Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Thanks to paula. for giving me this story idea!
Note: I'm accepting suggestions for chapter ideas, so please feel free to leave a prompt in a review! I've got several lined up right now, so if you suggested one to me, I will be writing it as soon as I can!


"The husband murdered her," Sherlock announced at the crime scene, which was the inside of a couple's home.

Lestrade pinched the bridge of nose. "Okay. I believe you, but how?! He was out of town!"
"No. He deceived everyone. They were a con artist team. They've got books all around here on persuasion and influence," Sherlock said, gesturing around. "Not to mention both were unemployed and they somehow have a trunk full of money." He now pointed at the trunk filled with bills. They'd found it near the wife's dead body.

"How do you know that money isn't inherited?" Lestrade asked. "Because, you know, if you're right about them being con artists, then I've got to have the husband charged with both murder and fraud."

"It's not inherited. The bills are bent at odd angles and faded differently so I don't think that this money has been kept together for long - it came from many separate places. Furthermore, I thought you would have noticed the strange clothing in the woman's closet," Sherlock said assertively, and then looking meaningfully over to the open closet door where the dead wife's clothes were kept.

"What about her clothes?" John asked, intrigued.

"They're too different. Too much variation in style and color."

"But everyone does that," John protested. "You can't prove that she had multiple aliases or something just by the clothes-"

"John, this is where the balance of probability comes into play! Think about it! You always wear jumpers, I always wear button-downs, Mrs. Hudson always wears her… her…" He flapped his hand vaguely to describe the clothing Mrs. Hudson wore.

"But a con artist?!"

"Sherlock, we're going for evidence around the rest of the house," Lestrade said, and he followed the other team members out of the bedroom. Sherlock and John were left in there, Sherlock still attempting to explain his reasoning.

"I believe you, Sherlock," John cut in. "How do you even observe things like that? I mean, that's incredible."

"Anyone can do it, John. Notice the details and infer what they indicate," Sherlock said, looking rather pleased with himself. "Anyway, the husband did it - he's excellent at deceiving, that's what they do - because he wanted to take all of the money himself."

Sherlock was about to sweep out of the room before pausing in front of the husband's closed closet door.

"I wouldn't be surprised if the husband is still here," the detective reasoned, and opened the closet door. In the blink of an eye, there was a resounding crack through the bedroom as a wooden bat swung forward viciously. Sherlock toppled to the floor and a man sprinted by. John sprinted after him and down the stairs, hollering to Lestrade that the husband was coming down. Once the con man had realized he was trapped, he stopped putting up a fight, and once Lestrade was handcuffing him, John was automatically back upstairs to be at Sherlock's side.

He wasn't unconscious, but struggling to stand, leaning heavily on the wall. John immediately had his arm around his friend.

"I'm fine," Sherlock insisted, squinting at John with evident confusion. "What happened?"

"You were hit in the head with a bat," John said, noticing Sherlock's squinting and quickly shutting off the light. "No doubt you got a concussion."

He helped Sherlock down the stairs, dearly hoping that he wouldn't be passing out, and crossed the back of the room quickly in hopes to go unnoticed for Sherlock's best interests; he was aware that the detective detested appearing weak in front of his coworkers.

Lestrade noticed, however.

"He alright?" he asked John, frowning at Sherlock, who was swaying and would have fallen if John wasn't holding him up.

"Concussion. I'm just going to bring him back to Baker Street," John said. Lestrade nodded, looking slightly concerned, but said no more as they took a cab.

"I've got a headache, John," Sherlock informed him, clutching his head as they bumped down the road. His tone was the same, and if John wasn't able to see Sherlock, he would have thought his friend was his usual superior self. But one glance at him disproved this: Sherlock was pale, a mild expression of nausea, and still swaying slightly even in his seat dizzily.

"Mrs. Hudson!" John called once they were in Baker Street. "Could you help me?"

Mrs. Hudson arrived. "Oh, no, what happened?" she asked, putting her hand gently on Sherlock's arm, who was so preoccupied with his headache that he didn't bother to shake his arm away.

"Concussion. Could you help me get him up the stairs?" John asked, and together they brought Sherlock to the top of the stairs where he promptly fell unconscious, still supported by his flatmate and landlady.

"Oh dear!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed. "I'll make you boys dinner, don't worry about getting anything!" She bustled down the stairs once they had gotten Sherlock into his bed. John put his blanket on him, and deciding there wasn't much else to do, left with Sherlock's door open in case he needed him.

"John!" came Sherlock's voice after twenty minutes. John set down his newspaper and went to check on his friend, reminded forcibly of the time Sherlock was drugged by Irene Adler.

Sherlock was out of bed, stumbling over to the door. "John, I forgot! I had an experiment in progress-"

"It's okay, Sherlock, you can finish it another time."

"-that I want to finish!"
John gripped his arm and led him over to the couch. "You've got to rest, mate. You got a concussion."

"I know, John! But-"

"You're going to rest," John said firmly. Sherlock took one glance at him, saw he was serious, and slumped onto the couch in defeat. John ensured that he was comfortable before turning for his book and sitting down again. Once he had sat, Sherlock was already rosining his bow.

"Sherlock, won't that aggravate your headache…?" John asked, unsure.

"No," Sherlock said simply, lifting the violin up to his chin. He began to play a harmonious tune that filled the flat with a calm warmth. He was playing continuously for a full thirty minutes before abruptly stopping.

John opened his eyes. He hadn't realized he'd close them.

"Why'd you stop?" he said, genuinely disappointed.

Sherlock stiffly tucked the violin away and put the bow back, his movements looking pained.

"Are you alright?" John asked, concerned, and that was when Sherlock began to tremble. John swore; he was so stupid, of course he should have brought Sherlock to the hospital for the concussion! Why on earth did he think it would be alright for them to just go home?! Now he was having a seizure, and it was his fault, but John blocked those thoughts as he ran to Sherlock's side, who was slumped in his chair, shaking uncontrollably.

John barely had time to start offering encouragement to his friend when the seizure stopped. He let out a sigh of relief that it had been quick.

Sherlock's gaze was flickering about for several minutes before landing on John's face. His words were slightly slurred, but with a confident tone he asked, "Now can I finish the experiment?"

"What?! No!" John cried out. "You just had a bloody seizure!"

"And I finished. I despise allowing my body to inhibit me from my cerebral pursuits."

"This time, it is," John said, pushing him back into the chair. "You can do it tomorrow, if you want."

"But-"

"Tomorrow!" John repeated, turning so that Sherlock wouldn't see him smiling.

I think that I wrote the seizure as too brief. I'm aware that they're more serious than how I portrayed it in this chapter, but I wanted the overall chapter to be less life threatening because so many of my stories nearly kill John and Sherlock :) Thank you so so much for reading! I'd be so so grateful if you please follow / favorite / leave a review! Thanks so much!