Summary: On a trip to a mountain range to capture a large group of criminals, Sherlock and John come into a bit of trouble when John can't jump the length of a small chasm and breaks several bones.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, only the specific plotlines that I write. All rights go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss.

A/N: Please review/follow/favorite! I would appreciate it so much!
I'm American and I've never been to London, so I try to keep it as British as possible, but I apologise in advance for all of the American tendencies that might be in the writing.

Thanks to DisappearingKangaroo, who gave me this idea in a review! :)

"I hope you know where you're going," John said to Sherlock, who was trekking ahead of him by several paces. "I know you said that you're sure - but honestly! We're in the middle of nowhere!"

"Of course I'm sure," Sherlock said, pulling his coat collar up. "I know that we're within a mile of the poisoners' base. All we have to do is look for a relatively large hideout, which will most likely be in the inconspicuous shape of a log cabin."

They were searching for a hideout and then planning on texting Lestrade their location for him to arrive and arrest the criminals. Lestrade was unaware of Sherlock's plan, but Sherlock asserted that they would most likely not get hurt, because the criminals they were dealing with appeared to lack weapons, and it wasn't as though they were infiltrating the base, either. The criminals had many poisons, however, because the group had already killed three small towns by poisoning the water supply. The case fascinated Sherlock because he had never seen anything like it, even though it was rather simple to solve.

Unfortunately, the hideout was quite in the middle of nowhere, and on the mountaintops, too. Sherlock and John had to take a long hike just to get to the tops of the mountain range, and now they were wandering blindly on top in search of a hideout. It was rocky; large boulders stacked upon one another made the journey more difficult because it required a substantial amount of climbing.

To John's relief, Sherlock suddenly said triumphantly, "There's the hideout, John!" John followed his friend's gaze to where there was a small cabin in the distance, far away.

"We have to get closer," Sherlock said. "It's still a solid two miles away, I'd say. Lestrade will have to infiltrate with haste, so if we can give him the most accurate coordinates possible, that would be best." He said this in a flat voice, and John realized that the detective was already disappointed that the only mystery left in this case was over. "Let's get at least within… a hundred and twenty metres of the hideout."

John agreed and they took off towards the cabin that was glowing in the distance. He wasn't quite sure how Sherlock knew that this was the hideout, but trusted him, so struggled over the large boulders to follow.

However, they came to a large gap between two parts of the mountain. It was as though the rock had simply split into two and drifted metres apart, leaving a dark, deep chasm in the middle.

"Geez," John groaned. "How long do you think it'll take to walk around this?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Walk around? John, it'd waste time to walk around - at least twenty minutes! We jump it," he said matter-of-factly.

"Jump it?" John asked, his voice an octave higher than usual. "We can't jump that!"

Sherlock frowned. "It's a bit more than four metres, I'd say. High schoolers doing long jump can jump that far."

"Not all of them!"

"Well, many can. John! Don't be slow! Here, I'll go first." The detective measured up the chasm before taking a step back, running forward, and leaping over it. His coat sailed behind him dramatically and John was reminded forcibly of a superhero's cape.

"Alright, John. Don't be slow. It's bothersome," Sherlock said from other side of the chasm, a scowl on his face now. "I hardly tolerate you being slow mentally."

"Shut up, Sherlock," John said. "I'm coming." He sized up the chasm. It looked awfully far and deep.

"If you were coming, you wouldn't be immobile," intoned Sherlock's voice.

John gritted his teeth and sprinted forward. As soon as he leaped off of the edge of the cliff, he knew that it wasn't going to be enough - there was a moment when he was in the air, both cursing Sherlock's long legs and thinking Ahhhhhhhh! before he collided painfully with the other side of the rock on the edge of chasm, scrabbling at the rock for something to grab onto. There wasn't anything, and as though in slow motion, he could feel himself dropping like a stone into the chasm.

He landed with a crack. That wasn't good. Fortunately, he he hadn't hit his head - that was most important.

Then - he swore - pain stabbed at his legs. It was like a cannon firing at a constant rate, spreading bullets through every ligament of his legs, his right in particular.

John looked up; the top of the chasm was about ten feet up. His legs were squished in between where the rock on either side of the chasm came together; it had stopped his fall. That also meant that he had landed on the rock in a near vertical position and his legs were bleeding profusely from scraping the rocks severely as he stopped. Blinding, sharp pain stabbed at his right leg again, and he passed out.

"John!" came Sherlock's voice. "Are you alright!?" The detective's voice was on the verge of panic. John opened his eyes; he must have passed out only for thirty seconds.

"JOHN!" Sherlock was yelling into the chasm.

John looked up to see Sherlock's curly head peering down into the chasm. He meant to reassure his friend but all that came out was "Ow."

"John!" Sherlock repeated, slightly calmer this time. "Did you faint?"

"That tends to happen with lots of pain."

"You're hurt!?" came the panicked response.

"I fell into a bloody chasm!" John exploded. "You and your - your stupid - long legs!" He paused for a moment, considering Sherlock's frantic state. "Sorry, mate. Just -" he winced again - "Just hurting a bit. It's not your fault."

Sherlock's voice was more steady this time. "Alright - can you hoist yourself out of the two rocks that you're stuck between?" He had already switched his emotions off like they were a faucet, John noted, but didn't dwell on it for too long because his legs were in so much pain. He placed his hands on the rock and heaved upward, crying out immediately and leaning back into his original position.

"Um, no," he said, breathing heavily. "I've broken my right leg, I think. Ah - it hurts, it hurts a lot!" He struggled to not let his eyes dampen - he was a soldier, after all, and he couldn't let something as common as broken bones make him cry. But this hurt. A lot.

"I've already contacted Lestrade, John," came Sherlock's voice from above. "He'll come with a helicopter and they can pull you out."

"Great," John muttered, unsure if Sherlock could hear him. The thought of Scotland Yard spending their time hoisting him out of a chasm that he couldn't jump was frankly mortifying.

"John, I'm sorry. I'm very sorry," came Sherlock's baritone voice, this time uncertain. "I feel… responsible for your injury. I actually feel horrible, in fact."

"It's not your fault," John said, clutching at his leg and trying to not let out any indications in his voice that he was near tears. It was just a broken leg, he told himself, but that didn't make the pain subside.

"Yes, but… John, I pressured you into trying to jump across!"

John leaned to the left slightly, and it eased the pressure from his right leg. "Yeah, but Sherlock, I'm an adult. You didn't pressure me into anything. I didn't have to agree to it. It's my fault, for a lack of better judgment. Don't blame yourself."

John wasn't sure why he wasn't angry towards Sherlock (after all, despite what he said, Sherlock had been rather rude at the prospect of walking around the chasm), but because the self-proclaimed sociopath was expressing regret and kindness, he had no inclination to be bitter towards him.

Late the next day, John had been fitted with crutches and was walking out of the hospital with Sherlock, who had accompanied him straight from the helicopter.

"Better than the cane, yeah?" John asked positively as they took the elevator down to the entrance. It had been a blurry and miserable past twenty-four hours, involving x-rays, splints, and extremely painful treatment to his broken bone in his leg. He had found out that the bone had broken through the skin - that was why it had hurt so intensely.

"John, there's a step there," Sherlock warned suddenly, flinging his arm out as though to stop John from tripping over the step.

"Sherlock, I can see the step. I didn't lose my eyesight when I broke my leg," John laughed. "Thanks, though."

Sherlock fidgeted. "If you fall, you'll worsen your leg by quite a bit."

"I won't fall. Sherlock, you can't be this cautious for the entire six weeks that I'll be on the crutches, you know."

"Yes, I can," Sherlock said automatically.

John thought for a moment. "I guess I'll have to miss out on the next several cases for the time being," he said, disappointed.

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Oh, please, John, you're still coming with me. I'll just have you wait on a bench or something while I chase a criminal."

"Thanks," John said sarcastically.

"No problem," Sherlock said. "I'd be lost without my Boswell."

Yay for cheesy endings! So this will be my last story until 7/23 unless I somehow get a free hour with wifi while camping. Which probably won't happen! But I have an amazing plotline coming up next, so stay tuned! Don't forget to leave a review and favorite/follow! Also, I'd be grateful for suggestions for an injury/experiment/illness for either Sherlock or John. Thanks for reading, and again thanks to DisappearingKangaroo for this idea!