Well, hopefully this is the last one. Sorry for the delay! Meretricious, and a Happy New Year! (If you get that pun, you win everything) Enjoy lovelies!

John was not happy. Sherlock could see it in his eyes, the way his lip twitched, the stiffness of his limbs. The consulting detective was equally unhappy, but for a different reason all together. There was going to be a long, in-depth talk waiting for him when they got home, and worst of all, the bullet had went right through his humerus, though it miraculously hadn't shattered, leaving him with mild surgery, and a cast. He would still have full function of his arm - just not for several weeks.

"You're lucky," John had huffed as he looked over Sherlock's arm, in it's plaster cast. They had a few minutes before they could leave, and the doctor was going to spend it giving Sherlock a taste of what was to come. "There's any number of arteries or veins that bullet could have nicked. Then what?"

"As I remember it, you're the lucky one," Sherlock quipped, pulling his arm away as he gestured clumsily with his left hand at John's collar. A small hole was clearly visible, and certain thoughts made him shudder. "I think a shot to the neck is a tad more lethal."

John had huffed irritably, and continued to do so at varying intervals on the way home. Sherlock picked at his cast, grumbling to himself, wondering if his doctor would let him work in such a condition.

As it turns out, John would not let him work in such a condition (and Sherlock did receive quite a talking-to), and his reasonings were understood. Sherlock could do nothing with his left hand. Well, at least nothing worth while. When it came to adjusting a microscope, or measuring chemicals and other compounds or mixtures or solutions, his hand was shaky. His normally curled, elegant writing turned jagged and sloppy. He could no longer jump about or make wild gestures, since it jarred his injury. He could barely button his shirts, and showering was difficult as well. He could drink tea, and he could do menial tasks, but that was essentially where the list ended. Sherlock couldn't stand it. He couldn't even sulk on the couch the right way.

John, on the other hand, was simply surprised at Sherlock's lack of ambidexterity. He had always assumed his friend was equally apt with both hands, since he was apt with so many other things. What a way to prove him wrong. Then again, it wasn't like he was extremely skilled using his right hand to do much. Other than using scissors, firearms, and medical work, he was definitely left-handed. He did have an advantage over Sherlock, however, as it's a right-dominant world, and John has had to learn to do at least a few things with his non-dominant hand.

"I hate this damn thing..." Sherlock muttered one day. He was staring longingly at a pile of case files Lestrade had accidently-on-purpose forgotten on his last visit. Obviously payback for every annoying thing Sherlock had done over the past few years.

John chuckled sarcastically. "Your own damn fault," he muttered, though at the look his friend gave him, he offered a small smirk. "It'll only be a little while longer."

Sherlock hoped so - this damn thing itched and stank like nothing before. Not to mention he was bored out of his mind. The sexual frustration was a pain in the arse as well, since John refused to do anything until the cast was off. He would make up for Sherlock's forced abstinence, though.

Very, very well.

But the text messages would do for now.

(Would you please stop texting innuendos you fucking tease!
SH)

Or not.