Although John went on a little detective expedition of his own and questioned some of the staff about the mysterious bruises, none of them could give a satisfactory answer. None of them knew what had happened to Sherlock's wrist, or his forearm, or even his upper arm...

John could only wish he had at least a little bit of Sherlock's cunning when it came to mysteries-because that's exactly what this was.

'The case of the mysterious bruises.'

No...

'The case of the possibly fractured wrist.'

Still stupid sounding... how about...

'The case of 'what the hell happened, Sherlock?''

'In which the idiot somehow managed to get all banged up and now refuses to even tell his best friend, who is a DOCTOR, what happened to him. Typical dick.'

John sighed. This was just worry. Pent up worry and unease and stress from work and worrying about the baby... It was all a little overwhelming.

Regardless of the fact that the cause went unidentified, the bruises were being treated. Much against Sherlock's will, they had taken him to the clinic in order to have his arm x-rayed, and the results would be ready pretty damn soon.

John had asked the nurse to give him a ring if anything was actually damaged. Say, for instance, a fracture.

And now he waited.

He'd stopped for coffee on his ten minute break, and was keeping his mobile close by, as he'd been doing all day. No word yet, which was good. No news was good news.

Just as he was reaching for a spoon he felt a buzz in his pocket, and stopped cold.

This was it.

It had to be broken.

God, Sherlock...

He set his cup down and slipped his mobile from his pocket, frowning at the caller ID. A long breath escaped his lips as he accepted the call. "God, Mary, you scared me..."

Once he'd finally hung up he went back to his coffee, feeling a little more reassured. If it wasn't broken, then there would be no cast, no re-breaking and setting, no splint, less pain... All around good news.

A half smile had begun to cross his lips as he raised his coffee cup and took a long sip, leaning against the counter, listening to the hum of the staff fridge and the buzzing of the telephone.

Wait.

Telephone-

He nearly spit out his coffee, choking a little as he took up his mobile again and answered it.

"Hi, this is Alexandra, with the Dawn rehabilitation clinic. You asked me to call you if it was bad?"

"Jesus, Sherlock..."

"It's only a fracture! Quit making such a huge deal about it. Bones heal. You, of all people, ought to know that."

John took a second to straighten out his thoughts. "Listen to me. You are staying in rehab. Your wrist is fucking broken and bruised up like... I don't know what. And you won't even give me a hint. What happened? Is somebody hurting you?"

Momentary surprise showed in the detective's arched brows, and then a funny look came over his face. "...yes."

"What? Who?! Is it a staff member? That's illegal-"

"I know. I ought to be moved, shouldn't I? This place isn't a suitable place for me to stay, after all..."

"Wait..." John watched him carefully, trying to sort out his expression. "That's exactly what you wanted. You're aren't trying to play me, are you?"

"Well, somebody is hurting me. I would think that would be a fairly good reason."

"Sherlock." Again with the arched brows. "Are you... Did you do that to yourself? Just so you could try to get out?"

"Of course not! You think I'm stupid?!" The storm clouds had descended over the detective's expression now. "That sort of ruse is obviously not worth a fractured wrist, and you know that!"

John hesitated, contemplating stepping back a little from the seething anger that was now surrounding Sherlock like a heavy, noxious toxin. In the end, though, he stood his ground. It wasn't worth a fractured wrist.

It wasn't.

And yet...