Sherlock would never let on that he was in pain, especially while on a case. But today was an exceptionally bad pain day and Sherlock was having a problem focusing on the information in front of him. His brain felt slower than usual, dulled by the constant sting in his back and the feeling that his legs weighed a ton each. Lestrade was talking on in the background and Sherlock, try as he might, worked hard to keep up with the conversation. He thought he was doing well hiding his discomfort. But he could never hide anything from his brother. It wasn't long until his phone pinged with a text message in the pocket of his favorite coat.
"Go home, little brother. You're not fit to work on this case. MH."
Sherlock scoffed, about to text back a smart-assed reply, but his fingers stilled. Pain shot down his spine like a gunshot. He dropped the phone, lucky it didn't get damaged, and actually let out a whimper.
Perhaps, though he would never admit it out loud in any manner of word or language, Mycroft was right. What happened next happened quickly (even for how sluggish Sherlock felt) and he found himself in the back of one of the many black automobiles that drove the British government around in secrecy. Sherlock had never been so happy to see one of these cars and was eternally grateful for the tinted windows that was blocking the worst of the cursed sun from his eyes.
221B came into view and John was there waiting for him. Sherlock hadn't seen John since early this morning, heading off to the clinic for a shift at work. John looked concerned, but Sherlock couldn't bring himself to verbally reassure John that he would be fine. Because he wasn't fine. He hurt. All over.
"Mycroft called, told me what happened, took care of my shift at the clinic. Why didn't you tell me, love?" John, at this point, had helped Sherlock out of his beloved coat and out of his shoes. Gently, he lead him to their bedroom. Sherlock was helped into clean pajamas and into bed, pillows fluffed.
"With Mrs. Hudson for the night. She was glad to take her after I explained what was going on. I'm going to have my hands full fussing over you all evening anyways."
Sherlock just shook his head and closed his eyes. He didn't want John to fuss and worry, but he didn't have the energy to stop his husband. Maybe he needed to be fussed over. Maybe it would help. If anything, he certainly felt loved.
"Now, you relax, take a nap. Maybe that headache will ease up. I'm gonna make some tea and something light for supper."
When he next woke, Sherlock felt a bit more… well, aware and alert. His head wasn't screaming at him anymore. His back was sore, but not burning. And his legs felt lighter.
He proceeded to pull his phone out and text his brother.
"Thank you. SH."
"You're welcome, brother mine. MH."