Chapter 1

Sherlock ran down the street, breathing hard, adrenaline pumping through his veins and his thick blue coat flowing behind him. He was closing the gap between himself and the Runner and he knew the man ahead was tiring. He could hear John's footfalls crunching heavily on the gravel as he ran, his brilliant brain never stopping, always knowing what was happening around him. But there was one thing Sherlock's thundering brain didn't notice, not until it was too late anyway. One second he was running as fast as he could, his only intention on catching up to the mysterious figure in front of him and the next his foot was caught on a wooden block, his body flying through the air. He landed with a loud thump, a slight crack and a sudden searing pain through his right arm.

Sherlock rolled and pushed himself up into a sitting position as he instinctively pulled his arm in, cradling it on his lap. He felt his eyes close and face tighten with the pain but instantly smoothed it out as he tried to steady his breathing and calm his racing heart. He reopened his eyes just in time to see John skid to a stop in front of him. John opened his mouth, obviously about to ask the dreaded question of 'Are you okay?' but Sherlock was quicker.

"I'm fine, go," he hissed, nodding in the direction of the Runner. John nodded quickly at his friend before he continued sprinting down the road. Sherlock released the breath that he hadn't been trying to hold the second John started to run. He looked down at his throbbing arm in his lap and gently pulled back the sleeve of his coat, fumbled with the button on the cuff and finally pealed back the sleeve of the shirt. The arm was pale and unmarked but he could tell it was broken, simply by the pain radiating from just above his wrist, the position he had landed in, and the loud, inevitable crack as he had hit the floor.

He studied the arm further, his deduction skills working hard on the severity of the break. The bone had not pierced the skin, obvious, so not an open fracture, and the wrist still looked relatively normal so hopefully the bones hadn't moved. That was good, so long as the bone could heal properly by itself he wouldn't need to go to the hospital; hospitals were dull. He knew what John would say, though, if the doctor knew that he was hiding a break, but he had done it before when he was little. It was actually the same wrist, when he thought about it, that he had broken when he was eight, the break he had hidden from his family. Unsurprisingly it had been Mycroft that had noticed that his silent and sulky younger brother was only eating with his left hand, the right cradled on his lap. He had been stupid then though, the break was serious and the bones out of place, caused by an Idiot three years older that had twisted his arm behind his back although, judging by the bully's surprised squeak when the crack had sounded, he had not been aiming to break the bone.

Sherlock was pulled from his memories by the sound of feet on the gravelled path. Judging by the weight of the footsteps and the stride length he could tell that it was probably John and not the Runner. He glanced up, confirming his deduction, before, as hurriedly yet carefully as he could, pulled the sleeve back down, buttoned the cuff and slid down the coat sleeve. Slowly Sherlock eased himself to his feet, cradling his throbbing arm to his stomach. John jogged towards his friend, panting hard and clutching his side. The look on his face showed the Runner had gotten away.

"Are you okay?" he gasped eventually, when he had calmed his breathing enough to speak, still holding the apparent stitch.

"What?" asked Sherlock, feigning innocence in hope that John would leave him be. The plan failed though and John nodded towards his friend's arm that he held with the other. "Your arm?" he asked, his voice still breathless.

"I'm fine, it's just a sprain," he replied with a slight shrug. The doctor nodded sceptically but said nothing, not wanting to start an argument. Together they walked down the side street towards the main road to hail a cab; they had run too far from Baker Street to make it back on foot and it was dark and, though he hid it well, the constant throbbing in the detective's wrist was getting to him.

The Taxi drive to Baker Street was taking longer than normal as the traffic was at a total standstill. Sherlock hated it, he could feel his wrist beginning to swell inside his cuff and he needed to get the shirt off. He also knew that he needed to ice the break to reduce the bruising and swelling as both would alert John to the true extent of his 'sprain'. He rested his head against the glass, sending himself to his Mind Palace to free himself of the pain, but it was hard and the pain was still there just now buzzing at the back of his mind. Why wasn't it working properly? It had worked all those years ago, when he was young. Although, that was probably because he hadn't been the most…sane of children when he was eight.

Sherlock suddenly because aware of a gentle hand on his shoulder. He jumped upright, grimacing as the pain returned in full blast to his arm. He winced involuntarily and shut his eyes, only opening them again when he heard John worriedly asking if he was alright. The cab was quiet, and the engine off. They were home then, back at Baker Street.

"Mm, I'm fine," he mumbled as he opened the cab door without looking at his friend and climbed from the taxi. It was cold outside, and dark but at least they were home. He hurried to the flat, leaving John to pay for the cab and pushed at the door, only to find it locked. He fumbled for his keys, glad that he had put them in his left pocket of his coat that day and unlocked the door. He pushed it open, trying to appear as calm as he could as he hurried into the flat. He rushed up the stairs despite the searing in his wrist as he heard John shutting the door behind him. Knowing he needed to ice his wrist he went to the kitchen to find some.

Oh, there was no ice in the freezer, he remembered now, he had used it all up last week for an experiment and had not replaced it. He would have to just use cold water then. Knowing that he couldn't rest his wrist in the bathroom sink he ran a cold bath, removed his shirt and coat, with as little wincing as possible, and knelt next to the bath, leaning over it and letting his arm float on the surface. Despite the unusual position, the bath wasn't as bad as he had thought, maybe a little uncomfortable but bearable. Presides, it took the edge off the throbbing in his arm.

He had only been in the bathroom for a minute when there was a tentative knock at the door.

"Are you okay in there, Sherlock?" asked John, cautiously. Why was he always so concerned?

"I'm fine John," Sighed Sherlock, "Just having a bath," he added, hopefully that would keep his friend and his dreaded doctoring skills away for a while.

"Okay," replied John, although the worry was still evident in his voice. Sherlock knew his arm would be bruised, swollen and painful for another six weeks at least and held back a dramatic sigh. He wouldn't be able to use it at all for the first couple of weeks in case he jostled the bones out of place and then it would still be fragile, possible for months. That meant no energetic cases, no running, no fighting and it was then that he decided that they could possibly be the six longest weeks of his life.

Three days later and Sherlock was board. He had not been able to go to any cases as Lestrade knew him better than John and was sure to notice his lack of arm movement. Surprisingly John had said very little over the past days, being at work for two of them. It was just before dinner when John brought the subject up for the first time since the night they had chased the Runner.

"Sherlock, let me take a look at your arm," sighed John, eventually breaking the silence.

"It's fine," Said Sherlock, as he Googled the toxicity of metallic acrylic paint on his phone.

"Sherlock!" John tried again, the exasperation clear in his voice as he watched his friend typing away on his Blackberry.

"It's fine," the detective repeated, still glaring at his phone.

"Look, there's no point lying, it's obvious your arm hurts."

At this comment Sherlock looked up, raising his eyebrows in interest. He was certain that he had shown almost no outward signs of the pain he was in, but then again, John was a doctor so he had probably seen people hiding pain many times before. "Go on then," Sherlock replied, his BlackBerry forgotten.

"Well, I think you broke your wrist, when you fell," his flatmate began, somewhat nervously. "You see, normally when you hurt something you try to ignore it, no matter how much pain you're in. Remember after you were knocked down and we practically had to force you to use the crutches? Well, you haven't been using your right hand since you fell." Here Sherlock opened his mouth to argue back but John continued, not allowing the detective to get a word in. "I know you've texted but you've been using mainly your left hand and you've had your phone in your lap the entire time so you haven't had to move your wrist. Not to mention you've been doing everything left handed with your right sat in your lap for days and you hold it still when you walk. And you haven't played your violin. But it's not because of the pain is it? It's because you don't want to jostle the bones out of place because that would need a trip to the hospital. But mainly, I can just see the extensive bruising at the base of your hand; you wouldn't get that from a sprain." John smirked slowly despite his worry at the shocked look on the detectives face.

"See," he grinned, "you're not the only one who can deduce things!"