"Always my damned leg," John was muttering, limping along as best he could with his arm slung around Sherlock's shoulders and his teeth chattering. "It was getting better, it's like they know..."

His mutterings had devolved into half-formed apologies by the time Sherlock started calling for Joan. God, he hoped Joan had made it- if there was one doctor on the planet he could stand to let treat him, it was her. That wasn't narcissistic, was it? He supposed it probably was, but in his current frame of mind it was hard to find a reason to care.