Mycroft threw himself across his brother, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and waist. The move aggravated his stitches and he gasped, but remained in place until the lights came on a few seconds later.

John touched his shoulder. "It's all right. This happens occasionally, and all hospitals have emergency generators. Not exactly a place where you want to lose power for long."

Mycroft slowly slid off the bed and stood. He was examining his bandages for blood spots, concerned that the stitches might have torn, when Sherlock stirred and groaned.

"Where'm I? Head hurts…."

"You're at Bart's, Sherlock," Mycroft said carefully.

Unfocused eyes turned toward him. "Mycroft?"

"Yes."

Sherlock blinked and took several deep breaths. He licked his dry lips and tried to sit up. When the restraints stopped him, he blinked in confusion, then annoyance. "What…."

John came around to the other side of the bed. "It's all fine, Sherlock. These are just to keep you in bed until you're feeling better."

The younger Holmes calmed at the doctor's presence. "I'm better now. Please take them off."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. Had Sherlock already deleted the evening's events? No, he couldn't have, not entirely- he didn't seem too surprised to find himself in restraints. The elder Holmes surveyed his brother for submerged anxiety or tension, but only detected annoyance. Perhaps the drug-induced sleep had calmed him somewhat, but Mycroft didn't trust him. Sherlock's primary goal right now would be to get out of the hospital, and if he had to put on a serene face until he could find another unattended window, he would do it.

"No, Sherlock." John touched his arm. "I'm afraid they have to stay on until you've been evaluated. Standard procedure."

"When will that be?"

"In the morning, most likely."

"What time is it?

"Just gone one."

"Technically, it's morning then." He turned his head and regarded his brother with barely-veiled hostility. "Do something useful for once. Call whoever you need to call to have me released."

Lestrade approached. "Don't be stroppy with him, Sherlock. You're not going anywhere for at least seventy-two hours."

"Why?"

"You jumped out of the window at Baker Street, for starters."

"Momentary lapse in judgement."

"Pretty damned serious one too. Now lay back and rest."

Sherlock's nostrils flared. "Don't bloody tell me to rest! I've had quite enough sleep!" He glared at Mycroft. "Now get me out of here."

"No."

"I'm FINE."

"No, you're not."

"You know I'll figure a way out myself," the younger man warned.

Mycroft had had enough. "Not if I advise the staff on how to contain you. I know all your tricks."

"You meddling fucking-" Sherlock lunged as far as the restraints would allow. Then, abruptly, he stopped. His eyes darted quickly over his older brother, taking in the ruined trousers, open hospital gown, and bandages. His furious scowl relaxed into an intrigued frown.

"You were kidnapped tonight," he said.

"Yes."

"And transported in a truck- no, an ambulance."

John's jaw dropped. Lestrade gave a knowing smile.

"You were drugged," Sherlock went on. "You reek of ether."

"Yes- unpleasant stuff."

John's eyes widened. "I don't smell anything."

Sherlock gave him the tolerant smile a parent would bestow on a slow child. "It's all right, John, not everyone is perceptive. I can tell from looking at my brother that he was drugged within the last few hours, restrained in a straightjacket- notice how stiff his shoulders are from popping them- and he escaped into the street. See his shoes? Dried salt."

John looked down and nodded, amazed. "That's incredible!"

Sherlock beamed. "You think so?"

"Absolutely."

"That's not what people normally say."

"No? What do they usually say?"

"Piss off."

John laughed. Sherlock grinned, his earlier anger dissolved by the admiration and attention.

Mycroft quietly decided that the tenant in 221c Baker Street would have to interview another potential flatmate. John Watson's calming effect on his wild younger brother was astounding. With a companion- or better yet, friend- capable of keeping him steady, Sherlock could be more than a brilliant mind chained by destructive impulses. John Watson could be the making of my brother.

"Gregory," he said, "I'll make my statement now."

"Okay, but let me call another officer up first." He took out his mobile and dialled. "Dimmock? Fourth floor, room 412. Mr. Holmes is going to make a statement."

John sat on the edge of Sherlock's bed. Mycroft flashed him a look of gratitude: Sherlock was about to learn that the man he'd loved enough to die for was dead, murdered, and he awaited the reaction with dread.

When Dimmock arrived, Mycroft sat in the bedside chair and told his story. He admitted to following the dead man, but left out John and Lestrade's involvement and said that he'd merely intended to berate Trevor about the incident in the waiting room.

Sherlock wasn't fooled. He remained silent while Dimmock took notes, but his arched eyebrows and cold stare warned Mycroft that he knew.

When Mycroft recounted his kidnapping and return to consciousness in the utility room, Sherlock relaxed enough to grin. He threw John a sideways glance, as if to say, I had it right, but then again, don't I always?

Then Mycroft described the confrontation with James Moriarty, and the murder of Victor Trevor. Sherlock remained eerily calm, a tightening of his lips the only sign that he'd heard and understood everything.

"Any sign of Moriarty in the hospital?" Lestrade asked his colleague.

"No. We checked the IT department, and there's no James Moriarty employed there. There is a technician named James McAllister, and he's gone off shift suddenly, so I'm going to presume that's our man. Now this other party- Molly Hooper? I'm going to send someone to interview her. She may know where to find him."

"I doubt it, but it won't hurt to ask," said Mycroft, still eying his brother. "What about those fraudulent ambulance technicians? Did you apprehend them?"

Dimmock shook his head. "Sergeant Donovan shot one of them in the arm, but you fell against me and we both went down. They escaped on foot."

Sherlock suddenly broke his silence.

"James Moriarty killed Victor," he said slowly.

"Yes," said Mycroft.

"And Moriarty was his new boyfriend."

"It seems that way, yes," the elder Holmes said gently.

"I see."

Sherlock laid back against the pillows and closed his eyes. His limbs relaxed and what little color his face had summoned during his earlier rage drained away.

"Sherlock?" John touched his shoulder.

The younger Holmes smiled weakly at his voice. "Goodbye, John," he whispered. "I have no proof you'll be any different."

"Sherlock!" Mycroft exclaimed, but the only response his brother gave was a sudden exhale.

Then there was only a deathlike stillness.