A/N: All the cookies to Sevenpercent!

Disclaimer: Still not mine.

John's pillow was wet against his cheek. For a moment, he couldn't think why. Then he could, and wished that he hadn't.

He felt as though a building had fallen on him, crushed him. His only physical injury was a moderate concussion, but the pain that ripped through him made him gasp aloud. He fought to control his breathing, to stop the moisture that continued to leak from his still-closed eyes. He tried to bring his hands up to scrub at his face.

One of his hands was restrained.

He opened his eyes in surprise, blinking furiously at the bright lights. Wiping his face with his free hand, he ignored the throb in his head and craned his neck to take in his surroundings.

He was in a hospital bed, handcuffed to the bed rail. A hysterical giggle forced its way out as he laid his head back on the pillows.

He heard a distinct clicking sound from the hallway outside, followed by a low voice raised in protest. There was a scraping sound from the far corner of the room. John turned his head, stifling a groan at the pain the movement caused. He caught sight of a police constable rising from a chair, face puzzled. John didn't have time to think further on the constable's presence as the door to his room opened and a second, younger constable entered, following a woman whose high heels rang sharply on the floor.

"Remove his restraint, now," the woman said, eyes meeting John's for a moment before they looked back down to the phone in her hand.

"He's a fugitive, Miss. I can't ..." the younger constable protested, looking anxiously to where his partner was making a quick call on his mobile, speaking in low tones.

"He was a hostage, Constable, forced to run from police custody."

"But he assaulted ..." the constable began, shifting from foot to foot, shooting a glance at his partner.

"No charges have been filed. Uncuff him. Immediately."

The young constable looked uncertain, but his partner pulled the phone away from his ear with a shrug. He nodded unhappily and pulled a key from his pocket, unlocking the handcuffs. John pulled his hand free, rubbing at his wrist. He watched as the younger constable turned back to face the woman, who barely glanced up from her mobile to give him an insincere smile before looking back down again, fingers texting furiously. The older constable moved toward the door holding it open and looking back for his partner, who stood rooted to the spot, seemingly waiting for a dismissal. After a moment the woman looked up again, looking at the disconcerted constable with amusement, tilted her head to the door and said 'Bye.'

Another giggle escaped John as the constable fled the room, hurrying after his partner. The woman looked up at him and grinned in response. John laughed again, an edge of hysteria creeping back in. He struggled, fighting to calm himself. The woman turned her eyes back to her phone, but he knew that her attention was still on him. She was giving him time to regain control. He was grateful.

"Who are you?" John gasped out, trying regulate his breathing.

She focused on him immediately. He could see her gaze sharpen with concern.

"No, no," he corrected, taking a deep, shuddering breath. "I know who you are. I meant … Who are you today? What name should I use?"

"What name did I use last time?" she asked

John wondered if this was a test of his mental state, or if she really changed names so frequently that she couldn't remember. Maybe it was both.

"Anthea."

She smiled. John decided that it had been a test.

"Anthea it is, then."

John nodded, and regretted it. He groaned, bringing both hands up to press the heels to his forehead. After a moment he put his hands down and shifted, trying to sit up. He saw Anthea watching him with curiosity and concern, but she made no move to help him.

"Thanks for that," he said waving his hand toward the door to indicate the departed constable and handcuffs when he managed to pull himself upright.

"Of course," she replied.

"I imagine that he'll be back, though, to slap the cuffs on again when the Chief files the paperwork for the charges. Still," he slid off the bed and closed his eyes tightly against a wave of dizziness and nausea, "there's enough time for me to see him," he opened his eyes to meet Anthea's gaze. "I need to see him."

"I'm so sorry, Doctor Watson, but that will not be possible."

"It is," he insisted, biting out the words. "Take me to him."

"He's gone."

"I know he's … gone," John shouted, then sagged against the bed. "I saw him fall. I saw … there was so much blood. He had no pulse," he looked up at Anthea, his expression pleading. "I need to see him."

"Doctor Watson," she said gently, "you were combative when you were brought in, resisting treatment. They sedated you. It's been … well. It's just gone eight now. Nearly twelve hours. While you were unconscious, the body was identified by Doctor Molly Hooper, and has already been claimed. He's not here."

John's legs buckled. He slid to the floor, landing awkwardly on his hip. Anthea stepped closer, her hand closing on his shoulder, keeping him from slumping farther down.

"I don't believe the Chief will be getting around to filing charges," she said. "He's been reminded that his lack of oversight on the conduct of his officers, and their use of civilian consultants, would become public knowledge if he pursued a punitive course of action. A punch to the nose is far better than the slap on the wrist he'd receive in that instance."

Under other circumstances, John thought he might be amused.

"Thank you, Mycroft," John said, then continued bitterly, "Your boss is a minion of Satan, if not the man himself."

"My boss just lost his little brother."

"He's responsible for putting his little brother on that roof! Backing him into that corner, where he thought this was his only way out!" John spat, glaring up at her, ignoring the throbbing of his head.

"Do you really think he doesn't know that, Doctor Watson?" Anthea asked softly. "I assure you, there is no punishment you can think up for him that is worse than what he's doing to himself right now."

"That's a theory that needs testing."

John read disappointment on Anthea's face, but it vanished quickly. He lowered his head into his hands.

"What do I do now?" he asked, not really expecting an answer.

"They want to keep you the rest of the night for observation. We've arranged a car for you for tomorrow morning."

"That's not really what I meant."

"I know," Anthea replied, tugging lightly on his shoulder, indicating that he should stand up.

John climbed unsteadily to his feet and allowed Anthea to push him back onto the bed.

"Rest now, Doctor Watson. Mrs. Hudson will need you. We'll let you know when arrangements are made."

John didn't say anything as he laid back down. He closed his eyes, heard Anthea's soft sigh and then the sharp clack of her high heels as she crossed to the door.

"I'm sorry for your loss, John," she said as she turned off the lights and left the room.

He wasn't tired, but he suddenly found that he was exhausted, and let the darkness of grief and sleep swallow him.