A/N: This one's a bit random, but I was grinning like an idiot while I typed it and I figure somebody might appreciate it's light, somewhat-crack-y nature. Also, Martin Freeman being a hedgehog is still my favorite thing in the entire universe.

Word Count: 1,850+

Pairing(s): Sherlock/John, Lestrade accidentally watching (and, just as accidentally, liking it)

Warning(s): Mentions of (but nothing graphic) sex, death, and Anderson. Also, bad superhero jokes and several references to John's penis. Again. (I have a problem.)

Monkeys, Assassins, and a Good Dose of Morphine

Sherlock was a spider monkey.

That was the only explanation, John thought, for his uncanny ability to fling himself across rooftops with such swift grace. Part of it, John supposed, was by comparison – John had short legs – but even chasing a trained assassin Sherlock kept up without fail.

John scrambled to keep up as the detective darted after the masked figure, coat flapping out behind him like some sort of superhero cape. Spider-Monkey Man, John thought cheerfully as he fought his way up yet another fire escape to the top of a rather large building. John was in no way afraid of heights – he'd jumped out of his fair share of helicopters while in Afghanistan – but climbing onto a twelve story building after a mad man and a masked assassin was unnerving regardless.

Especially when it turned out to be a dead end.

By the time John got up onto the rooftop Sherlock and the masked man were facing off, circling each other at a tense distance, Sherlock's eyes darting about in clear Deduction Mode. The man had a knife in hand and at least one spare in his belt and although Sherlock's hand was in his coat as if to make a draw, making the assassin hesitate, John knew he was unarmed. The only advantage they had was that the assassin hadn't spotted him yet, vision possibly obscured by the mask.

The Amazing Adventures of Spider-Monkey Man and Doctor Hobbit: Mystery of the Rooftop Assassin, John thought. And it was, in fact, the last thought before soldier-mode kicked in (or, perhaps Protective Lover mode, seeing as the assassin had a knife poised to stab Sherlock at any given moment) and he was leaping forward.

Sherlock looked up at him, eyes widened at the last second. "John—"

The masked man had just enough time to sprint forward approximately two inches towards Sherlock before John had rugby-tackled him to the ground. It would've been a pretty good move, too, except John miscalculated – he'd overestimated the weight of the man and he'd caught him off guard – and managed to fling them both nearly off the edge of the building.

"Shit," John noted wisely. Heights, he quickly decided, were far more scary when you were hanging twelve stories up with an angry assassin pinned beneath you.

"John!" Sherlock sounded ever-so-slightly higher pitched than normal. This, of course, meant that he was hysterical.

John ignored him in favor of wrestling with the blade out the assassin's hands; it clattered off to the side. This left John just enough time to elbow the assassin in the face before Sherlock could tear John away from the edge.

John spun automatically to snatch the abandoned knife off the ground – if he knew anything about assassins, it was that you didn't catch them by surprise twice and being unarmed for that experience was not on the top of his priorities list.

There was a yell (something in Spanish), a crunch (painful), and a scream (surprisingly high pitched). Then, after a pause, a somewhat distant thud. Slowly, John looked up, face paled.

Sherlock brushed off his coat, nose scrunched. 'That was tedious."

"Sherlock…" John peered warily over the edge; there was a quickly gathering crowd of pedestrians around the body below. Nobody seemed to have looked up yet, though. John shuffled away. "Well he certainly didn't survive that."

"Obvious, John. That was rather the point."

John rolled his eyes, on the verge of a smile despite himself (that was his partner, wasn't it, roundhouse-kicking people off of buildings) but faltered, eyes raking over Sherlock. When his gaze reached Sherlock's chest he gasped, stomach dropping to his feet. "Are you bleeding?"

"Hm? Oh, right." Sherlock fingered the bloody patch in his shirt carefully, looking miffed. "It seems I got stabbed a bit."

John immediately pulled out his mobile, scrolling through his contacts with a determined expression on his face. Sherlock groaned. "Do you have to text Lestrade? You can just stitch me up; I'm fine, John." But, upon further inspection, Sherlock was most certainly not fine. Both men winced as John peeled Sherlock's shirt off, revealing quite the bloody mess. John was horrified that Sherlock now had a stab wound because John had overshot a tackle. His Sherlock. Sherlock was mourning the loss of one of the few shirts that fit him properly. It had been a gift from Mummy.

"Sit down," John said. He pushed Sherlock gently downwards until the detective sat. "Greg will be here with an ambulance-"

Sherlock groaned in annoyance. "No hospital!"

"—as soon as possible. Don't be a baby, 'Lock." Sherlock sniffed and twisted to make a retort, only to hiss in pain and press the now bundled shirt harder against the wound, expression twisted in pain and irritation. John smiled faintly and crouched to sit beside him. It wasn't too bad of a wound considering, thank God – for an assassin, his aim had been somewhat poor – but it was bleeding a good deal and the shirt was quickly becoming more crimson than white.

"I can't believe he got me," Sherlock muttered. "It was a moment of weakness." John shook his head; he could hear sirens in the distance and he mentally crossed his fingers that it would be for them. Chances were it wasn't. Doctor mode kicking in again John swatted Sherlock's hands away and put pressure on the wound himself, not altogether minding the blood that got on his hands.

"Don't start. Even the Amazing Spider-Monkey Man makes mistakes," John said. Sherlock grimaced, although whether it was at the wound or the weird comment John couldn't be sure.

"Spider-Monkey Man? You mean me." Sherlock snorted. "What does that make you, then? Captain Hedgehog?"

John barked a laugh, out of surprise more than anything else, and raised an eyebrow at him. "Hedgehog?" Sherlock just nodded, expression practically screaming Obvious. "I was thinking Doctor Hobbit, but that's actually less offensive."

"Me? Less offensive than you? There's a first time for everything, John."

John smiled at him before pulling the shirt away again, re-inspecting the wound. "Bleeding slowed – you should be fine. There's still the risk of infection, though."

Sherlock snorted, because infection was something that happened to other people, and Sherlock leaned to kiss John on the forehead, because all of this bleeding business was getting rather dull.

.

Lestrade was the first to make it to the roof and he couldn't say he was surprised to find John crouched over Sherlock, one hand applying pressure to the wound and the other laced through Sherlock's curls. He was kissing him in a way that suggested that, had the situation been different, Sherlock would've been more than shirtless.

"Okay, okay, gross. Nobody wants to see that." That was Anderson, not Lestrade – the silver haired inspector blushed as he realized he'd been looking far too long as Anderson came up a good two minutes behind him.

John looked thoroughly embarrassed and moved away, cheeks burning. Sherlock clung to his arm, releasing an irritated moan. "Sorry," said John, ears scarlet.

"I'm not," Sherlock all but purred, nuzzling his face to John's wrist. John balanced and pulled his arm away- maybe the detective had lost more blood than he thought…

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Still here."

"Yeah," Anderson agreed, "Get a room."

"We already have a room, Anderson. We live together. Obvious."

"Oh, sweet Hell…"

"John, I'm still in pain, kiss me again."

"No, 'Lock. Ambulance first, snogging later."

"Dull."

.

.

Several hours later John was tucking a thoroughly tuckered-out, drugged-up Sherlock Holmes into bed, smiling through his own exhaustion. "Easy does it, watch the bandages," he warned, patting Sherlock's hip as reassuringly as he could.

"Ahh," Sherlock sighed. "Bed. I missed Bed." He pulled the blanket up to his nose, grinning giddily up at John. "You know what?"

John yawned. "What?"

"We should have sex. Now. On this bed."

John's eyes widened; Sherlock reached up at him, wiggling his fingers and giving him the most suggestive smile he could manage without breaking his face. John had to admit, sex with Sherlock sounded great. (Sex with Sherlock was always great.) However, there was the other thing.

"You just got stabbed, Sherlock."

"I'm aware. I want to be stabbed again, in fact, only this time your penis and not in my side." Sherlock nodded seriously, arms still reaching as if expecting John to leap into them. John rolled his eyes and swatted Sherlock's hands away before crawling into bed beside him.

"We're not having sex until you heal up, 'Lock. It's dangerous and, anyway, you're under the influence."

Sherlock's eyes danced, with delight or morphine John wasn't sure. "None of these things are bad enough to stop the Amazing Intercourse of Spider-Monkey Man and Captain Hedgehog, John! We cannot be subdued by a minor flesh wound! The intense power of our lovemaking shakes the Universe to its very core! Who knows what could hang in the balance?"

John chuckled despite himself. "I think you've been watching Star Trek wrong, love," he said fondly. "But I love you, anyway. But no Universe shaking sex tonight, I'm afraid." A pause. "I mean it; get your hands away from my crotch."

"Mmm, fine." Sherlock's hand slid up to rest on John's stomach instead; he tucked the other arm between them. John smiled and, despite knowing that his arm would be sore in the morning, slid an arm under Sherlock and pulled him more snugly to him. Sherlock sighed and arched his neck to kiss John's forehead. "I love you, too. Thanks for nearly tackling a dangerous assassin off of a twelve story building."

"Yes, well. You can make it up to me by not tangling your cold ass long legs around me in the night."

Sherlock hummed. "No promises."

"Eh, well, worth a shot. I guess you did just get stabbed."

Sherlock chuckled sleepily and relaxed against John, soft smile gracing his lips. Soon enough he was snoring quietly in John's ear; John smiled.

Sometimes dating a spider monkey was really nice.

"By the way," Sherlock mumbled, only half asleep, "don't make tea in the morning 'til you clean the pot. I boiled a foot in there; interesting results, actually… hmm." Sherlock returned to happy snoring; John sighed and closed his eyes, trying not to think too hard about his teapot.

Sometimes, John supposed, was the key word.

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