John began to drag Sherlock, who was unable to stand because of a broken leg. He could see a slight bump where he knew, from his experience as a doctor, there was a slight displaced bone fracture. Thinking he might see who did this to Sherlock, John looked around, scanning every corner and every dark space. He didn't see anyone. It didn't matter, anyway, since John would have to stay with Sherlock. He didn't want anything bad to happen to his injured friend. Sherlock needed him now, more than he needed recompense. With a determined sigh, John lifted Sherlock onto his back, careful so as not to damage his leg any further. They – or rather, John – walked in silence, except the heavy breathing and occasional groaning of Sherlock. It took them about ten minutes to arrive back at Baker Street, despite Sherlock's broken leg. Carefully, John placed his injured friend on the concrete by the entrance to 221B.
"Mrs. Hudson," John started, but immediately regretted since he would rather help Sherlock without interruption or distraction. He didn't need the little lady bustling around, worrying and getting in the way. Fortunately, she didn't reply. John managed to carry Sherlock to the door of their flat before he had to put him down again. This time, he propped Sherlock's arm around his shoulder and tried to walk him to the couch.
When he set him down on the cushions, Sherlock let out a painful groan.
"Don't move, Sherlock. You've got a broken leg and it looks like a few fractured ribs," then he paused. "Maybe even a concussion based on your behavior. Stay there." Sherlock started to mumble something that John figured was a sarcastic remark, but John ignored him. He went to his room to fetch his medical supplies and extra pillows. When he went back to the living room, he saw that Sherlock had moved.
"What did I tell you? Don't move."
More mumbling came from the couch.
"Stop complaining. I've got to fix you up. I don't need you interfering with my work." As he said this, John pulled out a splint and muscle relaxants. He pushed the relaxant into Sherlock's mouth and gave him some water to make it go down. After a few minutes, John felt up the leg. It didn't feel too serious, but it still needed to be put back into place. First to go was Sherlock's coat. That came off easy enough. Quickly, his hands steady from experience, John unbuckled Sherlock's belt and undid his buttons. Sherlock's hands dug into the pillows when John removed his trousers, bumping against the fracture. John apologized mentally.
"Sherlock, this is going to hurt. A lot." With that, he put his hands on either side of the break and hoped that Sherlock wouldn't feel too much pain. John pushed the two fragments back together suddenly, and to his dismay, Sherlock cried out.
"John! Jesus!" Obviously, he needed some pain killers. And there were still the ribs. And the concussion. John sighed. What did Sherlock do to get into this mess? He tried to shake those thoughts out of head. He had to concentrate on the suffering man in front of him. As Sherlock lay there, slowly writhing in pain, John pulled out the pain killers and popped it into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock mumbled some more, this time more audible.
"... doing, John..."
"Don't try to talk. I'm just giving you pain killers before I fix the rest of you."
After putting his leg into a splint, John began to unbutton Sherlock's silky shirt, this time being more careful. Slowly, he peeled away the wet shirt from his friend's chest and abdomen, exposing the ribs, which were now vivid with blue and purple bruising. John started to get up from the couch, but Sherlock had grabbed his wrist. He looked at John, and the doctor couldn't help but feel pity for Sherlock.
"I'm just going to get some ice." John rose, but waited for Sherlock's grip to loosen before proceeding to the kitchen. John headed straight to the freezer. He opened the door, but had to rummage around before he could find anything that resembled ice. Settling on a bag of peas that had freezer burn, John strode back to Sherlock. He sat back down next to him and placed the bag gently on the bruised area of Sherlock's ribs. John heard a small gasp escape the detective and looked up at him. Sherlock looked so tired. John examined Sherlock's bare chest, noticing how shallow his breaths were.
"Try to breathe normally. You could get sick if you don't."
Immediately, Sherlock took a deep breath. John could see that it hurt, but it was for the best. Allowing his eyes to wander, John suddenly felt embarrassed when he had noticed that he was staring at Sherlock's skin. It was beautiful. That's when he saw it. That small bag poking out of Sherlock's shirt pocket.
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