Thank you for the kind words, reviewers! Here's the second and final part.

"Idiot!" John hissed at Sherlock when he was pulled, soaking, shivering and satisfied, out of the river.

"What? Why?" Sherlock seemed genuinely confused. He smirked as the officers retrieved their serial burglar. Nigel glared at John and Sherlock with loathing, but John didn't care about him anymore.

"Because you could have died!"

"No." Sherlock waved John away as if he had just something completely absurd. A waiting paramedic draped an orange blanket around his shoulders. He pulled it tighter around himself, trembling with the cold and the wet.

"You're soaked to the bone." John said, his tone scolding.

"Yes, I was just in the river."

"God knows how may parasites you picked up—did you swallow any water?"

"No John." Sherlock said, annoyed, "I do know not to do that."

"Good. Right. Come on, you're going to hospital." John grabbed Sherlock's soaked sleeve and started tugging him towards the ambulance.

"No."

"Sherlock!"

"No!" Sherlock ground his heels into the soft riverbank. "I don't like hospitals. All the doctors and nurses are idiots."

John pinched the bridge of his nose and prayed for strength. "Fine." He said, looking him in the eye, "we'll go home—but I am going to treat you there and you will do everything I say, got it?"

Sherlock huffed. "Fine."

"First, give me your coat." John pushed open the door and dropped his keys on the table. He turned a light on and Sherlock slid out of the heavy coat with a squelch and held it out, dripping, to John.

He took it and headed for the loo. "We'll need to get it dry-cleaned for sure." John hung it on the shower bar, hoping the bar could take the weight of a sodden, heavy wool coat. "Take your clothes off and meet me in here!" He called. "Bring them with you."

John left the bathroom and went to his room to grab his medical bag. His ankle was throbbing, but he ignored it. Sherlock first.

Happily, Sherlock was waiting for him in just his pants, holding his mass of wet clothes and looking tired.

"Give." John took the pile of clothes and dropped them into the sink, running water over them until they could be washed properly. "Take a hot shower." John said, turning to the sink-full of laundry. Sherlock shucked off his wet pants and stepped into the tub. John was happy at the lack of talk-back he was hearing. He smirked as he swished the mud out of Sherlock's clothes. That was the way of it, wasn't it? John listened to Sherlock on cases, but at home, what John said went. John stood there rinsing the clothes with soap and running water (it reminded him of his army days, doing washing on the fly) the entire time Sherlock showered, not really giving shit if he had a problem with it. He didn't want Sherlock to get ill—a Sherlock suffering from any sort of ailment was not a Sherlock John wanted to live with.

"When did you last have a tetanus jab?" John called over the water. Those metal springs had looked lethal.

"Uh…" Sherlock paused. "I deleted it."

"Okay." John unzipped his bag and grabbed the medicine and syringe, measuring out the correct dose. He slipped on some gloves.

The water shut off. John draped a bath towel over the door, avoiding the wet coat. Sherlock grabbed it.

"You're being quiet." John said.

"Tired and thinking." Sherlock mumbled. He emerged from the shower, the towel around his waist, and froze at the sight of John standing there cheerily holding up the needle and an alcohol pad. He rolled his eyes. "Now that's overkill."

"No way. You fell on that moldy old sofa. Arm, please."

Sherlock grumbled but offered his bare arm to John, who swiped it clean and plunged the medicine into his body, finishing it off with a plaster. Sherlock didn't even flinch.

"Good boy. Sit." John nodded at the closed toilet and Sherlock scowled.

"Not a dog." He growled.

"A dog would have been smart enough to not jump off a bridge into the Thames." John said testily. He grabbed some antiseptic and knelt in front of Sherlock, dabbing some into the cuts on his leg. "But then that dog wouldn't have caught the suspect." John added. He glanced up at a beaming Sherlock. "Good job."

"You didn't do half bad yourself, considering…." Sherlock said, noting the ginger way John held is his ankle.

"It's fine."

"You're filthy." Sherlock seemed to notice the mud on John's clothes and in his hair for the first time.

"Yeah, well, I was following you."

Sherlock stayed quiet, only flinching now and then as the medicine bit. John rubbed arnica gel into the darkening patches of skin, then noticed Sherlock's left wrist swelling impressively.

"Can you bend it?" John asked.

Sherlock did, and grimaced. "I can, but it hurts." John took Sherlock's delicate wrist in his warm hands and gently, expertly felt the small bones.

He pressed an area. "Does this hurt?"

"No."

A new area. "Does this hurt?"

"No."

John squeezed, eliciting a yelp.

"I think it's sprained." John concluded. "Can go for x-rays if you want, but…"

"That's okay…I trust you." Sherlock held the sore limb out to John, pouting. "Fix it."

John smirked, a warm feeling creeping up his neck at Sherlock's admission of trust. Sure, John knew Sherlock trusted him, but it was nice to hear. John wrapped it with a stiff bandage. "No violin until it's better."

Sherlock pouted harder.

"Also, get something cold on there. Up. Turn around."

John glanced over Sherlock's bare torso, mentally noting red areas that would probably bruise, scratches, bumps, and all other manner of injury that would be acquired from falling through a floor, slipping onto one's arse in the mud at least once, and then a plunge into the filthy cold Thames.

"I'm fine, John. You don't need to—"

"No you're not fine."

"Yes I am."

"No you're not." John was in full-on 'doctor mode' and he was not going to take any of Sherlock's crap. John turned him around and tugged the towel away.

"Ah—John!" Sherlock yelped.

John glanced at the wide, dark bruise already beginning to form on Sherlock's left buttock and thigh. He tutted. Sherlock must have fallen really hard in the mud.

"John, cover me up this instant!"

"Oh please." John muttered, handing him the towel, "Mister I-walk-around-in-nothing-but-a-bedsheet-on-weekend s is shy? Remember when I saw half your arse at the Palace? Mycroft and Harry saw it too, you didn't seem to care then. Now be quiet and let me work. I've seen enough backsides to last several lifetimes and yours is nothing special, and you're hurt, so shut-up Sherlock."

There wasn't any real heat behind the words and Sherlock finally closed his mouth. Whether it was because he was exhausted or because he was allowing John to have this victory (which was really for his benefit anyway, not that he'd tell John that), John was just happy his patient was quiet. In fact, Sherlock seemed to actually relax as John gently rubbed some arnica gel onto the various bruises on his back and pulled the towel back around. He put more antiseptic on the scrapes and checked the bandaged left wrist again for circulation.

John stepped back. "I should really give you some antibiotics." John said. "God knows how many escaped Baskerville experiments are floating around in the Thames."

Sherlock hummed in a noncommittal tone. He looked a hundred miles past exhaustion.

"Alright, I'll meet you in your room and give you the antibiotics, then I'll stop bothering you."

"Fine." Sherlock stumbled out of the loo and towards his bed. John grabbed the pills and followed with a glass of water.

Sherlock had slipped into a soft Tshirt and boxers and more or less collapsed into the mattress, and he lay sprawled like someone had spilled him there. John gave him the pills and water and Sherlock took them without comment.

"Thank you, John." Sherlock muttered into the pillow.

"You're welcome." John patted Sherlock's hip. "Sleep tight." He said, leaving the room.

"Uh-huh. I'll sleep fine, just fine…"

John closed the door after he left and Sherlock glanced up, staring at the closed door for a moment before he glanced down at the plaster. It was festooned with bright cartoon pirates and Sherlock grinned, falling instantly asleep.

End.