Considering all the stupid stunts Sherlock did, and all the life threatening situations he got into, John was rather amused to find that while he may have been injured during those, none of those injuries were as debilitating as when Sherlock tripped over flat ground and broke his arm.
Even more surprisingly, Sherlock didn't protest about going to the hospital, and instead was the one who suggested it.
"Really?" John had asked, shocked.
Sherlock scowled at him. "I've broken enough bones to tell when they are indeed broken John."
John had shrugged. "Alright then."
So Sherlock perched his arm on a pillow and they hopped into a cab.
"I still can't believe you fell over nothing," John muttered.
Sherlock glared at him. "I have loose joints," he defended.
John snorted. "That's never stopped you before."
Sherlock pouted silently for the rest of the ride.
It was a relatively quiet afternoon in A&E and Sherlock was given a bed rather quickly.
The attending doctor showed up shortly after.
"Call my orthopaedist," Sherlock ordered, giving him the name. The man frowned at him, but nodded and left.
John looked at him. "Really Sherlock?" he said skeptically.
Sherlock scowled at him. "I find it's quicker when I order, rather than request."
John shook his head. "It's not how the world works."
"I beg to differ," Sherlock countered, smirking.
"How's the arm?"
"Broken, and as such, painful."
The doctor returned. "I've got orders for x-rays and painkillers. Non-narcotic."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but nodded, swallowing the pills provided.
A nurse entered with a wheelchair, and John expected him to protest, but Sherlock just hopped lightly off the bed and slouched in the chair, pillow still perched carefully on his lap.
The process of getting x-rays was quick, and for John, painless, although he doubted the same for Sherlock, who was forced to move his wrist this way and that for different views. And while Sherlock never said anything, he could see the strain on his face. But there were no complaints, and the woman who was positioning his arm almost... it couldn't have been a smile, could it? No one smiles at Sherlock.
John was utterly baffled. Perhaps he was acting. Or saying funny things because of the drugs.
One never knew.
The nurse returned Sherlock to his curtained off area in A&E, again, no protest from Sherlock about being wheeled around.
Surely this couldn't be the Sherlock Holmes that John knew, not the same man who, only a week ago, had made Molly cry (again), simply by offering his opinion on her blog. (It was an awful opinion, but not one that John thought was too horrific.) The man who could cry at will to prove a point, lie through his teeth to further a case, and absolutely refuse to do anything he didn't want to. (A point which was demonstrated by the time John had to drug Sherlock's tea just to get him to sleep, because he insisted after six days, that he still wasn't tired.)
No, this wasn't that Sherlock at all. Perhaps a brain tumour?
It was only when they were back in the curtained off space, Sherlock situated in the bed again that John's theory was shot down.
"Jooooohn, I'm boooored," he whined.
"I don't know what you expect me to do about that," he replied tiredly.
"Entertain me," he replied.
John frowned at him. "With what? I can't conjure up a murder."
Sherlock scowled at that, and John wondered for half a second if Sherlock had actually wanted him to do that.
Sherlock kicked his legs a little, much like a child stomping their feet while having a temper tantrum, except it must have shifted his arm and hurt.
Apparently Sherlock just wanted something else to complain about.
"My arm hurts," he moaned.
John could only nod. He wasn't sure if he was relieved or not at this abrupt change in behaviour. Of course, considering everything else that had happened that day, he couldn't be bothered to figure it out.
"Surgery?"he asked the orthopaedist when he entered the room, sticking x-rays into the light box for both of them to see.
John noted the fractures. Two very obvious ones in the long bones, and perhaps a crack in one of the carpals. The scaphoid, he thought it was. Non-displaced, but still. Three fractures was plenty.
John also noted the presence of calluses that indicated previous fractures. At least three, in varying places on the bones of the forearm and numerous broken fingers. John was rather alarmed. Such startling patterns of damage were often indicative of child abuse.
He snuck a glance at Sherlock, who was simply looking at the doctor, waiting for a response.
"No, not this time. We'll just cast it. They're non-displaced and should heal well enough, as long as you don't stress them. Use the sling this time Sherlock, for heaven's sake."
Sherlock frowned at him. "I don't like the sling," he muttered.
"Too damn bad," John told him.
The orthopaedist grinned. "I'll be right back with a tech and we'll get you casted. Colour preference?"
"Black this time I think."
The man nodded and left.
"This time?" John hissed.
Sherlock only rolled his eyes at him.
Thank god it was his left arm and not his right. John didn't know what he would have done had Sherlock been unable to write, click, text, and gesture effectively for the next month or so.
True to his word, the orthopaedist returned shortly after with a young woman, not giving John a chance to pry further. They casted Sherlock's arm in silence, which John suspected was the way Sherlock preferred it. When they were done it was rather impressive, as well as daunting, extending from the tip of his thumb to up above his elbow.
Sling indeed, John thought.
The tech left and the orthopaedist finished smoothing the cast down, getting any excess water off of it.
"Pretty good record I suppose," he noted. "It's been... three years since I saw you last."
Sherlock nodded, but John suspected he wasn't listening at all. The man could have said "I heard you've joined the circus," and Sherlock would have nodded.
He finished, snapping off his gloves and telling them to call in for a follow up appointment, and left.
There was something about the whole situation that was bothering John.
"Sherlock," John began, eyeing him suspiciously. "Why do you have an orthopaedist?"
Sherlock blinked at him. "John, in case you haven't noticed, which you should have if you'd glanced at my x-rays, I get a lot of broken bones. Surely that hasn't escaped you."
John sighed. "Yeah, of course I know that. Most people who break a lot of bones don't have one doctor, unless they have an underlying condition."
Sherlock was silent, unfolding his shirt to put back on.
"OI," Sherlock said carefully, examining his arm. "Type I luckily."
"And you didn't think to tell me?" John gaped at him.
Sherlock shrugged his shirt back on, taking care with the still wet cast.
"I thought you knew. That somehow Mycroft had told you, and you kept it a secret, but knew. Suppose I was wrong."
He twisted half of his mouth up in a grin.