A/N: Work, work work... when all I desperately want is to write! Argh! Est-ce le Mort?

Many thanks to those who took the time to review, I appreciate your words. I hope that you like this chapter as well!

Gameson221b, you'll have to tell me if you think it's a "stonker." :)

To my good friend and beta, Koram852, thank you for bearing with me when my new music made me go off on a tangent...again...

Disclaimer: Must you remind me? *Whimper* I know, I don't own Sherlock, neither does he come to visit. It's all in my head. *Shouts defiantly* And you can't take that away from me!

Chapter Nine:

The kidnapper sprinted some paces ahead of him, veering off to an alleyway between the buildings. If he could just move his feet a little faster, or stretch his arm just a bit further, he would have him...

He could hear Lestrade and Donovan panting behind him, their police issued shoes tapping the pavement in a hasty staccato. He could barely hear the echo of his own footsteps over the hum of blood throbbing in his ears. He turned briefly to gauge how far away the inspector and his sergeant were. When he turned back, Sherlock found himself running headlong into a wood plank the man had swung at his ribs.

His brain gave him enough time to process the problem, but his body did not have enough time to respond. Sherlock sorely missed the reassuring arm that used to pull him out of the path of danger.

"J-" The cry died on his lips as his head smacked painfully against the brick wall at his back. The force of the impact blinded him for a moment. He bent forward, leaning his side against the solid surface of the wall. The world spun above him... Above? When did he land on he ground?

Lestrade stood over him, wheezing. Clearly, he hadn't been on a chase in a while..they must have put him on desk work until they could prove that Lestrade had nothing to do with the whole...fall...thing?

Belatedly, Sherlock recognized that Donovan was farther along the ally, kneeling into the kidnapper's back. He grumbled something rude which made her release the pressure on his spine just enough that it would hurt all the more when her patella collided with his vertebrae.

Lestrade did not comment on her excessive use of force, not even when a fist in his right kidney gingerly assisted the criminal to his feet. The inspector seemed too focused on asking Sherlock all manner of inane questions.

"Sherlock!" he bent double, his hands shakily gripping at the detective's coat. "Can you hear me?"

"Of course I can hear you, Gerald. You don't need to shout." Sherlock sat up carefully, still not certain how he ended up on his back in the wet alley. His name is Greg, John's voice reminded him. "Greg," he amended. He certainly didn't want the ill-remembered name to earn him a trip in the ambulance. The riotous vehicles were uncomfortable and noisy. Horrible place for one to Think.

"You hit that wall pretty hard, Sherlock. Maybe we should have you checked out." Lestrade stared after him worriedly.

Sherlock waved off the hand offered to help him to his feet. "I am quite fine, I assure you."

The men's designer dress shoes hardly made a sound as Sherlock's visitor ascended the stairs. He even avoided the creaky fifth step. Mycroft.

Sherlock groaned and curled over on the couch, his right arm wrapped around his aching chest, his left arm draped up over his face. He cautiously tucked John's t-shirt under his side, still gripping it in his right hand.

"Why are you here, Mycroft?" Sherlock inquired boredly from under his arm. He didn't really care. He just wanted his brother gone, and the easiest way to do that was to get straight to the point.

"I am checking on you, brother mine. I received a frantic call from a certain detective inspector regarding your adventure this afternoon. He was rather concerned, given your recent release from the hospital, as to whether you should be under medical care."

"It's been nearly three months, Mycroft. Couldn't you convince him that I am perfectly fine. A bureaucrat such as yourself should have no trouble selling lies."

"Yes. However, fortunately for you, I believe his concerns were well-founded." The politician flashed a pitying look at the younger man.

Sherlock glared out from under his wrist. "Its a headache, Mycroft. My brain is not going to fall out of my ears. That is a physical impossibility."

"Shall I relate a possibility, then?" Mycroft paused, he settled his umbrella against the wall and knelt by his brother's side. "You are recovering from a serious head injury, Sherlock. One which under different care, could very well have left you in a comatose state for an indefinite period of time. Three months is not nearly enough for full recovery."

"I'm fi-"

"I will not hear it from you. I gave my consent for you to go gallivanting around London and chase after criminals on the understanding that you would respect your limitations." Mycroft sighed. "I should have realized that was foolish of me. Sherlock, you have never recognized any limitation...you constantly push yourself. Now, get up. I'm taking you to the hospital."

"Over-bearing mother hen."

"Someone has got to be."

Sherlock sat up and stared at his brother. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed his lips before he could voice his question. It had to be a test. John Watson was a taboo subject with Mycroft. Whenever Sherlock mentioned his doctor, Mycroft's eyes seemed to grow hollow. Was it fear?...Guilt?

Sherlock shook his head and stood. His shoes were still on his feet. All he needed was his coat... He peered around the room...where did he put his coat?

He reached his hand back and rubbed gingerly at his sore head. The dark blue twill of his coat sleeve caught his eye. Damn. Already wearing it. He blinked slowly.

He didn't even try to stifle his grumbling. He didn't care if Mycroft berated him for it. He would have to endure more tests. He didn't doubt that they would do an MRI, given the extent of his initial head trauma.

A CT scan was an annoyance, but it was quick. On the other hand, an MRI was 30 minutes or more in the confined tube of the scanning machine while he waited alone. Not that he cared for people to begin with, but being alone was... No, he definitely was not a fan.

Mycroft steered him to the door, ignoring his griping and ushered him to his waiting car.

Mary came in the room, replacing John's empty mug with a fresh one filled with tea. John stood silently, listening. His face shifted from pale to flush in moments.

Mary's eyebrows rose at the change. She didn't like getting involved in John's business, but she was growing used to the irregular travel he made, leaving and returning at all hours. She watching his expression for a sign this would require another 'business trip.'

"Sherlock has taken injury while on a case with Detective Inspector Lestrade. He was assailed upon by the suspect, and was forced against a brick wall. His head was hit."

The book fell to the floor, landing open on articles about smuggling diamonds and the Sudanese army.

"You can't be serious." John knelt and retrieved his book.

"So far there is no indication he will need surgery. There is minimal swelling to his brain, mostly normal. But he is under observation, and will be in hospital for a few days. I thought you would like to know."

The politician's tone was clipped.

"Mycroft, I realize you're upset that he's been hurt... I told you I didn't want anything to happen to him... I am just as upset, believe me."

"Yes, I am upset, Doctor Watson. Though, perhaps you can take some of the blame for this. If you ask me, his recklessness is because of your maudlin sense of justice."

"That's what this is about. You're blaming me... You know what would happen if Sherlock turned away from his work...killers would go free."

"He would find something else to do, at least. Something better, more useful."

"Like traveling the world and doing your bidding to bring the world to order? First of all, Sherlock hates doing what you say. Second, you know he wouldn't be satisfied with that."

"I've said it before, John. He could have been a scientist or a philosopher. Chasing criminals was never my idea for his life's purpose. He chose that on his own. Then, you came along and supported his outlandish aims. Gave in to his requests for experimentation, and chased the murderers, thieves, kidnappers, and arsonists right along with him."

"Being a scientist would be a nice profession if you could get him to stay in the same place for more than an hour at a time... Listen, Mycroft. I would give anything for Sherlock to be out of danger and not take risks on his own life, health, and safety. But that wouldn't be Sherlock. He needs the challenge."

There was silence for a moment. "Like I said. I thought you would want to know."

The line went silent. John pulled his phone away and saw the display blinking the end of the call. "Prick."

He pocketed the device and turned around, nearly bumping into Mary.

"What was all that about?" She handed John his tea.

"Sherlock's gone and gotten himself injured."

"What?"

A/N: As always, I urge you... please let me know what you think!