Thanks for the prompt—keep 'em coming!
Here's the thing. It was common enough for Sherlock to get sick—he skipped enough meals and stormed into enough rain showers to make sure of that. When it came to injuries, it was routine to face pulled muscles, scarred skin, and marbled bruises from pushing his body's limits.
But any injuries actually worth fussing about were rarely the result of case work. When Sherlock's arm was all but shredded, John let him blame a twisted (and fictitious) criminal mastermind instead of forcing him to confess that he'd fallen off his bed into a stash of glass tubes and bottles. When Sherlock's nose was broken, John let everyone believe that it was a fistfight and not a neighborhood ball gone, unfortunately, off course.
But this time? No.
John glanced out the hospital room door, keeping his voice low. "Don't cause a scene here. Please. You're being juvenile. Just use the crutches."
Sherlock didn't move from his spot in the bed and stuck out his tongue.
"Sherlock—"
"Just let me walk," he whined.
"You do know what broken ankle means, right? I don't have to teach you vocabulary too?"
Sherlock crinkled his nose. His pain medication made his face feel numb, and he was slightly aware that his walls were down a bit. "I don't know how to use them."
"You don't know how to use them," John repeated, his voice softening. He smiled as Sherlock was distracted by a fly. "That's not an excuse, though. I'll teach you, though it's not even much of a lesson. You just put them under your arms and let them take the pressure of your weight."
"The nurse smells like old books. And pineapple."
"Okay, concentrate for me. Come on."
"Did you know Lestrade wears the same shoes as my dad? No one notices, but I notice. I bet it's…a conspiracy. Or something."
"How many pills did you take, Sherlock?"
"I took today's, and tomorrow's. And Thursday's. I wouldn't have remembered to take them. Initiative, John!"
"It's Friday."
"I'll remember Monday thru Wednesday. But not Thursday." He frowned. "Wait…"
John gently took the bottle from the bed and put it in his coat pocket, only after checking the prescription to make sure he didn't need to run for a stomach pump. "Let me worry about your medicine, I'll remind you. Why don't we forget the crutches? A wheelchair might be better for you right now."
The detective ran a hand through his hair, considering. "Okay. I hope that guy knows what he did to me."
"What guy?" John asked, lowering the detective into the chair.
"The suspect we were chasing. That iron rod really—"
John rolled his eyes. "Really? Even drugged up you're able to fabricate a story? No, not this time. You caused this yourself. No business running down those steps in the rain, Sherlock."
He looked down and ran his hands over the gown. "I had to get to the shops before they closed."
"Because?" John wasn't hiding his grin anymore.
"I needed sulfur for this experiment that would demonstrate—"
"Sherlock…"
He huffed. "You said if there wasn't milk when you got home I'd 'get mine.' I forgot until I looked at the clock and saw I only had a few minutes left." He leaned forward, squinting his arms. "But don't tell John."
John laughed. "Alright. I won't tell John."