Sherlock was immediately on his feet and racing out of the room when he collided head-first into Guns. "What's the big idea?" she snapped, knocking him backwards.

"If you don't mind, while you lot were all too busy making a fuss about little old me, someone has just been murdered from only fifty feet away!" Sherlock explained quickly. "I saw the whole thing happen just out the window!"

Guns folded her arms. "And you were just about to barge into some poor man's flat and, what, arrest him yourself?"

"That was the general idea."

"Don't think I've forgotten the last time you pulled off a scheme like this," warned Guns. "It didn't work when you tried to get out of the dentist appointment Mycroft scheduled for you and I swear to God it isn't getting you out of this hospital any sooner."

"It was right over there!" Sherlock insisted. He rushed over to the window and tapped on the glass for Guns to see. "He was sitting in the lounge, watching telly when another gentleman came in. They got into a disagreement, it turned violent, and the next thing I knew one of them was lying on the floor with a knife stuck in his chest!"

Guns wrinkled her nose at this. "Knew I shouldn't have gotten you those binoculars. People normally frown on peeping toms."

"It was people watching, and if it hadn't been for me there wouldn't be anyone to witness the murder!"

"Murder. Right. Tell you what, Holmes: why don't you phone the police, climb back under the covers, and get some shuteye. The sooner you prove to the doctors that you're better, the sooner you get to go home, the sooner I'm relieved of duty."

Sherlock's face fell. "You don't believe me," he accused. Guns lied that she did and helped him back into the hospital bed. At this the detective pushed her away with a disapproving glare. Guns shrugged, confiscated the kiddie binoculars, and then pulled up a chair just on the other side of the room's glass wall to spite him.

With an exasperated sigh Sherlock whipped out his mobile and dialed 999. Sherlock had only just begun his story when he was put on hold, and after five minutes of waiting he finally hung up and called John instead.

-x-

John had just slipped into his pyjamas when his mobile began vibrating on his bedside table. "Funny," he muttered to himself upon seeing Sherlock's name pop up on its screen. "Normally prefers to text. Yes, hello?"

"John! I need you to come to the hospital straight away and sign me out."

"Not this again." John groaned and took a seat on the bed. "Twenty four hours, alright? That's really not too much to ask. You're almost halfway done as it is."

"Oh, don't you start with me as well! Look, John, this isn't for me. Just a couple minutes ago I witnessed a murder happen in the flat across the alley from my window. Had I been able to get over there right away perhaps… I don't know, but the nurses wouldn't let me leave, and I tried dialing 999 but they put me on hold and-"

John pinched at the bridge of his nose in annoyance. "Sherlock," he said slowly, "have you ever stopped to consider that perhaps it's the boredom talking again? Listen, promise me you'll stay put and not cause any more trouble for the hospital staff, alright? I'll stop by as soon as I can in the morning and we can talk about what's really going on then. Alright, Sherlock?" Beat. "Sherlock? Sherlock, are you still there?"

But the other line had gone dead. Whether this was because Sherlock had gone into a moody fit and hung up on him or the phone call was simply disconnected, he had no idea.

-x-

With so much rattling around in his mind, Sherlock had difficulty sleeping that night. The uncomfortable hospital bed, ever-constant beeping from the heart monitor, and silhouettes of doctors and nurses continuously walking back and forth on the opposite side of his privacy curtain only added to his problem. When he finally did manage to get some shut-eye, it only lasted a couple hours before the hospital declared itself fully up-and-running and rendered any further sleep utterly impossible.

As promised, John did show up a little while after another fight with the nurses over Sherlock's suggested meal plan. The army doctor stood at Sherlock's bedside with folded arms and shook his head disappointedly as his flatmate grinned back at him.

"You made one of them cry," John finally said.

"And she tried to force soggy breakfast cereal down my throat. It was a rather fitting consequence, if you ask me."

John huffed. "Well I'm most certainly not asking you. And what's all this uproar about anyway? When I signed in the doctor told me that you're refusing to eat. They're threatening to diagnose you with-"

"Yes, yes, I've already heard the speech, so spare me." Sherlock sat up in the bed and twisted to the side to crack his back. He let out a satisfied sigh before continuing. "Anyway, there are more pressing matters than force feeding me rubbish!"

"Is that what this is about? You don't like the food so you'd rather starve yourself? How old are you, two?"

"John, please try to keep to the subject at hand. I'd hate to repeat myself. Now, as I attempted to inform you last night-"

"Perhaps I ought to pick you up a lunch myself? Save the nurses the trouble," John contemplated aloud.

"Stop rambling on about food, John! We have a murderer in our midst!" Sherlock smacked John across his head with a pillow to emphasize his point.

Said weapon was immediately confiscated and tossed aside by a less-than-amused John Watson. "Enough, Sherlock!" he shouted angrily. "Don't think I don't know what's going on here. Whether it's your heart acting up or your absolute boredom, doesn't matter, you can't just make up something ridiculous like that and expect all of us ordinary people to play along for your twisted amusement! There hasn't been a murder, and as such, sending a squad of police into some poor man's flat based off of the accusations of a madman will get us nowhere!"

"Are you upsetting my patient?"

John spun around to find himself face-to-face with Guns and immediately stiffened. "A-Absolutely not!"

"What was that, soldier?"

"NO, SIR!"

"Good. Then unless you have something else to bring Mr. Holmes, kindly get out of my hospital!"

Guns tried to keep from laughing as John scurried his arse out of the room and disappeared down the hallway. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "He wasn't bothering me that much, you know. It's not like you believed my story either."

"No, but I'm not trying to make you feel bad about it," Guns explained calmly. "Regardless of whether or not what you saw was real, it's my job to keep you here until the doctor releases you this evening. You can chase after serial killers to your heart's content after-and only after-that happens."

Sherlock made a face. "So you're telling me that even though there's a slim possibility I might be telling the truth you still won't do anything about it?"

"Convincing myself that you've made the whole thing up does make that bit a tad easier to swallow, no?"

"You're a horrible person."

"You should be happy, you know," Guns said, straightening her dress to take a seat. "There isn't much you could do about it now. Just gives you something to look forward to once this little mess is behind us both. That being said, I'm simply doing the job for which I was paid. Please direct any and all complaints you have to your brother."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Oh, believe me, I fully intend to."

His mood quickly improved, however, when John returned several hours later. His friend came bearing a sack lunch that he had packed himself, which meant a rather unimpressive peanut butter and jelly sandwich, several snack items thrown into ziplock bags, and an apple. Although it wasn't Sherlock's favorite, the meal certainly beat godforsaken hospital food, and he appreciated that John spent the five to ten minutes throwing it together just for him. In fact, the nearby nurses couldn't have been more surprised to see the man accept the brown paper bag with a sincere 'thank you'.

The two of them talked comfortably while Sherlock ate. It was an interesting change of pace, enjoying a meal while John was now the one simply providing company, but he'd already made a point of not eating anything since he arrived at the hospital. Not wanting to stir anything up, neither one mentioned their earlier disagreement regarding whether the murder had actually happened or not.

All was well until Sherlock opened up the ziplock containing several heart-shaped cookies. At first he'd assumed that John had gotten them from a box picked up at the market, but upon further inspection the detective realized that they were baked by hand. Sherlock removed one of them and held it out in front of his face. "Where did these come from?" he asked, already suspecting the answer.

John shrugged. "Oh, I actually made the batch last night. Found an easy recipe on Tumblr. It was just too quiet around the flat without your… whatever it is you do, and-"

But he was cut off by the sudden spasm Sherlock's heart monitor seemed to go into. Eyes wide, John leapt to his feet and got out of the way as a flock of nurses hurried in. "I'm fine, I'm fine!" Sherlock insisted after about a minute, shooing them away with both hands. The monitor slowly regulated again and the room cleared.

Just before John left, a doctor informed him that the incident had just tacked on another twenty-four hours for Sherlock's stay. The doctor kindly advised that John try to avoid doing anything unnecessarily adorable in that time. Sherlock protested by burying his face into a pillow and groaning as loud as he could until he ran out of air.