John leaned against the wall of the landing with his right shoulder. It had to be his right shoulder because his left was blazing with pain. Why, he wondered, did it always have to be fire escapes?

This time, when Sherlock had effortlessly scrambled up the swinging ladder in pursuit of the killer, John had been close enough to prevent it snapping up out of his reach. Half way up, he had slipped, only managing to catch himself with his left arm. He had wrenched it horribly as the impact of his full weight came down on the joint. John managed to regain his footing, but all thought of pursuit were chased from his mind by a surge of nausea.

John thought of Sherlock through his pain. He could only hope that his partner would be okay on his own. He sincerely hoped that the police would arrive soon.

No sooner than the thought travelled through his mind, he saw Lestrade and his team running toward him down the alley. Still in incredible pain, he merely pointed up the fire escape. Most of the team followed the indicated trail, while Sally stayed behind to check on John.

"You okay?" Her voice was full of concern. She may not like Sherlock, but everyone likes John.

He grimaced at her before shaking his head. Then, realising that would earn him a trip to A&E, he nodded. "Just my shoulder, an old wound," he managed to gasp.

John was extremely pale.

Sally didn't want to leave him on his own. "Let me take you back to your flat," she offered.

It was a sign of how much pain he was experiencing that he agreed. John didn't argue that he can make his own way home. More importantly, he didn't insist on being present when the killer was apprehended.

That's how they end up standing on the landing outside of 221B.

Sally dug through John's pocket to find his key to the flat. Once the door was open, John pushed away from the wall and entered the apartment. He made his was to his customary seat and gingerly lowered himself to a sitting position. Christ. His arm hadn't hurt this badly in ages.

Sally had followed him into the sitting room. "Can I get you anything or do anything?" Her questions were tentative.

The doctor managed to answer, his teeth grinding against the pain, "No. I'll be fine. Just text me when you hear from Sherlock, yeah?"

Her eyes filled with concern, Sally agreed and left John alone in the flat.

Closing his eyes, John tried to breath through the pain. He felt old. One slip on a fire escape and he was out of commission, an invalid once again, useless to Sherlock.

John wouldn't even be able to substitute at surgery until he healed. He dreaded the process, the medication, the physical therapy. But he was familiar with this level of pain and there would be no short-cutting the process. Bloody hell.

John lost himself in a haze of pain. He completely missed Sally's text telling him that the killer had been caught and, yes, Sherlock was safe. It therefore came as a complete surprise when Sherlock bounded into the flat.

The detective's voice was full of concern as he swiftly crossed to crouch down in front of John whose head was drooping onto his chest. One quick glance was all that was required to take in the greyness of his lover's pale face, the tightness around his mouth, and the overall tension in his frame.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't realise what had happened until everything was over." Sherlock screwed his face up in disgust. "I had to find out from Donovan."

John didn't bother to open his eyes, the extra sensory input would be more than his stomach could handle at his he moment. "Just don't. If you had known, nothing would have changed. You did what you had to do."

The detective didn't bother to argue, it was the truth after all. Still, he felt the internal stirrings of something like guilt. Sherlock throttled it down as an irrational reaction, after all, he was nothing if not rational.

Sherlock patted John's knee. "I'll be right back."

He surged to his feet and sought out the first aid kit in the loo. Rummaging through it, he located the ibuprofen. It would do to keep down inflammation. Years of repetition on the doctor's part had lodged the information firmly in Sherlock's Mind Palace. He had determined the information to be useful, not for the maintenance of his own transport, but for the upkeep of John's.

Next, the detective retrieved a large gel pack from the freezer, John insisted on keeping four packs of varying sizes. For once, Sherlock was grateful for the precaution. He wrapped the gel pack in a large flannel he had brought from the loo. Grabbing a glass of water, he returned to the doctor with the items he had procured.

"John, I need you to take this." He held out the ibuprofen.

The doctor reluctantly opened his eyes a crack and seeing the pills, reached to take the with his non-dominant hand. As he popped them into his mouth, Sherlock brought the glass of water to his lips.

Though John swallowed gratefully, the gesture compounded his sense of helplessness. "Ta." He allowed his head to droop once again, it was far less painful than fighting gravity.

Sherlock placed the gel pack on John's shoulder, under his coat, with concern in his eyes. Something felt off about the other man. He tried to read the doctor's emotions as John shifted the gel pack to a more effective location.

"Let me know when it has been twenty minutes, yeah?" John sounded tired beyond his years.

The detective frowned. He was used to being on the receiving end of John's medical attentions. This roll reversal was discomfiting. The doctor's physical crash was so far from how Sherlock normally reacted to wounds, with restlessness and irritability, that the detective was at a loss as to how to proceed. He would have to improvise. Sherlock shuddered at the concept.

He needed to make John more comfortable. "What do you need?" His voice sounded lost to his own ears.

John sighed. "Just leave me alone. I'm fine."

Sherlock knew better. He had long since acknowledged that both of them said "I'm fine" when they were anything but. Furthermore, the statement was never associated with physical pain. The problem was the doctor was just as stubborn as Sherlock when it came to admitting that there was something wrong. So. He left John alone.

The blonde had slipped, not into sleep, but at least into a restful state when the ibuprofen kicked in so it was with reluctance that the detective disturbed him when the specified twenty minutes had passed. "John, you need to remove the gel pack. Here, let me get it for you." Sherlock had moved to the other man's side and removed the gel pack. The doctor didn't react.

Reaching toward the blonde once again, Sherlock suggested, "How about removing your coat? You will be far more comfortable. Let me help."

This got a reaction. John went livid and snapped at his lover, "I'm not an invalid!" With that, he pulled away abruptly. His quick movement sent a stabbing pain through his shoulder. It radiated outward, down his arm, across his back, and up his neck. He couldn't bite back his gasp of pain.

Stymied in the face of John's outburst, Sherlock searched for the proper words to say. "Ridiculous. I never said you were. You simply re-injured an old wound during a strenuous endeavour. Might I add, that a similar fall and the resulting wrenching of my own shoulder would most likely have resulted in injury. It is simply a matter of degree."

John shot him a glare. It was quite a good one, Sherlock thought. The doctor must have been practicing.

Eventually, the glare softened into a look of wonder and finally laughter overtook the doctor. It was a quiet laughter as John didn't want to jar his shoulder. "Thank you. I needed that."

Relieved, Sherlock replied, "You're welcome." He pondered over his lover for a moment, head cocked to the side. "Why would that thought have entered your mind, John? You are no more an invalid than I. Please explain."

The doctor pinched the bridge of his nose with his off hand. "Sit down and I'll try to explain."

Because he felt confused by the emotions boiling in the flat, Sherlock craved proximity to John. Not wanting to disturb the doctor's shoulder, he settled for sitting on the floor at his lover's feet facing the man.

John smiled faintly before beginning. "This feeling. It reminds me of how I felt several months after being shot. It hurt all the time. It was ridiculous. The meds and therapy seemed useless." He paused in thought. "I carried on anyway. You know how it was, we've talked about it before. What was the use of an invalided ex-army doctor." He smiled. "Then I found you and everything changed. I had purpose again." Now his smile faded. "With this, those feelings all came back. I had time to think and feel before you came back. My mind says it's ridiculous, but my heart says I'm only of use to you so long as I can be your protector. Hmm, bodyguard? No, maybe defender would be a better word. What good am I if I have to sit here while you chase about all of London? What need will you have for me then?"

Sherlock looked at his army doctor in disbelief. His wonderful, amazing, army doctor. He wondered how the man could be so dense. "Idiot." He raised up and gently kissed the other man. "You are everything to me. You could be a quadriplegic, requiring twenty-four hour care and I wouldn't love you any less."

John looked disbelieving.

Giving him a scowl, Sherlock continued. "Fine. Imagine that I receive a head injury and can no longer work cases. You have to care for me through years of rehabilitation. I finally progress to a ten year old mentality. Do you leave me?"

His lover's face softened. "Never. I could never." A choaked sob escaped the man. "I would take you however I could have you. It would be my privilege to care for you."

"So…" Sherlock waited expectantly.

John reached for the detective with his off hand. "Point made."

Gratefully, Sherlock grasped his lover's hand in his own. "Not quite. You are not an invalid. However, you are wounded. Your shoulder will take time to heal. Tomorrow, you will see a physician and obtain any required medication. I will assist with you physical therapy, it will be the best in the country and in a few weeks we be chasing through London together."

John felt loved and reassured and decidedly not an invalid.