'You found it then,' Sherlock said without looking up as John walked through the door of his hospital room. He was sitting up in bed, reading the newspaper; still looking pale, still with the oxygen and his morphine drip attached, but there was some of his old nonchalant arrogance back.

'The fake drugs. Yes I found them. Very inventive. Did you plant them for me?'

'No.'

'For Anderson?'

'And indirectly my brother, yes. I must say, I was a little disappointed that Anderson didn't find them. I was looking forward to Mycroft's face when he found that sherbert. I presume that was the one you found - the one in the slipper?'

'And the one in the book.'

'Pickwick Papers? Good, I'm impressed John.'

Patronising bastard, John thought.

'There were more, I presume?'

'Of course. Seven in total. Seemed a nice round number. Tell me, did you actually try the contents of the bags or leave it until you got the analysis back from Molly?'

'I tried it.'

'Foolish, John. It could have been anything. You really do need to stop watching so many bad American cop shows.'

'What the hell are you up to, Sherlock?' John shouted with more volume than he had intended, as he snatched the newspaper out of Sherlock's hands.

'Maybe I should have put some diazepam in one of those packets,' Sherlock said mildly.

'Can you be serious for just one minute?'

Sherlock reached across and turned down his morphine infusion with a sigh. 'Has it occurred to you, John, that it might be done of your business?' he asked calmly.

'You made it your business when you planted yourself in that drug den with Isaac, and when you asked me to accompany you to the place where you got shot, or are you going to pretend that was part of the plan too? You made it your business when you made me think that I was going to have to crack your chest in the back of a moving ambulance to keep you alive, you stupid, stupid, bastard!'

John was yelling now and before he knew it the security detail posted outside the door were pulling him away from the bed as the nurse came running in, looking terrified.

'It's fine, just a disagreement between friends,' Sherlock told the security men firmly, and they relaxed their hold on Johns arms, but remained in the room.

' John -' Sherlock began.

'I'm going for some air,' John said, walking out of the room before he lost it entirely. Stupid, stupid bastard. How dare he pull John into his elaborate game. How dare he pretend that John didn't care. Sherlock had been right about one thing though, parenthood was going to be a doddle after all the teenage manipulation crap that Sherlock landed on him. He couldn't help wonder if this hadn't all been part of Sherlock's plan. 'Look at me, John - I'm an addict again. Look at me, John, I'm in it up to my neck and I need you to rescue me. Look at me, John, I've been shot'. Come to think of it, that last one was going a bit far, even for Sherlock.

John felt manipulated. And he didn't like it.

He walked out of Sherlock's room and headed down the stairs back to the main entrance. Head down, he could think only about getting out. Once outside the building, he kept walking, feeling his anger gradually decrease to a more manageable level. He headed towards Vallance Gardens, a rather grand name for a patch of grass with a small childrens play area, surrounded by houses on three sides. But it was a green space, somewhere to sit and calm down, somewhere to think. There was a hut selling drinks and snacks. He badly wanted coffee, but opted for a bottle of water instead. He was jittery enough as it was, the last thing that he needed was more caffeine.

He replayed the events of the day in his head; the conversation with Billy, the search of 221b, the time he had spent with Molly in the lab, and finally the conversation with Sherlock. Two thing were clear - Sherlock had been using drugs, there was no denying that. And much as John wanted to believe his story, that it was only for the case, his knowledge of addiction told him differently, Sherlock had been an addict before, Mycroft had alluded to the fact that it had been more of a problem than Sherlock himself had led him to believe. For an addict to expose himself to a substance he had previously been addicted to, on a recurrent basis, and not become addicted again was virtually impossible. Even for Sherlock Holmes. And secondly, there was absolutely no extent that Sherlock would not go to in order to stop Magnussen. Knowing what he did of his friends nature, it seemed extremely unlikely that he would let a little thing like being shot stop him.

John sat there, drinking his water, trying to work out what to do next. He pulled out his phone and tried to call Mary, but there was no reply. Of course, she was at work, and wouldn't be able to answer her phone while she was with patients. It was at times like this that he wished that he smoked.

He was going to have to go back and try to talk to Sherlock again, there was no way out of it. He walked back slowly, trying to work out what he was going to say. How he could stay supportive and not let the frustration at his friend's stupidity take over. How he could keep his own guilt out of it. He tried Mary again, wanting her quiet wisdom, but it was still going straight to answer phone.

He walked back into Sherlock's room, still unsure of what he was going to say, to find Sherlock fast asleep, the settings on the PCA turned up again.

'You bastard,' John murmured.

'He was in a lot of pain,' the nurse said, entering the room behind him. 'Took some persuasion to get him to turn it up again, but he had a coughing fit after you left. Coughing after a thoracotomy hurts like hell.'

'I'm sure that it does,' John murmured. 'Tell him I'll come and see him again tomorrow, will you?'

'Of course.'

'And if he needs me before then -'

'I'll phone you,' the nurse said firmly.

John phoned Molly on his walk back to the tube station.

'No luck?' she asked.

'How did you guess?'

'Told you it wouldn't be easy. Did he admit anything about the drugs at all?'

'Not a thing. He just told me that it was none of my business, and managed to get me so angry in the process that security pitched up to stop me thumping him. I had to go for a walk to calm down, and by the time that I got back, he was asleep.'

'Which would have course been exactly what he wanted.'

'The thought had crossed my mind. Manipulative bastard. So what now? Any suggestions?'

'Watch and wait, I suppose. He knows that you know, and he knows that you care, that's what matters. Other than that, I'm sorry John, but I have absolutely no idea. You know Sherlock, he'll always do what he wants to do, and he'll only talk about what he wants to talk about. Even to you'

This chapter comes with thanks to CopGirl for pointing out that only an idiot (and John) would actually taste what they believed to be drugs in an attempt to identify them. It would appear that Sherlock agrees with you!

Molly's reaction to this coming up in the next chapter of Conversations and Conspiracies..