John turned from his hotel desk and watched as Sherlock practically purred himself awake, stretching his clearly tight limbs before curling back into a ball. The detective shivered and pulled the covers up to his neck, slowly opening his eyes to the dimly lighted room. The clock read four.

"Good morning," John said gently, closing his laptop and walking towards the edge of the bed. "Or, afternoon, really. How do you feel?"

Sherlock sat up and placed a palm against his pounding forehead. "Where am I?" He blinked several times before looking at John with a most quizzical expression. "Why do I feel funny?"

John tried to hide a smile as he looked into the detective's eyes and examined the rest of his thinning frame. He looked weak but would survive. "We had to drug you to get you on the plane. You don't remember?" Sherlock's gaping mouth told him the answer was no. "You wanted to check into rehab because of Peter's text; when Mycroft suggested America you flipped out. Made a horrible scene in the airport, Sherl."

"Mm. I thought you were supposed to get me off drugs." Sherlock made a face at the demeaning nickname, leaning himself against the bedframe. "My legs are tingly."

"Yeah, we gave you four tranquilizers. It'll probably be a while before they wear off." He felt Sherlock's forehead. No sign of a fever. Just delusion. "How do you feel otherwise? You want something to eat?"

He crinkled his nose and collapsed back into the bed. "I don't want to go to America, John," he whined, the words slurring as he drifted between sleep and consciousness.

"We're already in here, you idiot."

Sherlock groaned and threw a limp hand at his doctor. "No, I don't want to go. Don't make me go."

"Okay. Okay." John fought the urge to reach for his phone and film clips for Lestrade. "You just rest."

The detective seemed willing to obey for a moment before springing up. "Allison. Where's Allison?"

"Who?"

"Allison! And Mary. Where are they?"

John stared at the man and sat on the bed, crossing his legs. He'd managed to get Sherlock to eat on the plane before passing out, and though no small victory, it wasn't enough. He was deteriorating quickly, both physically and mentally, and had apparently resorted to taking on parental roles. "Do you mean…our daughter?"

"Who else?" Sherlock let his baritone voice roll off his tongue. "Your family…"

"They're fine. Staying at Mycroft's. He and Lestrade are handling everything. We're just here to give you a break." He paused. "Allison? You named her?"

"That's what I said," Sherlock pouted, apparently done playing this game. "John, I won't get on the plane."

"You've already—okay." John covered his friend up and patted down the curls on top of his head. "Whatever you want, okay? You don't have to…get on the plane, or go to America, or whatever. Just take another nap for me. Can you do that for me? Then we'll do whatever you want."

Sherlock seemed to consider for a few moments before lying his head on the pillow. The doctor tightened the sheets around him and walked back to the desk, no longer hiding his smile. Times were stressful, but he had full faith in Lestrade and Mycroft to both solve the case and keep his family safe. Being away from the girls so soon seemed unfair to all parties involved, but Mary had been insistent and understanding. He sighed, knowing the next few weeks, despite the intent, would be extremely taxing. Getting Sherlock to relax without the use of drugs, recreational or otherwise, wouldn't be easy.

Seeing him like this was something of a perk. Yet John couldn't escape the reality that his friend was no longer the Sherlock he knew, and not only because of the tranquilizers.

"John?"

"Lay back down, Sherlock," John lectured, not bothering to turn around.

But even in his diluted state, the man was insatiable. "John," he whimpered again until the doctor looked his way. The younger man rubbed his hands along his forearms as though he didn't know what else to do with them; his left leg bounced nervously as he swallowed, unable to formulate his words.

"I'm here." John was again at the bedside, fearing a panic attack or crazy drug reaction as he saw the fear in Sherlock's eyes. "I'm not going anywhere." He sat, patient, letting his forefinger to rest on the detective's cold wrist as a small token of security.

A bitten lip, a set of diverted eyes. "Please don't be angry." Sherlock lifted the blanket to reveal his thin stalks of legs.

"What?"

"I lost the tracker." He touched the thin line where his hair had been rubbed out before looking away. "I didn't take it off. I don't know what happened, but I didn't—"

"Shh." John grabbed his baggage and took out the ankle bracelet. "Here. I took it off for the flight. Stop worrying about everything and go back to sleep."

Relief washed over Sherlock's face as he took the piece of metal and clasped it against his ankle. "I hate this thing, John," he said, placing his head on the pillow but keeping his eyes on his doctor. His voice was liquefying. "I'll put one on you, though, when I'm better. And on Mary, and Allison."

"We're not naming her Allison, Sherl."

Sherlock ignored him. "We'll all have the trackers. No one gets left behind. Not again."

"Again?" John asked, but his friend was already drifting into sleep.