Disclaimer: I own nothing.

This story was written at the request of StarMaya, which was specifically "Can you do one where Sherlock gets hurt and John is panicked but cares for his boyfriend (Sherlock). Can you make it M?"

I hope this was what she wanted it to be, and that everyone else enjoys. This will be two chapters, and the P with some P will be in the second one.


John had never experienced a more sobering moment than when he heard Sherlock's bone crack beneath the pressure of his own weight.

They were chasing after a bad guy, their usual pastime for a Friday evening. Some go to the pub. Others run through London after serial killers.

When had John's life turned into fiction?

But anyway, John was ahead of Sherlock for once, because he knew where they were going. John was actually a faster runner when he really put some effort behind it, and when he wasn't forced to follow behind Sherlock because he refused to say where they were going.

But since he was in front, he didn't see what happened. He just heard the sound that he knew quite well. The cracking of a bone. A large one.

John stopped so quickly he was nearly surprised that there was no skidding sound. He ran back over to Sherlock, who was on the ground, trying and failing to keep his cool-calm-collected demeanour. His teeth were gritted, and his breath was coming in short, agitated huffs.

"John," Sherlock said, his voice strained as he tried to look at his left leg. John suspected it was his tibia. "Markson will get away. You've got to run after him. You know where he's headed."

"Sherlock, you're utterly mad if you think I'm leaving you here like this."

"John, you have to go after him!" Sherlock snarled, the injury that was likely causing Sherlock severe pain heightening his emotions.

"No," John said firmly, glaring at his friend as menacingly as he could.

It didn't faze Sherlock, of course. It was likely a dragon couldn't intimidate Sherlock.

"If you don't go, I'll get up and go running right now. So then it will be completely your fault when my injury becomes more severe than it already is."

John wanted to call his bluff, except he knew Sherlock was serious. Well, not that it would really be John's fault that Sherlock's idiotically stubborn, but he still didn't want Sherlock to worsen his injury.

He only considered for another moment.

"Fine, okay, fine. But you're staying right here until I come back to get you."

"Yeah, yeah." He rolled his eyes.

"I'm serious, Sherlock. You'll hurt yourself worse if you move. Don't."

"I'm not a child, John," Sherlock muttered.

"Sometimes you need to be spoken to like one," John retorted. "Stay," he added one last time.

Then he sprinted away again. As he ran, he called Lestrade—because he, unlike Sherlock, realised that the police were occasionally helpful when apprehending dangerous criminals. He told Lestrade the address to be at, but he was too out of breath to say much more.

And, imagine this, John showed up to the location and Markson was already getting cuffed.

If Sherlock would just suck up his pride every once in a while, maybe he could have this easy of a time catching criminals too.

Not that John was planning on saying he had help. What Sherlock didn't know would be much better for John, after all. He'd never hear the end of it.

"Where's Sherlock?" asked Greg when he noticed the detective's absence at the scene.

"He got hurt," John replied. "He's probably trying to crawl home as we speak, the bloody idiot."

"Then go get him," Lestrade urged, and John didn't need to be told twice. He jogged back to where Sherlock was…

"Sherlock, that's not where you were before," John said, his voice tired. He was just a few feet away, but John knew it wasn't the same because before Sherlock had been leaning up against some bins and now he was on the opposite wall.

Sherlock didn't bother to argue.

And a moment later, John noticed something else.

Sherlock was now holding his right ankle, when before he had been holding his left.

"Sherlock," John said, his voice rife with irritation. "You tried to walk and hurt yourself, just like I fucking told you you'd do, didn't you?"

Sherlock, probably for the first time in his entire life, looked timid.

John got down on one knee in front of Sherlock, forcing Sherlock's hand away. Sherlock was too sheepish to even complain as John rolled up the right leg of his trousers.

And sure enough, it was visibly swollen. Left leg broken, right ankle sprained.

John could only think one thing.

Sherlock was about to be miserable to be around.


And John was absolutely right. Sherlock, having both legs injured, could not do a thing on his own. John was sure that if only one leg were injured, or basically any other part of his body, he would have struggled through life, but done everything he always did nonetheless. But he was now incapable of moving around. In fact, he was given a wheelchair when his left leg was casted, but Sherlock refused to be shoved into it.

Which meant he had to hobble against John's side, wincing as he walked on his sprained ankle, all the way back to the flat. Since there was so much more dignity in that, of course. It was utterly ridiculous.

"You're really, really stupid, you know that?" John scolded in the cab. "If you'd have just waited for me, you could be respectably limping. But now you won't be able to move at all until that sprain heals up."

Sherlock just pouted out the window, refusing to say anything because he knew that, for once, John had been right and Sherlock had been wrong.

They got home from him getting one leg casted and John immediately wrapped up the sprained ankle in a bandage. Sherlock still just sat there with his arms crossed, having a silent temper tantrum like a little boy. John figured Sherlock was mad at his own body. His transport had failed him. Because what good was his body if it didn't function when he needed it to?

John was waiting for the tantrum to stop being silent. Because eventually it wouldn't be. It was only a matter of time.

And that time came two days after his leg was casted. After two days of utter silence, which were actually quite relaxing for John, it began as John knew it would. John was making tea at the time.

It started with Sherlock shifting one way, and then grunting in pain. Shifting again, and another sound of discomfort. Then a deep, long-suffering sigh.

Then, finally, "John, I'm an invalid!" Sherlock cried dramatically from the sofa. "Does it always feel like this to be useless?"

John didn't miss the implication in Sherlock's statement. "I don't think I'd know, now would I?" asked John.

"Oh, don't sell yourself short, John. That's one of the few things you do know."

John glared at Sherlock for a long moment. "Fine. Why don't you just take care of yourself, and I'll go stay with Sarah? That sound good?"

Sherlock said nothing until John started to put his jacket on. Then Sherlock turned quickly in his spot on the settee, and John heard him hiss at even that movement in pain. Since he'd injured himself falling, who knew what else was hurt that he was too proud to mention?

"Are you serious?" Sherlock asked sharply.

"Oh yeah, definitely. I mean, I'm so useless, I wouldn't do you any good anyhow."

"Oh, come John, don't be so sensitive."

"See you in a few days," John said, going for the door.

"No, John, wait!" Sherlock cried, maybe even surprising himself with the desperation in his voice. "I'm sorry, alright? I'm sorry. You happy now? Will you stay?"

Sherlock may have said it grudgingly, but it was better than any other apology John had gotten from his flatmate. Since he'd never gotten one.

"Yeah, fine," John muttered, throwing his jacket back down. "What do you need, princess?"

"I thought you were making tea."

"Yeah," John grumbled, going back over to the kitchen and finishing the tea, which had already been close to done when he threatened to leave. Like he would have actually left. He would have gotten halfway down the stairs before he came back again, because Sherlock would probably just die of dehydration and humiliation if John left him there alone, unable to move.

John brought over the mug and held it out to Sherlock, who just looked at it.

"Take it," said John.

Sherlock didn't take it. He just stared up at John, and it only took him a moment to know what Sherlock was saying with his eyes, since he knew Sherlock quite well.

John was going to have to shove it into Sherlock's hand, because it was far too much work to reach for it.

John, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from breaking another of Sherlock's bones, thrust it into his flatmate's hand, smirking internally when a bit of the scalding water got Sherlock's finger. Sherlock glared for a moment when he got burned, but otherwise just kept on brooding.

"You could say thank you for once," John suggested irritably, one of the things he said frequently. Sherlock always just rolled his eyes or just ignored him all together.

But this time, as John was sitting down in his chair, he heard it.

He thought for a moment he'd imagined it.

"Thank you."

John looked up in surprise, and Sherlock wasn't looking at him, but his face looked… well, it seemed an oxymoron for Sherlock Holmes, but he looked… humbled. Like he'd never been so dependent on another person before. And probably he hadn't.

"You're welcome," John replied, surprised enough by this small act of gratefulness that he couldn't even be irritated anymore. "Are you hungry?"

Sherlock shrugged.

John knew in that moment that he was spending far too much time around Sherlock, because he accidentally made a deduction. And then he said it aloud.

"If you're planning on punishing yourself for being so dumb, that'd just be dumber. People make mistakes."

Sherlock finally met John's eyes, his face cold. "Maybe you do, but I don't."

"Everyone does."

"Not me."

"Well that's too bad," John replied.

Sherlock's face changed in a second, going from angry to confused.

"Too bad?"

"To err is human," quoted John. "And sometimes it's nice to remember that you're human."

"Why would you want me to be human? Why would you want anyone to be human? Humans are stupid, insignificant—"

"Loving, creative, compassionate," John cut off. "The reason human greatness is so amazing is because humans are so capable of being horrible. So when they do something right for once, it's really something to be proud of. But you… you're just a robot sometimes. Sure, you're not stupid or insignificant, but does that mean you can't be loving or compassionate either? I'd take stupid in order to get love any day."

Sherlock was looking at John in a way he often did: like John was some kind of alien.

"Some days," said Sherlock, "I think I've completely figured you out. And then other times you say things and I realise that you're still a mystery to me."

"Well people are known to be unpredictable at times."

"No, that's exactly it," said Sherlock. "People are hardly ever unpredictable. If they were, my methods wouldn't work, because they're based on assumptions of what people are, and what they aren't, and if people deter too much from expectation, then my assumptions will be utterly incorrect. But you… you're unpredictable quite frequently. Which makes me wonder what manner of creature you truly are."

So John liked Sherlock for what was human about him, and Sherlock liked John for what was inhuman about him.

What a strange thing that was.

It was then that John had a strange moment of impulse. Those came to him at times, and it was almost impossible to ignore.

His impulse was to surprise Sherlock again. To do something his detective could never expect.

So he did the first thing that came to mind. In fact, his body seemed to act without the permission of his brain at all.

He stood up. Sherlock's eyes followed the movement. Sherlock's eyes followed wherever John went, really. He didn't normally think about it much, because he was so used to those cool, keen blue eyes piercing into him.

In fact, not only used to it. He kind of enjoyed it.

Now, the gaze became even more intense than ever, and John felt a rush of adrenaline, like Sherlock was something dangerous. Like having those eyes trained on him was a brand new type of adventure. He'd known for ages he was addicted to Sherlock, because with Sherlock came constant adventure and excitement.

But what if John was addicted to just Sherlock himself? Maybe he needed Sherlock himself even more than he needed the chase.

He'd never even considered it.

It all went through his head in a short moment, feeling like it hit him like bus, but not making him react at all physically.

His body was still ready to act without waiting for him to catch up.

So he went forward, and Sherlock was still staring. His gaze cursory, like he was trying to figure out what John might do next.

And John carefully put himself in Sherlock's lap, straddling him. Making sure none of his weight was on the other man. Sherlock's eyes had gone wide, the look so satisfying to John that he couldn't keep himself from smirking.

"John, what're you—" Sherlock began.

But he couldn't finish.

Because a moment later, John's lips were on Sherlock's.

John was so surprised with himself that he didn't even know what to think of the kiss. He didn't think anything at all. He just did it, like kissing Sherlock was his base instinct.

An infinite second passed before John backed away.

Sherlock looked mildly petrified, and John was still feeling proud of himself.

"Was that unpredictable?" asked John. He was grinning… for a moment. But Sherlock's expression didn't change. He didn't speak. John's grin slipped away, and finally his brain had truly caught up to what he'd just done.

Was he completely fucking mental? He could have just ruined his friendship with Sherlock forever. What the hell was he thinking? He was ready to apologise profusely, ready to panic because surely Sherlock was going to ask him to leave, was never going to want to talk to him again…

Then Sherlock's hand flashed through the air, landing on the back of John's neck and holding his head firmly in place, so John wouldn't be able to move away without a great deal of effort. Now John was the one with eyes wide with surprise.

Sherlock leaned forward, his eyes boring into him more powerfully than ever before.

"John. Do that again."

John's breath caught in his throat. "What?" he asked quietly, suddenly more aware of the cool hand clamped to the back of his neck, the fingertips digging into his scalp desperately. He didn't realise until then that the hand was not, in fact, holding him in place. It was trying to pull John closer.

"I need you to do that again." Sherlock's voice was clear and calm, speaking slowly as if to make John understand exactly what he wanted.

But no. Not want. Need.

And John realised he needed it too.

At the same time, both men surged forward, crushing their lips together. John let his fingers tangle in Sherlock's curls, not letting himself think too much, wonder what the hell was happening. All he knew was that kissing someone had never felt like this before and he wasn't about to stop for anything, especially not for pesky logic, nor for embarrassment.

Then Sherlock hissed again. John sprang up as an automatic reaction. Sherlock glared at his leg like it had personally offended him.

And now that the moment was over, John couldn't bring himself to start it again. Humiliated with himself, he picked up his jacket.

"I dunno about you, but I'm hungry. Is Thai okay?"

"John—" Sherlock muttered, but John didn't wait for a response. In a moment, he was gone.


Sorry for the cliffhanger, but the next chapter will be up really soon.