A/N Thank you to the guest who'd pointed out I'd said "sediment" over "sentiment". Sorry, my spelling IS pretty bad :)

"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me? Sherlock?"

"Sherlock, we're losing you!"

…

Lights faded in and out of his drugged mind. His thoughts slid around in his head, unable to find a clear piece of consciousness to land in.

His eyes opened a crack, colors mingling together as he blearily peered around the room. There's a figure at one end who's standing up and nearing the bed.

"Sherlock? Are you awake?"

"Mary," Sherlock stirred. That's who shot him, right?

"Mary? What about Mary? Sherlock, are you awake, really awake this time?"

"John," he slurred, the words falling off his tongue.

The figure, John, has come up to his bedside now.

"How are you feeling? How's the pain? Should I call the nurse?"

Sherlock felt a slight annoyance, though he wasn't quite sure why. Why was this man fussing over him? He was fine, he was floating, and he was free…..

"You must like this place, they hook the drugs right up to you."

"M'fine John."

"Go back to sleep Sherlock, you're high as a kite."

"M' not."

But he shut his eyes anyway and soon he was out of it again, far away and floating.

…

"Lestrade, he's awake, he's finally awake!" John paused and added as an afterthought. "Or, he was."

"Really?! That's bloody brilliant! He pulled through!" Lestrade grinned in relief. "Do you think we should ring Mycroft?"

"We'd better, he's Sherlock's brother and basically the entirety of the British government."

Lestrade nodded his assent. "True, true. Do you think I can go see him soon?"

"He's asleep again but when he wakes up I'm sure he'll be happ- he'll be moderately pleased to see you." John amended with a grin.

Lestrade smiled back, still giddy from the news. "While you're at it, phone Mary, I'm sure she'll be happy to see him. And Molly."

John agreed.

"Back to the old waiting game it is."

…

Ring. Ring.

"How's Sherlock?"

"Well hello to you too Mycroft. He's just woken up. Seems alright, the morphine's made him a bit loopy."

"Well, that's one thing I suppose."

There was a beat of silence.

"Mycroft you are coming aren't you?"

"I'm not sure if that would be the best course of action. My brother is not very keen on my company…"

"Get down here now. Sherlock's your brother and you need to be there for him."

"….Very well, Dr. Watson. I'll get there as soon as I possibly can."

There was a beep, and Mycroft hung up.

John sighed at the sudden cut off but had to admit that convincing Mycroft to come down could have gone a lot worse.

He decided to say it was a win and continued with his other calls.

…

When Sherlock next came too he realized everything was too heavy. His limbs felt like lead.

His chest was bare and wires winded around his arms and onto the floor. There was a pair of oxygen nubbins under his nose and he head was annoyingly unclear.

"John?"

"Sherlock?" Not John's voice. Lestrade.

"Garrison?"

Lestrade looked at him with an exasperated expression.

Sherlock tried to keep a straight face, but cracked a tiny grin instead.

"Greg." He amended.

"You alright then mate?" Lestrade asked.

"Just peachy."

"Enjoying the morphine?"

"Not particularly, it impedes my ability to think." Sherlock responded with a frown, and leaned over to turn down the dosage.

Lestrade raises an eyebrow.

"Is that really the best idea?"

"What's not really the best idea?" John inquires as he pokes his head around the door frame before stepping in. "Ah! Sleeping beauty is awake at last. Still kicking or do you need a nurse?"

"Stop mothering John," sighs Sherlock, closing his eyes.

"It's in my job description. Now, mind telling me how you got here?"

"I was shot."

John sighed

"No shit Sherlock."

"Fuck off Watson," Sherlock fired back, not even opening his eyes as he raised a shaky hand the flip the Dr. off.

"Great Punch and Judy routine, really loving it guys, but if you don't mind Sherlock, I'd rather like to know that little detail myself."

"A person raised a metal gun of an unspecified type, put his/her finger on the trigger, and let it spasm, applying pressure to said trigger and therefor setting it off. In doing so, a bullet, at high speed, hit me in the chest, causing internal bleeding and an immense amount of pain, but no exit wound."

"Show-off," muttered Lestrade.

"Yes, Sherlock, I know how being shot works. As you well know, I want a name." John pressed, aggravated.

"I don't know the name."

"Liar."

"I'm not lying. The person was… not what I thought." Sherlock responded, a little distantly.

"So basically, you're not going to tell us." John concluded, throwing his hands up in the air.

"That would be correct."

"Well then I'm not going to regret this. Mycroft's on his way."

Sherlock groaned, long and loud.

"Nooooooooooooooooooooo," he moaned.

"I really don't know what silly rivalry has still got your arm in knots, but he's coming, and that's that. He cares about you, Sherlock," John stated firmly.

"As ever you see but do not observe, Watson. He does not "care" he is simply mildly interested."

Incredulously, John stared at him. ""Mildly interested"?! Are you insane?! He's your brother!"

"Am I needed at all here or are you guys just going to continue having a domestic?" Lestrade butted in, looking slightly put out.

"He's all yours Greg. I'm going to go find Mycroft and send him up." John stated and walked out.

There was a moment of silence, and Lestrade could sense the sulk in the air.

"There's no use fighting it you know. You're going to have to see him."

Sherlock huffed. "You're lucky I'm too drugged to deduce you, Lestrade."

Lestrade laughed, then stood up.

"I'll take my hint. Mycroft will be here soon. I'm going to go pay a visit to 221B to check on Mrs. Hudson."

And then Lestrade left.

There was a happy beat of silence before he heard it. In the distance but approaching quickly, Sherlock could faintly here the click of two feet and an umbrella hit the floor.

….

Sherlock kept his eyes shut as Mycroft walked in.

"I've been shot."

"Yes, I see can see that, brothermine. Would you mind telling me how you ended up with a hole in your chest?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but made no move to look at his relative. "Would this happen to be sentiment talking Mycroft?"

Mycroft smiled his usual smile, a crooked, knowing one that didn't reach his eyes.

"Perhaps, dear brother, perhaps. Is that a no then?"

"If I'm not telling John I'm certainly not telling you."

Mycroft sighed.

"How's the pain?"

Sherlock grimaced. "Bearable."

Liar.

Mycroft looked over Sherlock's shoulder at the morphine drip. It had been turned down. If I ever catch the nurse that did that I swear….

Carefully, so that Sherlock wouldn't notice, he turned up the morphine drip. This sentiment for his baby brother really would be the end of him, Mycroft decided.

He realized this higher dose would probably knock the younger Holmes out, but it was for the best. Mycroft often heard John fret about how little Sherlock slept and right now, rest was all he needed.

He leaned on his umbrella and raised an eyebrow.

"Mind telling me what silly loyalty has you hiding the person that nearly caused your death?"

"I'm not hiding them."

"Then what are you doing, brother?"

"Keeping a promise," Sherlock sighed into his pillow, relaxing.

"You're heart stopped."

"Your's never started."

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Highly amusing. You do know that we thought you were dead in that operating room right?"

"Mmfgh, well I'm not am I?" Sherlock groaned, but was surprisingly still lucid. Mycroft had to give it to Sherlock for his stubbornness to fight anything that might not let him get the last word.

On a heavy, heavy, load of painkillers but still awake and talking clearly? Impressive.

"You should sleep, brothermine, I know you don't do much of that at home."

Sherlock yawned.

"What, finally convinced John to spy for you?" he breathed out, yawning again.

"No need, I have the place bugged," Mycroft smiled again, that strange, slightly disconcerting smile.

"Doesn't, *yawn* surprise me," then Sherlock sighed again and stopped talking, releasing his grip on the pillow.

Mycroft nodded to himself and turned to leave but stopped himself, leaning over to pat Sherlock's arm tentatively.

As he went back through the doorway he passed John and Lestrade.

"How is he?" John asked.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Asleep still, I hope."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows in astonishment. "How did ya manage that? The bastard's only just gone and got himself shot."

Mycroft's lip curled up. Could Sherlock's "friends" (he still didn't get the point of those) really not work that out for themselves? "I'm living in a world of goldfish," he reminded himself.

"I turned up his morphine when his eyes were closed."

John turned to him, slightly disappointed that he couldn't talk to Sherlock right then and there, but relieved.

"Thank you Mycroft, really. Tricking him into it is really the only way we'll be able to get him to rest."

"Yes," Mycroft mused, "That's rather what I figured."

Then he turned and walked back down the hall, leaning on his black umbrella as his shoes clicked down the linoleum floor.