They meet in a hospital.

"So," John offers in greeting as he rounds the flimsy wall of curtain in a treatment room. "Good afternoon, Mr…?"

The patient he is addressing is an older man, sitting perched on the side of the bed as if about to topple off it. A weathered looking golden retriever is sitting obediently at his side.

The question dies on John's lips.

"I'm sorry," John says instead "We don't allow dogs in here."

"I couldn't leave her outside," The patient replies a matter-of-factly.

"You couldn't?" John asks,

"Well, no"

"I realise you may be attached Sir…" John starts,

"More than attached," The patient qualifies.

"Really?"

"Well yes." The man says with amusement, "She's my eyes." He finishes with a smile, his sightless stare giving the gesture a vague quality.

John looks back at the chart he's been handed on his way into the room. Yes. Stupid. The moment his beautiful dream had been shattered by his monotone alarm at some god-forsaken hour this morning he'd known that today couldn't possibly be a good one.

"Are you behaving, Dad?" A female voice chimes brightly from behind John, rescuing him. He turns in time to see a woman breeze past him, three boys under the age of ten trailing at her heels.

The artificial room created by the drawn curtains seems suddenly over-crowded.

"Of course I am," The patient says,

"Should I believe that?" She asks John with a smile,

John can only look back at her.

"And why shouldn't you?" The patient asks her instead, the lightness of his tone belying the shortness of his words.

"I know what you're like."

"I'm just giving this doctor here a moment to catch up with my notes."

"Well," John addresses him, finding his voice, "I appreciate that sir"

He can't help but smile, wondering whether the good humour could be catching.

Then one of the boys kicks him.

And any possibility that his day might improve is dispelled as swiftly as the kick is executed.

"John!" The mother cries in horror, amusement dissolving.

John has to look up to catch the angle of her gaze before he realises that it's not him that's being chastised but the child. He watches as the mother stalks over to drag the child-John away, a vague recollection appearing unbidden in his mind of a tired smile and untouched milkshakes.

"Little scamps," The man says from the bed, interrupting John's thoughts.

"Little brats," The mother offers instead to John under her breath. Leading John-the-younger out of the curtained area with such force that the child is practically suspended aloft by his left forearm.

The other two boys follow her out obediently.

"Sorry about that." The patient says,

"That's," John's unsure where to start, "No problem,"

"He's in the kicking phase."

"You knew he kicked me?" John asks, surprised that a blind man seems to have seen so much.

"The un-mistakable sound of a child's foot connecting with the shin of a medical professional," The man smiles,

And John laughs.

"It's quite unique," The patient continues.

"Really?"

"Absolutely, I just hope it wasn't your bad leg." The patient says.

"I'm sorry?" John asks, off kilter for a moment.

"Your bad leg. You favour one over the other," The man says confidently. "You have a limp?"

"A limp?" John asks confused.

Then his beeper goes off.

"You need to get that?" The patient asks, his previous statement forgotten.

"I…" John's about to answer in the affirmative when a voice rings out over the loudspeaker above them.

"Dr Watson. Dr Watson to exam room one."

The amplified voice manages to sound both calm and desperate in equal measure.

"You should definitely get that." The patient says.

"Yes." John confirms, already turning "Yes I definitely should. I'm sorry."

The patient offers a nod in response.

"I'll be back as soon as I can." John promises as he disappears.

The scene that awaits him in exam room one is exactly the kind he was expecting.

The patient is tall and angular. Long limbs lashing out at bodies around him as three separate figures try and keep him on a gurney. The long dark coat he's wearing only seems to complicate matters, billowing out threateningly when he moves his arms or legs.

"What the hell?!" John's voice is a little too loud as he moves forward into the room, arms reaching out to the patient's shoulders in an attempt to press him back against the bed.

The man only seems to growl in response, writhing.

"When he arrived he was perfectly calm," The trauma nurse calls back in response from her position just a little too close to the patients flailing left arm, "We have no idea what set him off,"

"And how did he arrive?" John asks, he has to raise his voice above the noises the man is making.

"His brother brought him in," The nurse replies,

"And where's the brother now?" John looks over at her for an instant and catches a flash of bright green eyes.

"No idea, doctor,"

John has produced a pen light from the top pocket of his scrubs; he flashes it quickly in the patient's eyes.

"He's high," John announces, pressing back as the man surges forward again beneath his restraining touch.

"Can we give him something to calm him down?" The green-eyed nurse asks,

John considers it for a moment. The patient still flailing wordlessly between all of them.

"I wouldn't want to risk it. We don't know what he's on." John says decisively.

"Restraints?" The nurse suggests instead.

"Looks like it'll have to be." John's tone is defeated, even as he holds a stranger down. "Soft ones." He clarifies, eyeing the thinness of the man's wrists. He looks like a strong wind could blow him over.

But then a particularly well aimed kick from a skinny leg catches John square in the gut and he's pushed backwards. All sympathy for the man fades with the pain.

"But make them tight," He calls, as the porters and nurses go to work to pin down the patient's limbs. "And for god's sake find the brother." John turns to leave.

It's three hours later when he's able to go back.

The room is quiet now, almost unrecognisable as the one he'd walked into earlier that day. The patient's restraints have been removed and he lies huddled on his side on the bed, the absence of his dramatic coat making him appear pale and fragile in what John recognises with surprise as a rather expensive suit.

From the doorway he'd appeared to be sleeping, but as John moves forward he can see that the patient's eyes are open. They're striking. So pale that they make the dark circles beneath them stand out like bruises.

"How are you feeling?" John asks him, reaching the bedside.

"Like death." The patient responds, his voice a low growl.

"You look like it,"

"Thanks." The man offers back with sarcasm.

"You were pretty wound up when you came in."

"Yes," The patient's stare flicks away from him.

"Can I ask why?" John asks.

"Bad day."

John snorts a little in dark amusement, leaning down to inspect the chart. A series of data. No name.

"You took my coat," The patient says before John can say anything more.

"Yes, it's here somewhere." John casts around, before noticing the way the patient is holding himself. "Are you cold?"

"Yes."

"I'll get the nurse to bring you a blanket."

"Thank you," The patient's voice is as dark as the bruises of his eyes.

"Do you have a name?" John asks.

"Yes."

"Are you going to tell me it?"

There's a pause.

"Please," John adds.

"Sherlock."

John moves to write it down on the chart.

"First name or last?" He has to ask.

"Sherlock Holmes." The patient clarifies.

"You didn't tell the nurses that?"

"They didn't ask politely."

"Right."

John makes the note.

"You came in with your brother?" John asks,

"Yes," Sherlock.

"You've seen him since?"

"No." A stilted pause, "Neither have the nurses."

"Why do you say that?"

"If they had they would have taken my name from him."

"Good point."

"He's a busy man." Sherlock says without emotion.

"So busy he can't stay with his brother in hospital?"

"Yes."

"But not too busy to bring you in the first place?"

"If he were here he'd tell you he worries."

"He seems to have reason to." John points out.

Sherlock remains silent.

"Are you going to tell me what you're taking?" John asks.

"Pointless."

"Why?"

"You've done your tests, it's written on the chart."

John looks down, though he knows it is indeed already written there.

"How long have you been using?" John asks instead,

"How long is a piece of string?" Sherlock replies evasively.

"I don't know." John replies calmly. "How long?"

"Since I was a teenager. Off and on."

"Off and on?" John asks.

"Yes."

"That means you've tried to get clean before?"

"I succeeded, for a while."

"When was that?"

"Three years ago."

"Why did you go back?"

"Bored."

The man's word seems to hold an ocean of feeling.

John stares. Watches Sherlock shiver.

"I'll get you that blanket," John says walking away.

When he comes back moments later it's with the promised blanket and a battered plastic chair. He spreads the former over the huddled figure on the bed, setting the chair beside him, close to his face.

"I thought you were asking a nurse?" Sherlock says after a moment, referring to the blanket, offering no thanks.

"They're busy. Thought I'd get it myself,"

"Your shift is over." Sherlock doesn't frame it was a question.

"Yes." John confirms.

"You're still here."

"I thought we could talk."

"Why?"

"You seem interesting." John says.

"I do?" Sherlock seems genuinely surprised.

"Yes."

They contemplate each other. Sherlock's face seems less pale now against the faded grey blue of the hospital blanket rather than the deep purple of his shirt.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asks.

"I'm sorry?"

If John had been expecting him to say anything, this wasn't it.

"Which is it – Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock repeats.

"Afghanistan." John replies.

They watch each other again.

"Have you been talking to the nurses?" John asks,

"No."

"Then how did you…?"

Sherlock doesn't reply.

Moments tick by. John internally questions why he's here. He can't offer any treatment. Not really. Everything they can do has already been done. He should stop torturing himself.

"What's your name?" Sherlock asks. Again John is surprised by his question.

"John," John replies automatically, before remembering himself, "Doctor Watson."

"I've not seen you before." Sherlock states.

"You're a regular here?"

"Where's here?" Sherlock asks

"Royal Free," John names the hospital they're currently seated in.

"Hampstead." And Sherlock puts a place to the name.

"Yes."

"Then no."

A pause.

"You're a regular somewhere else?" John asks.

"Not if I can help it."

Silence again.

"I miscalculated," Sherlock says finally.

"I'd say,"

"You see a lot of this?" Sherlock asks, referring to himself. He's still shivering.

"Far too much," John responds with feeling.

"Never thought of being a nice comfortable GP?"

"Wouldn't suit me."

"No, it wouldn't." Sherlock seems to understand. "Not after the army."

"How did you know about that?" John asks again.

Sherlock doesn't reply, shuts down.

It's approaching a full minute before he says anything again:

"How long have you worked here?"

"Just over three years," John states coolly.

"Since you got back?"

"From Afghanistan. Yes"

"I hate hospitals." Sherlock.

"So do I," John admits.

"Interesting choice of profession,"

"Interesting choice of recreation." John counters.

"Touché"

Another pause.

"I miss you," Sherlock says in exactly the same tone as before.

"I'm sorry?"

"I miss you, John," Sherlock repeats, his pale eyes locked on John but not quite focusing.

John looks back.

"You need to come back," Sherlock again.

John swallows. For some reason he's afraid.

The figure on the bed starts speaking again: "Cases don't work without you."

"I'm sorry," John starts slowly, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Sherlock doesn't appear to listen.

"Do you hear me John?" He asks instead, reality tilting. "You need to come back."

John feels sick.

"Open your eyes John." Sherlock says firmly.

Unaware that he has closed them John forces his eyes open.

And suddenly finds that their positions have been reversed.

He is no longer the one sitting beside a figure lying on a bed. Instead that same figure is sitting sentry above him while he is the one lying beneath the blankets.

John looks up him. Sherlock. Eyes wide with surprise.

"John?" This seated figure of Sherlock asks.

John blinks.

"John," Sherlock repeats, "Can you hear me?"

There's something expectant in his tone, his eyes darting left and right across John's face.

"John," He repeats.

John can't find his voice.

Sherlock continues to watch him with concern, eyes cool and steady before his gaze shifts quickly to something just out of John's line of sight. John becomes aware of movement around them. Of voices and action.

"He's…" He can hear Sherlock say. Not at him. Then he closes his eyes.

That room fades away.

When he opens them again John is looking down at a shivering dark stranger lying on his side on a hospital bed. John is wearing his usual scrubs. Can remember the coffee he's just finished in the doctors lounge. Knows that today is Thursday and that tomorrow he has a date.

His pager goes off. John scrambles to silence it.

"Your shift is over," The shivering Sherlock says; a statement of fact.

"It is," John replies, checking the message.

"Don't get it." It sounds vaguely like an order.

"Hm?"

"If your shift is over there is no reason for you to respond to that page."

"No,"

"You're going to get it,"

"I probably should,"

"You care too much," Sherlock states calmly.

"Is that a failing?"

"It can be."

"Better than caring too little."

"If you say so," Sherlock says blankly.

"I should go," John says.

"You won't see me again." Sherlock's words sound like a threat.

"I'd rather hope not."

"No more miscalculations,"

"You need to get clean," John says instead "I can give you some information…"

"I have it all," Sherlock cuts him off.

John nods, resigned. He had been pretty sure that that would be the kind of answer he'd get. He tries a different tack:

"Is someone going to come for you?" John asks,

"I doubt it."

"Your brother?"

"Is busy."

"But…"

"Don't worry about me."

"I…"

"You care too much." Sherlock repeats.

"I can't help it."

John's standing now. He really does need to answer the page.

"Look after yourself." John offers uselessly.

Sherlock snorts.

"Or try." John tries again.

"I'll try." Sherlock doesn't sound convincing.

"I don't believe you."

"Not a lot you can do about that."

"You're right." John responds, resigned.

"Goodbye, John"

When John gets chance to look in again an hour later the bed is empty. Somehow he's not surprised.