AN: hello! 'Tis I, once again I'd like to say thank you to my sole reviewer Sneakysnakes and to the guys that have favourite or alerted this story. It's probably going to take a little bit of a U-turn, i.e. less about John's original injury, more of a kind of sick fic, mildly slashy fluffy heap of rubbish but if you guys like it, hey, who am I to judge? Anyway review if you have any injuries you'd like our boys to get, happy trails!

Lily x

'You're an idiot you know that don't you? A bloody idiot!'

'Yes thank you, I had…'

'You're a bloody idiot!'

'Yes, you did tell me that. Thank you so much for your concern.'

I slammed the lid of the first aid kit shut on Sherlock's fingers, grabbed his collar and dragged him down the corridor.

'Sherlock. What did I tell you about people?'

He sneered at me down the length of his nose 'I know John but in this circumstance I really don't…'

'Sherlock!'

He ground his teeth and ran a hand through his hair 'fine, Fine!' he snapped 'Let's get this over with and leave the idiot in peace.' He limped into Lestrade's office and held out his hand.

'Thank you Lestrade. You are an excellent policeman and your efforts where very nearly quite good this time.' I leant up against the door and rolled my eyes. 'In fact I would go so far as to say, you are not a dreadful detective overall.' I nodded my head when Lestrade caught my eye 'And the pattern of blood from your nose on that concrete wall was really quite pretty.' Facepalm.

'Please don't hit him.' I thought 'I really cannot deal with two broken noses without my proper kit.' I nervously lifted my head to see Lestrade looking wearily at Sherlock

'That's fine Sherlock, I…'

'Although I genuinely cannot forgive you for letting the monkey onto crime scenes…' I sunk my head into my hands again, there was a dull smack and I raised my eyes to see Anderson wringing his right hand, Sherlock staggering backwards clutching his face and Lestrade screaming bloody murder about how Anderson was an officer of the law and he'd put him on a charge if he ever did that again. And the only thing I could think of to say was,

'If you've broken his nose, I'll bloody kill you Anderson.'

The circumstances behind this rather strange dialogue are a lot more humble than most people would believe.

We had been on a case of course – what else? - A man and his dog had been shot and laid side by side. Sherlock was ranting about his deductions and shouting at Lestrade that OF COURSE the man was Irish, had been in the Irish Guards and his dog was an Irish wolfhound so the killer we were looking for was English and had served as a police officer in northern Ireland. But, predictably, since he was limping about on his crutches and looking more like a giant spider than ever it was considerably harder than usual to take him seriously.

Lestrade was furiously taking notes and trying hard not to giggle but even he looked dubious at this latest.

'Are you sure?'

If looks could kill, Lestrade would have been sprawled on the hall carpet foaming at the mouth.

'Yes, I am sure! The dog is obviously an Irish Wolfhound.' He glanced up 'The coat man, look at the coat! He's wearing a st Brigid's cross meal around his throat, in a style particular to the town of Ballyclare and, like our John, he still holds on to his regimental pennant, look it's hanging above the door, pray what does it show Lestrade? Nice and loud now, so everyone can hear.'

Lestrade looked and grudgingly told Sherlock that it contained the Gold leafed Shamrock of the Irish Guards. After Sherlock had decided he had been sufficiently smug he told Lestrade where he could find his killer and I managed to drag him out of the house before he got any more injuries. Unfortunately, Sherlock once again gained the upper hand and dragged me in the opposite direction to the taxi rank. My heart sinking, I said

'I take it we're not going home?'

'No.' I was told shortly. I observed with some annoyance that, even on crutches Sherlock could run twice as fast as me.

'So where are we going?'

'To the house of Mr Jonathan Winstanley-Porter.' When it seemed that an explanation regarding who the hell Mr Jonathan Winstanley-Porter was, I decided it was probably better not to ask, since I would almost certainly have gotten a scathing reply.

'So how do you know that this Mr Winstanley-Porter is the killer?'

Sherlock stopped and, with some difficulty, extracted a small book and threw it at me.

'You said he'd been dead for about 48 hours?' I nodded wondering what that had to with the little book.

'Look at the afternoon of the twelfth.'

I flipped through the book, now becoming apparent that it was diary, to said afternoon. Scrawled across the slot was '2:00pm Commander Winstanley.'

'So, you think he's the killer?'

'If he's not and he kept his appointment, he'll have seen something. But with a name like 'Commander Winstanley' and taking into account my previous deductions, I think we can assume the worst.'

Shortly after, we reached a small council building with the distinctive pebble-dashing along the outside. Sherlock banged loudly on the door with his crutch and, when it brought no reply, limped with surprising speed around the side of the house, hit the cheaply framed window in exactly the right place and gotten through the window, crutches or no. I remember that, when I tried to follow with the same grace and speed, I fell noisily into a pile of magazines. Sherlock swung round and rolled his eyes.

'Thank you John.' He mumbled 'if he didn't already know we were here he does now.'

At that exact moment, we heard a creak from the hall. A voice travelling slowly up the hall said

'We should be able to get him soon, it's not hard, piece of cake!'

We both froze. Sherlock recovered first and dragged me behind the room's chipboard door.

'What are we… ?'

'Shhhhhh!' he hissed. I watched, heart in my mouth as the door to the room slowly creaked open, suddenly Sherlock lunged forward, raised his crutch and smacked whoever it was behind the door. I heard a man's scream and yelled 'Sherlock, what've you done.'

Sherlock was staring wide eyed at the figure on the floor as it lay there groaning, I rounded the corner and gaped at the bleeding man. 'Oh my God, Sherlock, you've killed Lestrade!' I giggled. Apparently having gotten over the shock, Sherlock's face twisted into a snarl of rage

'You idiot Lestrade, what were you thinking?'

I spluttered, a mixture between laughter and rage. 'Sherlock, you've just broken his nose! Don't shout at him!'

'Oh you can fix a broken nose like nothing on earth but can you find as suspect in the middle of London? Honestly Lestrade, you have spoiled everything!' he swept imperiously out of the room, as I and Lestrade stared after him.

AN: I do not like that ending… review and tell me what you think. If you don't get the Irish reference google 'the battle of Offram, 1791'.