It was a relatively quiet morning in 221B… unfortunately it only lasted about five minutes before all hell broke loose. It started with John coming down to begin his morning as he normally did, with eggs and the paper, only to find you pressed against Sherlock with his hand resting somewhere it shouldn’t. There were a lot of things John could handle, combat pressure, Sherlock’s boredom, malevolent criminals, but not this. He was even starting to get used to the occasional acts of affection between the two of you but this… this was just too much.
Before he could do anything you let out a soft whimper in your sleep and your face turned pained, causing John to temporarily abandon his anger for concern. The way you were sleeping was obviously putting a lot of pressure on one of your broken ribs, probably had been all night, and he watched you shift just enough so that the pain didn’t wake you.
Your brother sighed, rubbing his forehead- he was going to have to wake you since letting you stay that way would only slow the healing process. He stepped forward but just as he did so Sherlock shifted beneath you and you shot up with a sharp gasp, clutching at your side as you scrunched your face up in pain. Awakened by the sudden movement, Sherlock quickly sat up right, hands hovering over you hesitantly as he readjusted so you were sitting between his legs, “Did I-“
You quickly shook your head, gasping, “No, it wasn’t you. I was sleeping wrong.”
John joined the two of you on the couch, sitting on the other side of you as you tried to take a deep breath, “Let me see, Squeak.”
He caught the edge of your shirt as you shifted in his direction and you could feel his fingers on your bare skin a second later as he probed the area, “The pain’s passed, John. I’m sure it’s fine.”
Sherlock fingers stroked at your hip worriedly as he examined the bruises patterning your sides, logically he had known they were there but seeing them gave him a sobering glimpse of reality. Deciding no further damage had been done, John let your shirt fall and was about to start in on you for sleeping on Sherlock and Sherlock for getting handsy when Sherlock’s phone rang.
Seeing that your brother was on the verge of starting something unpleasant, he answered it willingly before getting a wide grin on his face and stating, “We’ll be right there.”
“Case?” John wondered when he hung up and Sherlock nodded happily, “Quadruple murder.”
They both moved from the couch, falling into habit as they grabbed their things and got ready, until you queried in an innocent voice, “Can I come?”
They froze, having momentarily forgotten about your current state, and Sherlock was quick to firmly supply, “No. John will stay with you.”
You pouted, “Please? Just because I can’t see doesn’t mean I’m not entirely sick of being in this flat.”
“You won’t be able to keep up. You stay,” Sherlock countered in a final tone and you pursed your lips, “At least take John then. He shouldn't have to stay behind on my account.”
“Fine. Come on, John,” Sherlock huffed distractedly, returning to pulling on his coat. John looked between you and Sherlock a couple of times before stating, “We can’t just leave her alone.”
Sherlock paused, having been distracted enough to not realize that you’d be alone, and they both came to the same conclusion, simultaneously exclaiming, “Mrs. Hudson.”
The next few minutes had you standing in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen as John fretted and demanded that if either of you needed anything at all you were to call him and Sherlock shuffled impatiently on the curb outside. You shooed John before the consulting detective left without him and then settled in for a day with Mrs. Hudson.
Once the initial rush died down, John fixed Sherlock with a glare from across the cab but if the man noticed he didn’t show it. It wasn’t until they were approaching the crime scene that Sherlock dully stated, “I suggest you gather your funny little thoughts and stop your angry pouting. Otherwise you’ll be more useless than Anderson.”
“I’d hardly call it angry pouting,” John snapped and Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Dare I even ask what trivial thing has upset you this time?”
John turned a curious shade of red as he seethed, “Your hand on my sister’s arse, you twat. Or did you think I wouldn’t notice?”
“Don’t you dare say you did,” John growled and Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. “It’s not as if it was against her wishes- in fact I would say she rather-“
“Shut it,” John bellowed in exasperation causing Lestrade, who they were approaching, to whip around to look at them. With only a glance he could see Sherlock had done something to upset John again and wasn’t particularly surprised, it was common for them to show up that way. He offered John a sympathetic smile as Sherlock strode past him to examine the body, “What’s he done this time?”
John just held up his hands and let out a huff as he shook his head, not wanting to discuss it any further, but Sherlock was quick to begin, “It would seem his fantastically simple mind is having trouble processing my relation-“
“No! No. Stop there. We are not discussing this here,” John cried, emphasizing it with a couple of pointed fingers and a wave, and Sherlock shrugged, giving all his focus to his deductions. Lestrade looked between the two of them, deciding to drop the topic to avoid John storming off, and then dropped his hand on the doctor’s shoulder, “How’s (F/n)?”
He sighed, ruffling a hand through his hair, “As good as can be expected I suppose. She doesn’t like to be alone but that’s understandable.”
Lestrade nodded, rubbing the back of his neck, and went to continue the conversation but Sherlock loudly snapped, “John.”
Giving a frustrated sigh, John responded to the call with a mumbled curse, leaving Lestrade to ponder what exactly the two of them were arguing about this time.