A/NI treat my laptop very badly, and I think last night was the top off for the abuse my poor laptop (Arthur) has endured. For the goodness-knows-how-many time, I feel asleep while writing, leaving me a guilt ridden wreck when I got up. In order to rectify this issue (dammit, I should just not sleep!) I am proposing a "Triple Whammy" of sorts. Meaning that I will be updating today, tomorrow and Monday. Kinda like a spiteful message to the sleep centre of my brain ;) But yeah, hope that's enough :S It's also a little late because I can only just figure out this new profile layout! Gah!

Anyway, moving on. To all those amazing reviewers/alerters/favouriters who give me the strength to carry on, you guys inspire and motivate me like a carrot apparently motivates a donkey (? Does it really? I've never tried it :D)

And also, this chapter has warnings :O One or two minor-ish swear words in this chapter from a very bad man and the same said man has another warning: Now, coming from a thorough English woman myself, there is a line in here that does poke quite a bit of fun at us Brits (for the Brits reading) This is entirely fun since not only do I think it's necessary to add a bit of spunk to the new character but also cos I do think a bit of self depreciating humour goes a long way :D Lol, maybe that's just me :D I in no way mean to offend ANYONE by putting this in, it is very simply a bit of fun. Lol, it makes me worry, but as long as no-one takes offense then all is good. If you do then feel free to flame me and throw toilet paper at my batcave at your will.

Disclaimer: Pizza receipts. The file was his pizza receipts. Margarita from Dominoes Pizzas last Wednesday and a pepperoni from Pizza hut on Friday. Pizza receipts. And this is the evil genius we've all come to fear? I feel cheated.

"John?"

The voice was small and John didn't hear it the first time.

"John?" John blinked and looked up, eyes squinting in the darkness of the room, the moonlight through the blinds showing 12:30 on the clock on the wall. He rubbed the heel of his palm into his eyes and blinked away the bleariness in them. He must have fallen asleep.

"John, are you asleep?" came the whisper again, a little louder this time. John shook his head in the dark, but it was probable that it was too dark to see the gesture anyway.

"No Sherlock," John said, missing out the fact that he had been a moment ago. He didn't want Sherlock to know that he'd woken him. There was a moment's silence where John thought the detective hadn't heard him.

"Are you okay, are you in pain?" John asked, a little louder. He heard Sherlock shift a little, sighing softly.

"No John, I'm fine," Sherlock said, and John was almost certain it was a lie, but he decided to press the matter later.

Again, there was a silence, longer this time, and although it didn't feel awkward, John could feel rather than see that Sherlock was edgier than normal, as if he wanted to ask something but wasn't sure how to say it.

"Sherlock, what were you going to ask me?" John asked eventually, when it seemed as if Sherlock had lost the will to ask. Silence again.

"Sherlock?"

"Is it painful?" he asked suddenly. John frowned, unsure of what Sherlock was referring to.

"What she has…is it painful?" Sherlock said, and this time John could just make out the faint gesture Sherlock made in the dark towards his mother. John paused, considering. If he was to be honest, the thing he would really love to say was "I hope so" after everything she had put his best friend through, but as John thought about it, it was the very same best friend that was stopping him from saying it. Stress was certainly not what Sherlock needed right now, not when all John wanted was for him to get better.

He could feel Sherlock watching him, the cool, calm gaze feeling faked and pressured.

"I don't know," John said, finally. Sherlock seemed to raise an eyebrow but John couldn't see in the dark.

"She got worse," Sherlock said, "when I got here." John blinked at him.

"What?" John's voice was pure disbelief. Surely Sherlock couldn't think that this was his fault?

"I-I'm not the reason that she got worse," Sherlock continued, the words straining to get out, "am I?" John felt himself gape openly at his flatmate.

"Of all the things you've ever said Sherlock, that is the most unfounded, illogical thing that's ever come from your mouth," John said firmly.

"Why? Why is it? I arrived, and her condition worsened. Is it not logical to deduce from the facts that I am a probable factor in her illness?" Sherlock stated, seemingly convinced of his deduction.

"Sherlock, listen, you have no idea what you're talking about," John reasoned firmly, "For once, leave it in my areas of expertise okay? I know what I'm talking about and I can tell you that you have nothing to do with it. You hear me? Nothing".

Sherlock seemed to consider that. "Are you sure?" he asked, apparently less certain now that John had begun picking holes in his allegedly infallible theory. Not like Sherlock at all, John thought and wondered if the knock in confidence had anything to do with the woman Sherlock had tried saving at the building. They hadn't heard of any change in her condition since they found out.

"I'm sure," John promised and saw the moonlight reflect on Sherlock's sceptical eyes as John shifted a little in his chair, silver light flooding past him. He sighed. "Do you trust me?" John said. Sherlock only hesitated a moment as his always distrustful, always analysing mind snapped into place.

"Yes John," he said.

"Then I promise you that I am telling the truth and I am sure."

Sherlock wriggled into a sitting position, John putting a hand under his arm to help him sit up in the no-doubt uncomfortable hospital bed. They sat in companionable silence for a long time, a very long time, John noted. The moonlight shed a soft light on Sherlock's young looking features as they rested pensively in thought.

"Is it possible," Sherlock wondered aloud, "to have so much distain for someone…that they make you sick, just by looking at them? Can somebody do that to someone?" John pulled some more of the blanket over Sherlock.

"I think, Sherlock," John said evenly, "That you would have to have something terrible already there to make you sick". Sherlock nodded and leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling. John wondered just how much pain Sherlock was really in. Knowing him, he could be in agony and not tell anyone out of sheer pride. John was in fact going to ask, but Sherlock cut across him.

"Where is Mycroft?" he asked.

"The nurses insisted he left the room to get some sleep, so he found a chair to put right outside the door to sleep in. Something about it being a loophole in their instructions, they never said how far away he had to be from the room," John explained. He was surprised when he caught Sherlock muffling a chuckle.

John gave a little laugh too and it felt like they were back at the flat again, laughing over chasing a cab or Sherlock's latest attempt to dissect something and ending up covered in the thing he was trying to study. It felt good.

"It reminds me of something you would do," John said when they both sobered up. Sherlock frowned.

"Do you really think I'd be that unimaginative?" Sherlock asked and John wondered if he'd forgot to dig at his brother and say that he wouldn't even be at the hospital, or he couldn't be bothered with the bravado. They both knew that, despite the arguing and the nemesis ideals, Sherlock would be there for Mycroft if this had been the other way around, if only just to see him for an hour.

"Maybe not," John said, laughing. He smiled at his flat mate. "You know, you have a funny relationship," John observed, "But you know, with a bit of effort…it kinda works".

Sherlock gave a disdainful sniff. "I don't enjoy wasting energy," he said nonchalantly, but John noticed the half-hearted sound to the words. "If I have to put in effort, then so do you," Sherlock commented, confusing John for a moment, "Yes, I know, you've been worrying over Harry all day, right after she left you that message on your blog. You've been distracted for hours".

John blinked, trying his hardest not to be surprised. But then, when you lived with Sherlock Holmes, it was hard not to be surprised. Sherlock never failed to find something new to shock you. He swallowed down the regular urge to ask "How did you know?" and shut his mouth before he looked too much like he was gaping.

"Oh come on John, it wasn't exactly difficult," Sherlock said and John shook his head in disbelief.

"Does nothing get past you?"

"Not very often John, not very often at all," Sherlock replied and John watched his eyelids beginning to droop.

"Come on then, you're not staying up and keeping me awake all night," John said jovially. Sherlock grunted something, already half asleep. John couldn't help but smile. The drugs Sherlock had been on were strong enough to put Sherlock out mid-sentence and, with the effects still wearing off, John found it strangely endearing when Sherlock dropped off suddenly. Endearing, John thought, not a word I ever thought I'd use to describe Sherlock Holmes. Oh well, he thought, Sherlock's full of surprises.

John stayed awake a while after that, thinking over what Sherlock had said. He turned his phone over his hand. One call. Just one. John nodded, decision made firmly in his mind. Before anyone got up, he'd call her. Settling into his rather uncomfortable chair, John wondered what Harry Watson was going to say when she picked up the phone.

Harry Watson was hung over and ill feeling. Those two could be linked actually, but Harry wasn't sure. She groaned, her arm lolling off the side of the bed and patting around for her alarm clock. Hitting it with more force than intended, she picked it up and checked the time. Ugh, God. 9:30, Harry thought, too early to be awake. Far too earlier. She moaned at the slit of light throw the curtains.

"Go away," she told it out loud, sober enough to realise that it was a waste of time, but hung over enough not to care. Grunting she turned over and pulled her duvet over her head, ruffling her already birds-nest hair from the night before.

She would have gone back to sleep for another four hours if not for the phone that rang fifteen minutes later. She gave an annoyed noise, the ringing grating on her head as she sat up to search for the phone. God, she was too dizzy to be doing this.

"Hello?"

"Harry?" The voice on the other end of the phone surprised Harry so much that she nearly dropped the phone, pulling her pyjamas down as she lopsidedly fell off the side of the bed in her rush to get up.

"John?" she said, putting on her best "I'm-not-drunk-can't you tell?" voice and hoping it was enough.

"Are you drunk?" she heard her brother say and she cursed herself. Damn, why did it have to be today of all days? But then, she was like this more often than not, so it was probably simple math that John would call on one of those days. But then Harry never was great at even simple math when hung over, so she didn't bother trying.

John sighed on the end of the phone. "You are, aren't you?"

"No, no, I just woke up, that's all," Harry lied. It's partially true, Harry thought. Another sigh from the end of the phone.

"Harry, if you've been drinking…"

"I've not, it was just a sip-"

"And that's what got dad into trouble in the first place. Are you completely incapable of being-"

"Responsible?" Harry snapped, feeling a familiar annoyance swelling. Blast it, she always got like this when she was hung over. "Well, thanks for the tip little brother," she snarled.

"Harry…"

"I haven't done anything wrong," Harry growled and she heard the exasperation on the end of the line.

She knew without a doubt that John would be right, that she'd feel guilty about it later but she couldn't help it.

"Harry, you're-"

"Drunk? Hung over? A disappointment? I know, I know, you've told me" she intercepted. It was unfair and she knew it, but it was out before she could stop it and she could already tell John's reaction before she had finished saying it.

"I never said that Harry," John said, his voice suddenly more cold and detached than Harry remembered it being, "Listen, talk to me when you're more sober okay?"

"John, wait, I didn't mean to-" Harry heard the line go dead and she groaned in frustration. Not again, she thought. Sighing, she started on her apology text.

John waited for the customary apology text that he knew would come, no doubt, a few moments later. He glanced at the clock, wishing now more than any time that Mycroft would turn up, or Sherlock would wake, meaning that he wouldn't have to sit through his guilt. He didn't really mean to hang up like that. Old habits die hard, he thought gloomily.

"Difficult morning already?" said a voice by the door. John nearly fell of his chair in surprise. He looked across irritably and spotted Mycroft stood by the doorway, leaning on his umbrella. Apparently his assistant had brought him both the umbrella and a new black suit as he was stood, sleek as ever in the doorway.

"Sort of," John said, not surprised if Mycroft hadn't already deduced what was the matter with him. There was a buzz on his phone and he checked it, despite having a very good idea of what it would be.

John, I'm really sorry, I was hung over, but I'm okay now, please call me back.

Harry xx

John sighed and put it back in his pocket, feeling Mycroft watching his movements.

"You should probably call her back," Mycroft stated, coming to sit by the bedside, across from John. John didn't respond to that, instead choosing to sit in silence, watching Sherlock closely, eyes pointedly away from Mycroft, who took the hint, his eyes falling to Sherlock who was sleeping soundly.

In fact, Sherlock slept for a good hour after that and it was only when the doctor came in did he wake up.

"Mr Holmes, your heart monitor is looking a little erratic today, are you in any pain?" the doctor asked, his first task to check the stats on the detective. John frowned, shooting Mycroft a glance, noting that the same expression of concern had crossed Mycroft's face. Not just the admittedly speedy bleeps of Sherlock's heart that had already begun to cause John to worry about half an hour ago, but also because of the very familiar look that had crossed Sherlock's face. John worriedly observed as he immediately recognised the expression that he had come to dub "the deduction face", the same intense look that Sherlock wore when deducing speedily.

"Sherlock," John said, "You probably should take some meds you know, it's not a sin to take medicine you know". He tried an easy smile, but it came out uncertain, wondering what Sherlock's mind was thinking over to cause that look. The doctor seemed to have picked up on the mood and raised an eyebrow at John.

Sherlock didn't stop looking at the doctor, a slight frown creasing his brow a little, as if he had hit an unusual fact in his head.

"Sherlock?" John asked again, and Sherlock's eyes suddenly flitted back to him. "Sherlock, are you okay?" Sherlock gave him a look, a look that John recognised as the sort of look that usually got them into trouble…or that Sherlock had sensed trouble. John saw Sherlock flit the same look to Mycroft, and Mycroft straightened up and glanced around the room surreptitiously, as if checking for prying eyes. Sherlock glanced back up at John, his eyes willing him to believe what he said next.

"Something's not right"

Martin Teres was impressed. The hospital was a swanky joint after all, just like Mr Leach had said it was going to be. It was big too, like Leach had said. Matthew Leach hired a lot of people; Teres knew that, after all, he was one of the man's employees. The pay was good, the hours were not bad, and in all honesty Teres was always much more inclined to playing on the riskier side of life. And, of course, the darker pleasures in life were always the more exciting. TNT, C4, fire and shortened fuses were half of the joy of being alive in Teres' view. And he reasoned that going where Leach sent him was better than staying home with wife anyway. So when his boss had called him last night to tell him he wanted him to check out a hospital, he jumped on the chance.

He walked lazily down the hallway, stolen white doctor's coat billowing like he owned the place. And why not? The place was going to be a wreck in a few days if he had anything to say about it. Well, more if Leach had something to say about it, but that was a minor detail. He swaggered past the doors, glancing in each room as he went. Leach had wanted him to find a room of some Holmes fellow, somewhere between room 400 and 420. Or was that 420 to 440? Teres couldn't remember, in fact, it was probably just his lack of interest showing, but he was checking them anyway. In all honesty, he'd wanted to blow something up. He heard some poor bugger had been sent to blow himself up in some office block 'cos Leach had told him too. Teres chuckled to himself. Despite the fact that bombs were one of the few pleasures in life, Teres wasn't clean on being in the path of one.

He wrinkled his nose, looking though the rooms. The medicine he was holding stank, it was something he'd nicked from some cart on a ward a fair way back to make him "look the part". Damn hospital was bigger than he'd thought, and full of English people with posh accents. Damn British and their accent. Teres had flown over from America looking for excitement about 4 years ago and had ended up working for Leach when illegal immigration caught up with him. Not only did Leach cut a sweet deal on explosives, but it kept immigration control off his back. He scanned down more rooms. God, they looked all the same. 400, 401, 402.

"Oh I'm sorry!" Teres fell forwards as a doctor, no doubt too busy looking at that god damn chart in his hand to pay attention to where he was going, slammed into him. He felt some of the contents of the bottle in his hand tip and it splattered the other man's white coat.

"Damn it," Teres growled under his breath.

"Sorry pal," the doctor said, brushing his coat, "Don't worry about the coat, it'll wash". As if he expected Teres to feel guilty about it. Teres gave a derisive laugh. His fault for being so damn clumsy.

"Yeah well, watch where you're headed next time, yeah?" Teres growled.

The doctor frowned at him, gave him a curt nod that showed his disapproval and hurried along. Teres watched him go. What a punk, he thought morbidly. But then again, where is such a doctor in such a hurry to go to? Grinning, Teres dumped his now half empty bottle of whatever the hell the stuff was and followed him down the hall, stooping behind a corner when the man turned into one of the many hospital rooms.

Teres smiled in triumph as he squinted at the paper displayed in the window. Mr Sherlock Holmes. Finally, Teres thought, drawing out his phone. The number he called only rang twice before it was picked up, a smooth, if interested, voice receiving it.

"Mr Teres. Good to hear you've found the mark so soon," the voice of Teres' employer drifting easily down the line, "I never doubted your skills for a moment".

"Yeah well you owe me a new jacket, Leach. Think this one stinks o' some ratty old medicine now, thanks" Teres complained roughly down the phone. There seemed to be a moment while Teres imagined his employer raising an eyebrow on the other end of the line.

"Indeed. A shame. Not that your usual… aroma interests me Mr Teres, I'm sure you can afford to buy your own jacket when you receive your pay check. I take it you've found the man I'm looking for?"

"Yeah, room 414. Some ward beginning with C I think… cardiology or summat" Teres said, losing interest very quickly with the banter down the line.

"Excellent. You've found several places you'd like to plant a bomb I take it?" Leach guessed.

Teres grinned. Of course he'd found a place. He'd found several places just by walking down the hall.

"Now what kind of anarchist would I be if I hadn't?" Teres teased lazily. A sigh from the other side.

"But of course. Are they secure?"

"Secure as secure can be," he assured. There was a moment and then it seemed as if Leach was about to put the phone down when Teres spotted something.

"Hey, by the way," Teres said, "You know there's a missus?"

"What?"

"A missus," Teres said, "It says on the door, Mrs Angela Holmes" Teres hated the pondering silence that came next. Stupid geniuses and their games, probably facing off against one another at some point. And it always meant they'd be stood talking for hours with no prospect of violence. Shame really, they must miss out on all the fun.

Teres waited out the silence, pretending to listen, and most of all, pretending to care when Leach seemed to finally reveal his thinking.

"Sherlock Holmes has no wife… but I do imagine that he has a mother," the voice said. Teres raised his eyebrows at that. Sharing a room with the old woman? Harsh times. Teres wouldn't stay in a room with his mother even if he got paid for it. Poor bloke was probably nagged out of his mind.

"Want me to do anything else?" Teres said. "Take out the old lady?" being the silent question there. "Blow up the building?" being another. A moment of quiet consideration followed.

"No. Leave it to me for now," Leach said. Teres gave a quiet, scathing laugh.

"Whatever you say, boss" The phone went dead and Teres laughed sardonically. Loser. He pocketed his mobile and reluctantly moved out; whistling Death is Not the End as he went.

What a waste of a trip if you can't even blow anything up. With that on his mind, Teres waltzed out of the building and trotted down the steps, flashing a "hello beautiful" to one of the incoming nurses. Today was a sunny day. The perfect day to go blow something up.

Sherlock frowned at the wet patch on the lapel of the white lab coat of his doctor. He could smell it from here, an acrid smell that caught at the back of your throat. It smelt like Vancomycin to Sherlock. But then, probably only Sherlock could be able to place a smell like that, maybe except John. To Sherlock it had an unmistakable smell, something he used in some of his experiments sometimes, even though it seemed fairly innocuous to anyone else. A very powerful bacterial treatment. Used a lot for MRSA treatment, John would know that. Sherlock knew that.

So why was a doctor, whose first patient was him in the cardiology ward, freshly covered in a substance that was found on the other side of the hospital? Judging by the ruffled coat, the hasty way it seemed to have been replaced, Sherlock knew he'd bumped into someone, he looked annoyed and flustered, clear signs. So the person he'd knocked had spilled something on him. Not a doctor or a nurse, there was no need for MRSA treatment here, there had been no outbreak. No doctor would have so little medical knowledge as to bring that over here. Not a patient or family member that had stolen it either, it would have to be in plain sight for it to spill.

So who would have had it in plain sight? Someone who looked like a doctor? But why would anyone masquerade as a doctor in this hospital? Sherlock immediately began to turn the cogs in his mind, turning first to John, then to Mycroft, and back to John.

"Something's not right".

There was a long silence, the doctor completely dumbfounded, John too apparently.

"You should take some painkillers Sherlock," Mycroft said suddenly. Sherlock frowned.

"Mycroft-"

"Now. Sherlock." Mycroft snarled. Sherlock recoiled, confused. Surely he had seen-

Sherlock caught t just in time as he was about to protest. The understanding, warning look Mycroft was shooting him, the "I'll tell you later" glance at John, the distrustful stare at the doctor as he assessed him. He'd seen it. Of course he'd seen it. His big brother, no matter how annoying, seemed to see everything, even if Sherlock didn't. Sherlock nodded his understanding, slowly, and gave John's hand a tap 3 times. I'll tell you later. Act normal, he conveyed. John nodded, frown disappearing as he received another text in his pocket and the sound broke the tension in the room.

"Well, I just need to take a look at your legs and how they're healing," the doctor said.

Sherlock nodded, and Mycroft caught the deep breath he sucked in as he steadied himself, obviously still in pain. Mycroft was about to say something but decided to leave it till later to say anything. John apparently caught the intake of breath too and shot Mycroft a worried glance. I'll handle it, Mycroft tried to convey as he looked intently at John. John nodded and turned away to look at his phone.

Sherlock's onto something. The doctor has a spill of Vancomycin on him. There is someone in the hospital impersonating a doctor. MH.

John stared at the text. Mycroft must have been texting with his hands in his pockets. How he did that John would never know. Another thing he'd probably never know was how Vancomycin and an imposter were linked he'd never know, but what he did know was that Mycroft and Sherlock were usually right. He turned and gave Mycroft a worried, questioning look, only to be rewarded with a "calm down" sort of hand movement and a stare that plainly read "I'll tell you later". John nodded, trusting him for now, and looked as his phone beeped again.

Please call me John, I am sober and I want to talk to you. Please call.

Harry xx

Mycroft watched his brother as he winced slightly, the doctor assessing the healing on his legs. He bent down, inconspicuously enough not to be noticed fully, but enough to mutter something to Sherlock.

"There's someone in the hospital," Mycroft stated, knowing Sherlock already knew, "I'm going to find them no matter what it takes okay?" Sherlock nodded, biting his lip as the doctor pressed some sort of appliance to his leg and he couldn't control a hiss of pain. Mycroft straightened, but not before he covertly slid his hand under Sherlock's. Sherlock bit down a cry of pain, the doctor apologising furtively, insisting it was necessary as Sherlock gritted his teeth and his hand clamped down onto Mycroft's, latching him down from the pain.

The grip was painfully tight, but Mycroft didn't say anything, in fact, if he acknowledged it at all, he didn't show it, his face remaining passive as he pretended for the sake of Sherlock's dignity that the hand wasn't clutched to his like the last thing on earth, like Sherlock's other hand wasn't scrambling at the sheets on the other side, John running soothing hands through his best friend's hair as he rode out the pain.

He'd be there as long as Sherlock needed him.

A/N So there you have it, chapter 21. As I said before, no disrespect to the Brits intended (it'd be an offense to myself, lol :D) I just wanted to have a bit of fun with a character that for some reason I really enjoyed writing. In fact, I really like this chapter a lot, I'm not overly sure why, but it's a mix of many things I think :) Anyway, thanks for your patience guys, I owe you own again ;P Next chapter up tomorrow!