There was a tiny... TINY part of Sherlock that was glad that it was hospital policy to be wheeled to the exit. He wasn't sure if he could have endured, physically or mentally, maneuvering all the way there on crutches.

He held the damnable things across his lap as he was wheeled out to the entrance, where a line of cabs was always waiting to take people away. He awkwardly maneuvered his way into the cab, pulling those damn crutches after him, and waited for John to get in, giving the cabby the address.

He was beyond pissed right now. He was fucking helpless, embarrassed, humiliated. The great detective was a useless invalid.

He grumbled something incoherent towards John, keeping his eyes focused on London as it whizzed past them.