Chapter Six

Sherlock felt like he was falling.

He did not like the feeling.

"John-"

"Just take it easy. You're trying too hard."

"I want to go home!" he protested.

Crutches. They were trying to get him used to walking with crutches.

He hated the crutches.

"You can't. Not until-"

Sherlock groaned, repositioning the crutches. They were bulky and awkward and each time he took a step, he felt like he was going to fall forward.

"Can't I struggle with these at home? I have to go out in a wheelchair-" which was bad enough- "anyway, so why do I have to learn to walk with these now?"

John sighed heavily. Sherlock glanced up at him in time to watch John press his fingers against his eyes, rubbing them roughly. "Sherlock..."

Sherlock turned his attention back to the crutches. "I'm not good at this relying-on-something-else lark."

"It's not that hard," John replied, dropping his hands.

"How many times have you been on crutches?" Sherlock shot back.

"Once," John replied stubbornly. "I know they're irritating, but you can't stumble around without them!"

Sherlock sighed heavily, repositioning his grip on the crutches.

"Just take small steps. Don't push it until you know what you're doing."

Sherlock muttered unconstructive criticism under his breath, taking a hesitant step. He was immediately assailed by the same feeling of being off-balance, of being ready to fall on his face.

Fingers clasped onto his shoulder, holding him steady.

"Look, stop panicking."

"I'm not panicking," he replied automatically, focussing on John's voice instead of the rapid pounding of his heart.

"I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. John was being ridiculously sentimental. Sherlock understood the mechanics of it, the fact that they'd both been injured, so John was more protective than usual, but it made him want to vomit. He hated sentiment.

"What would happen to me?" he replied brusquely, although he didn't step out of the way of John's grip. Sentiment asides, John was a support that Sherlock wasn't totally sure that he didn't want (or need).

"I could let you fall on your face, which, at this point, I'm fairly sure would be really uncomfortable."

Sherlock snorted slightly.

"Let's try this again, shall we?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded absently.

It took Sherlock ten minutes to get the hang of limping about the room with the crutches. It took John's hand against his back for most of the time before he was comfortable enough with the infernal equipment, but now he was limping towards the nurses' station to sign out.

"Sherlock, you can just give it up," John was saying. "It's hospital protocol to leave in a wheelchair, especially considering the extent of our injuries."

"It's just whiplash and shock," Sherlock replied, unsteadily stopping in front of the nurses' station. "Sherlock Holmes and John Watson," he said before looking down at John. "You look ridiculous."

John had already succumbed to hospital protocol and was watching Sherlock from the enclosure of a wheelchair.

"Says the one stumbling about on crutches."

Sherlock huffed, leaning against the desk to sign the release forms.

"You're going to have to endure the wheelchair, too."

"No."

"Yeah, you will."

Sherlock argued against it, but his head was pounding, his arms were starting to ache from the repeated limping around, and he felt oddly exhausted for having woken up not long ago. It didn't take him long to give into the doctor's demands; he felt like an idiot, helpless and weak, but it was less hassle.

By the point that their cab pulled up outside of Baker Street, the pain medication that had been administered was wearing off. Sherlock vaguely felt like he was going to be sick, from the pain, and he wanted to get to the couch and fall asleep.

Unfortunately, there were two staircases to go through before he could even get upstairs.

He stared at the stairs, eyes narrowed slightly. It couldn't be that bad.

"Come on," John said, "It won't take long."

Incidentally, it did take long.

Sherlock was sweating and shaking by the time that he stumbled into the sitting room. One leg- the one that wasn't broken- felt completely like jelly and the other- the one that was broken- felt like it was on fire. He'd bumped it more than once on the stairs; each time brought tears of pain to his eyes before he blinked them away in irritation.

John had been next to him the entire time, and was behind him now, prompting him to keep moving even though he wanted to collapse to the floor.

"Come on... come on..." John muttered. "Give me the crutches."

Sherlock handed them over without a word, leaning against the door frame.

"Put your arm around me," John ordered. Sherlock looked at him wearily. "Around my shoulders. Come on."

Sherlock hesitantly placed his arm around John's shoulders, trying not to flinch when John wrapped his arm around his waist.

"Lean on me."

Sherlock promptly ignored him, trying to limp to the couch. From the lack of support, he lost his balance quickly. He tightened his grip on John's shoulders as John quickly snaked his arm around his waist.

"Stop it! Just stop. Let me help," John said. His tone was angry and Sherlock could hear the annoyance just oozing from his tone.

Swallowing back nausea and closing his eyes, he leaned against John slightly. His body, however, took the support much more literally than Sherlock's mind had expected and he slumped entirely against John, causing the doctor to stumble.

"You just can't do anything halfway, can you..." John muttered, tightening his grip. "Okay. Come on. Let's get you back to bed..."

Sherlock very nearly complained, but, since John was there, he knew that he would, in the long run, be alright.

Crutches and Sherlock do not mix. No running after criminals for you, Lockie!

Your thoughts, as ever, are lovely; I would love to hear them! Thanks!