Title: JFDI
Author: fanficwriter101
Pairing: gen
Fandoms: Sherlock
Disclaimer: The characters from the show aren't mine, they belong to others. No copyright infringement intended. Any characters you don't recognize are mine. Feedback would be nice, positive feedback would be nicer. Enjoy!
Category: BBC Sherlock 2010 angsty hurt/comfort PWP ficlet
Rating: Adults only for language even though (as always) it's 'bleeped out'.
Characters: Ensemble
Series: No
Spoilers: None specifically, anything might get a mention
Summary: John loses his temper
Archive: Just tell me where it's going
Additional 'stuff': Just a plot bunny that wouldn't go away. The title's a phrase I heard in a TV show recently. It's explained in the fic in case you're unfamiliar with it. You *can* reset a dislocated shoulder in the way John does, I just don't recommend trying it. Major Sherlock owies in this one. No, John shouldn't have done it. Yes, Sherlock should have gone to hospital. Boys will be boys...


A few weeks earlier...

John had been sharing the flat with Sherlock long enough to know Sherlock would often leave the flat quite oblivious to the weather outside and he learned not to sound like a parent reminding their offspring to wrap up warm or take an umbrella, which suggestions Sherlock would deliberately ignore anyway simply because he knew it annoyed John.

Instead, John used a more roundabout way of keeping Sherlock warm and dry: "Sherlock, forecast's for showers." Or: "Sherlock, they say it might snow again later." And, mostly, Sherlock heeded John's brief weather forecast and dressed accordingly.

Present day...

John looked around despairingly. "Sherlock, you have to make *some* effort to clean up. The kitchen, the living room, the bathroom. Pick one."

Sherlock sighed theatrically and lifted one hand from the keyboard of his notebook to wave it airily around. "Oh John, really, I mean...I'm *busy*."

John snatched Sherlock's computer from his lap and snapped it closed. "I don't care Sherlock. Just f-ing do it!"

Sherlock lifted himself up, barged John out of the way and strode out of the flat, leaving the door wide open.

Walking to the window he looked out, watching Sherlock walk slowly across the street and out of sight. John sighed and only then realized it was raining. Hard.

John waited some time for Sherlock to return, soaked and probably still sulking but at least back inside in the dry. After thirty minutes, John was so concerned he forgot how cross he was with Sherlock and tried calling him. Three messages and a further half hour later, John made another phone call.

"Mycroft Holmes."

"It's John. I need to know where Sherlock is. Exactly. Right now."

The older Holmes brother sighed tiredly. "What did my brother do now Doctor Watson?"

"I lost my temper. He's been out for an hour without a coat or an umbrella."

"And you're concerned he...?"

John could picture Mycroft's vaguely amused expression at John's panic. "It's Sherlock, Mycroft. Now, where is he?"

"Oh, hold on..."

John heard the sounds of a muffled conversation then: "They'll bring him back to Baker Street shortly John. I should warn you, he is, apparently, not in the best of moods."

"Thank you Mycroft. I'm sorry to bother you at work."

Mycroft was, as always, effortlessly politely condescending. "Hmm...well,  I suppose you thought you were doing the right thing."

John decided to hang up before saying what was on the tip of his tongue. He didn't fully trust Mycroft not to have him accused of treason or something equally dreadful if he upset the man.


Sherlock slammed the front door, stomped up the stairs and slammed the flat door behind him. John had seen the car pull up and had picked up the paper before settling into the armchair as Sherlock reappeared in the flat.

"I suppose you think because you had me kidnapped I'll do the washing up?"

John looked up. Keeping his tone calm, he observed: "You're soaking wet. You should change into dry clothes before you catch pneumonia."

Scowling, Sherlock headed into his bedroom, slamming that door as well, just for good measure.

John busied himself making a pot of tea, heating some beans and putting two slices of bread in the toaster while Sherlock was changing.

When Sherlock emerged, he crossed straight to the sofa and flopped down in it, hair and bare feet still a little damp.

John brought over a tray, tea and beans on toast and stood over Sherlock. "Sit up a bit and get this inside you. You'll warm up in no time."

Sherlock's gaze swept from the tray to John's calm expression. "You shouted at me. You *swore* at me. You hardly ever lose your temper."

John shrugged. "Look, Sherlock, I know we have different approaches to things like tidying up but it's not fair that I have to do everything is it?"

"I tidy." Sherlock scowled, scooping some beans onto one of the pieces of toast and eating hungrily.

"Name one part of this flat you have hovered, dusted, washed, cleaned or tidied in the last month." John challenged.

"Hah! My bed. I make my bed." Sherlock grinned victoriously.

John shook his head. "Your room doesn't count."

"You can't change the rules just because you don't like losing the game." Sherlock complained.

"All right. Name one other thing you do to keep this place habitable."

Sherlock found that one a bit harder. His brow furrowed and he sipped tea in between mouthfuls of beans and toast. "Well...I...I..."

John raised an eyebrow, a slight smile playing on his lips. "Yes Sherlock?"

"I recycle the newspapers!" Sherlock managed finally, leaning back smugly.

John stood up and walked over to the side of the sofa, his toe dislodging a pile of open and scattered newspapers which had accumulated over the previous few days. "For a man with such a large vocabulary I'm surprised you don't know the meaning of the word 'recycle'." John persisted.

Sherlock lay the tray on the floor and sat up, looking across at John. "We've occupied this flat for seven months, three weeks and four days John. Why this sudden urge to neatness?"

"Because, Sherlock, for seven months, three weeks and four days, I've cleaned up, picked up and tidied up after you. I don't want to have to spend the rest of my life tidying the flat!" John said firmly.

Sherlock sighed. "Perhaps we should ask Mrs Hudson to come in and.."

John was exasperated. "Sherlock! We're perfectly capable of keeping the flat clean and tidy. Now, I'll draw up a rota and..."

"Boring!" Sherlock muttered.

"I'll draw up a rota and if you don't stick to it I'll tell Lestrade where you hide your stash."

Sherlock gulped nervously. "You wouldn't!"

John stared at Sherlock's suddenly pale face and tried not to let his surprise shown on his own. He hadn't known that Sherlock *had* drugs in the flat after the last time Lestrade had 'raided' the flat and he certainly had no idea where they were. Still, if Sherlock believed he did, it was a bargaining chip. Keeping his tone hard, he stared at Sherlock. "Try me."

Two days later...

Digging the foundations for a social housing development, the contractors had found a skull and two bones - Sherlock confirmed what the forensic team surmised, that they were both human, but the arm and leg bones were considerably different in length and therefore suggestive of two people - and when DNA threw up nothing useful, Lestrade had asked Sherlock to try to work out who the dead people had been.

Sherlock strode around the building site where the bones had been unearthed, John trailing behind him, notebook open, pen poised.

Suddenly, there was a commotion above them, a startled, too-late warning and a doorframe bounced off the scaffolding around the building and fell, striking Sherlock on the left shoulder, pushing him into the soft muddy ground where he fell with a cry of pain and surprise.

John hurried to Sherlock's side. "Don't try to sit up."

Sherlock's gaze was hazy and unfocussed, the pain in his left shoulder intense. "Is it..?"

John probed Sherlock's shoulder and arm as carefully as he could whilst still being thorough. "I don't think you've broken anything. Dislocated, yes, broken, no...but when we get to A & E..."

"No John...just put it back...pull it back."

"I can't Sherlock. I can't be certain I won't do more damage if I pull on your arm."

"Please John...do something." Sherlock hated the neediness he heard in his own voice but he was almost beyond caring.

John looked up at the men crowding around him. Those working on the building site - with the exception of three men Lestrade had pulled aside to question about the falling door - had, mostly, gathered around Sherlock. "All right...I'll need a bucket and running water."

The foreman nodded. "Yeah, we've got a tap over there." He gestured back towards the more-or-less deserted building site. "Is he gonna be okay?"

John smiled reassuringly. "Help me lift him onto the door. Then we'll carry him over to the water."

Sherlock groaned softly as the men jolted and tipped him as they carried him over the uneven ground, dotted with muddy puddles.

"Sherlock, I really think I should call an ambulance..." John rested a hand on Sherlock's uninjured shoulder, feeling the tremors shaking his friend's torso.

Sherlock didn't bother answering. He really thought he was going to vomit if he opened his mouth.

Finally, the men rested the door on a couple of trestles, Sherlock's hand hanging over the edge of the door while someone found an empty, relatively clean, white plastic bucket with a wire handle.

John had to ask. "Sherlock, are you sure you want me to..."

"Just f-ing do it John!" Sherlock begged.

Raising an eyebrow, unsure whether Sherlock was mocking him or not, John folded Sherlock's fingers around the handle of the bucket. "Okay...hold tight. It shouldn't take that much..." John waved at the yellow-hatted builder who waved back as he turned on the tap, the bucket filling slowly.

Sherlock groaned, his hair matted with sweat, his back cold and wet from the damp mud as the weight in his hand increased, the pull on his damaged shoulder agonizing. 

John stood at his right side, keeping Sherlock pressed against the door which had so nearly been the instrument of his demise. "You should start to feel it move in a minute...it should just..."

Sherlock's howl of agony was accompanied by a the bucket falling, water sloshing around as Sherlock's shoulder relocated.

John sat him up, pulled his scarf off and used it to fashion a sling to support Sherlock's arm.

"Ambulance is on its way John." Lestrade called, finally returning to Sherlock and John.

Sherlock was still in considerable pain but he shook his head. "John...no."

John sighed. "Lestrade...tell them they're not needed...sorry."

Lestrade frowned, stared at Sherlock for a minute then made the call.

Gritting his teeth against the pain of his injury, Sherlock ground out: "It was my turn to dust."

Helping Sherlock to his feet, John smiled. "No problem. I can swap you to next week."