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Glass Bottles

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"Sherlock," The groan was ripped right out of the Detective Inspector's throat, an exasperated, less-enraged-but-more-fed-up sound and he buried his face in his hands. 

The consulting detective just stared at him from his perch on the back of an ambulance. He was enrobed in the shockingly orange blanket, a gratifying half-smile on his lips despite the paramedic attacking his shredded palm with a medical needle. 

"What?" he asked, innocently. "I got him for you, didn't I?" With his free hand, Sherlock held a piece of gauze to his forehead to stem the bleeding.

"Well, sure, but you didn't have to go about exacerbating things." Lestrade muttered something about John Watson killing him and passed his hand over his face. "I told you, you can't keep chasing down suspects. You're a civilian, damn it, and if you get yourself killed, I'll have an arse load of bloody paperwork to do."

"Oh, nonsense, John wouldn't kill you. I fathom he sort of likes you, actually."

"Well, he'd kill me if anything happened to you." He glanced uneasily behind him. Sherlock figured Lestrade hadn't forgotten the cabbie. 

"Calm down. John's out on a date tonight, it's why he didn't partake in the chase. Pity. Not even 'could be dangerous' has him running anymore."

"He'll have my head when he finds out you've been through the paper shredder." 

"Maybe you should enforce those anti-littering laws better."

"Maybe you should try not going after suspects in dark, abandoned alleys covered in broken glass."

"I'll think about it." He smirked, but instantly winced in pain as the medic finally finished sewing up his hand. He looked down at it with distain.  He probably would have to abstain from the violin for weeks. Well, he could probably play through the pain with no adverse affects, although he'd no doubt rip the stitches out, and John would not like that, no, not at all.  He'd probably yell at him for bleeding on the carpet.

The shallow cut on his forehead stopped bleeding so a medic just applied a butterfly bandage, and no, he was fine, thank you, no, no headache or disorientation. 

Lestrade gave Sherlock a ride to 221b ("In the back of a police car––") and deposited him on the front steps with a final, begrudging thank you for catching their criminal. 

Sherlock marched upstairs to the flat and after shrugging off his coat, collapsed on the sofa, aching for a cigarette. He briefly toyed with the idea of going back outside, but instead shut himself inside his mind palace to hopefully ignore the throbbing in his wrist from where limb came in contact with asphalt and glass.  

About an hour later, John announced his arrival with a short, "What the hell happened to you?"

The edge of Sherlock's mouth quirked.