Here is the next part! Thank you all so much for your comments; they certainly brighten my day! :3
This part was inspired by something that happened to me as a kid. I dropped a jar of peanut butter on my foot. It didn't break, thankfully, but have a scar on the top of my foot from where the lid cut into it. I don't think Sherlock will have any scarring, though!
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2.
Ever since Sherlock’s purposeful starvation stunt, John had ensured that Sherlock ate regularly (even if it was just a snack here and there, rather than a full meal). Sherlock put up a bit of a fight at first, but gave in reluctantly—after all, it was sort of nice to have John fretting over him. Not that he’d ever admit that to anyone, least of all himself.
So here he was, in the kitchen making toast for both himself and John (“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, Sherlock.”). His mouth was in full pout mode as he slathered a slice with strawberry jam. How John could stand the stuff, Sherlock would never know. Oh, and there was a jam stain on his dressing gown now. Perfect. With a huff, he aggressively twisted the lid back on the jar.
And suddenly, he had an idea.
Grey eyes looked thoughtfully down at the jar he shifted about in his hands, testing the weight. His gaze then shifted down to his bare feet. He wiggled his long toes a bit, a slow smile creeping onto his face.
A couple broken toes never hurt anyone, right? Well, metaphorically speaking, anyway. Breaking any bone would, in fact, hurt. But broken toes were inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.
Sucking in a deep breath, Sherlock took a small step back from the counter and held the jar over his foot.
Then he dropped it.
Only, it didn’t land on his toes, but on the top of his foot.
The second Sherlock let out a short cry of pain, John was out of his armchair and in the kitchen, his dressing gown swooshing dramatically behind him. ”What happened?”
Sherlock exhaled through his nose, lifting his injured foot a bit to get the weight off of it. He wasn’t about to cry or anything, but that bloody well hurt. He hadn’t felt anything crack, but it was already starting to swell and some discoloration could be seen right below the skin. That was certainly going to leave a lovely bruise.
Remembering that it was probably a good idea to answer John, Sherlock gave a cryptic, “Your jam,” reply and nodded toward the jar rolling across the floor. Miraculously, the jar itself remained intact.
“Here, let’s get you to your chair so I can look at your foot,” John offered, closing the distance between them and slinging Sherlock’s arm around his own shoulders. “Can you walk on it?”
Sherlock silently shook his head, pressing himself closer to John. Hopefully his flatmate wouldn’t notice too much.
Just as effortlessly as the first two times, John lifted Sherlock into his arms and carried him the short distance to the living room. Once Sherlock was seated in his chair, John knelt down before him and took his foot in his gentle hands. Sherlock hissed now and again as John prodded the injury, trying to determine the extent of the damage.
When John released his foot several minutes later, Sherlock found himself immediately missing the contact.
“We’ll have to ice and elevate it. I don’t think it’s broken, but we’ll keep an eye on it,” John informed Sherlock with a smile. “You should be more careful.”
If only that were the first time John had told Sherlock that. Sherlock just gave a noncommittal shrug. “Being careful is boring.”
At that, John barked out a laugh. He gave Sherlock a pat on the knee before standing and making his way to the kitchen for an ice pack.
If recklessness brought about this kind of attention from John that Sherlock sometimes desperately craved, then being careful was oh so boring, indeed.
Fill: Carry Me Home 3/7
This part was inspired by something that happened to me as a kid. I dropped a jar of peanut butter on my foot. It didn't break, thankfully, but have a scar on the top of my foot from where the lid cut into it. I don't think Sherlock will have any scarring, though!
.
2.
Ever since Sherlock’s purposeful starvation stunt, John had ensured that Sherlock ate regularly (even if it was just a snack here and there, rather than a full meal). Sherlock put up a bit of a fight at first, but gave in reluctantly—after all, it was sort of nice to have John fretting over him. Not that he’d ever admit that to anyone, least of all himself.
So here he was, in the kitchen making toast for both himself and John (“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, Sherlock.”). His mouth was in full pout mode as he slathered a slice with strawberry jam. How John could stand the stuff, Sherlock would never know. Oh, and there was a jam stain on his dressing gown now. Perfect. With a huff, he aggressively twisted the lid back on the jar.
And suddenly, he had an idea.
Grey eyes looked thoughtfully down at the jar he shifted about in his hands, testing the weight. His gaze then shifted down to his bare feet. He wiggled his long toes a bit, a slow smile creeping onto his face.
A couple broken toes never hurt anyone, right? Well, metaphorically speaking, anyway. Breaking any bone would, in fact, hurt. But broken toes were inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.
Sucking in a deep breath, Sherlock took a small step back from the counter and held the jar over his foot.
Then he dropped it.
Only, it didn’t land on his toes, but on the top of his foot.
The second Sherlock let out a short cry of pain, John was out of his armchair and in the kitchen, his dressing gown swooshing dramatically behind him. ”What happened?”
Sherlock exhaled through his nose, lifting his injured foot a bit to get the weight off of it. He wasn’t about to cry or anything, but that bloody well hurt. He hadn’t felt anything crack, but it was already starting to swell and some discoloration could be seen right below the skin. That was certainly going to leave a lovely bruise.
Remembering that it was probably a good idea to answer John, Sherlock gave a cryptic, “Your jam,” reply and nodded toward the jar rolling across the floor. Miraculously, the jar itself remained intact.
“Here, let’s get you to your chair so I can look at your foot,” John offered, closing the distance between them and slinging Sherlock’s arm around his own shoulders. “Can you walk on it?”
Sherlock silently shook his head, pressing himself closer to John. Hopefully his flatmate wouldn’t notice too much.
Just as effortlessly as the first two times, John lifted Sherlock into his arms and carried him the short distance to the living room. Once Sherlock was seated in his chair, John knelt down before him and took his foot in his gentle hands. Sherlock hissed now and again as John prodded the injury, trying to determine the extent of the damage.
When John released his foot several minutes later, Sherlock found himself immediately missing the contact.
“We’ll have to ice and elevate it. I don’t think it’s broken, but we’ll keep an eye on it,” John informed Sherlock with a smile. “You should be more careful.”
If only that were the first time John had told Sherlock that. Sherlock just gave a noncommittal shrug. “Being careful is boring.”
At that, John barked out a laugh. He gave Sherlock a pat on the knee before standing and making his way to the kitchen for an ice pack.
If recklessness brought about this kind of attention from John that Sherlock sometimes desperately craved, then being careful was oh so boring, indeed.