Hello! I'm back, trying my hand in the Sherlock fandom! This story was inspired by my real-life experience, the first crash I was in. While the timeframes are a bit squished (it is a story, after all), almost all of this happened to me. So I thought, what would happen if Sherlock had been in this situation? And so... this was born. Enjoy!

Dust in the air. Why is dust in the air? Shouldn't be. What's… canvas? Push it off. Off, off, off. Pants have a tear in the left knee. Knee has a tear in it, too. A little blood, not much. Right foot's got a red rash down the top. Coughing. Coughing really loud, the only sound. Why is there no other sound? Hands… not pressing over ears… should have audio. Coughing harder. Need dust-free air. Out. Open, door. Open, open. Push against it. Hard. Tangible creak of metal. Out. Don't just stand here. Walk. Move. Red liquid on the ground. Lots of it. Flowing away. Blood? No, too much. Not me. Not him. Not her, she's at the wrong angle. From the car, then. Car blood? Can cars bleed? Apparently they can. No, it's transmission fluid, running down the asphalt. There's a breeze now, light and cool; take a deep breath, clear the lungs of the dust. Look around; where is everyone else? How injured are they? The other driver's in view first; she's in her late twenties with shoulder-length blonde hair and green eyes. She has an airbag burn on the interior of her left arm at the elbow. Her neck is stiff though she is unaware of that as of yet; her mind is still in shock. At least she had the good sense to get out of her vehicle. Where's- oh, there's John. Good, he got out of the car too. There is a burn on his left arm below the elbow and his right shoulder was wrenched backwards, probably by the force of the airbag deployed from the center of the steering wheel. He's going to be feeling that for a while. Myself… I will think about that later. Nothing is standing out right now anyway.

His mind clearing, he realized that they were all okay, so he turned his mind to figuring out what had happened. John had been driving that day, as Sherlock needed to think about the case at hand; a serial murderer had been running around, his targets single adults in their twenties and thirties. The bodies were always found in bed- as if the victims had fallen asleep- with a child's stuffed toy in their arms.

It was midmorning. They were on their way back from the latest crime scene, located in a small town outside of the reaches of the taxi service's tentacles, hence the rented car. Sherlock sat in the passenger seat with his eyes closed, his fingers steepled under his chin as he puzzled clues out in his Mind Palace. Not one victim was over thirty-five, or younger than twenty. And a stuffed child's toy? Put those together and it has something to do with children. The victims were all single, so it only followed that-

John simultaneously yelled, slammed on the brakes and blared the horn, pulling Sherlock's mind from his latest deduction with the onslaught of unexpected stimuli. His eyes snapped open and focused on the road in just enough time to see a car stopped in the centre of the intersection, in their lane, having decided that the brake was the better option of the two pedals when John had laid on the horn. There was not enough room for anything to be done but-

And then everything was black.

Sherlock shook his head, bringing him back to the present. There was a paramedic checking him over, and John, having already been looked at, was standing right next to him, holding and ice pack to his burn and giving Sherlock the strangest stare. "What?" he asked John.

"Nothing, you just… Are you alright?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure? You never let a medic near you. Not voluntarily. Not without being ordered and sometimes sat on."

"I was thinking."

"Oh. Right then." John could tell that conversation was over. At least for now.

Sherlock looked down at his knee. The cut had been cleaned and bandaged to stop the bleeding, and the medic was rambling on about icing it and keeping it elevated… He decided he had had enough. He turned from the man and started walking away.

"Sherlock!" John called after him. "Where are you going?"

"Back to the flat," came the bored reply.

"…How? In case you haven't noticed, we don't exactly have a car."

This stopped Sherlock in his tracks. He had forgotten how far out they were. He closed his eyes in frustration. There was too much going on; he needed to go into his Mind Palace and sort it all out before it drove him crazy. He turned back.

"I can give you a lift back to your flat," a police officer said to John. He smiled at her.

"That would be great, thanks."

-S-

The ride seemed like no time at all, since Sherlock had delved into his task of organizing his thoughts along the way. John had ridden up front to both keep the officer company and to give Sherlock space. Before he knew it, they had pulled up outside 221 Baker Street, apartment B's windows looking out at them from the second floor. Sherlock just wanted to get inside, so he opened the door and got out as quickly as he could, which was considerably slower than his normal speed. He noticed this immediately and decided that even though he was still not feeling any physical pain, he would need to assess the extent of the damage to his legs when he got up to the flat.

He had gotten about halfway to the stairs, having successfully unlocked and opened the door, when he registered that his left knee was stinging. Nothing too serious, but coupled with the slight dizziness and disorientation, he had to lean on the wall for support. The car's passenger door slammed shut. John's coming, then. Okay; one, two, three. Push off the wall, make it look normal. Stairs… not so hard. I do it every day. Okay. And… go. He started up, using the handrail and going slower than normal, but hoping John would not notice too much.

No such luck. Making it to the top of the stairs, John was right behind him and laid a hand on his elbow to stop his forward movement. He looked at the shorter man. "I see you're hurting," the doctor said. "Don't deny it, I won't listen and you know it. Those pants are ruined, so go change, and put shorts on. I want to see how badly you're injured." Sherlock looked at John, doing his best to imitate his normal 'I don't care what you want, I'm going to do my own thing' look. John was not buying it. "Sherlock," he chided, "I'm a doctor. And your friend. Put both of those together and you get someone who is one; genuinely worried about your well-being, and two; determined to ensure you aren't hiding something bad from me. So just make this easier on yourself and do as I ask for once, yeah?"

Sherlock gave him a couple more seconds of his look, but was met with equal resistance from John. Finally, Sherlock gave up and told him the real problem. "I don't have any."

"What?" This was not at all what John thought the brunette was going to say.

"Shorts. I do not own any shorts."

"Why not? Nevermind, you can borrow some of mine. They're drawstring, so they'll fit." And with that, John turned and disappeared into his room, calling, "And don't move til you have them," after him.

-S-

Sherlock was lying on the couch, finally allowed to after John was finished examining him. He had bruising up and down the insides of his legs from the airbags' deployment, scrapes on both knees and a rash-like scrape along the top of his right foot. It was his left knee that held the doctor's attention, however. John knew there was something more underneath the surface wound, but did not want to do too much to it right then. Better to bring the inflammation down and check it out later.

"You've got to ice it and keep it elevated, to reduce the swelling," John had said before moving to the kitchen to put some ice in a few plastic food bags and grab some rags.

"I know," Sherlock had replied.

John had come back and helped him adjust the ice over the most inflamed area of each of his knees and the top of his right foot, putting the rags down first to ensure there was no direct skin-to-ice contact, before shooting Sherlock one more I-mean-it look and going to make tea.

So now he was on the couch, the third bag of fresh ice on his legs. He had learned that removing the ice, even just to refresh it, caused the pain to come back immediately and in full-force. Not that he was going to let John in on that secret. He had simply gotten up, refreshed the ice as quickly as he could, and returned to his place. John, meanwhile, had turned on the telly, some stupid game show droning on. Sherlock had gone into his Mind Palace and reorganized all of the thoughts and information that had gotten jumbled and had sifted through the new stuff. But now it was nine thirty at night, and he was too tired to do anything else. If he was honest with himself, lying where he was and watching a little crap telly was perfectly fine with him. So he made no sound or movement to alert John that he had emerged from his Mind Palace and watched the program with his flatmate until his eyes began to droop of their own accord. Just as unconsciousness was claiming him, he could have sworn he saw John look over at him and smile….

-S-

The next morning came all too fast, finding Sherlock's mind still foggy. John was already up, bringing a mug of tea as Sherlock stirred and setting it down on the table in front of the couch where Sherlock still was. Sherlock slowly pushed himself up to lean against the arm of the couch. Now that the initial shock had worn off, every small movement caused a stab of pain, akin to a red-hot needle, to spike through each injured area.

John looked at his left knee and decided the swelling was better than it could have been, thankfully. So he had thoroughly checked it out, much to Sherlock's chagrin. Ten minutes of poking, prodding, and light pressure later, John told him what his mind was still too muddled to; he had gained an injury to his knee that was called "Infrapatellar Fat Pad Syndrome," more well-known as "Hoffa's Disease." In other words, in the crash, Sherlock's knee had been subject to enough of a traumatic force that his kneecap, or patella, had pinched the fat pad that resided right behind the patella against his distal thigh bone, or femoral condyle. This caused the fat pad to become inflamed and swollen, and honestly very painful.

"Okay," John said after informing Sherlock of this development, "So you're going to stay there for the next couple of days at least; hopefully we can get the swelling back down. You also can't use your leg for a while. No walking, definitely no running or jumping. Just no load-bearing movement. If you straighten your leg or put weight on it, you'll just make it worse."

"I know."

"Well, then do it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine."

-S-

Sherlock was getting bored. It was nearing the end of the day, and he was quite frankly surprised he had lasted this long. He had taken a nap earlier, then gotten a book to read, intent to occupy himself. Secretly, he was still dealing with too much pain to want to do anything, but John was not to know that, so for both reasons he kept his mind active, analyzing once again the facts pertaining to the current murder investigation.

He had solved it, too. But that also presented a conundrum; he had nothing to think about. Luckily, he was getting tired again, so he would not have to fight off the encroaching boredom for much longer.

-S-

The third day was agony. His patience was worn thin, the case was solved- psychotic killer that had a grudge against single adults without kids. He felt that each adult who had no children was not fulfilling their personal duty to humanity, and as such were guilty of trying to destroy the human race. Who knew what went through that killer's head…. And now Sherlock had nothing to do. Again.

"Bored."

John did not even look up from the paper. "I would imagine so."

"Lestrade probably has a new case. A new crime scene to look at."

"You can't. You can't put weight on your knee."

Sherlock huffed. "But I'm bored."

No response.

"You can't honestly expect me to sit around any longer. I can't do it. My mind cannot be idle. I cannot be bored!"

"Well, then figure out something else to do, because you are no-"

John was cut off by the shrill ring coming from Sherlock's mobile. The consulting detective snatched it up, hoping for one particular caller to be on the other end. He was not disappointed. "Lestrade," he greeted in his usual bored tone. A minute later, "Yes, we'll be there soon," came from his mouth, much to the annoyance of one particular blogger. He hung up the phone.

John was glaring at him. "Fine. Fine," he held up his hands in mock surrender. "But you're going to wear a brace, and you're going to do the absolute minimum movement required." He leaned toward the taller man threateningly, his elbows braced on his knees. "Either that, or I'll probably end up tackling you to the ground and sitting on you, and I'm sure the forensics guys would love that."

-S-

He was back on the couch. Again.

The case had been easy. So easy, in fact, that Sherlock had led the DI and his team directly to the murderer as he was preparing to strike again, more than enough evidence to convict him spread out on the table and pinned to the walls. Unfortunately for the officers, the culprit had a few moves and was able to knock out almost half of the force there before making a break for it. Without thinking, Sherlock was immediately after him, dashing down the streets, hurtling over trash cans and everything else the murderer threw in his path. Lestrade, John and three others were with him on the chase, but when his knee stubbornly gave out just as he was jumping a rubbish bag, Lestrade and John automatically stopped to help him off the ground. Lestrade yelled at the other three to keep on the criminal's tail, then turned to Sherlock, asking what happened. It was John who answered, upset at Sherlock, and rightly so, telling the DI of the injury that the consulting detective would have gladly –and tried to have- kept from him.

And so, quite quickly after that, he ended up on the couch in the flat. Again. But this time, everyone and their mother seemed to stop by, asking how he was. Mrs. Hudson had come up immediately, bringing him and John tea and biscuits, asking if they needed anything else. Lestrade had stopped by as soon as the criminal had been caught, informing him of that and asking how he was. Molly even caught wind and had paid a visit asking –shocker- how he was doing. If he was honest with himself, he knew he could not do much of anything movement-wise. Even his pain tolerance was not this high; he knew that he was really limited now. By running, he had, in his stunning moment of thoughtlessness, only inflamed his knee more, causing severe pain whenever he stood. Or straightened it to any extent. Or was still, if there was no ice on it. But he was not going to tell anyone that. If he did, he knew they would all stop him from working if he got even an insignificant injury, like a paper cut. Okay, he knew that was going a bit far, but still.

His not telling them did not stop them from asking why he had not said anything, though. Can people really be so dense? If he ever said anything, he would be on lockdown. Like he was now. And that would leave him bored. Plus, most of the time any injury was no big deal, just a walk-it-off kind of thing. So he would hide it so he could keep working.

-S-

Bored.

Boooored.

Boredboredboredboredbored.

Boredboredboredboredboredboredboredboredboredboredboredboredboredboredboredboredboredbored.

What to do?

Lestrade had brought Sherlock all the cases, current and cold, from the Yard, but the stack was pitifully small due to the last time Sherlock had needed something to do. He tore through those with ease, solving case after case until the stack was exhausted.

He had tried to get up to play his violin, but had ended up on the shortest route to the floor, his momentum arrested at the last moment by a quick-acting John. This only annoyed the brunette more. Any other time, Sherlock could have given John a run for his money, almost taking him down and releasing some pent-up energy. But John was an ex-soldier and Sherlock was incapacitated. And so his annoyance grew.

He ended up playing his violin while lying on the couch. He had the instrument over his left shoulder, toward the center of the room. This restricted his right arm's movement a bit, but he decided he could work more with his wrist than usual rather than not play at all. He ended up composing three new pieces before putting his violin down and falling asleep.

-S-

The next day was Monday; John was back at work. Sherlock had been reading for a while, but his back had been tired of sitting up, so he laid along the length of the couch, his head on the armrest. Then after a while his arms had complained about holding the book above him, so he just dropped it on his face and let it lay there. John was not there and Mrs. Hudson had just been up recently, so there was no one to know that his brain did not work all the time as he claimed it did. Just most of the time.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway, approaching the door. But he knew the tread, so he remained how he was, not putting in the effort to move. "Sherlock, how are you?"

Underneath the book, Sherlock rolled his eyes. "'How are you?' Again? Really? It's not like everyone else asks that at all hours of the day!"

"But are you going to answer?"

Sherlock pulled the book from his face. "I'm fine."

Mycroft chuckled, sending a pointed look at the volume in Sherlock's hand. "Always the same, brother mine. You never would say anything if you got hurt. To afraid you would have to stop your work."

"And why would I?"

Mycroft leaned toward him from where he had taken up residence in Sherlock's chair. "Because if you don't give it a rest now, you'll never get back to it." Sherlock rolled his eyes, but knew his brother spoke truth. Mycroft patted his shoulder on the way out, seeing his younger brother's mind working on the piece of –until now- seemingly unimportant information.

-S-

The last thing Sherlock ever wanted to do is listen to his older brother. But he did have a point; if the consulting detective ever wanted to get back on his feet and back to his work, he would have to stay off of them for now. So he did what he could, doing experiments, reading, and solving the cases Lestrade brought him, throwing John scathing remarks now and again about how little he could do. Why? Because John expected it, and Sherlock did not want him sticking his nose into Sherlock's business, thinking something else was off with his flatmate. But Sherlock had thought through what Mycroft had said; a month of inaction or a lifetime? He could have a month's worth of patience.

And hey, there's always that smiley face on the wall, right?

And the funniest part? I really did wish I had a smiley face on my wall that I could shoot. But oh well.

Please review! It would make my day!

~Mirnava