A/N: For those of you who are still with me and weren't turned off by the last chapter - a big thank you! Now onward to some more lighthearted fun.

Disclaimer: The usual. And... well, it's been a long day... my frontal lobe might not be filtering things quite as well... be forewarned!


Chapter 9: Anderson Breaks the Monotony

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. Instantly, he was awake. Someone was staring at him.

"Anderson!" Sherlock was the first to speak. "What the hell are you doing standing there?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" the rumpled pathologist whined.

"Besides making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up straighter than an old man's **** on Viagra with a couple of 20 year old blonds in a *** – " Sherlock glared, "you look like a bloody stalker trying to give his next victim a heart attack."

Anderson frowned and his upper lip twitched threatening to curl up into a sneer. At the last second he composed himself though. He shrugged and seated himself in the visitor chair, crossing his right leg over his left, entirely too much at home in Sherlock's hospital room from the detective's perspective.

"So, Sherlock, how are you doing?" He smiled; an expression that appeared forced and foreign to his scruffy features.

"Clearly, you can see that I'm still alive, and, I'm fine, if you must know." The curls on the dark haired man ticked ominously.

"I see," Anderson looked around the room. "If you play your cards right, you might be able to nurse the sympathy card for quite a few more days. It's not such a bad set up you have here. I could get used to all the pampering that one gets while in the hospital. You lucky bastard! Might want to try it out myself."

"I wish you would," Sherlock muttered darkly.

"Of course, I suppose you don't mind all the publicity and the well wishes either."

Sherlock turned his head away to look out the window.

Undeterred, the bearded man continued. "And, I suspect you are rather enjoying all the liberally available drugs – morphine, codeine, Vicodin, Percocet…" he continued his monologue not bothering to note Sherlock's pale eyes becoming increasingly thunderous and dark. "Probably be hell again, getting you weaned off all the narcotics once the prescriptions run out."

He glanced momentarily over at Sherlock with a benevolent grimace. "I'll try to talk to Lestrade, and maybe Mycroft, about it. Perhaps we can arrange for more frequent drug busts on your flat, just a little encouragement to help you stay clean, for your own good, of course."

"No wonder your wife hasn't slept with you in six weeks, your cat ran away, and your goldfish committed suicide," Sherlock moaned.

"How?" Anderson's face scrunched up in a puzzled expression momentarily. "Oh never mind," he waved his hand dismissively. "I see hospitalization hasn't stopped you from playing your little tricks."

With a sigh, Sherlock shifted his head on his pillow. "Don't you think it's a bit stuffy in here? Would you open the window over there and let a bit of this hot air escape?" He looked up expectantly at the self-absorbed pathologist.

"Yes, I suppose," he complied and rose from his chair. "Funny how hospital windows have these safety-catches on them in patient rooms… one can only open the window a few inches..."

The smug look on Anderson's face suddenly disappeared. As he reached for the window sash, his feet landed on a thin drizzle of innocuous looking powder. "Crack! Snap!" it sounded like the rapid-fire from an automatic weapon– sort of.

Anderson's face went ashen, and he lunged for the nearest cover, which happened to be the door to the toilet. Shit! They're shooting at us through the window!" The pathologist cowered behind the door. "Call the police or something, quick, Sherlock!"

Sherlock quirked one eyebrow at the shaken man. "Over what, a little silver fulminate? Please!"

"But…but… "

"I see age has not improved your IQ. Still not figured it out yet?"

"Figured what out?" suspicion crept into his voice.

"No one is shooting at us."

"Then what did I hear?"

"Oh, I suspect you went diving for cover when you stepped on some of the power that leaked out of the fireworks I'm saving for Chinese New Year." Sherlock yawned.

"Fireworks! You can't go shooting off fireworks in a hospital!"

"If you'd been listening, which on second thought is an unlikely possibility, you would have heard that I said 'powder that you set off' – with your own shoes when you exerted pressure on the crystals.

"So, there wasn't any gunfire, just exploding powder on the floor?" Anderson scowled and came out from hiding behind the door.

"In a manner of speaking," Sherlock replied.

Anderson was silent for a moment as his brain processed all the information. He walked back over to the window and carefully toed a few of the white grains on the floor by the window. "Snap!" He flinched in spite of himself.

He stepped back over to Sherlock's bedside, the full situation finally hitting him. "You set me up, you bloody bastard!"

Sherlock smiled benignly. "Remember, it's highly functioning sociopath, not psychopath."

"Fine thanks I get for doing my good deed of the day and paying you a visit." Anderson huffed.

"Never asked you come," Sherlock shrugged.

"Well, I'm not coming back."

"No need," he muttered blandly.

"Good-bye." Anderson stalked out of the room.

"Is everything ok in there, Mr Holmes?" Rachel, the nurse, poked her nose into Sherlock's room. "I thought I heard a bit of commotion coming from here."

"Everything's just fine – now." Sherlock assured. He settled back into his pillow and began calculating his next "research" project. It was going to take a bit more stealth than previously. Sociopath with a plan…. He grinned to himself.


A/N: More to come...