I'm not now.

Sherlock lay on the cool tile of the kitchen floor, his head thrumming as he ran diagnostics. Outer extremities were fine, slight ache in left shoulder and hip. He'd fallen that way, then. The only other obvious injury was his head. Or had that hurt before he fell? Sherlock couldn't remember, but he was sure of one thing; John couldn't find him like this. That would never do.

Sherlock Shivered. The blue silk dressing gown did little against the January chill of the flat. Around him, 221b lay still and quiet. As if waiting with baited breath to see what would happen next. Over the past few days it had silently observed Sherlock performing experiments, playing his violin and searching for John's gun. He was bored. John was due back from his medical conference at midday, and Sherlock wasn't entirely sure of the time. He didn't care for not knowing. He raised a pale hand to his head and touched the spot above his right ear. He flinched and drew his hand away quickly, releasing a stream of imaginative curses. The fingers came away dry. He wasn't bleeding at least, which would make this easier. Staring up at the ceiling, Sherlock could see faded burn marks from past experiments. It was peaceful, lying here. His eyes fluttered closed and he felt himself start to drift. So sleepy. He could quite happily wait here for John. He would be home soon. The thought of John spread a warm feeling through Sherlock. The thought of John finding him like this, sent an icy chill. No. Sherlock would have to move. Dragging his eyes open, he heaved himself into a sitting position. The greens a greys of the kitchen swirled around him and he forced himself to breath slowly. Eventually, the kitchen calmed back to its original, solid state. Shuffling over slightly, so that his back was resting against the cupboards, Sherlock reviewed his plan. It was going to be difficult to stand up. Very difficult. Perhaps crawling would be better? No, even when alone in his flat and probably concussed, Sherlock Holmes was a proud man. He wasn't going to crawl around his own flat on his hands and knees just because he'd….

What had happened? Not that he would ever admit it, but he was unnerved by the fog that clouded everything before he'd woken on the floor. Sherlock steeled himself. With one great effort he was standing, albeit clutching the table and edge of the sink for dear life. Once the spinning had stopped, he took a cautious step towards the living room. He found that movement was fairly easy as long as he kept hold of something. The kitchen cabinets, the wall, John's chair, the wall again. After a very slow minute Sherlock had made it to the sofa. Never had it looked so inviting. Trying not to aggravate his sore left side, Sherlock lay down and faced the wall. Wrapping the dressing gown around his thin frame, he imagined he could feel the bruises forming at his hip and shoulder. When would John be home? Soon. That last thought comforted him as he drifted off into a welcome sleep.

…

As he slid his key into the front door of 221b Baker Street, John felt relief surge through him. It had been a long few days, stuck at a medical conference and away from his best friend. A proper cup of tea would go down really well about now. None of that tea-urn rubbish they always have at conferences. Once upstairs, John wasn't surprised to find the flat in darkness. Sherlock was curled up on the sofa. Either thinking or asleep. That would account for him not acknowledging John's return. Flipping the light switch in the kitchen John started to make some tea. Stepping towards the kettle, something crunched under his feet. Bending to examine it, it turned out to be a sliver of Sherlock's favourite mug. Now that he paid attention, there were bits of ceramic everywhere. Looked like Sherlock had dropped his mug and not bothered to clean it up. Typical. Digging the dustpan and brush out from under the sink, John swept up while the kettle boiled. As he deposited the shards in to bin, he stuck his head around the corner to check on Sherlock. Still curled in a tight ball on the sofa. Impressive for a man of his size. John decides to make him a cup. It'll probably be the only thing he's eaten or drunk for the past few days.

A mug in each hand, John made his way carefully into the living room. He deposited his mug on the table next to his armchair, and took the other over to Sherlock, where he left it on the coffee table.

"Tea, Sherlock."

John wasn't at all surprised when Sherlock didn't acknowledge him. Stepping around the coffee table and sitting on the edge of it, he placed a hand on the detective's shoulder and shook him gently. The movement caused then dressing gown to fall from his shoulders, revealing an angry purple bruise forming on Sherlock's white skin. John grimaced. It looked painful and it was definitely recent. Sherlock had obviously been through the wars. Reaching past the sleeping man's head, john switch on the reading lamp at the end of the sofa. In the light, it was obvious that Sherlock had had a rough week. He was much paler than usual, if that were possible, and John could see a small bruise poking from underneath the hairline of his left temple.

"Christ, Sherlock. What have you been doing?"

Again there was no response. A Bolt of worry shot through him. Sherlock wasn't a deep sleeper. Not that he slept often enough in John's opinion. Using the back of his hand, he made sure that Sherlock was breathing. He was, but it was shallow and uneven. A bit not good. Next John checked Sherlock's pulse. Slower than it had cause to be. The pale skin under his fingers was cool and smooth to the touch. John paused for a moment, thinking how good it felt. He quickly shook that thought away. He had to wake Sherlock.

Loathe to leave him for even a minute, John sprinted up the stair to his room, and pulled his leather medical bag from under the bed. Back downstairs, he placed the bag within easy reach and sat back down on the coffee table. Being careful to avoid the obvious bruise, he shook Sherlock again, a little harder this time.

"Sherlock, it's John! I'm home. Could you open your eyes for me please?"

Still no response. Right. Cold fear had settled in John's bones as he picked up Sherlock's hand. He pinched the skin on the back of his hand, hard. Sherlock groaned slightly, and his eyes flickered beneath his lids.

"Come on Sherlock! Can you hear me? I need you to open your eyes for me. Now!"

Gradually, as if it was a herculean feat, Sherlock opened his eyes. He was obviously unfocused and confused, and that scared John more than being unable to wake him.

"There you are! You scared me. What happened?"

"Fell." Sherlock groaned. As if the memory offended him. "Kitchen"

John reached into his bag and took out his pen light. Flicking it on, he moved so he was standing above Sherlock.

"I'm going to check your reflexes, ok? I think you hit your head, you're probably concussed. Why didn't you call me? When did this happen"

"S'morning… maybe las' night?" He slurred.

John felt sick at the thought of Sherlock lying injured all night. He flashed the light in Sherlock's eyes, one at a time and grimaced. His pupil were uneven and slow to respond. Next, he held up a finger in front of Sherlock's nose.

"Follow with your eyes, please."

Sherlock obviously tried his best, but his left eye was very slow and kept wandering to the side. John made a face again.

"Not good?" Sherlock asked. He obviously wasn't so far gone that he couldn't tell what John was thinking.

"A bit not good." John confirmed. "Hospital"

Sherlock did not say anything, but attempted to roll his eyes. The action obviously sent a bolt of pain through his head, and he complained no further. John grinned at Sherlock's reaction, knowing that he hated hospitals.

"It's the best place for you. Did you pass out? What made you fall?"

"Don't remember. Hit m'head on the table. Floor was cold though. Dropped my mug."

"It's ok, I'll get you a new one." John smiled "You'll be ok."

John pulled his mobile out and dialled 999. "Ambulance please. 221b Baker Street. W1." He glanced over at Sherlock, he seemed to be staying awake now. "Adult male, 34, suspected concussion. Head injury and suspected loss of consciousness. He's very confused. Pupils slow to respond and uneven. Yes, I'm a doctor, the door will be open. Thanks"

Throughout the call Sherlock had refused to let go of John's hand. He was holding on for dear life. John wasn't sure, but the other man looked scared. It wasn't something he was used to seeing.

"You'll be ok, Sherlock. Concussion sucks, but it only lasts a few days."

"I can't think" Sherlock whispered "my mind won't work"

"That's normal. Don't worry yourself, I'll look after you. Will you be ok for a minute? I need to go and open the front door, and let Mrs Hudson know what's happening. I don't want her having a heart attack when the paramedics come running in."

"Ok." Sherlock's voice sounded very small and frail. It was unnerving.

John reassured himself that Sherlock would be fine, Sherlock was always fine.