He still took cases, but it wasn't the same. He got shot at more, and even got shot. Broke his hand and no one made him go to the hospital.
So he didn't.
It wasn't until a week or so later that Lestrade noticed him wincing at a crime scene and drove him straight to A&E and waited with him to make sure he got it taken care of.
Sherlock didn't even bother sawing off the cast early. What was the point? This cast had no creative drawings on it, no signatures in a doctor's messy scrawl, no notes to remind him to eat that he couldn't get away from for weeks on end.
Some days Sherlock took the piece of his glass slide out and examined it. He didn't do anything with it.
Mostly. There was just the one time when he pressed it into his leg, just to see what it would do. It welled up red and trickled down the side of his thigh, surprisingly warm for someone who couldn't seem to feel anything, who some days wondered if he was more dead than alive.
He didn't like that he did that, so hid it away in John's room.