A/N: Many thanks to all followers and readers. I really don't get as much time as I wish I could to write. I've got a busy year ahead so I hope I can fit some fiction writing in between work and commitments. Please review my friends. Always makes my day. I will update as and when I can.

Bothersome trees

"What an earth?" John jolts himself awake in the darkness. He must have fallen asleep, half a cup of tea is resting on the table in front of him and a plate of now cold homemade lasagne is precariously tilting on his knees, threatening to fall at any moment.

"Sherlock?" The doctor looks across to the doorway in the gloom, only to see his friend stagger into the living room, looking more than a little dishevelled. "You ok?"

"Bloody criminal class." Sherlock mumbled. "Not very poetic when they throw you from buildings." He grumbled, wincing as he removed his heavy Belstaff, soaked from the pouring winter rain.

"What?" John was on his feet in a second, the plate of food almost sent to the floor, Mrs Hudson would have been most disappointed, considering she had made it.

"I'm fine John." Sherlock waved him off, "Nothing but a couple of cracked ribs and a sprained wrist, stop worrying like a mother hen." The detective hobbled into the kitchen.

The doctor took three large strides across the room, switching on the main light in the kitchen, making his friend squint at the bright light now glaring on his clearly bruised face.

"Do you mind!" Sherlock shot, frowning with detest. "I said I was fine."

"How far did you fall?" John was already in his friends face, examining the small cuts and bruises on his flatmates skin, clearly from a fist fight. "I really wish you wouldn't go running off without me?"

"I. Am. Fine." The detective pronounced every word carefully and with purpose, trying to bat his friends advances away. No one win's hand to hand combat with Sherlock Holmes, he gloated. But his face soon changed into a grimace again as he bent to retrieve a mug from the cupboard.

"Sherlock?" John's voice turned serious and he placed his hands on his hips.

The detective sighed. "Why won't you just leave it?"

"Why do you think?"

"I don't think I'm going to decease anytime soon." Sherlock dropped a bag of earl grey into the mug, "Sorry to disappoint you, but I think I will be ok." Sarcasm dripped from every word.

The water in the kettle began to slowly bubble and as the liquid got closer to boiling point, John's anger slowly began to increase with the ever rising sound of it. He clenched his fists together and then his jaw, trying to hold his tongue from saying something foolish.

Sherlock poured the water into his drink, letting it brew and then disappeared out of the kitchen heading for his room.

"Where are you going?" John hovered in the doorway nervously, he desperately wanted to examine his friend. Falling from a height should not be taken lightly. It could account for any categorical amount of injuries, broken bones, concussion, spinal injury, contusions, he swallowed back the rising panic in his throat, suddenly glad he had barely eaten.

"Changing out of my wet clothes." Sherlock answered after a beat. "That is unless you want me to become hypothermic and catch pneumonia?"

John chose not to reply. He filled the time with rinsing his own cup out and pouring himself a warm tea from the ample water left, opting for chamomile to try and calm his clearly frayed nerves and patience. By the time Sherlock returned over ten minutes later to the living room the doctor had turned up the heating and settled himself into his chair with his warm mug of brew. The consultant had donned his silk pyjama bottoms and dressing gown, his hair was dry and he looked more presentable.

"Now, please. Will you let me take a look at you?" John's voice softened, no use in fighting his friend for it, he would get nowhere.

"Fine." Sherlock sunk carefully into his own chair opposite. "If only you'll stop flapping and fussing about it."

The doctor obtained his medical bag from the other side of the room and clicked more lighting on.

"Must you make the entire flat like Piccadilly circus?" The detective shielded his eyes from the brightness.

"I do need to see my patients to examine them." John tutted and returned to his seat, sitting forward on it and opening the bag. "Jesus." He muttered as he came to gaze on his friends face properly finally.

"What?"

"You're as white as a sheet." John's brows furrowed and he looked worriedly at him. "Are you sure it's just the ribs and wrist?" He pulled out a pen torch. "No chance you hit your head? No nausea, dizziness, lack of co-ordination?" He shined the light into each eye, watching the detective's pupils react normally to the stimulus.

"What is it with you and bright lights?" Sherlock grumbled.

"I need to rule out head injuries." John tutted again, "How far did you fall, and onto what?" He quickly inspected each small bruises and cuts on his flat mate's face, each one clearly a blow from a fist, none of which were of any significance, although he may sport a black eye or two by the morning.

"I'm fine. I didn't hit my head. He just hit his, out cold by the time Lestrade arrived. Late as usual." Sherlock rattled off, interrupted by a hiss as the doctor squeezed his tender wrist.

"You should get that x-rayed." John warned.

"No thank you." A curt reply.

"Your pulse is racing." John counted the beats to over 100.

"Probably because you just hurt me." Sherlock grumbled

"Sorry. No neck pain?" the older man then gently palpated the base of his best friend's skull and then down his neck, Sherlock flinched back at the intimateness of the examination. John knew it was not pain related, he was about the only doctor the detective would let touch him, at least while he was conscious anyway.

"I told you." Sherlock took a short intake of breath as if struggling a little. "Ribs and wrist. I must have fallen no more than 15 feet, onto grass and vegetation. The perpetrator was not so lucky when he struck the solid concreate."

"Christ." John swore. "Sherlock, 15 feet is no small distance. You really should get looked over at hospital."

"No." A quiet reply and then another hiss as John gently felt over the cracked ribs on his left.

"Landed on you left? John asked.

"Don't remember." He shrugged.

"Did you lose consciousness then?"

"No"

"How do you know if you don't remember?" John fired back.

"Finished?" Sherlock sneered, pulling his dressing gown back across his bruising chest and rose from his seat.

"No, I'm not finished yet, sit back down." John huffed and pulled his stethoscope from his bag. "At least let me check your lungs are clear?"

"No" Sherlock pottered across towards the kitchen. "I said I'm…" his voice faded of and his tried to catch his breath.

John turned in a second to see his friend steady himself on the wall, leaning heavily. He was up in a flash and by his side. "Whoa. Fine are we?" He mocked, and instantly wanted to take it back as he looked at the detective's white face, paler than moments earlier if it were possible. "Sherlock?" He grabbed his friends arm to guide him back into the living room. "What is it?"

"John?" the consultant looked bewildered, scowling deeply and trying to focus his glazed eyes.

"Why don't you come back and sit down?"

A pause. Sherlock drew a shaky breath and his eyes began to droop. Too late, John saw it coming. The detective's knees seemed to fail under him and his body pitched forward into his friend. The doctor struggled to remain upright himself as the taller form fell. He somehow managed to guide his friend into the floor, gently letting Sherlock's head rest back against the carpet, and his gangly limbs stretch out.

"Sherlock?" John's panic started to rise. "Can you hear me?"

"John…" the detective's voice was weak and slurred and his eyes barely managed to open past a crack.

John placed his fingers on his best friend's carotid. "Fuck." He swore under his breath, pulse rising, nearly 150 beats a minute now, he was going into shock. The doctor surveyed his friends form quickly, scanning him for signs of traumatic wounds or bleeding but finding none. He ran his hands quickly over Sherlock's chest again and stopped at his abdomen. How had he missed this? The detective's stomach was distended and swollen, he gently palpated it, eliciting a weak moan from his friend. In a rush he stood and grabbed his phone from across the room, settling back next to his friend he checked his breathing and quickly dialled 999.

"What?" Sherlock tried hopelessly to speak, but his breath was shallow. He cracked his eyes open to meet his doctors. "Jhn?" he mumbled incoherently.

"It's alright Sherlock, just stay still ok. Your bleeding internally. You're going into shock." Captain John Watson was in charge now, taking control of the situation in a calm voice. The phone connected and John commanded the details to the operator. "Ambulance, 221 Baker Street, internal haemorrhage after a fall from height, approximately fifteen feet, GCS of 9. Yes. Please hurry."

Sherlock mumbled incomprehensibly as John discarded his mobile on the floor. "Just try to stay awake ok?" he shook his friend's shoulders gently and the detective's eyes cracked open again. "Please?" he smiled sadly.

"What's…?" Sherlock's voice was barely audible.

"Don't talk." John took his friends pulse again, tachycardic, weak, thready. "You've probably ruptured your spleen or something. You must have taken a blow to the abdomen in your fall, even if you don't remember."

The edges of the detective's mouth pulled to attempt a small smile but it was hardly noticeable. He drew a shaky shallow breath "Bothersome tree" His voice whispered on exhale.

"You're a dickhead." John sighed. "An absolute bloody dickhead!"

The next few minutes were filled with nothing but babble from both sides. John desperately managing to keep his friend conscious for as long as possible and Sherlock's voice fading slowly into nothing. By the time the ambulance crew arrived the detective was no longer rousable.

"He needs blood!" John demanded as the man and women met him in the flat by his friend's prone form.

They were on it. Within a few minutes they were bundled into the back of the vehicle, two lines of fluids racing into Sherlock's veins to desperately maintain blood pressure which was dropping dangerously low. UCLH was only minutes down the road, he would be ok once blood was on board and they could open him up to stop the bleeding.

What an utter cock, John thought. The detective would never live this one down. He would be sure to ask about any obstruent trees next time his friend was injured. John couldn't help but not smile.