Hello sweeties! I figured since I write so much John whump, I should just devote an entire story to it. So... yeah. Here you go.

John hissed as he rolled his wounded should around, fruitlessly trying to make the aching stop. Rainy days always seemed to have this sort of effect on him. As he walked through the door to the flat, he looked down at the ground and frowned at the puddle of rainwater that had gathered there and seemed to trail away down the hall and up the steps.

Sherlock.

God they needed a doormat. But then again, Sherlock would still refuse to use it.

Rolling his eyes at the mere thought, John massaged his shoulder as he ascended the wet stairs, making sure to hold onto the railing. As he reached the landing, he heard a crash upstairs followed by loud thumps.

"Jesus," he muttered under his breath.

Another crash.

"Sherlock!" John yelled up the stairs.

More stomping.

John began to bolt up the steps, the dread of what he would come home to negating the importance of the ache in his shoulder or the puddles on the stairs.

At least until he managed to slip in one of the puddles.

"Sherl-" was all he could manage to get out before he felt his shoe lose traction on the step, sending him flying down.

He felt his tailbone hit first, then his head on the railing, then the rest of him impacting harshly with each step as he rolled right back down to the landing, his back hitting the back wall with a loud thud.

And then he felt the ache again.

He groaned as he flopped onto his stomach, trying to blink away the sharp throbbing in his head.

Potential concussion. Nothing broken; merely bruised. Aggravated ache in shoulder. Tailbone will hurt like a bitch.

His medical brain fired off diagnoses quicker than a sniper would bullets. Perhaps that was the reason his head would not stop throbbing. Or perhaps it was the railing. Or maybe the loud clanging about coming from…

John realized it had gone silent. He then heard the sound of the door creaking as it was cracked open.

"John?" he heard that deep baritone voice call.

John moaned in response. It must have been this that caused the door to almost fly off its hinges, because Sherlock was down the stairs in a flash, rolling John over and checking for his vitals. John cringed as the detective's cold fingers grasped his hand and felt around for a pulse.

"Talk to me, John. Can you hear me? What hurts? Are you nauseous? Is anything broken? Are you bleeding? Do you need an ambulance?" Sherlock's voice sounded oddly concerned. "Are you alive, John? Answer me!"

John blinked against the light that shone above him, wincing at how bright it was.

"Sherlock, I'm fine," he said as he closed his eyes once more, trying to block out the immense throbbing. "Just a bit bruised. And I may have a minor concussion. Look can you just… can you help me upstairs?"

Without hesitation, Sherlock wrapped John's arm around his shoulder, earning a small groan from the doctor.

"John? Are you sure you're all right?"

John nodded and swallowed, biting back the pain he felt in his shoulder.

"It's just- oh Jesus that hurts- it's just my shoulder. The fall just aggravated it a bit."

Sherlock nodded and shifted his own body, trying his best to make John a bit more comfortable as he aided him up the steps. As he helped John into the flat, the doctor gasped sharply, his blood beginning to boil as he looked around the flat.

"Christ, Sherlock! What in the hell did you do?!" He winced as his own voice reverberated off of the walls.

The flat was an absolute mess. Some dishes lay broken on the tile, books had been thrown to the floor, the end table and its contents lay toppled over; it was enough to make John want to throat-punch the man who was currently supporting his weight.

"Sherlock, why?" John said with an exasperated sigh.

God the flat was a mess.

"You know what? I don't care. Just sit me down on the couch, please."

Sherlock did as he was told and gently lowered John onto the couch. John sucked in a small amount of air as his tailbone hit the cushion.

Okay, BADLY bruised.

From the look on Sherlock's face, John could tell the man had most likely deduced the situation. John gave a bit of a chuckle.

"Well, it's obvious you're bored. So why don't you go ahead and relay your deductions to me? Tell me what's wrong with me so you can take a break from toppling over furniture and be of some help."

Sherlock cleared his throat a bit bashfully and looked down at his feet.

"I, erm… that, uh… that tailbone looks a bit painful to sit on. Do you want me to… you know…?"

"Ice it? I can do that myself, thanks. Just retrieve the ice for me and straighten the flat up. Thanks."

John closed his eyes and let out a sigh.

"And a bucket, if you wouldn't mind. Preferably one without one of your damned experiments in it. I might be sick."

Sherlock nodded and quickly gathered up the needed supplies. John's eyes were still closed when he returned, worrying him just the slightest bit.

"John!" Sherlock shouted, shaking John's shoulders.

"Wha..? Oh, sorry. Geez, can you dim the lights a bit? Holy shit," John said as he held his hand against his head.

Sherlock immediately ran over to the light switch and flicked it off, replacing the harsh light with a dim glow from the lamp positioned next to the couch.

John let out a deep breath which he had been holding and gratefully took the ice and the bucket.

"Thanks. That's better."

Sherlock still stood at John's feet.

"I'm really alright now, Sherlock. You can go ahead and start straightening up."

Sherlock shook his head.

"I think not. The flat isn't top priority now."

"I'm alright on my own."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Are you certain a hospital isn't necessary?"

John nodded emphatically, trying to suppress the nausea that followed. He failed, subsequently vomiting into the bucket. Sherlock watched uncomfortably as John ceased the awful retching and wiped his lips.

"Oh, yes. That's reassuring," Sherlock said with as much sarcasm as he could possibly muster.

John glared at him.

"I'll be fine. I just shouldn't have shaken my head like that. Just, ah… okay. Alright. Let me just…" John adjusted himself carefully so that he was on his stomach, placing the bucket down beside him on the floor. "…okay then. Sherlock, would you mind turning around?" John said, the bag of ice hovering close to his buttocks. "Please? I kind of need to ice my ass."

Sherlock cocked his head slightly.

"Technically your tailbone. And anyway, I hardly see why that's your main concern, my seeing only a small portion of your buttocks."

John blushed a deep shade of red.

"Just turn around!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pivoted on his heel, waiting impatiently as John fixated the ice onto his tailbone.

"There we are," John said with a satisfied grunt.

Sherlock turned back around and couldn't help the amused look he gave John when he saw the bulge the ice was forming beneath the seat of John's trousers. It seemed that John had tried to cover up his nudity by pulling his pants over the ice.

"Are you really that bashful, John?"

John rolled his eyes.

"Well I'm certainly not as embarrassed as I might have been if I had left myself exposed."

"You're sure you don't need a hospital?"

John nodded.

"It's only a minor concussion which I agitated by nodding my head. A quick nap and plenty of rest and I'll be right as rain in a couple of hours. But if you could wake me up in about half an hour to make sure I don't completely lose consciousness, that would be great."

"Understood. Do you need anything else?"

John shook his head.

"Should be about it. Thanks."

Sherlock shifted his feet a bit.

"John… I really didn't intend to cause you this much trouble."

"Well, you did."

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"I suppose what I'm trying to say is- oh, what's the word…?"

"Sorry?"

Sherlock bit his lip.

"Yes. That. I'm… sorry."

John nodded.

"Yeah. It's okay, Sherlock."

There was a bit of silence before Sherlock broke it again.

"Your shoulder still seems to be bothering you. Would a massage help?"

John raised an eyebrow.

"You're serious?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Quite."

John looked a bit confused.

"I'm sure it'll be just fine."

"It's really no trouble at all, John. I have nothing better to do. I'm quite bored, as you so very expertly observed."

"No, it's, uh… it's fine. I really just need you to straighten the flat up; you know, to clean up the mess which you so expertly caused."

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek.

"Right."

John smirked.

"You know, I've never seen you so guilty."

Sherlock shook away his embarrassment, replacing it with his usual cold mask.

"Guilty? I've no idea what you're talking about. I was simply trying to avoid another one of your episodes through the use of charm and obedience."

John sighed.

"And there's the Sherlock I know. Just wake me up in half an hour. Remember that. Half an hour," John said.

"Yes, yes. Of course. You really ought to give me more credit, John."

"I think I already give you entirely too much."

Sherlock smirked and John smirked back.

"Well, I suppose you ought to rest now."

John nodded and rested his head on his forearms.

"Yeah. See you in a bit."

"Wait, John?"

"Hm?"

"That shoulder massage isn't off the table, you know. If you would still like one when you wake, I'm more than willing to oblige. And not because I'm guilty; I'm only offering because you're my friend and I know how irritable you can get when you're in the slightest bit of discomfort."

John smiled.

"Would that make you feel better?"

Sherlock blushed and looked down at the floor.

"It would put my mind at ease, yes."

"Then I suppose that would be alright."

Sherlock smiled a bit.

"Excellent."

"Can I get some sleep now?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Of course. Off you go."

And with that, the doctor nodded off, leaving Sherlock to sweep up glass shards in the kitchen.

This is only the first story. How will John Watson get himself hurt in the next chapter? Submit your ideas in the reviews, and I shall give you full credit in the intro to the next story!