As they went down the stairs, Sherlock's mobile buzzed. He fished it out of his pocket and glanced at it quickly. As they stepped outside Sherlock hailed a cab and he finally spoke. "Bart's, please". John looked surprised.
"Think about it, John. I just came back from the dead only three weeks ago. If I go into any old A&E and want to be seen, there will be questions. And I don't want or need questions. At Bart's I can be seen by a special doctor of Mycroft's choosing who can be trusted to be discreet."
John said nothing but nodded as the cab made its way through the streets. He wasn't a big fan of that hospital, for obvious reasons, and he was sure Sherlock wasn't either. But Sherlock was right, if they didn't want too many questions, doing what Mycroft said, even though he seemed to be part of this particular problem, made sense. Well, as much sense as the Holmes brothers ever made.
When they neared the hospital Sherlock leaned forward and spoke to the driver quietly, and they went down a back alley and under a ramp and parked in a dark corner. Sherlock got out and John did the same, waiting until Sherlock finished his transaction. Then Sherlock lead the way to the nearest door, where upon opening, they were met by Anthea who as usual was engrossed in her mobile.
There was awkward silence in the short elevator ride. John didn't even try to chat up Mycroft's right hand girl, and Sherlock was looking like the pain was finally catching up with him. His face was pained and he was trying to cradle his right hand but not actually touching it. He noticed John watching him. "I'm fine, John. It's just a simple injury." He went back to staring straight ahead.
The lift doors opened into a nondescript hallway, then they were led down to a room. Inside were two chairs, some x ray equipment and a very ordinary doctor sitting at a table waiting for them. As soon as they were inside, Anthea disappeared and the doctor spoke. "Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson." Sherlock sat quietly and held out his hand. As the doctor worked in complete silence, John was actually wishing someone would talk, or say something, anything. Even Sherlock was managing to keep his deductions to himself for a change, which must mean something, John thought.
"Over here, Mr. Holmes." The doctor moved over to the x ray equipment and positioned Sherlock's hand where he needed it. After 4 exposures John looked over at Sherlock who was now starting to look even more pale than usual. John opened his mouth to mention it to the doctor, when the man stood up quickly and snapped his file folder shut. "I'll be back shortly," he said, walking out of the room, leaving John and Sherlock to wait.
Sherlock slid down in the chair and sulked again. John had had enough of the surly silence. "You could have asked for something for pain, you know. I'm sure he would have given you something."
"I'm sure there's something back at home you can give me. I'll be fine until then." Sherlock pushed his hair out of his face with his good hand. He avoided any eye contact with John.
John sighed. "Are we going to talk about what happened earlier?" Sherlock turned to look at John and opened his mouth when the doctor came back with a cart stocked with supplies. .
The doctor was blunt. "Your hand is broken, Mr. Holmes. You need a cast. Hold it out, please." Sherlock complied and the small room fell into silence again.
"Well?" John prompted.
Sherlock didn't take his eyes off the doctor and his work. "Not here. When we get back to Baker Street."
John knew that was the end of that conversation for now. He sat back in his uncomfortable chair, folded his arms across his chest and waited. Because when Sherlock Holmes wasn't talking, waiting was the only thing you could do.