AN: Oh wow, it's been another month and a half since I updated this fic. I feel bad! But November tried to kill me! Honestly it did! School is an evil, evil thing! Good news though! It's almost over for the holidays! Yay! Firstly, I would like to thank everyone who has kept up with this; your comments are lovely and greatly appreciated! They make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside and give me inspiration to keep writing when all I want to do is bang my head against a wall. Inspiration has come though! Through a wonderful announcement about Season 2! Yay January 1st!

On that note, I had originally planned to have this fic finished before Season 2 came out, obviously that's not going to happen. I shall keep posting it, as I have at least four people shouting in my ears at this very moment to finish, but there will undoubtedly be inconsistencies with Season 2, I hope you all can forgive me for this.

But, here is a bit of a longer chapter than normal which has made my wonderful beta jessicahazel smile and type at me in capslock; I hope you all enjoy it as much as she does.

Chapter 4

"I believe that I have stated that I am quite all right and more than fit to take myself home," Sherlock snapped at the unfortunate nurse who was currently involved in the futile process of trying to restrain him, and return him to his bed.

"I'm sorry Mr. Holmes, the doctor has ordered that you be kept for overnight observation. He is concerned about your nutrition."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he looked past her at the door. She was avoiding his gaze: he made her uncomfortable, that wasn't unusual. However, the way she angled her body away from him meant that her unease was rooted in dislike or distaste. Well that was certainly unflattering. "The doctor cannot forcibly keep me here. I am checking myself out," he informed her icily, pushing past her, and heading for the door.

The nurse spluttered as the man brushed past her, immediately going to the room phone to call for the doctor. They hadn't been joking when they said that Mr. Holmes was a difficult patient. Unfortunately for the woman, Sherlock Holmes was not a man that could be easily managed by anyone, even if he was on the edge of collapse due to malnutrition.

"Oh for the love of - Sherlock! Get back in bed!" John appeared in the doorway of the room, blocking Sherlock's hopeful exit. "And stop terrorizing the nurses! You haven't even been here for twenty-four hours and this is already the third nurse. You promised Sherlock!"

"I promised I would stay until the end of the day," he responded testily. "It's the end of the day, and I would much prefer to be at home. Hospitals are so…" he inhaled, looking around at the stark white room, "…stifling."

John sighed, pointing back toward the hospital bed. "Bed. Now. If the doctor wants to keep you for overnight observation, you should stay. Can you not, just once, do something that's for your own good?"

"Yes, yes Doctor, same as before. Please send someone quickly."

Staring hard at John for a moment, Sherlock sighed slightly. This wasn't worth the argument, he was going home, and nobody was going to stop him; not even his doctor.

"I think that's quite enough Mr. Holmes," before he could get ten steps out of the door the doctor stepped in front of him, blocking his way once more. Glancing behind him, he saw John with his arms crossed over his chest, a serious expression on his face as he tilted his head back toward the room. "You are staying for overnight observation."

"Are you saying you're going to make me Doctor?" Sherlock asked, his eyes narrowed slightly as he frowned.

The doctor sighed, and shook his head. "Drugs are clearly still in his system; it seems we've reached early stages of withdrawal," he spoke around the consulting detective to the nurse. "Someone will have to sit with him through the night. It's going to get worse."

Returning his attention to Sherlock, the doctor met his eyes. "Your brother is on the way Mr. Holmes. He was quite explicit in his orders for me to keep you here by any means possible, and has even provided me with a few extra…helpers. I ask you again; please get back into bed Mr. Holmes. You are an ill man."

"Just listen to him," John spoke up again, and placed a hand gently on Sherlock's arm. "Overnight observation; it won't do you any harm."

But it would do harm! He could feel it starting already. His mind was slowing, things were becoming less sharp, far harder to discern. Jaw clenching slightly, he turned slowly back towards the room. "Come then John" he said, and headed back into the room, though the set of his shoulders spoke volumes about his displeasure at being cornered. "I wish to discuss the Moriarty situation with you. I cannot remain idle."

The case for Lestrade, it seemed, would have to wait. Annoying as that was - evidence was being lost every minute he waited - if he wasn't being allowed out of this room it was highly unlikely that he would be permitted to work on a case. There was no way he could get John to help him with Lestrade's case, he didn't want John to know about Sarah; at least, not yet.

With John's urging, Sherlock finally got back into the hospital bed, just in time for Mycroft to appear in the doorway of the room. "Sherlock," Mycroft nodded in greeting.

His grip on the handle of his umbrella was abnormally tight Sherlock noted, easily picking out the faintest whitening of the knuckles. Was his brother actually nervous? No, that was…awkwardness? His brother never felt awkward, in fact, Sherlock was fairly certain that Mycroft had no notion of even the concept of awkwardness. "Mycroft," he acknowledged his gaze studiously neutral as he observed his brother.

"I hear you have been giving the doctor a bit of trouble Sherlock," Mycroft said, standing by the chair next to his brother's bed. "You really should stop doing that; they are only trying to do what is best for you. You haven't been taking very good care of yourself."

"I'm fine Mycroft," Sherlock said softly, suddenly having the greatest desire for his violin; plucking the strings usually semi-drowned out his brother's incessant prattle.

"I would hardly call your current state 'fine'," the elder Holmes said condescendingly. "I've left you alone up until now, I thought you would have better judgement, but it seems you have fallen back into bad habits."

"Good-bye Mycroft," Sherlock said dismissively closing his eyes, trying to wish his brother away.

"I thought John was the right choice for you, it seems he's made you worse than ever."

The younger Holmes' jaw clenched, his eyes turned to his brother, sparking in challenge. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about Mycroft, and I would thank you to kindly remove yourself from my hospital room. I would leave, but you seem intent upon keeping me locked down inside it. Really, I thought the government would have better uses for its funding."

"You are being completely irrational Sherlock. Surely you do not expect me to believe that you are only in this bed because John told you to stay."

"That is exactly what I expect you to believe, although I don't see how my affairs are any of your business," he responded curtly. "I would prefer not to be in this bed Mycroft, but your dogs seem to have quite sharp teeth."

"You are my brother," Mycroft frowned, "Of course I am concerned for your wellbeing."

"I'm sorry; did I interrupt a revolution you were planning? Please, don't let me keep you," the sarcasm dripped from Sherlock's lips as he glared at his brother. "I am quite capable of taking care of myself Mycroft."

Mycroft sighed. His brother was difficult at the best of times, now he was just being positively incorrigible. John really was the only one who could seem to be able to manage him in any meaningful way. "I was concerned about your well fare Sherlock, it is hardly like you to collapse in Scotland Yard," he observed. "Do stop pushing yourself so hard in this misguided attempt to save the world, and force some kind of meaning into your life. It will not work Sherlock, though you seem intent on dismissing my every word on the subject..."

"Goodbye Mycroft," Sherlock repeated, his tone more agitated now.

The elder Holmes regarded his brother in silence a moment longer before he stood slowly. "Very well," he said softly. "I will insist on you staying here until the good doctor clears you to go."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Are you holding me captive Mycroft?" he asked softly.

"Yes," he said offhandedly. "But just so Mummy doesn't have to," he finished, moving to the door.

His brother was worse than the doctors had led him to believe. His withdrawal symptoms were setting in strongly if he was behaving this anxious and paranoid. Of course, it had been Mycroft who had insisted they keep his little brother in the hospital until he was well past the withdrawal – he wasn't ignorant to the habits his brother had fallen back into – and well on his way back to some state that at least resembled good health. In all honesty, he didn't expect it to stick, his brother was most obstinate at times, but at least he would have some form of health, even if just for a few days.

"Keep him under strict surveillance," Mycroft instructed his 'dogs' as Sherlock had called them. "If the door doesn't work he will try other routes."

Four days. He had been locked in this exceedingly bland room for the past four days, eight hours, thirty-seven minutes and eighteen, nineteen, twenty...How he wished John had brought his pistol to visiting hours. BORED! He was bored and no one seemed to care that he was feeling fine and needed to get back on the case...two cases in fact! Even Lestrade had been most unhelpful about the Sarah Sawyer case; refusing to give him anymore information the one time he had come to see him. It was beyond infuriating.

Climbing from his bed, Sherlock grabbed the blue robe the hospital had provided – they had taken his clothes away after his fifth escape attempt on the first day after Mycroft's enforced confinement – and moved to the door. He had been quiet for the past sixteen hours; hopefully Mycroft's dogs would have let their guard down a bit in the meantime. Bored dogs were inattentive dogs.

Easing the door open, he glanced down the hallway: all clear. Smiling in triumph, he closed the door, heading directly for the exit. Not too fast, he didn't want to draw attention to himself, the robe didn't help with this goal but there was really not much he could do about that. His first goal would be to get some...

"Where are you going Mr. Holmes?" Dog Number Four appeared out of nowhere, an amiable enough smile on his features, but Sherlock could see the smugness in his eyes.

"For a walk," he said blandly, refusing to give in.

"You're going the wrong direction Mr. Holmes," Number Four responded cheerily. "Your room is that way," he motioned back the way the consulting detective had come. "The doctor hasn't cleared you yet."

As much as it pained him to admit it, Sherlock knew that he couldn't dodge Number Four; he had tried on day two, attempt fourteen. It...had ended most uncomfortably for him. The only result had been him being carried back to his room in a most undignified manner. He really should be too tall for anyone to carry him like that comfortably...No, Number Four was not a viable option. Perhaps if it had been Number Two or Number Seven he might have considered it. Now, however, his only option was to go back to the room. He gritted his teeth. This was getting ridiculous! He was Sherlock Holmes! Surely he could get past a few hounds, even if they were Mycroft's hounds.

Resignedly, he made his way back to the room, glaring at the door as it closed behind Number Four. Well, that was one option out. Perhaps it was time for more drastic measures. Once again the consulting detective's eyes scanned his hospital room, but it yielded even less options now than it had on his first day of confinement. The bathroom was no good; it had been locked on day two after escape attempt thirty-seven. Apparently the staff hadn't appreciated his improper use of toilet paper, the sink and his slipper. Really, they shouldn't be aiding Mycroft, all this could be fixed if he was allowed out of this unbearable room!

It was all made worse by the fact that Mycroft had seemed to leave orders that he wasn't to have any visitors after Lestrade had visited. He had almost made it out that time. The Detective Inspector hadn't even realized that he had taken his handcuffs. Useful things handcuffs, unfortunately he had been outnumbered. Still, Sherlock was convinced there was a way out of this, he just hadn't thought of it – also Mycroft's fault. He hadn't been home in four days, and he wasn't even allowed nicotine patches in the hospital, ridiculous really.

Finally, his eyes landed on his bed sheets, the one thing they had not yet taken from him. Yes, he had contemplated it before, but it was rather simple and obvious, but perhaps that was the edge he needed. No doubt Mycroft had warned them to be on guard against his more brilliant schemes (not that walking directly for the front door had been particularly inspired), but this? A slow smile crept its way across the consulting detective's gaunt features. Yes, this should work nicely.

Immediately he stripped his bed, beginning to tear the sheets into long strips that he tied together carefully. Yes, yes this should work wonderfully. Sherlock was aware that he was on the fifth floor, but that was inconsequential, as long as he could get at least one or two floors down he could evade the Dogs and get out of this oppressing place. He would have to make sure he could locate some clothing once he'd slipped in on one of the lower levels. Yes, trying to walk out in this ridiculous nightgown, that was much too short, and housecoat was not a wise idea; it would garner far too much attention.

When his makeshift rope was complete, Sherlock moved toward the window, they hadn't locked it. Triumph swelled. They didn't think he would try to climb out of a window five stories up? Clearly Mycroft had not made them fully aware of what he was capable of. Sliding open the window, he looked down. The ground was quite a fair distance away. Looking back at his blanket rope, he wondered if it would be long enough for its intended purpose. Gathering it up, he tossed it out, watching as it fell to almost three floors down. Yes, that would be far enough down. Now, where to fasten it...

When everything was to his satisfaction, Sherlock climbed onto the windowsill and slowly began to ease himself down his makeshift rope ladder. Why hadn't he thought of this before? It was the perfect escape plan, he didn't have to deal with any of the dogs, and if he ignored the precarious height, the breeze was actually quite refreshing.

"Mr. Holmes," a feminine voice came from below him. Sherlock frowned, he wasn't even half way down, no one should be watching the outside of the building...He looked down. A nurse stood below him, Number Four was at her side, his arms crossed at his chest. Despite this rather foreboding posture, he had a smile that spoke of great amusement. "Would you kindly climb back up to your room Mr. Holmes? There have been some complaints of a half naked man scaling the building."

Oh yes, windows, his wasn't the only room on this side of the building. He supposed that given the state of his short nightgown, the breeze, and the fact that he had been climbing down a rope certainly would have provided an interesting view if people had been looking out their windows when he had passed.

"If you would prefer Mr. Holmes, I can always wait for you down here and bring you back to your room. It is no trouble," Number Four piped up.

He would rather die than have Number Four escort him back to his room. "I'm quite all right, thank-you," he said frostily. Though really, he did wonder how he was going to get all the way back to his room. Hanging here was hard enough; it took much more upper body strength than he had calculated. Once he might have been able to, but sitting around in a hospital room had robbed him of his strength – at least, that was what he kept telling himself. "I think I'll stay here for a bit, I do hope this doesn't inconvenience you." It was bluff, mainly, he couldn't continue hanging in place for much longer, but he was trying to stall and come up with some alternative to the two options that had been given to him.

Perhaps he could get back up to the fourth floor windows, enter the building there, and make a break for it? Well, it was the only option that was at least remotely appealing. Not sophisticated, and little chance of success – only .005 – but it would have to do. Gritting his teeth, he proceeded to do just that. He had to be quick though, Number Four would have to get back in the building, and up to the fourth floor, if he was lucky, it would take him at least five minutes, which would give him a good two minute head start on him.

Reaching the window, he managed to open it from the outside – a more difficult feat than one would imagine, mainly owing to gravity and the use of only one arm – and ducked in quickly.

There was a loud cry of surprise as the old woman in the room woke to find a strange man in her room. "W-who are you?" she asked, blinking her milky eyes in his directions. "Why are you in that dress? And what are you doing climbing into my window?"

Sherlock ignored her, right at that moment he was busy calculating the best possible route of escape. Route A yielded only .0001% chance of escape. Route B, however, was slightly better at .002% as it was 7.85 feet closer to the fire escape and 9.2 feet further away from the stairs Number Four would have to take in order to reach him. That would have to do. Dismissing the woman from his mind, he sprinted toward the door, threw it open, and stopped short as Mycroft barred his way.

"Making new friends Sherlock?" he asked, adjusting his umbrella in his hand as he raised his head to meet his brother's eyes.

"Mycroft..." Sherlock blinked. Mycroft shouldn't be here. His brother had already taken time out of his busy schedule to issue his ultimatum and his orders; it wasn't like him to actually come down among the rabble. He didn't like legwork. The consulting detective frowned.

"I had hoped you had grown accustomed to the convention of 'clothing' when you went out visiting Sherlock," Mycroft continued condescendingly.

Standing beside his brother was Mycroft's aide, absently holding out a package of clothing to him. "Congratulations," she said, not sounding the least bit excited as she looked up from her phone. "You've been cleared for release Mr. Holmes."

Taking the clothes, Sherlock glared at his brother.

"I thought I would come down and offer you a ride back to your quaint little flat," Mycroft said in response to the question he hadn't asked.

"Sir, the president," Anthea said softly, looking toward her employer.

"Quite right," Mycroft nodded. Returning his attention to his brother he quirked a brow. "Were you planning on leaving in that? I've already taken care of the paper work, but I am in a bit of a hurry Sherlock."

"I would change Mycroft, but you happen to be blocking the exit, this isn't exactly my room."

"Yes," the elder Holmes looked around his brother. "I do hope he hasn't disturbed you too much madam. We shall take him off your hands now."

"I'll take a cab home. Goodbye Mycroft," Sherlock said shortly. Stalking past his brother, Sherlock moved to the nearest bathroom to change. At least Mycroft hadn't tried to dress him again, the clothes in his hands were indeed the ones he had been wearing a few days ago, but now freshly washed. Dressing quickly, he tightened his scarf around his throat. At last! He could go home.

Home. At last. "John?" Sherlock called as he opened the door, stepping into the familiar flat. It seemed that John had been cleaning during the past few days. His manila folders were all stacked neatly by the bookshelf, the kitchen table cleared. Not that he was hungry, but a quick glance in the refrigerator proved that his flatmate had indeed been shopping.

"John?" the consulting detective called again. Still no response. He must be out, perhaps working at the clinic? It would explain why Mycroft had come to pick him up from the hospital instead of his doctor. No matter, he could do a bit of work first. Dr. Sawyer's case was still open. First things first however; Turning away from the kitchen, he went back into the living room, and headed straight for the mantle.

For the second time that day he was forced to draw up short. Gone? "Alas, poor Yorick," he said softly. Damn Mycroft! He had no doubt his brother had a hand in this. Running a hand over the empty spot on the mantle, his eyes turned contemplative.

Where was he going to find a new skull?

Post Script: I wanted to thank everyone who has reviewed for reviewing! I meant to respond to you all but it seems the response button is not working for me for some reason. I would like you all to know that I really appreciate the comments! And the mystery will be revealed...eventually! What kind of author would I be if I spoiled the thing that is keeping you all reading? So please! Do keep reading and reviewing, the wonderful reviews help me to keep writing.