A/N: I was bored and this idea came for me so I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, just this fanfiction.

Sherlock closed his eyes, placing his fingertips against his lips. He was deep in thought and didn't even notice when John arrived at the flat. The doctor shuffles around quietly, trying to allow the younger man a few moments of peace. The ex-soldier begins to make dinner, lost in random th ought about absolutely nothing. He doesn't even hear Sherlock call his name the first time.

Or the second. Or the third. Not even the fourth. Actually it's the fifth time when Sherlock yells out so loud that the entire apartment shakes, that John finally hears him. He nearly drops the hot pan and curses. He turns off the burner, then glares at his friend.

"What the hell do you want, Sherlock?" He asks, slightly agitated. What could possibly be so important that John had nearly burned himself over?

"I'm sorry, what was that?" He raises an eyebrow and John throws his hands up. He hadn't even heard him!

"I was wondering what was so important that I nearly burned my hand off for?" John repeats, gritting his teeth.

"Oh, yes. I think I broke my ankle, John." Sherlock replies calmly. The doctor walks over to the younger man, observing his ankle. It was twisted at an odd angle and one of the bones was popping out. Yes, it was definitely broken.

"How did you even do this?" He asks and the detective sighs, almost annoyed.

"Well, I had been walking down stairs to retrieve one of my experiments from Mrs. Hudson's flat, when I tripped over a box that was just laying there one the steps." He says, slightly angry and annoyed.

"Jesus Christ, I left that damn box there because it was some of my old things that I was planning on donating it. I gave it to Mrs. Hudson and I guess she must have left it there. I'm so sorry, Sher."

"It's fine, I'll be fine. All you have to do is grab some duck tape and everything will be okay." John's expression changes from concern to something very serious. "What's wrong?"

"I can't exactly fix this. You have to go to the hospital." Sherlock raises an eyebrow, chuckling.

"You're funny, John." He laughs loudly, but stops when he sees how serious the older man's face was. "Wait, you're serious?"

"Yes, I am."

"Shit." Sherlock curses quietly, looking slightly nervous to John.

"Hey, are you okay?"

"Hmm, me? Yeah, fine." Sherlock answers, acting as if his hand was the most interesting thing in the world.

"Sure you are." John says under his breath, putting on his coat. "Ready to go?" He hands the younger man his coat. Sherlock slips it on and his blue scarf. He tries to stand up, but fails. He scrunches his face up in pain from putting pressure on his broken ankle. After a few failed attempts he plops down, giving a frustrated sigh. John laughs at him, rolling his eyes.

"Need help?" The younger man nods, putting his hands out. John pulls him up, putting his friend's thin arm over his shoulder. The two of then slowly make it down the stairs. It just takes a lot of sighs, grunts, and curses from Sherlock. The ex-soldier hails a taxi, sliding Sherlock in. They don't speak, until John can't take the keeping the question gnawing at him to himself anymore.

"Sherlock, I hate to ask you, but why do you hate hospitals so much?" The detective stares out the window, not answering at first.

"Because when I used to do drugs the experience wasn't very... simple."

"Oh come on, it couldn't have been that bad!" John scoffs, rolling his eyes. The look in Sherlock's eyes makes him stop because it was a dead serious look. This was not a joking matter to his friend.

"Let's just say that it wasn't very pleasant for me."

"Why not?"

"The doctor I had been with had been rude, spiteful, and abusive."

"What do you mean abusive?" John asks, leaning forward. Now he was really interested. The younger man begins to unbutton his shirt, exposing his bony shoulder. Across it ran a long red scar.

"He gave me this because I forgot to take one pill." Then he shows the concerned man his chest. A same across it, but it was faded more and much bigger. "He had drugged me heavily, then he had tied me down to the hospital bed. He had tried to cut open my chest."

"Why?"

"To see of I had a beating heart." Sherlock answers, buttoning his shirt back up.

"Who the hell was this basterd?" John asks, venom in his voice.

"He's I'm jail now. For abusing a patient."

"How long?"

"The rest of his miserable life." Sherlock gives a satisfied smirk, causing John to laugh.

"I understand completely though. If that had happened to me, I would hate hospitals also."

"Wait, I thought you already did?"

"Sorry?"

"Well the way you act when you go to work each day surly resembles that." They both laugh, easing the mood. God, did it feel good to laugh.

Sorry it's so short, but I ran put of ideas. Review and I will write more!