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John left for work with Sherlock dutifully ignoring him, in the kitchen, hunched over his microscope doing some experiment or another.
There wasn’t a case on, at least not one that John knew about, so John felt indifferent to leaving Sherlock alone at the flat for a majority of the day, trusting him to not wreck the place in the hours John would be absent.
So when John felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket while doing a routine examination on a patient, he didn’t think anything of it; he had forgotten about the message by the end of the appointment.
Until an hour later when he received another during his lunch break, John was peacefully going about his sickly-children-and-strange-rash-filled day.
Sherlock has oftentimes pestered John throughout the few days in which he actually leaves Sherlock by his lonesome and goes to work. Excessive texts and bouts of petulant silence are not uncommon from Sherlock during these times.
When John pulled out his mobile and glanced at the screen, he was expecting texts upon texts of ‘I’m bored’, ‘Come home quickly, I’ve started a fire’, and ‘Is your work really that important?’. What he did not expect was:
So I may be in hospital right now…
The sandwich that’s halfway to John’s mouth sags and plops back down onto its wrappers, barely eaten.
John sighs. Why does this always happen? Sherlock needs constant supervision and when left alone, he tears everything apart in his wake without attention. John enjoys likening him to a dog that’s been forgotten to be put in its box when left by itself.
Scrolling back through his texts, John reads the previous message, the one he got earlier that day and had dismissed:
Lestrade came by with a case, might not be back when you get home.
Followed by the ominous ‘hospital’ text that was just begging to be questioned.
Resigning himself to being Sherlock’s keeper for the rest of the day, John types out and sends:
What the hell happened, Sherlock?
Thinks, then sends one more:
Is Greg with you? How badly are you hurt?
John sets his mobile down on the table, sighing once more and putting his head in his hands.
He mustn’t have any life threatening injuries or anything that impedes his basic functions. He was well enough to send a text.
“Oh, what’d he do this time?”
John lifts his head at Sarah’s voice and sees her smiling as she walks into the break room, noticing John’s posture and body language.
Leaning back in the flimsy chair, John replies, “I have no bloody clue, something to get him into hospital.”
“That’s not good,” Sarah says as she leans her weight against the table John’s seated at. “But you must be used to it by this point,” she says with a small laugh.
John just groans in response.
A beep from his mobile brings his attention back to Sherlock is hurt, Sherlock contacted me to tell him he was hurt, Sherlock wants attention, Sherlock needs me.
Picking it up, John reads aloud:
Please come, I can’t stand these imbeciles, they’re doing everything all wrong.
“Of course, Sherlock, people who paid and went to medical school have no idea how to treat injuries,” John mutters as he sends another message: Where in the hospital are you? ER or Urgent Care?
Sarah pats John on the shoulder. “You don’t have anything scheduled the rest of the day, go on down and see what he needs.”
Looking up at Sarah with wide eyes, he says, “Would I be a horrible friend if I just stayed here?” But John knows he would never do that. Sherlock has called for him, and he will always come.
“Thank you,” John breaths before Sarah could answer.
“No problem,” she smiles back.
John tosses his half-eaten lunch into the bin, grabs his jacket off the chair, and jogs down the stairs to the E.R., where Sherlock had just responded saying his location and demanding John’s presence.
“John!” He hears someone say as he enters the E.R. waiting room. Swiveling his head around, John spots Greg.
“What happened? Is he alright?” John’s concern quickly coming to the forefront on his mind, even though Greg seems relatively calm considering Sherlock is hurt.
Greg turns on his heel and explains as they walk to the appropriate curtained cubicle, relief filling his voice. “It’s nothing dramatic or anything with a good story to tell, he just tripped down some stairs and landed wrong; he broke his wrist.”
“Seriously?” John asks as he stifles a relieved laugh. It’s just a broken bone. Nothing too serious, he can handle a broken wrist. “Sherlock Holmes trips and falls and hurts himself, but chasing after criminals causes no harm.”
The two stop walking as Sherlock’s voice drifts around the room. “Idiots! I am fine, let me leave this horrid place, I am legally allowed to-”
John pushes the pale blue curtain aside to see Sherlock sitting on the edge of a hospital bed, cradling his left arm to his chest, two nurses standing on each side of him with strained smiles on their faces.
“John!” Sherlock exclaims when he sees him. “Finally. Take me home,” at this point he tries to stand and walk over to him, the nurses pushing him back onto the bed, “these heathens are refusing to let me discharge myself.”
“As they should.” John moves to stand in front of Sherlock, Greg awkwardly observing the whole situation. “You are hurt and in need of care; let me see your wrist.”
Sherlock looks up at John with hurt in his eyes, betrayed that John is not on his side in this matter. Not backing down, John stares back. “Wrist, please.”
Slowly, Sherlock releases his own arm and moves it away from himself for John’s examination. “Why must I have befriended a doctor.”
“Because your subconscious knows you need someone to take care of you,” John smiles as Sherlock glares at him.
The nurses sigh in relief, not caring that John isn’t technically allowed to do what he’s doing, but glad that the patient is now cooperating. Neither of them move to stop him.
“Sherlock…,” John whispers as he prods Sherlock’s swollen and red wrist.
“I was magnificent, John, you should’ve seen me, I deduced the culprit right away, he was still in the house when I arrived-”
“Shush, you fell down some stairs, Greg told me.”
Sherlock guffaws and shoots Lestrade a look over his shoulder. His arm jerks in John’s grip, eliciting a hiss from Sherlock’s mouth.
“Sorry, sorry,” John says. He gently sets Sherlock’s hand back into his lap. “Sherlock, you need to get an X-Ray, do you understand me? We need to get you better.”
“Hmph.” Sherlock tucks his head against his shoulder, refusing to meet John’s gaze.
Eventually, with a large amount of pushing and proding, Sherlock consents to an X-Ray (in which they find that the scaphoid bone is indeed fractured) and decides on a purple coloured cast.
Greg jokes about signing it and John has to explain to Sherlock the custom of having your friends sign your cast, which he, of course, does not understand. He lets them sign it anyway.
Sherlock and John leave the hospital together while Greg returns to the Yard.
“I won’t be able to play my violin,” Sherlock says sadly on the way to Baker Street.
“Oh, good, I’ll be able to sleep.”
“John.”
John laughs.