Sherlock sat in his chair, gazing at the skull. John had seen that he hadn't had a case in weeks- not a case that took longer than a few minutes to solve, at least. One case of insurance fraud where the owners of a jewellery shop had staged a robbery in order to earn the money that they would receive as compensation; a wife murdering her husband by giving him a glass of lemonade laced with cyanide- administered after she learned that he had been having affairs with multiple women for quite some time (the acidity of the lemonade helped to expedite and intensify the poison's effect); and one assisted suicide in which the man who had caused the adolescent's permanent paralysis was framed. Nothing at all interesting- idiots killing for boring reasons- nothing that John knew of.
He hadn't been eating and sleeping "normally". He had had nothing to occupy his mind, and when unoccupied, the brain demanded to be sated. Normally, he had good reason to ignore his brain when it suggested such things, and so he did, but when his brain decided that it wasn't being nearly forceful enough, he found himself falling forward, face burying in the carpet. Watson came back into the room, dropping the book he had been holding and rushing to Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes was simply not the type of man to faint. Watson observed that Sherlock's mouth was hanging open slightly, and that he was shivering due to cold. Poorsod, he thought, picking Sherlock up and carrying him to his bedroom. Sherlock woke in the process, leading only to a bewildered stare, and subsequent glare.
"Unhand me. I'm fine."
Watson gave him a patronizing look, and retorted "So you enjoy face-planting into carpets, then?"
"Maybe I do. It's none of your concern."
"On the contrary, Sherlock. It is very much my concern. First of all, you are my friend. Second, my flatmate. If you're ill, you might be contagious. By diagnosing you, I'll save myself time if I begin to exhibit the same symptoms. And as a doctor, I must treat you."
Watson pulled back the sheets, laid Sherlock in his bed, removed Sherlock's shoes, and replaced the sheets. Instantly, Sherlock threw back the sheets and attempted to get up. Watson pushed him back down, shaking his head in disapproval.
"Don't move from this bed without my direct permission."
"And why should I do that?"
Watson left momentarily, returning with a pair of padded handcuffs.
"So... you'll handcuff me. I still have legs, you know. No, that wouldn't make any sense at all. You're going to handcuff me to the bed. By only one hand, that's a plus."
"I'll only use these if you attempt to disobey me. The next step after that is Mycroft."
"So? He already monitors me. I'm sure there are even some cameras in this very room... Mycroft doesn't scare me."
"Look, just don't try anything and... Who am I kidding? You're Sherlock Holmes. You could probably pick handcuffs, or slide out of them or something. But Mycroft would actually do something about it. He probably wouldn't send you to hospital- at least not a public one. Actually, I think I'll just call Mycroft now. He has more resources than I do- and right now, you're malnourished and dehydrated, as well as sleep-deprived. Yeah, I'm calling your brother."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
The phone rang only once. Mycroft answered immediately.
"Hello, John. What has Sherlock done now?"
"Well, for starters, he hasn't slept or eaten for about a week, and just passed out. He's probably dehydrated as well. I know that I'm a doctor, I just don't have the supplies to treat him here. What do you recommend?"
There was a slight pause.
"I'll be there in three minutes."
John waited, watching Sherlock think of a way out of this, and trying to pretend otherwise.
"Don't do it, Sherlock. I mean it."
Sherlock scoffed. "You don't even know what I was planning to do."
"Uh, escape? It's obvious. Look, right now would not be a good time to try it. You're weak-"
Holmes glared at him.
"I mean that you're not at your normal strength, due to the malnourishment and dehydration."
"O-"
"Sherlock. Don't argue with me- I'm a doctor, I know what I'm talking about."
A speeding black car blazed down Baker Street, braking suddenly at 221B, the passenger not even waiting for the car to fully stop, almost being knocked over with the kickback, but catching himself and dashing for the door.
John heard the downstairs door crash, and heard a heavier man bounding up the steps, followed by several others. When the upstairs door opened, revealing Mycroft and his entourage, John was far from shocked. Sherlock was pretending to be asleep (he had done it to John several times prior). Mycroft stepped into the bedroom, waving at the team to tell them to wait.
"Stop faking, Sherlock. John, has he done that before? You don't seem to be shocked."
"Yes, actually. Even an idiot can figure it out."
"Apparently. Alright, well, let's get him off the hospital then."
"Oh, St. Bart's isn't far at all..."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, and began studying his umbrella intensely.
"Do you honestly think I would trust them to care for my brother, John? No, no. He's being taken to a private facility."
"What private facility would that be, then?"
Mycroft smiled his dismissive smile.
"Private, and exclusive, dear doctor. No need to pry. You are coming with me. Don't bother locking the flat, it will be taken care of."
The umbrella was oddly still as Sherlock was laid on a stretcher, loosely tethered to it with soft straps, Mycroft presiding grimly.
Soon, Sherlock was carried out of the bedroom, down the steps, and into the back of a special ambulance that must have arrived very shortly after Mycroft did.
Once Sherlock was loaded in and secured, Mycroft and John both leaped into the ambulance to be at Sherlock's side.
"I don't understand- he hasn't had an interesting case for weeks. Why is he doing this?"
Mycroft gave no indication that he knew the answer, staring at the detective's still form.