Author's Note: I'm incredibly sorry for the long wait! I've been severely ill and haven't had the energy or ability to do much of anything, including write. I really wanted to get a new chapter out, though, so I pieced this together. I hope it makes sense. If not, blame the half a dozen medications I'm on.
"Sherlock, I'm really not following!" John complained.
He followed Sherlock as he rushed through the doors to Harry's hospital wing.
"Of course you're not!" Sherlock exclaimed. He was absolutely shaking with anxiety and excitement. "If you were following you would have told me about this a long time ago!"
"Sherlock!" He attempted to grab his flatmate's arm, but Sherlock was too fast. Quickly finding Harry's room, Sherlock barged in.
John's face went red when he realized they weren't alone. His mum was seated beside Harry, an absolute wreck.
"Harry," Sherlock said. He was actually attempting to shake his sister awake.
"Sherlock, don't do that!" John exclaimed. "Christ, don't you think?"
"John?" His mother asked softly.
He stole a glance toward her, begging for her to somehow understand. He felt guilty as he caught sight of the bags beneath her eyes and her unkempt hair. She and Harry looked almost like spitting images of each other at that moment; all of them were exhausted beyond belief.
In the midst of the chaos Harry let out a soft moan as she stirred awake. Her eyes immediately found John, and his stomach twisted into knots. Although she had regained some colour her eyes still appeared hazy and far-away. Slowly her hand reached up for his, and he took it, squeezing her wrist lightly.
"Sherlock has some questions for you," he told her. "I promise he'll be nice."
He glared at Sherlock, warning him, and drew up a chair next to her.
"Thomas Reynolds," Sherlock announced, arms crossed- as though he proved his point simply by revealing a name.
Harry paled.
"What?" She shot, her throat dry.
"Thomas Reynolds, the man you were having sex with."
"Sherlock!" John roared.
His eyes widened in horror; his mother jumped to her feet.
"What?!" His mum exclaimed.
"Mum!" Harry begged. She looked like she might throw up.
"The nice man you met on your first day at work," Sherlock continued, glowering at Harry. "Probably offered you a coffee, maybe kept you company at lunch. You were upset over yet another breakup-"
"You didn't tell me-"
"Must you keep interrupting?" Sherlock snapped, silencing his mother. She immediately crossed her arms, mouth agape in shock. John groaned, running his hands over his face, hoping that somehow he was imaging this. "As I was saying, upset over another breakup you all too eagerly accepted his offer for drinks. You slept together once, maybe twice, before you discovered his habits."
"Christ," John muttered, hand hovering over his mouth. "He was a drug addict."
"You were curious. You were depressed. So when he offered to take you-"
"Sherlock, just stop!" John warned.
Harry was in tears now, and their mother looked on the verge of her own meltdown. His hand rest on Harry's shoulder as he desperately searched for a way to end this.
But of course Sherlock just ignored him.
"He left in the middle of the night to meet Boone for a deal." John winced at the use of "Boone" and not "St. Claire". Despite the fact he was furious with him John couldn't help but to feel sorry that he was still hurt.
Sherlock fumbled with something in his pocket and withdrew a very familiar mobile.
"Hey!" Harry exclaimed. "That's mine, how did you get it?"
Sherlock only grinned as he began searching through files. John could only raise a hand to his forehead in attempts to hide his face. Naturally, the first time Sherlock met his mother and he acted so very…Sherlock.
"This is the man who recognized me," Sherlock announced, waiving the phone around so everyone could see the image of a man much older than Harry. He looked sharp in a business suit and hair, obviously dyed to hide the grey. But in his eyes John could see a hidden darkness, a smirk behind his façade that made his skin crawl. "Except he didn't recognize me. He recognized Boone."
"St. Claire," John whispered.
It was a useless argument.
"Because you've been working for him, the real him. Both of you have."
Once again Harry looked like she may be sick. Her vitals spiked as her heart raced. John rubbed a hand against her back, trying to get her to calm down.
"Sherlock, please," John pleaded. "She's upset-"
"She should be!" The three of them froze at Sherlock's outburst, and at last his flatmate seemed to realize where he was and what he was doing. Breathing in a few deep breaths, Sherlock turned to him, crestfallen. When he spoke again he was much quieter, like usual when he realized he should feel guilty. "He recognized St. Claire, and he realized what was happening. He realized who he was working for. He kidnapped us, and I still can't remember what happened after that."
He fell silent as he turned away. As Sherlock wrapped his arms around his chest John couldn't help but to once again only feel empathy. He was aware his mother was glaring at him; he could feel her disproval radiating from her. Yet when Sherlock simply tossed the mobile onto Harry's bed and fled the room John didn't hesitate to follow him.
"Sherlock!" He called after him as Sherlock stormed down the corridor. He caught up with Sherlock just in time, grabbing him by the arm a little too hard. Sherlock swirled around, and John froze at how hopeless he looked. "I don't have to tell you how inappropriate that was."
Heaving a heavy sigh, Sherlock nodded.
"I'm sorry," he breathed.
John gazed at him, astonished.
"So that was my mother," John said. A hollow laugh escaped him.
"Yeah," Sherlock said; he looked a bit too pale. "She seemed a bit bitter."
"You think?"
He rested against the wall next to Sherlock, allowing himself a moment of peace as he closed his eyes. He took in the familiar sounds of the hospital and was grateful for some kind of normality. Never had he been so eager for a case to be over with.
When he lifted his head against he was met with an electrical shock that sent his hands to his forehead, clenching at his skin.
"Come with me," Sherlock said, grabbing his arm.
"What no-"
A wave of dizziness took over him and he stumbled to a stop, grasping at the wall.
"Okay, I may be sick," he mumbled.
He slumped down to the floor before Sherlock could stop him.
"Is he alright?" One eye opened to find a nurse staring at them.
"Does he look alright?" Sherlock snapped.
"Sherlock, I'm fine!"
"You just said you were going to throw up!" Sherlock protested.
"I'm just a little nauseated-"
"He has a concussion," Sherlock said to the nurse. "Which he has been ignoring, like a child!"
John peeled both of his eyes enough to glare up at him, incredulous.
"Are you being serious right now?!" He exclaimed.
"Sir, maybe you should come with me," the nurse said, offering a hand.
He looked up at her, torn. He knew Sherlock shouldn't be out in public, not with St. Claire at large and not with a potential media target on their backs. But as he shifted his vision danced in front of his eyes and at the second wave of nausea he knew Sherlock's intentions were pure.
"Fine," he mumbled.
A half an hour later John sat on a hospital bed, preparing to leave. Sherlock stood across from him, staring at him intently.
"You're a hypocrite, you know that," John shot. Sherlock smirked. "And you know we shouldn't be here."
"Then what should we be doing?" Sherlock replied. "Should we be in hiding?"
"We've got to talk, you know," John said. "About what you're going to say."
Sherlock's eyes dashed away as he stiffened, and John realized this wasn't the first time his flatmate considered this.
"I know," Sherlock muttered. "You don't have to stand by me. People will talk-"
"Let them."
Their eyes met, and they both broke out into smiles. Sherlock looked to the ground, sheepishly hiding the fact that he was clearly flattered.
"I don't deserve you," Sherlock sighed. He glanced at John, examining his injuries. "Feel better?"
"I can stand without falling over dizzy," John replied. "I would say that's improvement. Back to Baker Street, then?"
"Are you kidding?" Sherlock smirked. "We're just getting started!"
Groaning, John ran his hands over his face.
"No, Sherlock, we've got to sleep!"
"This week it's sleep and you die," Sherlock said. He placed a hand on John's shoulder. "Remember that."
"Reassuring," John mumbled.
"There's something you're forgetting," Sherlock began, "about Reynolds."
John's eyes widened.
"He's still out there!"
Sherlock nodded.
"He's out there, and St. Claire got away from him. That means either St. Claire killed him or he will kill him."
"Hang on," John said, stopping just as they left out of the room, "this is a drug addict who seduced my sister. Why are we helping him?"
"Because it leads us to St. Claire."
Suddenly Sherlock's mobile rang, and he scurried to fetch it from his pocket. John watched as Sherlock exhaled slowly before answering.
"Lestrade." Their eyes met, and John knew it was serious. "No, we'll be right there."
He pocketed the phone and immediately darted toward the exit, leaving John fighting to catch up.
"What happened now?" John demanded.
"Lestrade found Reynolds," Sherlock breathed.
"How does he even know-"
"He doesn't," Sherlock replied. He stopped briefly when they were outside. Once again Sherlock trembled with anxiety; his face had gone completely white. Their eyes met once again, and John swallowed nervously in anticipation. "They're both trying to throw each other off St. Claire's office building. They're high. And they've got Kate."