To say that Sherlock woke up pleasantly would have been a lie. Sherlock was torn between unconsciousness and consciousness and he slipped in and out of darkness.
Each time he was jerked into a rib-crushingly painful awake-ness, the surroundings where always different. Mycroft's face, a paramedic, John not moving on the stretcher next to him, and so on.
When he woke up this next time, he fought to stay awake. He was not going to black-out again, no matter how painful it would be.
This time the surroundings where white. His vision was blurred, and he looked about frantically. When his eyes focused, he realised he was in none other than a hospital.
He scowled, he hated hospitals. Mycroft must have taken him there. He ripped the drip out of his arm, flinching as it caught in his skin and began to bleed.
He stood up to get out the bed, but didn't take into consideration how still very weak he was, and his legs buckled under him. He toppled over, and took the drip down with him with an almighty crash.
He heard the door being flung open, and he looked up. Mycroft.
Mycroft ran over to help his brother.
"I don't need help," Sherlock said sourly.
Mycroft stood back, and watched Sherlock try to pull himself up. He stood, shaking, gripping onto the bedside table. He landed onto the bed with a sigh.
"Where's John?" Sherlock demanded.
"Brother, if you had been looking probably at your surrounds instead of falling around the place, you would have noticed John is in the bed next to you,"
Mycroft watched with some amusement as Sherlock's head snapped round, and saw his friend lying on the bed next to him.
"Why isn't he awake?" Sherlock asked loudly.
"He's in a lot of pain, Sherlock," Mycroft narrowed his eyes, "He was awake earlier on, but he had to be given a drug to help him sleep,"
Sherlock sighed, and bent over to pick up the drip that had fallen. He groaned as a sudden shooting pain shot through his chest.
Mycroft pushed Sherlock back, so he was lying down, "Be careful, he broke some ribs,"
Sherlock yelped again when the pain returned. Mycroft sighed.
"What did he do to you?" He asked his younger brother.
Sherlock winced, "He bet me with a crowbar, and told me how he was going to kill us,"
Mycroft sighed again; put a comforting hand on his brothers leg, then pulled back sharply as if he'd been bitten. He left the room.
In the next bed, something stirred.
A/N: There is about four more chapters to go. Two main chapters, and two extra chapters because I love you all.
It'll probably be finished by tomorrow.