"Ball, under the armpit," breathes the detective, spitting blood from his lips and still trying to stem the flow of his nosebleed. It's clearing up just a bit quicker than John knows it should.

Then, he gets up from the ground. Carefully. It's probably painful for John to watch, too, because the man is usually so lithe and catlike in his motions. The careful, uncomfortable act of getting up off the ground is an effort and it shows in Sherlock's face, still etched with pain and confusion.

"John Watson. Captain. Doctor, soldier. Sister named Harriet, who I incorrectly assumed was a man because she goes by Harry. Alcoholic. Recently divorced when I met you. Harry left Clara. We met in the lab at Saint Bart's. You use to tell me that I was amazing every time I make any sort of deduction though thankfully you've stopped that behavior. I once locked you in a laboratory and drugged you to test my theory of the use of psychotropic drugs to keep a young man in fear and silence so that he wouldn't reveal the murderer of his father. You offered Irene Adler a napkin when she walked into the room naked, and you set off the smoke alarms in her house. Jim Moriarty once wired you with explosives and you threw himself at him to make sure I'd stay alive. Is that enough or do I need to keep going?"

Typical Sherlock aggravation is creeping back into his tone, now that he's got most of the pain from his ribs and his face filed away.