X : In which it is Hard to be Smug on Crutches

Sherlock heard voices quietly arguing outside his door about visiting after hours, but he couldn't discern to whom they belonged. He thought perhaps John had come back. When the dispute was won and the door opened, he couldn't have been more disappointed.

"Get out."

"Hello to you too, small brother."

"Leave, Mycroft."

God, if there was one person on the planet Sherlock didn't want to talk to right now… He strode over, ice blue eyes carefully taking in the cast, the blankets, the IV drip. He deposited a canvas bag neatly at the foot of the bed. "Fresh clothes, your toothbrush, a book, your mobile, and – which John insisted on including, goodness knows why – the flag pillow from your armchair. We packed it together." He explained.

"Why are you here?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "To see how you're doing. Why else?"

"As if you care." Sherlock scoffed.

"I don't", said Mycroft, perhaps a shade too defensively. "But I'd hate to think you'd got yourself into a mess – and it would upset Mother."

Sherlock reached for the bag and retrieved the flag pillow, pulling it onto his lap and hugging it sullenly like child. He glared hard at Mycroft. Mycroft glared back, but he could hardly compete. He turned towards the door. "Would you consent to text me tomorrow, if just to tell me how you are?"

"I would not. And you'll gather whatever information you please from one of your many cameras, no doubt."

Mycroft smiled. "Good night, Sherlock."

Sherlock was finding it hard to find sleep. For one thing, he was obliged to lie on his back because of the cast and the drip. As someone accustomed to curling up on his side, that alone was difficult. The pain was only somewhat deadened by the medication – never eradicated, really, but partially drowned out, like an high-pitched sound made bearable by a cloud of white noise. And all the little things that reminded him he wasn't at home – the smell of disinfectant, the IV cannula, the pulse monitor clipped to his index finger, – were keeping him up. Well, he could bury his face in the pillow, which smelled like home, and he couldn't do anything about the IV, but…

After earsplitting alarms, two nurses rushing to the room to find out why his heart had stopped, the reapplication of the pulse monitor, and a stern lecture, Sherlock was no closer to sleeping than before. He could tell he was nearly due for another dose of narcotics, too, because the painful throbbing sensation was creeping up again.

He must have fallen asleep somehow, because the next thing he knew he was jolted awake by the temperature probe sliding across his forehead again. He opened his eyes halfway.

"Sorry to wake you," said the nurse with a little smile. "Your numbers all look good, so I'm going to make a note here that they don't need to disturb your sleep next round."

He nodded his thanks while she changed the drip, and he welcomed the cool sensation of the medicine flowing into his veins. In just moments, the familiar sensation of heavy numbness redoubled, and Sherlock drifted off again.

"Are you awake, Sherlock?"

Sherlock had not been awake precisely, but close enough to it that the voice roused him. He didn't bother to open his eyes to grumble, "An idiotic question. How would I answer if I was not?"

He heard John's laugh and opened his eyes, sitting up as much as he could. John was cheerful, but looked pale and rather as if he hadn't got much sleep. Sherlock was perturbed by that, though he couldn't fathom why. Was his happiness somehow tied to John's well-being? What a ludicrous idea.

"Anyway," John was saying, "I know it's early, but I wanted to check in on you before I go to work."

Oh, right. It was Monday. Darn. "What time is it?"

"Seven thirty. Do you want some breakfast?"

"Ugh. Hospital food."

"Ah, see, that's what you've got me for!" John chuckled, producing a paper plate bundled in saran wrap from his bag. "Though I can't take all the credit. Mrs. Hudson baked them."

Sherlock lifted the corner of the plastic and immediately smelled blueberries. They'd packed him three blueberry scones and a little dish of jam and clotted cream to spread on them.

"And the coffee's actually from the cafeteria, but I don't think that counts as 'hospital food'," John continued, setting a Styrofoam cup and two packets of sugar on his armrest.

"You…you didn't have to do this." Mumbled Sherlock guiltily as he nibbled on a scone. It was still warm.

"Don't mention it." John shrugged. "Do you need anything?" Sherlock shook his head. "Alright, well, there's plenty of people around to ask if you do. See you this evening — at home, hopefully!" John patted his wrist in a mildly annoying way and disappeared.

Sherlock sighed and pulled his book out of the canvas bag that Mycroft had left. It sufficed to amuse him while he ate until Dr. Morris and Emily arrived. The nurse removed the IV cannula and slid the needle from his hand, swiftly pressing a tiny round plaster over the puncture, while the doctor examined Sherlock's leg and cast with a thoughtful nod. They offered him oral painkillers, which he keenly accepted, and talked of discharging him by lunchtime. A physical therapist came in an hour later to teach him how to walk on crutches. It took Sherlock a few tries to get the hang of it, but soon he was striding up and down the corridor with the crutches thwacking against the linoleum floor. By lunchtime, he was more than ready to go home.

John was busy again. He had been tired before he started, and all day he didn't seem able to catch a break. Flu season had apparently decided to start with a bang, he thought to himself, because he hadn't had a moment to breathe since his shift began, and soon he was fighting an atrocious headache. Against his better judgment, John had decided to leave his mobile on. He was prepared to ignore any number of pointless distractions from Sherlock, but as it happened, he only received four texts throughout the entire day.

Everyone in agreement that it is unwise to send S home with prescription narcotics. Untrustworthy. They want him on an ibuprofen regimen instead. Thoughts? MH

Sounds like a plan. –JW

On my way home.
SH

That's great, Sherlock. But tell me, am I going to have to physically collect and hide every coat hanger, ruler and pencil in the flat, or can you promise me you're not going to try to scratch under your cast? –JW

Hahaha.
SH

And then, just as he was hanging up his lab coat,

At Motor Museum with Lestrade & co. Come as soon as possible.
SH

John grinned.

The pain was manageable. The bone was healing. All that remained of the original flu was a lingering cough that he was self-medicating with copious amounts of honeyed tea, and at last, John had arrived. He'd got a cab straight from work the the museum, that wonderful man. Sherlock's content was complete. And now, to top things off, he turned dramatically to the expectant officers with a trace of a grin and announced,

"He's dead."

"How can you possibly—" Lestrade spluttered.

"He's dead, body's probably at his sister's house. Look at the state of this keyboard, it's obvious the lady with the raincoat killed him."

Sherlock looked tried to look smug, even though it wasn't quite the same between the bright green cast that broadcasted his human weakness to the world and the lack of an astonished voice to cry, "Amazing!". In fact, Sherlock wasn't entirely sure where John had disappeared to at the moment.

"Oh, pick your jaws up of the floor, won't you? I'm confident you boys can take it from here. If you'll excuse me, I'm off to find my blogger."

And with that, Sherlock left, crutches thwacking against the floor, and thinking happily that everything was back to normal.

The End!

Thank you all BUNCHES for your readership, reviews and support, they mean a lot to me! As I mentioned at the top, only a short epilogue remains (and I've had this planned since the beginning, but some of you smarty pants' have already guessed or hinted at what it's about)