The scaphoid is a rather unimpressive bone in the wrist.
Sherlock Holmes is a rather impressive man.
It may seem like these things are unconnected.
But in fact, the rather unimpressive bone had an amusingly enormous effect on the impressive man.
"I'm fine John," Sherlock told him for the third time in as many hours. John still didn't believe him.
"If it was a simple sprain, the pain should have been mostly gone within a day. It's not."
"Yes it is," Sherlock insisted.
"Nope," John retorted. "You haven't played your violin for two and a half days! That's not normal."
"I was bored of it," Sherlock informed him.
John rolled his eyes. "Not bloody likely."
"Really quite likely John," Sherlock replied, closing his eyes and drawing his hands up to his chin.
John scrutinized him and saw the tiniest bit of a grimace before Sherlock moved his hands back down to his sides.
"There! Right there!" John exclaimed. "That hurt!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course that hurt. It's sprained John. You do have a medical degree, don't you?"
"Of course I do. Which is why I'm saying this isn't normal. You need to go to the hospital."
They glared at each other, two equally stubborn men who were equally sure they were both right. Or at least, didn't want to admit they were wrong.
They were momentarily distracted by the doorbell, but Mrs Hudson called up to them, "I'll get it!"
They continued glaring as Mrs Hudson chattered to the visitor, then as they climbed up the stairs together, and even as Mrs Hudson popped her head into the room.
"Boys! You've got a visitor," she sang.
"Mycroft," Sherlock stated, still staring at John, who could see Sherlock's brother out of his peripheral vision.
"I don't even," John began, before giving up and sighing heavily, flopping into his chair.
"You hurried over," Sherlock noted. "Why don't you just move into the basement flat. Much more convenient for you."
"Not so, dear brother. The damp."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course."
Mycroft turned to John. "I hear that you have concerns regarding my brother's well being. You suspect it's a broken wrist?"
John nodded, not even bothering to question how Mycroft knew that.
"But he won't go for x-rays," he stated loudly, glaring at Sherlock as he said it.
"Well. That can be... arranged," Mycroft stated flatly, the hints of a smirk on his face as he glanced at the tip of his umbrella, ever present.
Sherlock glared at him with a fierceness that John had only seen him use on his brother.
"I'd like to see you try," he spat.
Mycroft smirked, and suddenly, John was rather afraid.
John had been forced to leave the room for a minute, so he retreated downstairs with Mrs Hudson, who was still looking rather ruffled over the whole thing.
"I don't know how he does it," she twittered, bustling about the kitchen, making tea despite John's protests that it was entirely unnecessary. "That ridiculous brother of his, with the umbrella he always carries. Even in the sun!" she exclaimed, throwing her hands up before returning to scrounging for mugs. "And those suits," she paused, looking at John thoughtfully. "Does he have anyone in his life? A girlfriend... boyfriend... anyone?"
John could only shrug.
Mrs Hudson went back to tea making.
John had just been handed his cup when Sherlock and Mycroft both appeared at the bottom of the stairs.
"Come along John," Mycroft announced.
Shocked, John sat his cup down and followed Mycroft and Sherlock into the awaiting car.
"Sherlock will cooperate fully for the x-rays," Mycroft informed him, once they were seated and moving.
His assistant, not Anthea, was sitting in the car as well, texting away.
John shook his head, bewildered. "I don't know how you do it."
"Thank god," Sherlock muttered under his breath.
"What was that Sherlock?" Mycroft inquired innocently.
"Nothing," Sherlock sang.
It was quiet for the rest of the trip, save for the clicking of keys on not Anthea's phone.