He took hold of Sherlock from Lestrade, hoisting him onto his back to carry him up the stairs. Remembering which room was which, he set Sherlock down on the near unused bed that was his own. After situating him, he ran to his own room for a medical kit, and, finding one, ran back, quickly patching up and tending to Sherlock with quiet curses over stupid detectives.

Sherlock stirred slightly as he was being tended to, blinking blearily at John, a hand-complete with a few broken fingers-coming up to touch his head. "Why are there three of you?" he slurred weakly, narrowing his eyes at a space to John's left. "Stop it. Rude..." His eyes began to fall shut again.

John shushed him quietly, taking the hand. He set about setting the bones back into place, trying to cause as little pain as possible. "Sleep, Sherlock." He continued surveying and patching, cleaning up wounds and stitching up the deeper ones.

Sherlock actually whimpered as his fingers were set, letting himself pass out again. He mumbled in his sleep, twitching at John's ministrations. "My John...want...my John," he mumbled, frowning.

John smiled slightly, remembering one reason he tolerated Sherlock. He did care. In his own way. "Sh.. It's okay. I'm right here." He finished up, and started cleaning up the slight mess he made in his haste to make sure nothing was severely damaged.

Sherlock relaxed at John's voice, falling into a deeper sleep. Greg sighed. "You should probably check his head, he hit the ground pretty hard. I think he's used to having backup without asking."

John nodded, thankful for the information, and began checking over his head. "Nothing but a minor bump, we'll need to get that scanned, but it doesn't look serious," he said after a moment. Then he looked to Greg, "He didn't ask for backup?"

"He never does. First because he had a minor death wish, and then...well, you were always there," Greg said quietly, relieve that Sherlock wasn't in too bad of shape. "He never got into the habit of asking."

John gave a little snort. "Of course he didn't. He refused help the first case." He paused, a soft look overtaking his features. "Minor death wish?"

"I say minor..." Greg sighed. "Do you remember the drugs bust, the first time I ever saw you?" he asked quietly, looking at Sherlock.

John bit his lip in thought. "Yes, I believe so. Why?"

"The reason I called it a drugs bust was because I wanted to see his reaction. I know Sherlock's guilty face. He hadn't been clean, really clean, for more than two months when you moved in. He'd only been clean for that long because I laid into him after he OD'd," Greg explained solemnly.

"Oh… I… Didn't know that."

"He has been clean from the moment he met you, but before that...well, that's where the minor death wish played in. I don't think he enjoyed living."

John let a frown marr his features.

"You've been good for him, I have to say that," Greg sighed.

"Let's hope." He reached over, taking Sherlock's hand in his as a close friend would, holding onto it as though to anchor himself.

Sherlock mumbled in his sleep and clutched at John's hand. Greg smiled. "Well, thanks for the help. I better go file a report."

John nodded, waving with his free hand as Greg left. He then turned to Sherlock, giving him his full attention, his other hand coming to cover Sherlock's as it gripped his hand in a comforting gesture.

Sherlock moved towards the touch a little, his forehead creasing in pain as he did so, and mumbled again before settling down.

John moved so he was sitting on the edge of the bed, careful not to move Sherlock. He pressed the back of his 'free' hand against Sherlock's forehead, feeling for a fever just to be safe. If he needed to, he'd drive the prat to the hospital, wanted or not.

Sherlock grumbled sleepily, shivering at the nearly icy hand on his warm forehead, and his eyes slid open. "Cold," he whined, snuggling deeper into the covers.

John clucked his tongue disapprovingly. "You nearly killed yourself," he murmured quietly, running fingers through Sherlock's hair, fingers brushing the bump. "Does that hurt?" He kept a quiet tone, in case Sherlock was still sensitive.

Sherlock nodded, flinching as the fingers brushed his bump. "I didn't mean to. I forgot not having someone." He yawned, rubbing at his eyes like a child.

John smiled a little. "Greg told me. I'm sorry, Sherlock. But you didn't seem to want me with you."

"You didn't remember me. I didn't want to drag you along," Sherlock mumbled, yawning and rubbing his eyes.

John took Sherlock's hands in his. "I didn't remember anything amusing. But I remembered why I stayed." He relayed to Sherlock the horror and worry running through his mind, and the spastic memories that accompanied it. He then stood, covering Sherlock, and placed a cool rag on his forehead. "Get some rest, Sherlock."

Sherlock listened to the memories with a small smile, glad that John had remembered something. "I'm glad," he mumbled, closing his eyes under the cool rag and sighing. "Good night."

"Night, troublemaker."

Sherlock mumbled something along the lines of "Not a troublemaker" as he drifted off.

John shook his head before retiring to his own room for the night. The next morning, he got up early to go sit by Sherlock's side until he awoke, a cuppa in his hand.

Sherlock stirred awake after a few moments, somehow feeling worse now than he had last night. "Owww," he groaned, blinking awake and fixing his eyes on John. "Morning."

John nodded. "Morning, Sherlock." He sat his cuppa down on the nightstand, checking the bump gently, frowning when he saw it hadn't gone down over the course of the night at all. "How are you feeling?"

"Little bit sick," Sherlock admitted. "Achy, sore." He moaned quietly and tried his damnedest to become the blanket.

John pulled the blanket further over Sherlock so he'd stop trying to meld into the damn thing. "I'm taking you to the hospital as soon as it opens. He looked over at a clock. The hospital is usually open all hours, but when you get in too early or too late, the service is terrible.

Sherlock frowned and shook his head, moaning and cradling his head. Oh, that was a bad idea. "Don't need a hosp'tal. 'm fine. And hosp'tal is always open, anyway."

John shook his head. "You can't even move your head without it hurting. You're going to the hospital. Now." John got up and pulled the blanket from Sherlock.

Sherlock whined as the blanket got pulled away, grasping at it desperately. "Coooold," he whined, grabbing it and wrapping it around himself.

John snatched it off again. "No, you're burning up. Come on." He eased Sherlock into a sitting position, careful not to move his head too much.

Sherlock mumbled disjointed nonsense as he was sat up, sagging against John and trying to curl up, shivering. "Bring it with me?" he asked quietly, looking at the blanket.

John held him up, gently shaking his head. "No, Sherlock. They'll take it from you, too. Come on; can you walk?"

Sherlock nodded, shivering and rising unsteadily.

John kept him balanced, easing him out to the street. Hailing a taxi, he opened the door, sliding Sherlock in, getting in beside him. Closing the door, John told the cabby, "Hospital, please. Quick as possible." Within ten minutes, he had Sherlock in the hospital, getting the bump on his head checked and anything else to make sure he was alright.

Sherlock was mumbling half-coherent deductions under his breath, twitching as the doctor poked and prodded at the bump. "John," he whined, batting at the man. "You're a doctor. You fix it."

John sighed lightly. "Sherlock, if I could fix it without worrying that nothing serious happened underneath, I would. But we don't have the equipment at home." He pulled Sherlock's hand from batting at the doctor. "Stop, or he might hurt you on purpose." It was a teasing and poor threat, but the look on Sherlock's face at the thought of the doctor messing with the bump any more seemed to put him in the right frame of mind to stop his batting.

Sherlock paled slightly at the idea of it being purposefully hurt, and his had fell limp into his lap, just mumbles and whimpers escaping as he was tended to. "I don't like this, John. Fix it."

John held Sherlock's other hand in a comforting manner. "It's being fixed, Sherlock. I know you don't like it, but it's being fixed."

Sherlock fidgeted. "Fix it faster. Without him."

John gave a wry smile. "I can't fix this one. You damaged your head. I can't help there." His grip on Sherlock's hand tightened slightly before he tugged his own hand away. He stood, murmuring something about "water" before walking out the room for the vending machine.

Sherlock whined and went to follow John, but was roughly shoved back by the doctor while his head was tended to. He yawned and rubbed at his eyes, waiting for John impatiently.

John walked back in minutes later, a bottle of water and some crackers in his hand, meant to be his breakfast. He took his seat by Sherlock once more, nibbling on the crackers.

Sherlock brightened at John's reappearance, but he was getting more and more sleepy, his fever draining him. The doctor frowned and put his hand to Sherlock's forehead, getting swatted at again. "His fever is getting worse, ."

John poured a little water from his bottle onto his hand, rubbing it over Sherlock's forehead to cool the fever a little. "Is there anything irregular with the bump?" That was why they were here, after all. The fever could be fought with a long cold bath on Sherlock's part... Since the stubborn child would refuse to stay overnight to be treated for it.

"No, he's just a slow healer. I would keep ice on it and give him some meds, but beyond that...I really must insist he be kept here for observation, with that fever." Sherlock shook his head and got up, starting to stagger out of the room.

John gave a low growl, getting up. He pulled Sherlock back to the bed. "For once, you're going to listen and stay." He looked back to the doctor in question. "If you would make sure he stays here, I'll swing by to check on him around noon. I need to notify a friend of ours." And with that, walked out the room and hospital, but not before giving Sherlock a stern 'Leave and I will hurt you' look. Once home, he dug through phone numbers, and, finding what he wanted, dialed up Greg.