pipe, Sherlock?" John interrupted. Sherlock glared in John's direction and Lestrade blinked and stepped back.

"I'm fine. It's just a deep bruise."

"It's a deep bruise when the x-ray says it's a deep bruise. A&E, now." John used his army captain voice as much now as he did in the army, it seemed. Sherlock knew it was useless to argue.

Several hours and five angry medical professionals later (not counting John), the pair were ensconced back home at Baker Street, where Sherlock tipped his coat off his shoulders and onto the floor. John picked it up and hung it before taking off his own and making tea without a word. Sherlock flopped into his chair with a pained grimace.

"Bored, John. Cluedo?"

"Neither of us is fit enough for another game of Cluedo," John answered drily from the kitchen. "Besides you've just solved a case. I haven't even thought of a blog title for it, so you can't be bored already."

"Hospital was tedious."

"I know, but you've fractured your ulna. You were lucky not to need surgery to reset the bone or clean out fragments."

Sherlock hmphed at that and sulked while John gently maneuvered a pillow under Sherlock's temporary cast.

"Comfy?"

"No. Bring me my violin. And tea. And those chocolate Hob-Nobs I know you've hidden away behind the kitchen towels."

John fetched everything without complaint before settling in his own chair across from Sherlock's.

"No safety lecture?"

"Do you want to hear it?"

"No." Sherlock did not like to be told that he'd been careless or reckless or ought to have told John the plan or waited, but John's silence on the matter was disconcerting. Then again, he never could fathom the man. He'd surprised him in so many ways already.

"Well, then."

Sherlock drank his tea but only managed one and a half biscuits before he began to randomly pluck at the strings of his violin, which he had hugged to his chest with his good arm as if it was a teddy bear. In a sudden motion, he jumped up, propped his violin in his seat, and sat on the sofa. A moment later, he'd stretched out on his back, rolling to his side shortly after. An irritated groan followed this last movement.

"My arm hurts, John."

"I know, Sherlock. I'm sorry, but I can't give you anything stronger than ibuprofen. I'm sure in a couple of days you'll be banging around the kitchen knocking over beakers because you've forgotten to account for your cast."

Sherlock grunted in offense.

"You could try and sleep a little. It will be better for you if you rest."

"I can't rest, John! I can't get comfortable at all."

"Okay. Okay. How about this: pajamas, Chinese delivery, and a DVD?"

"I hate telly, John," Sherlock grumped.

"We've a series of Inspector Lewis we haven't watched yet. You could try to beat your record."

Sherlock was torn. He did like to watch mysteries and announce the killer as early as possible. When John was feeling indulgent, he'd allow Sherlock to skip ahead the moment he'd made his pronouncement and see if he was right. His current record was reducing over four hours to a mere twenty-three minutes.

"Very well."

"Do you need help changing your clothes?"

"Of course not," Sherlock snapped, heading to his room. A few moments later, he wished he hadn't been so hasty. He had to find a scissors so he could remove his cast from the remains of his tight-fitting shirt; they'd only sliced open the sleeve at the hospital, leaving him a decent amount of shirt to cover himself. The trousers were easier to remove one-handed, but he did so enjoy John's hands on his fly even when John was being polite and professional. He returned a few minutes later, just as John hung up the phone, dressing gown only half-on because just pulling on the tee-shirt over his cast had been horrible. John didn't say anything about the dangling sleeve or the untied drawstring of his pajama trousers.

John went to change out of his jeans. When he returned, he was wearing pajama bottoms and a vest and a soft jumper Sherlock had bought him last Christmas instead of his terry robe. He also had brought down a duvet and pillows. Sherlock had been trying to make himself comfortable on the sofa with various sprawled positions and their floppy Union Jack pillow, but was having no luck.

"You can lean against me. That should help."

Sherlock gave a doubtful grunt in reply.

John sat on the sofa, a little slumped with his sock feet up on the coffee table. Sherlock examined him and the pillows and sat leaning back against John's shoulder. "No." He stood. Sherlock tried again, lying down on the sofa with his head on John's lap and his arm propped on a pillow.

"Insufferable." Every position seemed to make his arm throb more intolerably.

After ten minutes of frustration and worsening discomfort, Sherlock found his position. He sprawled his top half across a combination of John's chest, lap, and a pillow, his knees against the back of the sofa. The Union Jack pillow rested on John's shoulder with Sherlock's temporary cast propped atop it. With his arm well above his heart, the throbbing eased somewhat.

"You won't be able to see the television."

"Don't care," Sherlock mumbled where his face was pressed into the soft weave of John's sweater. "Will solve crime by ear." He had no real intention now of watching television. His attention was much better occupied by examining the fibers of John's soft jumper at close range, smelling their smell and the faded remains of John's aftershave and feeling the warmth of John's chest against his cheek.

"Okay." John started the first DVD with the remote, tugging the duvet over as much of them as he could without displacing Sherlock. John shifted just a little bit more to make himself comfortable, curling one arm around Sherlock's ribs.

It was most pleasant. Sherlock listened to John's steady heartbeat, shutting out the voices from the television. John's warmth enveloped him, flowed through him. John's free hand stroked through Sherlock's curls, each fingertip creating a pleasant tingle in Sherlock's scalp. For a brief second Sherlock even considered that he might not ever move from this spot, before realism and reason reared their ugly heads.

Mrs. Hudson found them like that an hour later when she came up the steps to scold them for ignoring the delivery boy ringing the bell. The reminder that she was not their housekeeper lost most of its snap when she took in Sherlock's cast and his opulent sprawl over John's person.

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock was sleeping and I didn't want to disturb him."

"Oh, as long as you don't make this a habit, it's fine this time. I'll just put this in the fridge for later, then, shall I?"

"Ta, Mrs. Hudson. Couldn't ask for a better landlady than you."

"Oh, my boys." She couldn't help but smile indulgently and leave them to their cuddle.