Chapter Text
He should’ve known better than to stroll out like he always does, it was freezing. Luckily, being the graceful little shit that he was, he managed to only break one wrist instead of his whole skull. John had to guiltily admit that when he heard the horrifyingly loud crack, his first thought was of the awful boredom sulks. Oh god, the detective was going to be so bored.
The initial lack of medical concern did make him feel a bit bad, but well, after the horrible moldy liver incident from the very same morning, John wasn’t sure if there was some sort of karma at work. It was the day before Christmas Eve and Sherlock had been actively sabotaging John’s attempts at making a Christmas dinner for them, running to a case when John tried to plan the cookings and spreading his experiments all over the kitchen. The latest episode with the liver had ruined the roast that John “had been bound to burn in the oven anyways” as Sherlock had stated. John knew the brunet wasn’t doing it on purpose, but he couldn’t help the sour mood that had somehow clouded 221b for a while now.
Ever the steady doctor, John just calmly closed the front door after himself and went to hail the cab they were going to take anyways. Of course, instead of the murder scene they were heading to the hospital. John expected Sherlock to argue and say he was fine enough to solve the case, but the detective merely muttered unhappily. That alone told John how much the wrist had to hurt. The fact that by the end of the cab ride Sherlock’s talking had been reduced to mere grunts, cradling the damaged wrist protectively on his chest, was a dead giveaway that the detective was in pain.
They got Sherlock patched up, a solid cast all the way to Sherlock’s elbow, the right arm – of course it had to be the right one, dammit, and it was a mutual decision that there would be no case after all. John didn’t have the faintest why Greg had decided that calling Sherlock would be a good idea, John had made it clear that the holidays would be spent without chasing criminals. But apparently murder still happened and Sherlock would’ve probably been perfectly content to spent his whole Christmas running from crime scene to crime scene.
Sherlock’s face was starting to turn slightly red and his eyes wouldn’t stay open as the initial adrenaline wore off, so they took the painkillers the doctor prescribed and headed home. As soon as they arrived at 221b, Sherlock collapsed – very carefully – onto the sofa and curled on his side, still cradling the arm. John could see his breathing was still too heavy and took pity.
“Want another painkiller? Just one though.”
It was almost fun to watch Sherlock realise he had been so obvious with his pain that John had noticed. He immediately stretched his legs and gave a seemingly nonchalant do-what-you-want-I-don’t-care hum. John just smiled and went to the kitchen to get some water. He paused to take a look at the damage done to his dinner plans and decided to pop into the store just in case he could still find something. As he gave Sherlock the glass and the pill, he told the detective to not to try anything. Not that the cast would allow him much – he couldn’t even move his fingers – but John wouldn’t put it past Sherlock to find a way to make it worse if the mood stuck him.
Of course the stores were almost empty, as he had feared. He somehow managed to find a small frozen turkey and some just-add-water sauce, and he hopelessly added eggs and beans to the list. Some cinnamon just in case he might try gingerbreads again. Well, with Sherlock injured he would probably stay up all night anyway so he might as well make use of the time. He took extra care when walking back home.
Sherlock hadn’t moved – thank goodness – while he had been away, but he hadn’t been resting exactly either. His feet were twitching nervously and he was already picking on the cast. John tutted and handed him the phone Sherlock had somehow forgotten on his coat pocket and hadn’t bothered to go and fetch.
Sherlock didn’t take it. Instead, he kept tugging on the edge of his cast, looking down at the floor.
“I’m sorry I ruined the roast today.”
“What?” John crouched next to Sherlock’s head.
“I swear it was an accident, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m ruining this Christmas.” John put his hand in Sherlock’s curls and rubbed Sherlock’s scalp with his thumb.
“It’s okay, you haven’t ruined anything. We have both been a bit busy and moody, but it doesn’t mean the whole Christmas is ruined.” Sherlock lifted his gaze and John could see he was really feeling the strain of his injury and apparently the last few days too.
“Okay, just let me get these to the fridge and I’ll be back, yeah?”
John took the shopping bags and headed for the kitchen. Luckily, he had taken the time to clean and put the liver away so that he now had a relatively clean fridge with enough room. Then he went back to the living room.
Sherlock reached out with his other hand, and John took it. He helped Sherlock lift his head and sat on the sofa with the detective’s head on his lap. John instantly started to massage the curls and Sherlock gave a deep sigh. He lifted his hand again and searched for John’s hands. He quickly found the left and John let him pull it to his lap where Sherlock started to play with the ring on his ring finger.
The brunet was getting emotional like he often did when he was too tired, and John reached to pull down an afghan with his right hand. He settled it on top of them, set an alarm on his phone – he would still have to get the turkey ready later – and continued to rub Sherlock’s head and neck. Soon they were both nodding off.