Final chapter for real, here we go! Thanks for sticking with this thing, it was super fun to write and I enjoyed your positive feedback even more! Don't be afraid to leave a review and if you have any suggestions for other stories or characters PM me and we can talk;) Enjoy!

"John?" Lestrade panted and ran into the room 372 where the halted form of Watson stopped his as well, "how is he?"

"He's gone."

'What?"

John stepped aside to reveal an empty hospital bed with tangled white sheets and a hospital gown with nobody in it.

"Oh, Holmes," Greg rolled his eyes. Typical Sherlock, they should've known, "where could he be?"

"The flat most likely," John pulled out his mobile and was dialing a number. Greg eyed a can of men's hair gel warily. Damn it. If Sherlock wasn't the most skilled and prized detective in the world, the Detective Inspector would've killed him.

"Your friend should've been an actor," Lestrade grumbled to Watson.

"What?" John had the phone to his ear.

"Nothing," he mumbled, "I'll call the boys, let's get to the flat."

He pulled his mobile from his jacket pocket and sent a quick text:

PICK UP FROM HOSPITAL TWO TO 221B BAKER STREET ASAP

"Come on," Lestrade whipped around and stepped out of the empty hospital room. The mysterious doctor/Sherlock's sly demeanor and Mycroft's smug grin echoed through his mind on the way out.

Sherlock quickly slipped his flat ket into the keyhole to get inside. He quickly fished the key from his long black coat that was kept in a plastic bag in his hospital room. Once Mycroft left, Sherlock undid his IV and stuck the needle through the cap of a water bottle, allowing fluids to drip into the bottle. He also undid his morphine drip with a heavy heart., but his escape would require a clear mind. Once his doctor, Dr. Keller, had entered room 372 with a wide grin, Sherlock "accidentally" spilled juice on the dark blue scrubs. The man didn't dare look annoyed in front of the famous detective and flashed his brilliant white smile.

"No problem, Mr. Holmes," Dr. Keller responded to Sherlock's "sincere" apology, "I'm just glad you're getting better."

He stepped out of the room quickly after, his back to Sherlock who swung his legs over the side of the bed a little unsteadily. He quickly regained his footing and pulled on a face mask from a box by the door. Sherlock saw a stray wheelchair in the middle of the hall carrying an old man which he hopefully thought was sleeping. With his white hospital issued socks, pale blue gown, and face mask, the clever detective immediately pulled up behind the handlebars and began to push the wheelchair down the hall. He followed Dr. Keller who veered to the left and entered a room a little farther down. Sherlock nonchalantly leaned back against the wall, his old man decoy and face mask not attracting any attention to him yet. The hall was empty and a few nurses (more like wardens) milled about the receptionist's desk. After a few minutes, Dr. Keller emerged from the room wearing a fresh pair of scrubs and turned the corner. Once Keller was gone to visit other patients, Sherlock quickly wheeled his senior citizen over to the door, parking him right in front to block entry. Holmes stepped inside and saw a closet filled with bandages and empty syringes. There was a metal bin in the corner and inside was Dr. Keller's soiled white doctor jacket and navy scrubs. The juice stains were still wet but it would do. He quickly shrugged the hospital gown off his thin form and pulled the scrubs over his curly air and long legs. He grabbed a coat from the rack with the monogramed name of Dr. Keller on the front. He quickly emerged from the supply closet and retook his position behind the old man's wheelchair. He snorted once and turned his head. Sherlock quickly rolled up to the nurse's station.

"Hello, Valerie," he quickly glanced at her name tag, "can I have my next patient's chart, please?" His voice was like honey and his eyes wide and innocent.

"Who are you?" she eyed his warily, "you're not Dr. Keller," she looked at his coat.

"Great observation," he smiled sarcastically, "I'm his intern, you've probably seen me around," he emphasized his act by shuffling from foot to foot nervously.

"Oh, I would've remembered," she raised on eyebrow and looked him up and down hungrily.

Sherlock cleared his throat and leaned on the desk awkwardly, "Look, Val, I'm going through the ringer right now. I accidentally gave Dr. Keller the wrong patient workup and I thought I'd come to someone skilled to get it right."

The compliment worked and he winked at her, "Well, I'd say you've come to the right person," she blushed from behind her long eyelashes, "Here," she wheeled around and grabbed a folder from the rack. Holmes had his hand out ready to take it, but Valerie still held it a little farther from his reach, "why do you have a face mask on?"

"Patient with pneumonia, Floor 2."

"What's your name?"

"Dr. Watson, Greg Watson."

"Hmm, you don't look like a Greg Watson, but Watson like John Watson from the telly?"

"Never really liked him much," Sherlock smiled.

"Why haven't I ever seen you around here before?"

"I usually work in the Neurology Department, but I accidentally gave the surgeon a cleaver instead of a scalpel."

Valerie narrowed her eyes to see if he was joking or not, she laughed anyway, "If you slip up so much, why aren't you fired?"

"Do you want me to be fired?"

"No."

"It's because the staff here is really great," he winked at her once more.

"Hmm," she handed him the folder finally. Sherlock turned to walk away.

"Why are you wearing Dr. Keller's coat?"

"Another patient spilled juice on mine," he held up the edges of the scrubs to reveal the wet stains.

"You just have the worst luck in the world, don't you?"

"Not really, considering I still work here," Sherlock was loving this little show.

"Well, if you do want to get lucky tonight," her eyes sparked at him. "I get off at 6, if you ask me to dinner than you won't need to wear your dirty doctor's coat, or anything at all for that matter."

"Oh," Sherlock tried not to look too taken aback. If there was one thing he never would understand it was women, "Let me just go and give this to Dr. Keller and hurry on back, shall I?"

"I'll be waiting," she smiled eagerly.

Sherlock tightened his grip on the manila folder in his hand and left the senior in the wheelchair by the nurse's station. Someone would find him.

After his encounter with Valerie the Nurse, everything was fine. He gave Lestrade a run for his money, along with Valerie, and he was surely going to hear it from the detective inspector when his puny brain pieced it together. He gave it a week at most. Gosh, Gavin was so slow, or was it Gregory? Whatever. He stepped inside the elevator and into the waiting black car Mycroft provided him.

"221B Baker Street," Sherlock said. The driver hit the gas and their van passed by the waiting crowd of news reporters and cameras.

Sherlock pulled up next to the flat and pushed the door open. His scrubbed feet hit the pavement and he opened the door anxiously. It closed behind him and he rested against the wood victoriously. He was shocked at how things changed over the course of 24 hours. He heard pots and pans being placed down in flat 221A where Mrs. Hudson the Landlady lived.

"Hello? Who's there?"

She stopped dead in her tracks.

"Sherlock?" her voice was barely a whisper.

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock removed his face mask and bounded up the stairs two at a time.

"Wait," she looked after him in awe. It was like he was a god walking amongst mortals, "Aren't you supposed to be in the hospital?"

"Tea would be splendid, thank you," his deep voice echoed down the stairs. She ran into flat 221A and placed a pot to boil.

John would be coming any minute now along with the dumfounded Lestrade most likely. He smiled as he shed himself of Dr. Keller's coat, scrubs, and face mask. Right now he needed tea, shower, violin, experiment, cigarettes, and food, not necessarily in that order. The most he could do now was take a bath before his best friend came and yelled at him for being "reckless and irresponsible". Even for himself, this was a new record. With his curly hair wet and dripping from the bath, Sherlock exited the bathroom and into his own bedroom. The green bedcovers were just as he had left them a week ago, the periodic table hung on his wall was a comforting sight. He changed into a light blue button down, dark grey slacks, and blue oxfords. He rubbed two hands through his hair to dry and placed his silk blue robe around his shoulders.

Mrs. Hudson hadn't brought his tea which made him slightly cross considering everything he had done this week. She was probably grocery shopping for the two men anyway. John hadn't tuned the violin either and it seemed only Phillip Anderson, the man who excelled at annoying, was the one who answered his request on restraining himself from telling the public the events that occurred at Scotland Yard the day before. He gave the camera crews outside the hospital 3 hours at least before they realized he was no longer there and they'd come running to his flat.

He picked up his violin that was resting on the desk where John's macbook laptop lay. The blog hadn't been updated in a week and he was absolutely positive John would be typing away tonight. Sherlock placed the sleek wood of the violin under his chin and began to pluck the strings one by one with his finger, tuning it by ear. Once he was satisfied with the sound, Holmes glided the bow's strings across the chords of the instrument and a rhythmic pattern emerged from the violin. A symphony curled through the air as elegant notes flowed from his hands into the living room of the flat.

A sharp pain in his chest made his hand jerk and a sharp, unpleasant note interrupt his melody.

Sherlock waited for a moment, holding his chest as his brow furrowed. It stopped. He shrugged and began to play again, his nimble fingers jumping across the strings to elicit beautiful sound.

His chest flared up again and his bow hand jumped to the right as he winced. Another ugly note protruded from the instrument. This time the pain didn't stop. He slammed a hand to his chest to try and push the pain out but a sudden and urgent nerve had been targeted. Sherlock fell back into John's chair behind the desk and slid to the floor. He gasped in worry and his eyes were wide and confused. He needed to call a doctor, he needed to call his doctor. The detective tried to stand up but his legs gave out and he crashed to the floor once again. His face was as pale as a sheet and he felt a cold sweat brake out across the back of his neck and forehead. What was happening to him? He cried out and turned on his back, clutching his abdomen in pain. The hospital medication must be wearing off, no longer dimming the effects of the hemlock that was absorbed in his body before hospital care. His blue eyes targeted a slender black phone sitting atop the counter in the kitchen. He crawled in that direction, falling as his weak arms stumbled and his upper body fell to the floor. Sherlock scrambled to the counter and pulled himself up with his fingers clutching the edge of the wood with his remnants of his strength. He fell as one hand let go to grab the mobile and when he placed it before his eyes, Mrs. Hudson's cell swam before his eyes. He felt light-headed and black dots danced across his vision. He typed the number he had memorized and placed the speaker before his ear,

"John," he choked in a hoarse whisper.

John jostled furiously in the back of the cab he was sharing with detective inspector Lestrade. How could Holmes just disappear like that! His anger and worry for his best friend was interrupted by a remark from Greg.

"Why is Mrs. Hudson calling me?"

John looked at him in confusion, "I didn't know you even had her number."

"She keeps me posted," Lestrade's face flushed, "what do you think she does in her free time?"

Watson narrowed her eyes. Hudson was a spy for the Yard? Well, he should've known long ago not to be fooled by the gentle old woman facade.

"Hmm," he fished his own mobile from his pocket, "Wow, she's called me to, about 11 times."

His screen displayed only one notification repeatedly:

Mrs. Hudson Missed Call

Mrs. Hudson Missed Call

Mrs. Hudson Missed Call

Mrs. Hudson Missed Call

Mrs. Hudson Missed Call

He had to scroll down to see the other notifications.

"I hope she's all right," John's heart filled with worry as Greg pressed the call back button and placed it against his ear.

"Mrs. Hudson?" Greg spoke hesitantly into the speaker.

After listening for a moment, Lestrade's eyes widened and knocked against the glass separating the cabbie and the passengers, "Hey! Step on it, now!"

"There's bloody traffic cloggin up the streets!" the cabbie protested.

"It's an emergency!"

"It'll go to your fare," the cabbie turned his head and raised a craggy brow.

"I don't care!"

Both men lurched back as the cabbie pressed against the pedal and zoomed forward. John was already on the edge of his seat waiting for his friend to tell him the news about their dear old landlady.

"It's not Hudson," John's body flashed with immediate dread, as Greg's voice was grim, "It's Holmes, he can't breathe, I don't know what happened."

Greg put the phone by his ear again and started speak instructions through it. John barely heard.

"Sherlock, stay calm and lie down on your back, that's the best way to get airflow. We're almost there, okay? Just hang on, hang on!"

Hurry up!" John growled at the cabbie.

When the cab screeched to an abrupt stop by the curb, John sprint outside the vehicle and burst through the doors, his small form hiding undefinable strength. He took the stairs two at a time and bounded into the flat through the open doors. John's eyes widened in horror as his best friend Sherlock Holmes lay panting on the floor, his chest rising and failing faster than the eye could see and his violin beside him.

"Damn it, Holmes!" John skidded to a halt right next to his friend and kneeled down. Detective Inspector Lestrade stormed into the room right after.

"Sherlock, you're a bloody idiot," John's shaky hands tried to fish something out of his pocket as Greg went around and grabbed Sherlock's arm in anxiety.

"John, now isn't the time!" Why the hell aren't you helping? You're a doctor!"

"Hold on!" he yelled back at the detective inspector. From his pocket he held up a syringe to the light, "I took this from the hospital! I knew this was going to happen, but I didn't think it would be this soon, Sherlock!"

He glared down at Holmes who looked back at him with fearful blue eyes.

John stuck the needle of the syringe in the crook of Sherlock's elbow. After a minute or so, the pain died down slightly and Sherlock was able to take a semi-deep breath. Lestrade helped him up and practically carried him over to the couch.

"Sherlock, sleep," John said pointedly.

Holme's deep breaths resonated through the room as he embraced each precious lungful of air, "You don't happen to have any morphine in your pocket as well, John?"

Lestrade laughed, "Get some rest, Dr. Keller."

Even Watson tried to conceal a smile, "No, you bloody baby, just sleep. I'll call the hospital, see where I can get some more medication."

Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes willingly for the first time in weeks.

He was awake four hours later.

Watson and Lestrade were in the kitchen having a muted conversation over a cup of tea. The smell of cigarettes wafted through the room.

Sherlock sat up, stretched, and walked into the kitchen tiredly. Four hours wasn't nearly enough to cover a whole week, but he would sleep later tonight.

"And he lives," Greg smiled as Holmes walked in, his tangled brown hair and wrinkled shirt a sight to see. Sherlock shuffled through the mail on the counter to see a yellow envelope with the stamp from Mycroft's office. It was the new case he talked about.

"Very funny, Gerry," Sherlock laughed irritatedly, "John, tea, now."

"I already made some," he nodded his head to the steaming cup of Earl Grey with two cubes sitting on the countertop.

Sherlock looked down at the cup and thought about the events from the last few days.

"You know, John, I think I'm going to try English Breakfast, no cubes."