It took four hours and thirty-two minutes from the point they enter A&E until John was safely tucked away in a private hospital room. He didn't look like a hobbit any longer, rather, Sherlock mused, like a half put together mummy. The bandages were, however, much less appealing than the hobbit costume. The mummy look did not suit John at all.

Listening to the verdict Sherlock had felt slightly sickened. He couldn't imagine how John remained on his feet for two hours before he finally collapsed. He had got a broken collarbone, a fractured wrist three broken ribs and a hairline fracture to his sternum. His knee wasn't broken but there was a significant amount of muscle damage and something about a damaged tendon. The CT scan was showing minor swelling though no bleeding and John had so far been able to answer the nurses silly questions and the doctor didn't seem to concerned when he made John follow his finger and shone a bright little light in his eyes even though John had winced and scrunched his eyes shut at the latter. The bruises hardly seemed worth mentioning in the scheme of things and the doctor didn't even though they stood out, painting a stark relief against John's pale skin. They would heal with relatively little trouble after all.

Sherlock sat and waited as John slept. He'd already texted Lestrade to have the men responsible arrested. There had been no reply but seeing as it was the middle of the night Sherlock wasn't surprised. He was a little surprised that no one has tried to enforce visiting hours on him. They all seemed to accept him sitting in the chair next to John silently observing the comings and goings.

To his credit he was being very good. He had been unusually restrained with his deductions, especially considering his insides were boiling. He was furiously angry with the men who had dared to do this to John, more even than that though, he was angry with himself, angry that he had taken joy in seeing John come hope in this state. In his defence he hadn't known it was quite this bad, not until he had started getting John's clothes off and not even really then. Sherlock knew the force needed to fracture someone's sternum, that was some beating John must have taken.

It's five thirty in the morning when Sherlock's phone finally buzzed with Lestrade at the other end. He sounded worried, demanding more information and Sherlock directed him to the hospital in Ashford where the evil orcs had almost certainly gone to get their scrapes tended to.

John kept waking up, mumbling rather incoherently and then falling asleep again and Sherlock was growing increasingly bored. He considered going back to Baker Street but enough of John's social manners have rubbed off on him that he knows that when ones best friend is laid up in hospital, beaten to within an inch of his life it was customary to want to stay at his side, and despite the boredom he found he rather did want to stay.

For some reason that Sherlock didn't quite understand but John would probably be able to explain John wasn't allowed to eat breakfast. Instead a tired looking nurse who was doing the latest round of asking inane questions to ascertain the state of John's head set him up with a drip assuring him that he'd feel better once he'd got some nutrition in him. John grumbled that he would rather have tea and toast but the frown lines eased away somewhat when the drip had been feeding into his hand for a few minutes so the woman was probably right.

Slowly and hesitantly John told Sherlock the story of the previous night's disastrous reunion. The medication had made him even less coherent than usual and Sherlock couldn't help that his eyebrows shot up when John referred to his attackers as orcs and his rescuer as Gandalf. It would seem that even if John didn't want to be referred to as a hobbit himself he didn't mind treating others in the same way.

Before John had time to finish a doctor arrived with a ready smile and a cheery 'Good morning, how are you feeling today?'

'Like someone has given me a very generous dose of morphine. Can we hold back a bit on that?' John asked and the doctor chuckled.

'That's your call John. I'm doctor Abrahams. I'm here to see how you're doing.' The doctor continued and when John nodded he proceeded to prod and poke each injured limb in turn. He left John's broken arm to last and Sherlock had a feeling it was a conscious move to save the worst for last. He'd noticed how John had been eyeing the cast with a look that suggests it had personally offended him.

'Good, very good.' Dr Abrahams praised John as he successfully wiggled the toes of his injured leg without so much as a grimace. 'You'll be up and walking around in no time. Now your hand, can you touch your thumb to each of your fingers in turn, like this.' He continued, showing John his own long thin fingers and touching them one at a time with his thumb.

'No.' John said simply and his face went from gently smiling to a frustrated frown in the blink of an eye.

'Why not?' Abrahams asked gently.

'I already tried, I can't.' John said and there was something thick and uncomfortable about his voice.

'Ah, well, would you try again for me.' Abrahams smiled but the smile was less genuine than a minute ago.

John gave a short nod and looks down at the hand resting on his stomach. His annoyed scowl clearly showed how little he wanted to do this. Sherlock and Abrahams watched closely as John clenched his jaw and his thumb twitched. As the thumb made a jerky move to copy doctor Abrahams movement the fingers did not move at all.

Abrahams nodded slowly. 'Ok John, that's good.' He said and gently took hold of the hand without moving the cast that held it fixed. 'Now tell me if you can feel this.' He took out a needle and pricked John's fingers one at a time.

'Yes, yes, I think so, No.' John answered obediently. Both Sherlock and Dr Abrahams could see the concern reflected in John's glassy eyes.

'It doesn't mean anything' Abrahams reassured. 'It will almost certainly sort itself out when the swelling goes down. There's no need for concern yet.' He argued but John did not look convinced. Still he nodded his understanding. Abrahams gave his good shoulder a reassuring squeeze. 'I'll see you again tomorrow.' He confirmed Sherlock's suspicions that John would not be discharged that day before he exited the room, leaving behind a dense silence.

'Get out.' John snapped.

'John, really… you should…' Sherlock tried but John wasn't having it.

'No Sherlock, go get a coffee, I can't just now.' John's voice was strained, thick with supressed emotion. Sherlock didn't particularly think leaving him alone was the best of ideas, yet he got up and left. He did not however go to get a coffee. Instead he leaned his back against the door and listened to the long list of creative profanities faintly audible through the closed door. He convinced himself it wasn't really eavesdropping. After all the door was thoroughly closed, it was the thinness of the door and the volume of John's swearing that allowed him to listen to John using a highly colourful language to express his emotions.

He jumped somewhat when something crashed into the wall next to the door. By the sound of it most likely the mug in which a nurse had brought Sherlock tea during the night. Well, it was a better choice than John's mobile which would have been the other plausible object within John's reach.

Everything went very silent for a minute and Sherlock contemplated going back inside. Maybe John's tantrum had played itself out. Then and infinitely more disturbing noise came from inside the room. A thin wailing sound was followed by muffled sobs and Sherlock didn't need deductive powers to figure out that John was crying. Strong, stoic John who never cries is sobbing loud enough for the sound to travel through a closed door.