John watched Sherlock in the wheelchair, resisting the urge to chuckle at the position he was in. His long legs were bent up high into the air, leaning to the left so as to take the pressure off his right foot. He was pouting as his eyes scanned the sterile room with a few different brightly-colored fliers. There was nothing there to hold the genius' interest. He glowered and heaved a dramatic sigh as the Caribbean eyes focused back on his doctor friend.

"John, I'm bored!" Sherlock yelled at the man sitting on the hospital bed.

"Yes, I've deduced that," John snorted.

"It's not funny," he snarled. "Why do we have to wait on a doctor here, when I have a live-in one at home?"

"Because," he rolled his eyes, "your so-called live-in does not have access to an x-ray machine in our flat, not to mention I'm running on two hours of sleep in a 48-hour period."

"I've solved triple homicides on less," Sherlock snapped.

"Well we're not all Sherlock bloody Holmes, are we?"

"Oh how beautiful that world would be, one where everyone would actually THINK!"

"Oh please, you'd hate it! You live on showing off. If everyone was a genius, you'd just be ordinary...oh god, just imagine: everyone with your intellect and the tact and maturity of a five year old!"

"I do not have the maturity of a five year old!"

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't!"





"Listen to yourself," John laughed at his best friend. The dark-haired detective gave his best glare and fell silent. He sat his chin on his fist, his elbow balanced on the arm rest. John thought of this as his Brooding Pose.

"Hello," the doctor stepped into the room. She was young, in her late twenties, with brown hair pulled back and an easy smile on her face. "How are we?"

Sherlock refused to answer.

"Well... what are we in for today?" she tried again. Still, she was met with silence.

She turned to John. "Can he not talk or understand me?"

"Oh no, he understands perfectly; and as for talking... trust me when I say you should be grateful he won't speak. He can be quite the arse when he wants to be."

John ignored the glare he received.

"And you would be?"

"Oh, I'm his flat-mate, colleague, doctor, friend…handler, the majority of the time. Dr. John Watson," he held out his hand for her to shake. She took it for what was a bit long for professionalism.

"Well, Dr. Watson," the doctor carried on, "can YOU tell me what's going on?"

"We're pretty sure he broke part of his foot. As his doctor, normally I'd handle him (really, asking anyone else to is just inhumane), but I'm in no shape to treat him at the moment," John motioned to his torn clothes and exhausted features.

"I see," she smiled. "Well, Mr. Holmes, can you tell me just how you injured your foot?" After a moment, she looked over at John.

"Do you read the papers?" he asked wearily. She nodded. He pointed to Sherlock and said, "Hatman."

Recognition dawned in her eyes.

"Oh my gosh! I'm a fan," she laughed. "So, you're Robin?"

"Um, yeah…" John scratched the back of his neck awkwardly.

"Amazing," she said. "So, you both were chasing a bad guy through the streets?"

"Murderous milk man," John winked.

"Really?" her eyes brightened.

"Oh for Christ's sake!" Sherlock snapped. "It was not a milk man! It was a delivery man!"

"Who had a striking resemblance to a milk man," John pointed at him. Sherlock gave the You're an Idiot glare.

"Well," the doctor cleared her throat, "let's have a look at that foot, shall we?"

Sherlock refused to glance her way, much less give up the appendage.

"Sherlock," John warned. Sherlock gave a heaving sigh as he lifted his leg up.

She turned his ankle and he gave no reaction. She pressed on the left side of his foot and he appeared bored. She turned her attention to the right half, and Sherlock gave a hiss of pain.

"John!" the name was both a growl and a plea for help. His doctor got down, and walked over to place his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Big five-year-old," he teased softly.

"Okay, well, let's get you in for some x-rays as soon as possible," the doctor said gently and she stood back up. She walked out of the room with a slight smile on her face.

John knelt next to the chair, putting the pressure on his good leg.

"You really look terrible," Sherlock gasped breaths through his teeth. John placed his hand on the back of Sherlock's neck, gently playing with the hair there. Sherlock's breaths slowed, and soon he was inhaling normally.

"There you go," John murmured. "Better?"

"Mmm, don't ask stupid questions," Sherlock hummed without an edge as he shifted his neck down, making his chin touch his chest as his doctor continued his ministrations.

The door knob turned, and John stood quickly enough that he saw black for a moment.

"I'm here to take you for your x-rays, Mr. Holmes," the technician said as she walked around him to wheel him out of the room.

Sherlock frowned as he saw John run a hand over his face; his doctor stretched out on the bed in the immediate care room and closed his eyes.

John dozed off while Sherlock was gone. He didn't have the energy to hope the detective would mind his manners and just not speak at all to the poor women out there (no men had been seen). It had been too long since he had gotten the chance to rest. He wasn't a machine; he couldn't work on zero sleep and still list off a hundred digits of pi and say the Magna Carta by memory.

John jumped, sitting up quickly, even though he was half-awake, when the door opened again. Apparently Sherlock hadn't pissed anyone off too much because there were no tears or angry-looking nurses.

"Dr. White will be back in with you shortly," she said before shutting the door on them.

"You were startled," Sherlock noted. John yawned. "Your military training has yet to wear off."

"No shit, Sherlock," John rolled his eyes.

"I want to see you in uniform."

The pause was fairly heavy.

"I never got it fixed; it still has the hole from where I got shot," John cleared his throat like he did when situations got emotional or awkward.

"I still want to see it."


"Because I do."

John sighed; before he could respond with anything more serious, Dr. White came back in.

"Well, your fifth metatarsal is fractured."

"Damn," Sherlock's mouth twisted in an odd way.

"We'll get you splinted, and recommend a foot and ankle specialist. As for pain, the pills I'm looking at are-"

"No drugs," Sherlock interrupted her.

"But the pain…"

"I can handle it. I won't take any drugs," the alien eyes were focused and his features were set, determined.

"Alright, no pain medication," Dr. White gave in.

John looked proud. His happiness broke through his grogginess enough for him to stand up and take the few steps to his best friend and grip his left shoulder. He didn't say anything; Sherlock could read into his silence well enough without words making a mess of things.

Dr. White got the signatures she needed, splinted the foot, and got Sherlock set up with a pair of crutches.

While Sherlock practiced walking up and down the hallway at her insistence ("It's a requirement."), Dr. White stood next to John.

"So, Dr. Watson, do you get any free time when you're not being a hero?" she looked up at him with large green eyes.

"I'm not the hero," he insisted, "that's him."

"I think both people on a team deserve awards," she shrugged. "You didn't answer the question."

"Well, actually, I get a bit-"


John looked up to see Sherlock in front of them, glaring at Dr. White.

"No, he doesn't get free time."

"Sherlock, since when don't I-"

"We have yet to crack the Maxwell case, you have your time at the A&E to fill, you agreed to help me with the fluoride experiments, and you are now living with a patient! No free time."

"Sherlock, I need time out with friends," John huffed.

"Fine, we can have a…a poker night with Lestrade! Why do you need her? You have me!" Sherlock was breathing heavily. John was struck dumb by the uncharacteristic display of emotion.

Sherlock turned his attention to the embarrassed Dr. White.

"My doctor. My friend. My John. I found him first. Get your own."

"Al…alright," she gulped.

"I'm ready to go, John." Sherlock hobbled down the hallway. John gave the woman an apologetic look and followed him out.


John remembered that night when he discovered the continued life of Irene Adler. She was as flirtatious as before. Sherlock was about to run off to find the arsonist, when Irene went to kiss him. Sherlock appeared frozen, but John pulled him back, stepping between The Woman and Sherlock.

"My detective. My friend. My Sherlock. I found him first. Get your own."

John turned on the tall man behind him, kissing him thoroughly, just to show off for his audience, to stake his claim.

"If you still want to see me in uniform, you'll get her out of here," he whispered huskily in his ear.

Irene Adler slept in a hotel for her duration in London, and a certain consulting detective got a very detailed look at what makes up a war hero.