Splints
"Don't be ridiculous, John."
The good doctor looked out the sitting room window, silent. He didn't want to argue.
"You were perfectly fine yesterday."
John pushed the curtain open with his wrist. Well, with the splint on his wrist.
"You weren't fine yesterday."
John winced at a twinge. It wasn't pain exactly, he wouldn't call it that. It was just a lingering ache, something that made him stop, rub his wrists, move on.
"It's nothing, love. A little overuse injury. Leave it."
Sherlock doesn't do a whole lot of things any more, things he was peacock-strutting proud of before. Watch me go for days without food, sleep, comfort…
(…a human touch, warmth, peace.)
The good detective stood behind his lover, gently cupped a splinted wrist in each big hand.
He doesn't do so many things any more because they were idiotic things that hadn't made him strong, but riddled him with cracks and fissures, turned him foul-mouthed and short-tempered…
"You idiot."
…so when John does it, does what he used to do, hiding hurt, pushing through pain, well Sherlock wants to shake him, shout, demand—take more care of this man I love.
"My ridiculous little hero. My tiny, terrible love." (He's not always good at the endearments, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.)
They both saw John's lop-sided grin reflected in rain-splattered glass. (He's a sucker for these strange, scatter-shot sentiments, is Dr. John Watson.)
"The crime's gone as lackluster as this blasted sky. We'll go to the south of France. I'll wine you, dine you. Buy you a tiny red swimsuit, then strip it off under a ramshackle pier."
John's grin grew, and Sherlock's hands held more gently still.
They didn't end up going to France. But John did get that swimsuit. And all the rest. And more. So very much more.
This is for the lovely a Purrculier1 and her achy self. I hope this wee fic dulls the pain just a bit, my dear.