Lestrade deposited Sherlock in the passenger seat, where he leaned his head back and took slow breaths. The drive to the hospital was short, but he kept glancing over to make sure Sherlock wasn't falling asleep. After a few minutes, Sherlock's eyes slid closed and Lestrade reached over to shake him awake.

"Hey!" said Sherlock weakly.

"Sorry, can't let you fall asleep," replied the inspector gruffly.

Sherlock pulled his feet up onto the dashboard and braced his elbows on his knees, rubbing at his forehead. "That's a… myth." He swallowed thickly and groaned.

Lestrade sighed inwardly at the dirt the detective was getting all over the dashboard, but decided against mentioning it. He looked over worriedly at his injured companion, who was going deathly pale. "You gonna be sick?"

Sherlock started to shake his head before resorting to speech. "No… haven't eaten… two days."

"Good God, man. Just… hang in there, we're almost to the hospital." Lestrade sped up a bit.

"I bled on you," said Sherlock blandly. Not quite an apology, but it would do.

Lestrade sighed as he pulled into a parking space. "You're not the first." He half-carried Sherlock into the ER and set him down on a chair in the waiting room, patting him bracingly on the arm before approaching the desk. He came back with several forms and a cup of water, which Sherlock sipped at with a shaky hand.

"Okay…" he started off, "Date of birth?"

Sherlock had seemed to wake up a bit in the warm light of the ER, but still looked pale and clammy. "5th October, 197…7." He lowered his head into his hands slowly, giving a slight involuntary groan. "Feel sick."

Lestrade grabbed a plastic wastebasket from the corner and shoved it into Sherlock's hands. The concussed young detective proceeded to throw up the water he'd just drunk and then intermittently dry heave for a few minutes. Lestrade took the seat next to him and patted Sherlock's back as he leaned over the trash can. After a moment, Sherlock wiped his mouth on his sleeve and set the can on the ground next to him. He slumped down in the seat until his head rested on the back of the chair. "Sorry," he croaked.

Lestrade sighed and dug a pack of gum out of his pocket. He held a piece out to Sherlock. "Don't worry about it. It's nicotine gum, if that's okay. Spearmint." Sherlock accepted the gum, stuck it in his mouth, and muttered an honest thanks. Lestrade noticed a sheen of cold sweat had collected on Sherlock's forehead, along with the now caking blood, and pulled out a handkerchief, handing it to the younger man. Sherlock buried his face in the cloth, then tried to give it back, but Lestrade motioned for him to hold on to it.

They'd been waiting for at least ten minutes now, and Lestrade was getting anxious as he filled out the rest of the forms, occasionally requiring a terse detail from Sherlock. More than once he had to snap his fingers in front of the detective's face to keep him alert.

Finally, a nurse called out, "Mr Holmes." Lestrade helped Sherlock up and led him down the hallway to the small room that the nurse pointed out. He was mostly able to walk by himself, but appreciated Lestrade's steadying hand on his arm.

"Are you family?" the nurse asked Lestrade.

"No," he said, "I'm a—"

Well, friend wasn't quite the word for it. "Colleague. He's a bit scared of hospitals, though—"

"Am not," interjected Sherlock in pained annoyance.

The nurse looked apologetic. "Sorry sir, we only allow family back here, you'll have to stay in the waiting room."

Lestrade sighed and pulled out his badge, giving her a pointed look.

"Oh!" she said. "I'm sorry, Detective Inspector, go ahead. A doctor will be with you in a minute, Mr Holmes, in the meantime, please put on this gown."

Sherlock turned to give his colleague a lopsided grin. "Now she'll… think I'm some sort of… convict."

"You basically are," Lestrade reminded him. He nodded towards the curtained area in the corner of the room. "You can manage?"

"Yes," said Sherlock stubbornly, pulling the curtain shut. Lestrade took a seat in the chair by the bed and tried to ignore the sharp intakes of breath and sounds of stumbling as Sherlock undressed.

After a moment, a newly-changed Sherlock emerged and gratefully sat down on the folded-vertical bed, letting his head fall back into pillow with a relieved sigh. He looked painfully thin in the hospital gown, Lestrade noticed. Sherlock hummed in satisfaction and closed his eyes. "Hey now, don't fall asleep," said Lestrade.

Sherlock frowned and glared at him. "I'm in a… bed, what am I supposed… to do?"

"You could start by telling me what happened."

Sherlock looked at the detective with genuine apology in his eyes, along was it a touch of... was it fear? "Hard to… speak. Tell you later?"

Lestrade nodded, brow furrowing in concern. He reached over to ruffle Sherlock's untidy hair, careful to avoid the swollen gash on his forehead. Sherlock raised an eyebrow but did not protest. "No problem. It'll be okay, kid." Sherlock gave a slight nod and closed his eyes again slowly. "Sherlock?" Lestrade asked gently.

"Not sleeping," replied the detective. "Just… my head. Hurts."

Lestrade sat back in his chair, satisfied that Sherlock wasn't passing out on him. "'Course," he said. "I'll see if I can get you some ibuprofen."

Sherlock opened his eyes, and Lestrade could see the fear there. "Not… don't… morphine. Can't have… morphine."

"I know. I got it. Just relax."

Sherlock sighed and narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Lestrade, who was flipping through a magazine he'd taken from the waiting room. "How long… have you been sleeping… on the sofa?" he asked bluntly.

Lestrade sighed, knowing better than to argue. "About a week now."

"You got… flowers but that's not what she… wanted. She's mad you work all the time…. Right? Says you wake… her up when you come in late but… really she's just annoyed… wants you to change priorities."

Sherlock was spot on, as usual, and it annoyed Lestrade to no end. "What is this, an interrogation?" he said a bit gruffly.

"I'm just… relaxing. I… apologize," and Lestrade could tell that in this addled state, or maybe any state really, Sherlock just couldn't tell when a line had been crossed.