I just randomly wrote this. If you like it, I'll do like a new hurt/comfort/humor like story for each chapter. If you don't, then I'll leave it as a one-shot. Please review and tell me what you think.
Chapter 1: Black & Blue
Sherlock sighed as he slowly limped up the flight of stairs to 221B Baker Street. Wincing occasionally at the sharp pain that seared through his left ankle annoyingly. It was really beginning to erritate him.
He'd gone out to investigate for a case. You know, stealthily follow a suspect around town, possibly get someone arrested. The usual. But nope, not today. Today just so happened to be the day that he 'stalked' the wrong suspect. Leading to a fist fight -which Sherlock admittedly hadn't seen coming- between him and five other very well fit individuals.
Of course, he won. Well, kind of, he liked to think so anyway. He did succesfully knock two unconscious, and ended up getting them all arrested in the end with a short text to the -ever so loyal- Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.
But that didn't mean he got away unscathed. Oh no, he walked away with a black eye, busted lip, bruised jaw, two fractured -possibly broken- ribs, bloody knuckles, and a sprained ankle. And the short but deep gash on his right arm from the jack-ass who pulled a knife. Which was so not fare, wasn't it like a rule or something that you just don't bring knives to fist fights. Well, let's just say Sherlock wasn't having the best day.
As he made his way into his flat, slamming the door behind him, he unceremoniously threw himself down onto the incredibly plush couch. Laying his head down on their Union Jack pillow with a deep, more than slightly painful sigh. Where he quickly began to nod off and found himself really appreciating just how comfy their couch was, something you really don't realize nor appreciate till you're dead beat tired. His whole being hurt. Or was it more of an ache? And to think, it wasn't even noon yet...
Sherlock winced as his headache began to pound furiously behind his eyes as John came through the front door, accidentally slamming it shut behind him just as Sherlock had done. "Sherlock!" Watson, ever the doctor, hurried over to his injured friend to asses his injuries.
"John, please don't yell it's really not helping a thing." Sherlock only partially -though he'd never admit- wined. "What are you even doing here? You're s'possed to be at the clinic." He only slightly slurred.
John sighed, "I got a call from Donovan. She said you got into a fight with a gang? A gang!? Sherlock what the hell were you thinking!?"
"John! Voice. lower IT." Sherlock couldn't help but snap, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was tired, injured, in pain, and about a second away from punching John in the throat if he didn't shut it right now! The man could be so loud!
"Sorry," John mumbled. "But were you even thinking Sherlock?" He couldn't help but get angry with his friend. It was like he constantly went looking for trouble. No, he never really got into fights, but he wasn't really surprised that he had. Didn't stop him from worrying though.
Sherlock sighed, he hated making John angry. One, because he was one of the very few people Sherlock actually liked in his life. So he didn't want to piss the guy off. Two, because he was Sherlock's favorite person in his life. So why would he want to upset him? And Three, because he could nag him for hours!
"Yes, I was thinking. I was thinking I could have this case closed by this afternoon. I was thinking that this one guy would be daft enough to lead me to their whole setup down town. I wasn't thinking I was going to get jumped by a entire gang."
John sighed and noticed for the first time that Sherlock was holding his right arm close to his chest. Covering it with his other hand in a very protective manner.
"Sherlock, what's up with your arm?" John asked suddenly, surprising Sherlock. He tends to forget that John's not a dumb as the rest of the world, that -at times- he can deduce as well.
"And what do you mean by that John? There's absolutely nothing wrong with my arm." Sherlock tried, hoping he'd drop it. But he knew better, he knew John. And there was no way he'd just let it go.
John raised an eyebrow. "Then you wouldn't mind me taking a look at it then."
"John." Sherlock warned. But before he could say much else, John had snatched his arm away with a small barely noticeable intake of breath.
"God damn it Sherlock!" John snapped, "why wouldn't you bandage this or anything!?" He asked, noticing the dried blood that had crusted around the cut.
"Well I was going to as soon as I got home," Sherlock quickly defended. And he was, he just got a little distracted by their super comfy sofa. "Besides it's not like it's still bleeding or anything."
John sighed and rubbed his forehead, exasperated. "C'mon Sherlock," he said pulling him off the couch to clean the wound himself.
To John's surprise, as soon as he got Sherlock to his feet, he fell back on the couch with a small, very uncharacteristic, yelp of pain. Sherlock doesn't not yelp.
"Damn!" Sherlock hissed.
"What!? What hurts?" John asked him.
"It's my ankle. It's fractured or something, I'm not sure." Sherlock explained, clearly in an unfair amount of pain.
John nodded, "okay then never mind. You stay right here, I'll go get the first aid kit. Just, don't move!" He said before speeding out of the room.
"Wasn't planning on it," Sherlock mumbled under his breath. His headache returning in full. It was times like these, which happened more frequently than he'd like, that he really appreciated the fact that his friend was a doctor.
John returned seconds later, his more expensive kit in hand. "Anything besides your ankle hurt?!" He asked, kneeling down beside Sherlock.
"Yes, my head. And all your damn yelling really isn't aiding in anyway." Sherlock returned grumpily.
John rolled his eyes and began cleaning the cut on Sherlock's arm. "I'll give you some pain medication as soon as I'm done with your these. And we really probably should put ice on your eye. Or all over your face, the whole thing seems rather nasty."
"Thank you so much John for that endearing comment," Sherlock said practically dripping with sarcasm. "It really brings one's spirits up. You ever considered being a motivational speaker?"
"Oh shut up Sherlock," John snapped. Trying to hide the tiny smile pulling at his lips as he nearly finished with Sherlock's arm.
"What in bloody hell happened to you?!" Lestrade couldn't help but be surprised as he entered 221B. He'd come to inform Sherlock on their case, and he wasn't expecting the scene he was met with upon arriving. Sherlock Holmes laying half asleep on his couch covered in scrapes and bruises. He had to admit, it was rather amusing seeing the famed detective like this.
"I was jumped," Sherlock deadpanned.
"You mean to tell me that the little gang I arrested took down the great Sherlock Holmes?" Lestrade snickered.
"They did not 'take me down,'" Sherlock grumbled. "They simply caught me by surprise. A blow to the back of the head would disorientate anyone."
Lestrade smiled down at his friend. They were friends right? Acquaintance maybe? "Right, my mistake. I just thought you'd like to know we got them. All of them. One squeaked and led us to the last few members who weren't at the scene."
Sherlock nodded, "good."
Upon noticing Lestrade wasn't leaving, but still standing rather awkwardly in the centre of their flat, he popped one eye open to peer at the Detective Inspector. "Was that all, or are you going to stand there and annoy me further?"
"Well, if you must know, I was going to let you in on my new case. Double homicide." Lestrade said, knowing it would immediately peek the detective's interest, and holding up a manilla folder containing the information on the case. Sherlock could never turn down a murder, let alone a double one. "But seeing as you're temporarily impaired..." He knew he got him. Hook, line, and sinker. Sometimes the ever complicated man was just that simple.
Sherlock shot up to his feet, completely ignoring the twinge in his ankle. Reaching for the folder, "Oh no you don't Lestrade! Give me that!"
Lestrade let the younger man snatch the file from his hands, grinning at the enthusiasm. The guy was a kid in a candy store, which anyone else would find odd, but Lestrade grown to appreciate that about him. "Be at Scotland Yard in twenty," he said before saying goodbye to John and leaving their flat.
Sherlock mumbled an incoherent reply, already flipping through the case file. A small smile tugging at his lips.
Bam! Chapter one. Review. Seriously people. Review. ;D