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“John, it’s not that bad I assure you.” Sherlock tried to convince John while queueing for admissions in the heaving waiting room at A&E. “This is completely excessive.”
“Sherlock, your arm was on fire.” John said tersely before turning to the nurse manning reception. “Second degree burns on his forearm, no smoke inhalation.”
“It’s only just second degree. Barely. More like one point five degree.” Sherlock muttered as he surveyed the mass of injuries and drunks waiting to be seen. John took the requisite form to fill in and guided Sherlock to a seat and John crouched on the floor next to him. Sherlock frowned. “You can’t sit like that; we’ll be here for hours.”
“Then don’t set fire to yourself on a Saturday night next time, Thursday afternoons are much quieter, or Tuesday after ten.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Sherlock peeked under the clean tea towel John covered it with before they left. It looked worse than it did in the flat. “One point eight.”
“Yes well, when those paramol wear off you’ll be right up to two.”
“Please make your handwriting legible this time, not all doctors instinctively know how to read the scrawl you think form words from the English language.”
“Yes, Sherlock.” John ignored him and set about filling in Sherlock’s name and date of birth.
“My national insurance number is-”
“I know it.”
“I’m allergic to-”
“Penicillin, I remember.”
“Next of kin-”
“Mycroft in his secret lair. Hollowed out volcano on a secret island in the Atlantic, right?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“Considering you know how much distain I hold for my brother I wouldn’t get over excited.”
John wrote the next of kin details without saying another word. Dr John Watson. It felt relevant to see his name there.
“Stop smiling.”
“I’m... I’m not. Ok, a little. It’s nice.”
“It’s prudent commonsense, you live with me and you’re a doctor.”
“We’re not blood relatives though.”
“When I was eleven years old Mycroft shaved off my eyebrows in my sleep.” Sherlock scowled as John snorted a laugh and mentally pictured an eyebrowless young Sherlock. “Family is overrated.”
“It’s true, you can’t pick them.” John gave him a wry smile. “Bet you had it coming though.”
“I was trying to incentivise his weight loss programme.” He poked his arm and winced.
“Leave it alone.”
“It’s my arm.”
“If I could confiscate it I would, you obviously don’t know how to treat it properly.” John looked up at Sherlock who hadn’t made a spar in return. “You ok? You look a little pale, when did you last eat?”
“Don’t remember, anyway I’m fine, John. Don’t fuss.”
John ignored him and strode to the vending machine, dropping off the completed form on his way, before returning with a packet of Walkers smoky bacon crisps.
“Didn’t they have hula hoops?” Sherlock had revealed a secret love for the potato snack after a nasty concussion when he’d refused to eat nothing but the salted variety for dinner.
John pulled another packet from behind his back much to Sherlock’s delight. “Why do you ever doubt me, detective?”
“I beg of your forgiveness now open them for me. I’m starving.”
Sherlock budged up on the chair leaving room for John to perch on the edge. They sat side by side eating their crisps watching their fellow admissions while Sherlock deduced them for sport, occasionally challenging John to have a go too.
All in all, not a terrible way to spend a Saturday night.