Um, ok, so it looks like my supposed one-shot has become so much more than a one shot since this is the fourth chapter and all. I have been delighted by the response this has received, I could not have asked for kinder reviews or more people to favourite/follow this story. I love you all, each and every one of my readers. As you should know by now, I love reviews so read this chapter and get typing. I love it when I see a review in my inbox. I feel like shouting out "YAY!" and sometimes, when I get a really good review, I start laughing because I'm happy and my family all think that I'm a weirdo, but I'm ok with it. I hope this chapter doesn't ruin it all. Enjoy, I shall eagerly await your responses.

I don't own Sherlock or anything relating to Sherlock. I dream of it sometimes but, alas, I have never been given the rights to the business no matter what happens to him in the end.

Blessed Unconsciousness

The morning light shone through the blinds into the hospital room casting blocks of shadow on the sickeningly white walls. The doctor sat in the plastic chair, head resting on the bed next to the unconscious detective, but he was still very much awake. He desperately dreamed of his bed, back in Baker Street, but unwilling to leave his friend, either in mind or in body. But he was so tired, he hadn't slept in far too long and that night had been hellish, that was the only way they could describe it.

After they had put Sherlock under they'd attempted to get Sherlock's temperature down slightly and they'd been partially successful. At about two in the morning when they realised their mistake the hard way. The volume of sedative they used should have been enough to keep Sherlock unconscious for about twelve hours but they'd forgotten about one thing, and that was his past. It was when Sherlock started shrieking at the Moriarty in front of him that nobody else could see, without any warning, that Sherlock's drug habits must have been much more serious than he'd first thought. The idiot of a man had built up a resistance to the sedative and he'd be damned if he let anyone get close enough to him to inject him with more sedative. The man was so delirious he didn't even recognise John, accusing him of being one of Moriarty's idiotic henchmen who didn't 'have the brain capacity to achieve anything in his life by himself so blindly followed a madman hoping in vain to give his worthless life some meaning.' For once John knew what it was to be truly hated by his best friend and realised he did not envy Anderson or Donovan in the slightest.

Then there had been a brief moment of calm, Sherlock just laid there, glassy eyes flickering backwards and forwards over and over as if he were cataloguing every indentation and mark on the ceiling above his bed. The sweat was pouring off of him, soaking the sheets underneath him and a few specks of blood were seeping through the front of his gown from where his thrashing had caused some of the stitches to tear. That moment was eerie, it was as if the silence was thick around them, like a fog, and even though it only lasted a moment in reality, it seemed as if time itself decided to stop and take a rest, leaving them suspended in time. But then the frantic behaviour that had been going on a moment before started again. Sherlock started shouting, this time not about Moriarty, but his reactions were just as bad.

The screams penetrated John's very being, chilling him to the core. Sherlock didn't scream in fear, he didn't get scared and he most certainly did not lose his cool. But here he was, reduced to a quivering wreck because he was imagining the walls were slowly closing in on him, it was as if he were severely claustrophobic which John was well aware he was not. Their adventures had resulted in him crawling through one too many narrow pipes with the detective after a criminal for his liking. It was when he started to hyperventilate, desperately gasping for air that John decided they had to take immediate action. The rasping sounds which were coming from his throat sounded painful and the machine was registering his sats were dropping far too low.

By this time Sherlock was weakened incredibly which seemed to make him marginally more lucid. It wasn't a huge change but it was enough for him to register John's gentle yet worried face. "J-John, you n-need to leave. It's the w-walls," he stammered as he tried to breathe heavily and speak at the same time. "Shh, it ok Sherlock. The walls are fine and I do not need to leave. What you need to do is focus on your breathing for me, can you do that?" Sherlock shook his head violently and pulled away from John's hand as he laid it on his shoulder as an attempt at comfort.

"N-no, g-get away from me!" he shouted completely confusing John. Surely he couldn't forget who he was that quickly.

"Sherlock, mate, it's me John."

"John? Y-you need t-to g-get out."

"Do you trust me Sherlock?" The detective nodded, looking around frantically as the walls seemed to get in closer, trapping him and getting close to crushing him. "Ok, well I need you to trust me when I say these walls are not getting closer. It's your mind playing tricks on you. Do you believe me?" A few moments passed as Sherlock stared at John disbelievingly, as if John had just told him he'd thrown the severed head Sherlock had been experimenting in in the bin. Finally there was a brief nod. John smiled but then saw his friend's eyes beginning to shut; it wouldn't be long before he passed out.

"Ok Sherlock, I know you're not a great fan of this but I need to touch you, is that ok?" Once again there was a nod. John highly doubted Sherlock had even listened to what he had said but he no longer cared. Gently but quickly he pushed Sherlock forward in the bed, ignoring the stares of the doctor and nurses in the room instead only thinking about helping his friend, and slipped in behind him. Carefully he laid Sherlock against his chest, holding him in a semi-sitting position and began to take steady, deep breaths. "Ok Sherlock, I need you to try and synchronise your breathing with mine.

The next twenty minutes were peaceful, almost tranquil. The only sounds in the room were those of Sherlock's and John's deep breaths. It took a while for the detective to calm down enough to be able to breathe steadily but he got there in the end. A wave of relief swept over John as he saw the detective's eyes close, this time from exhaustion and not from oxygen depletion. When he had finally been swept up in the arms of Morpheus, which was a phenomenon in itself to John because such an event was so rare when the man was healthy, he carefully removed himself from behind the detective. He found himself covered in the other man's sweat but, for some odd reason, he didn't really seem to mind. As a former army doctor he'd been covered in much worse things.

The decision was quickly made to inject Sherlock with another dosage of the sedative so they could get his temperature down before another 'episode' occurred. Once this was done John silently stood back while the nurses changed Sherlock's gown and sheets but, for some reason, he wouldn't let the other doctor treat his friend. It was weird, he didn't know what it was, but he presumed it was some convoluted form of loyalty. He was the only person to treat his friend, he was the only person he trusted to treat his friend. In the end he won the battle and found himself sitting next to the unconscious detective, re-stitching the surgical wound and cleaning the wounds which had appeared during his fever-induced panic attacks. Eventually he finished, immediately crashing from tiredness bordering on exhaustion. His whole body flopped forwards, half of him resting on the bed before him, the other half still on the uncomfortable plastic chair. Dr Watson remained in that position until dawn.

He was so tired, oh so tired. But that wasn't right. He was never tired, especially not after waking up. Normally he'd want to get up, eager to see if Lestrade had phoned but he didn't feel like that either. What the hell was going on? His mind was slow, he knew it was, and it was frustrating. The details of his surrounding were only just beginning to be interpreted by his brain and he'd been awake, what, fifteen seconds? He was slow; he needed answers now, not when his usually sharp brain deigned to provide him with them. Finally, the details, he was in a hospital, obvious. There was someone by his side, John most likely. No, it was definitely John judging by the breathing but Mrs Hudson was there too. Ah yes, he eventually remembers. Appendicitis with a bad case of peritonitis, that took him far too long and tapped into far too many resources. Exhaustion was already clouding his judgement and ability to think, stupid transport interfering with his precious mind.

Sherlock prised his eyelids open, taking far more effort than it should have done. The bright light seared into his eyes forcing him to slam them shut straight away. It took a few attempts but finally he managed to keep his eyes open by which time John and Mrs Hudson had noticed and now stood in his line of sight. Mrs Hudson's hand soon found its way into his hair, brushing it with her dainty fingers, he seemed to have a vague recollection of this happening before but he couldn't quite place when that was. "Bored," he stated, the words flowing naturally from his mouth before he even realised what was happening. He saw John smile so he decided that he'd probably done something right. He felt something cold touch his dry lips and in response he opened his mouth, the ice cube was pressed into it. After a few minutes the ice cube had melted in Sherlock's mouth and it felt wonderful against his water-deprived throat.

"Go to sleep you idiot," John replied in a friendly tone of voice.

"Mm-kay."

"Sherlock!" John's voice resonated throughout the whole ward causing even the older doctors to cringe, thankful that they were not on the receiving end of that voice. However, the only two men who did not cringe were Sherlock and his brother. "You're fever broke about twelve hours ago, you are exhausted. You were really ill Sherlock, you still are ill. You cannot seriously be suggesting that I simply take you off antibiotics already and then discharge you from the hospital. That would be utter stupidity and foolishness. You are not leaving yet, I won't let you." Sherlock simply glared at John. The power of the glare was diminished by the fact he was struggling to keep his eyes open and pain still plagued him, despite the strong pain killers.

"I think you should listen to your doctor Sherlock, just a couple more days at least," Mycroft stated, trying not to appear to condescending but failing.

"Shut up Mycroft!" Sherlock practically shouted, venom filling his voice. He tried, unsuccessfully to appear as if that little outburst had not worn him out but he still sunk into the pillows, John and Mycroft noticed.

"Please Sherlock," begged John, simply wanting what was best for his friend. "Just get some rest; we can discuss this again when you are more awake." He shook his head in a similar manner to a petulant child.

"Sherlock…" Mycroft started before being interrupted by his frustrated little brother.

"How's the diet? Putting on weight again I see."

"Losing it in fact."

"Not if the strained buttons of that brand new shirt you're wearing is anything to go by."

"Behave yourself Sherlock," John hissed. The detective looked at him, trying to scare him into backing down but by this time John was immune. When the younger man opened his mouth to reply one look from John forced him to shut it again, the doctor nodded in approval.

"You will listen to what Dr Watson tells you Sherlock," Mycroft stated, tired of trying to be diplomatic about the situation. He found diplomacy did not suit him.

"And what if I don't?" Mycroft began to twirl his umbrella out of habit

"Don't make me order you."

"I'd like to see you try."

"Very well. If you do not listen to him then I will monitor you here 24/7 and you will not leave until I believe you have made a full recovery."

"Impossible, you'll need to go to the office; you always have to go to the office."

"Worst case scenario, the office will come to me. You know I can make that happen at the drop of a hat. I'm being serious Sherlock; don't doubt me when I say this." Sherlock did not doubt his brother. He knew what happened to people who doubted Mycroft.

"Fine," he stated angrily closing his eyes, brows creased in frustration. It was a matter of seconds before he relaxed as he succumbed to the tempting call of sleep.

The young nurse stood trembling before the scrutinizing gaze of the bored detective. In her hands she held a tray of food which made her a prime target. The man was ok when the doctor fellow was around but now, for whatever reason, he was by himself which meant this was a whole other ball game. "Mr Holmes, I've bought you some food."

"Brought."

"Sorry, what?"

"Brought, you said bought. Mr Holmes, I've brought you some food."

"Oh, ok. Anyway…"

"Well, I supposed unless you paid for it yourself but somehow have my doubts."

"Quite correct…"

"Would you like to hear something interesting?"

"Um, ok."

"You're about twenty five years old, have a son and two daughters. Your daughters are identical twins. You are married to a well of businessman but he's planning on leaving you because you're dull. Unsurprising really, you should have seen it coming. Both of your parents are dead but your husband's parents took you in like one of their own. At first you were training as a teacher but then you switched to nursing. You miss Scotland, you lived there for ten years but your husband refused to move there so you got stuck. I recommend breaking up with him before he breaks up with you; he's got some pretty horrible stuff to say to you. The young woman stared at him for a moment, carefully placed the try on the table and left, doing her best not to burst into tears.

"What did you do?" asked Lestrade angrily having seen the nurse practically fleeing out of the room.

"I wasn't hungry."

"Eat, John ordered it especially for you. He'll be annoyed otherwise."

"Let him be annoyed, that's not my problem."

"Sherlock," came the voice of warning.

"Where's John?"

"Out, he'll be back in an hour or two."

"Get him now; I want to speak to him." With that he shut his eyes and fell asleep, leaving Lestrade's mouth hanging open in disbelief.

"When can I go back to Baker Street?"

"You're still ill Sherlock. You're still exhausted and I'm yet to see you eating anything without vomiting it up again a few minutes later. You're still doing your course of antibiotics for goodness sake."

"When am I going back? Give me a date and a time, I need to get back, my experiments will be ruined."

"I just started putting the papers through; I think they'll rush to get your papers through admin, you know, Mycroft's name is on there and they won't want to keep him waiting. You should be released in a few hours."

They sat on the bench in silence, Sherlock drinking in the fresh air greedily, ecstatic at the prospect of leaving the stuffy hospital room he'd been stuck in for a week. John was right, his transport was betraying him but he wouldn't tell anyone what he truly felt. There was pain, an awful lot of it but he thought it was worth it, just to get out of that dump. The one thing which saddened him was that he would not be allowed out on a case when he was still injured, much to the delight of Anderson and Donovan, he could hear them cheering through Lestrade's phone.

Finally a taxi pulled up and John awkwardly helped him into the back. It was cold in the car and Sherlock wrapped his jacket tightly around his slender frame. That was another thing; he was delighted at being able to wear his own clothes again. "221b Baker Street," he ordered and the driver sped away. It felt good to utter those words again. Shutting his eyes he settled back in the seat doing his best to catch up on sleep. It was weird, he was still so exhausted.

So I decided I would do a five parter. The last chapter (next chapter) will most likely be shorter than the rest. Basically John will confront Sherlock about the fact he did not mention any pain the moment it started. It will be a very hurt/comfort fchpter.

Do feel free to drop a review. And when I say feel free to I mean drop a review :P. I love reviews and so does my inbox, please keep us both happy. Pretty please, I'll love you forever.