A/N: I hate this chapter.

Ok, fine, I don't hate it so much as it just felt... blah after reading it a hundred times. I'm beginning to regret not writing in first person. Oh well. It is what it is. This story line will last 1 to 2 more chapters before I'm going to start a new one. Enjoy!


Desperate

"Desperate times call for desperate…"

"Finish that cliché, John, and I will…"

"Do what exactly Sherlock?" And that was that, wasn't it? Sherlock fruitlessly pulled at the restraints once more, but John Hamish Watson had outwitted the world's only consulting detective…who had admittedly been unconscious at the time. Still, Sherlock was confined to his bed by hospital cuffs which he had meticulously fought against for the last conscious hour. John had no doubt Sherlock tested every possible escape, stubborn as he was. Now he lay surrendered, elegant even in his captivity, but John shook his head. It was not the time for admiration.

"This. Is. Unnecessary." Each word was punctuated by Sherlock's head against the pillow. Despite himself John smirked. His best friend was a genius, and a toddler.

"No, Sherlock. Unnecessary is attacking your flat mate in a drug induced haze. This," John gestured, ignoring Sherlock resolutely shut eyes, "is a safety precaution. And a detox."

The proceeding groan of disapproval caused John—John needed to take back control of this situation. The ceiling was a much more neutral place to look. No supine detective, just the occasional bullet hole.

"Why? Why did you do it?" Start simple.

"Let me up".

"That is neither a reason nor an appropriate…"

"Let me up. Please."

Please? There was the desperate measure.