The doctor told them that Sherlock's ankle was only sprained. It was a bad sprain, yes, but it wasn't broken, for which Sherlock was glad. He was supposed to take it easy, whatever that meant, for at least a month, though. John was sadder about that than Sherlock was. "I guess this means we'll have to hold off on our tree fort, then," he said. Sherlock didn't reply, only stared out the window; he still wasn't speaking to John. John turned to look out his window, hurt.
When they got back to the Hudsons' house (Sherlock would never think of it as 'home'), Rob and Charlie ran up to greet them, both holding a handful of markers.
"Can I draw on your cast?" shouted Charlie before Sherlock had even climbed out of the car.
"He didn't get a cast," John told them. "He only sprained it. He got it all wrapped up, though, look!" They looked. The bandage was a beckoning white.
"I could draw on your wrap," Charlie offered. "I could draw something cool on it for you so it's not that boring old white."
"You could draw a dinosaur," said Rob. "Dinosaurs are cool."
"Yeah, but he might not like dinosaurs," said Charlie.
"Ask him," said Rob.
"You ask him," said Charlie.
"No, you ask him."
"You do it."
"You do it."
"I'll do it," said John, and they both looked at him in surprise. "Sherlock, do you like dinosaurs?" Sherlock didn't answer him, only pushed past the lot and walked upstairs. Charlie stuck out his tongue at him behind his back.
"Why's he so grumpy?" he asked.
"It's 'cause he doesn't have a cast to draw on," said Rob.