Hey guys, thanks for the reviews! Here's more, as promised. I'm kind of excited about where I want to take this, but here's a fair warning that while I'll update as frequently and consistently as possible, I'm making no promises :) But I hope you enjoy!

Well that wasn't right.

John clutched the machine next to him for support, wondering if his face was as white as he suspected; from the furrow in Sherlock's brow, he assumed so. The doctor took a deep breath, kicking himself for not letting Greg explain, unsure how on earth he was supposed to just go with it.

But his reaction was immediately and inevitably noticed; Sherlock frowned, rubbing his hands together at a lost. Physically weak, yes, but perceptions were high. "Did…did I do something wrong?"

John tried not to take a step back at the innocence. "No. No, Sherlock, no. I just, uh, wasn't sure what to expect. You know? I was just worried. You're pretty beat up."

The detective seemed to read John for a moment but eventually nodded. John tried not to stare as Sherlock groaned, readjusting himself in the hospital bed.

"Listen, Greg said you've already talked to a few doctors and psychologists, but would you mind answering some questions for me? If you just want to rest, it's fine, but I want to know exactly where you are so I can help you the most. Make sense?"

"Greg?"

John cleared his throat and called for the inspector, who tiptoed in carefully. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You mean Lestrade."

The two men chuckled. Some things never change.

John pulled up a rigid chair and did his best to get comfortable. "Okay, so you know Lestrade."

"Of course." Sherlock checked his know-it-all tone by glancing the doctor's way and quickly averting his eyes.

Interesting.

"He works at Scotland Yard with Donovan and Anderson," he continued.

"And your relationship with them is…?"

"Consulting detective. Solving murders, kidnappings, and the like. Though I prefer my freelance cases."

John nodded and looked at Greg for support, but he only poured himself a glass of water and tried to look comfortable. "Good. And I'm…?"

"My father." Sherlock offered a slight smile. "I understand the need to check my memory, Dad, but I wouldn't forget you."

"No, I don't suppose you would. What about your mum?"

Jaw set and eyes steeled over as Sherlock looked away. "She died." He shifted his weight. "I admit this part of my memory is a bit fuzzy. But step-mum is fine, too. I like her."

Something was lacking in his eyes, or maybe something that had always been there was now rising to the surface. Either way John recognized it only as innocence, as childlike wonder and a desire to please, to understand, to impress. The candid acceptance that death was real, and it was personal. The situation may have been fabricated but the pain, clearly, was not.

John felt a pang of pity but smiled, too, knowing that Mary would laugh at being seen as Sherlock's mother figure. She already acted as such, pointing out fibs and demanding manners. Suddenly John was aware of his own roles, of regulating sleep and food, of acting as a social radar. Was Sherlock's conceived reality really that far off?

"Will you take me home?"

"Tonight. Just a few more tests, bud."

Sherlock fidgeted. "The staff here doesn't know what they're doing. They've got my chart all wrong."

"Oh?" John grabbed the file and flipped through it. "What's wrong with it?"

"Well for one, my last name's wrong. It's Watson, not...Holmes, whatever that is. And look at my age. They accidentally put a three in front of the eight."

Lestrade spat out his water.

"What should be in front of it?" John asked.

"Well that's a silly question."

"Yeah, but humor me."

"Well, nothing."

Greg stood and cleared his throat. "John, can I see you in the hall? I think Mary's probably here by now." He excused themselves and found Mary talking insurance with a nurse.

Yep. Definitely a mother.

The men filled her in on the situation. Exhausted, Lestrade sat himself on a gurney. "He thinks he's eight, John. Eight, and running around crime scenes."

"Forget the decency, Greg. He obviously thinks he still lives at home." John ran his fingers through his hair. "What are we supposed to do? Create a bedroom for him? Quit my job to look after him?"

Mary giggled, putting her hand on her hip when John glared. "Well, look, I don't think it's that big a problem. I'm already staying at home to take care of Allison, and you hardly work fulltime at the clinic anymore."

Oh.

Allison.

His actual daughter. Actually dependent. Three years old. Currently with the babysitter.

Did Sherlock know about her?

John groaned. "How am I supposed to follow his reality when I don't even know exactly what that is? What about his real parents? And oh goodness, Mycroft! What about Mrs. Hudson, and Molly? He thinks his father lets him dissect bodies and run experiments at eight years old! I know I'm not a psychologist, but wouldn't it be better to explain the truth to him now instead of watching it crumble as he realizes what really goes on?"

"It's got to be a coping mechanism." Greg shrugged. "Has to be. You're his father because, for some reason unbeknownst to us, that's what he needs you to be right now. If you want to find out the reason, you go along with it."

John glanced at the bedroom's door then back to his wife. "I don't know."

"We'll make it work. Besides," she said, kissing him on the forehead, "You've always wanted a son."