Hopefully the last of the boring chapters! I think the plot is ready to launch. Thank you for the reviews! They make me beam like an idiot for several hours. Hope you like it!

Lestrade paced his office. It was early morning, and London was still only just waking up. No such luck for him though. He had been up since five in the morning, calling round and trying to get some kind of intelligence. Intelligence on where Sherlock Holmes was. He had disappeared yesterday, at noon, and not been seen since. Lestrade wasn't particularly worried about him, but there were several reasons he wanted the man. His brother, Mycroft, had been harassing him over the fact Sherlock had escaped under the noses of four police officers, and half a hospital that had been warned to watch out for him. Then, his flatmate would be waking up soon, and everybody concerned, except Harry, thought it wise that Sherlock be with him when he awoke. He was probably closest person to the ex army doctor, and would be able to explain what happened.

But, if Lestrade hadn't known that Sherlock could be in some kind of danger, he wouldn't have bothered looking for the consulting detective. After all, it was hardly pressing, and he had more important matters to attend to. Somebody had committed suicide, and he needed to track their family. He sighed, tossing the report onto the table, and glancing out the window. He also had to look into the matter of this Moriarty, whom Sherlock insisted would be trying another move at some point.

Sherlock sighed, stretching out on the uncomfortable bed. It was nothing like his own at 221b. It was half the size. The sheets and quilts were scratchy, and the mattress far to soft. He sighed again. This place was almost as bad as the hospital. He glanced at the cloak on the bedside table, and was pleased to find it was five past seven. He sat up, and clambered out the bed with very little grace. His rib was making some moves difficult, not that he would ever admit it.

He hurried down to the dining room of the crappy hotel he was staying in. He couldn't afford anything fancy. The dining room was alright. Open and light. A few people were already sitting at tables, eating breakfast. Sherlock scowled to himself and sat down. Today, he planned to go back to the flat, even if it meant risking capture.

He glanced over at a couple who were several tables away. They were newly married, that much was obvious by happy, yet slightly tired expressions on their faces. And the lady wore a new ring. Sherlock sighed gloomily, there was nothing interesting to deduce about them. Nor anybody else for that matter. One man had been a fight with his wife, and come here for the night. Another lady had met her secret lover here the night before. Then there was a family of five who came from France, and were enjoying a holiday in London, though the husband was to tight pocketed to pay for a proper hotel.

Sherlock looked disdainfully over at the small selection of cheap food the hotel had on offer. Even if he had been hungry, nothing would have tempted him. He stood abruptly - causing several gazes to flick over to him, and then quickly look away - and marched the the receptionists desk. He dumped the ninety two pounds his rooms had cost on the table.

"Thank you, sir. Did you enjoy your visit?"

"Not really no." he said vaguely.

"I'm sorry to hear that." said the women meekly, cashing the money.

Sherlock turned sharply on his heels, and marched off.

It was ten in the morning, and Harry sat next her brother, watching his chest rise and fall more irregularly. The doctor's had said he would be waking in a few hours. But due to the traumatic event in which he had been injured, he might panic. Apparently they had decided that Sherlock should be the one with him, not her. She had fumed inwardly at this, pleased that Sherlock had vanished without a trace.

Her gaze was drawn from the wall as John gave a muffled groan. She sat, eyes fixed on his face. His eye lids were flickering, and his breath coming jerkily. She considered ringing for a doctor, after all, they knew best, but decided against it. They would certainly shoo her out, and she hated feeling uninvolved.

Sherlock decided to walk to Baker Street. It wasn't far, if he took the right route. And taking a cab left evidence for Mycroft. Soon he was quietly opening the door, and slipping up the staircase, not wanting to wake Mrs. Hudson. It was only seven forty, and a Sunday. He avoided the creaking steps, and soon had slipped into his flat. It was deserted, as he had expected. Flinging himself onto the sofa, Sherlock closed his eyes for an instant.

It turned out that he closed his eyes for more than an instant. Because when he opened them, Mycroft was seated primly on John's chair, idly reading a newspaper. Sherlock sat up abruptly, and scowled at his brother. He should have known Mycroft would check here again. It was a stupid mistake, all those drugs the doctors had been giving him obviously were no good for the brain.

"What do you want, Mycroft." he demanded, trying not to let his surprise show.

"To come with me."

"Back to hospital? No. I'm not going back, and you can't make me."

Mycroft set the newspaper down, and pick up his umbrella, setting it on his lap.

"I could, if I really wanted to, but that is not the reason I want you to return to the hospital. Your flatmate will be waking up soon, and I expect he will want to see you." Mycroft gave a thin lipped smile, and rose.

Sherlock cleared his face of any emotion, and stood, silently following Mycroft out of the room. He needed to get these drugs out of his system, they were obviously clouding his judgement. Normally he would never follow Mycroft, knowing he was going back into a hospital.

They climbed into a black Mercedes, and the car silently slid off down the street.

"What time is it?" asked Sherlock.

"Almost ten." said Mycroft cordially.

Then the silence stretched on until the sleek car pulled up outside the hospital. Sherlock hurriedly excited, and walked swiftly up to the hospital doors. He waited for a brief instant on the threshold, waiting for Mycroft to catch up, before striding in. He glanced a little curiously round reception, taking note of all the people there. Coughing children, sniffling infants, hysterical women. They were all there. On his exit, he hadn't had much time to exmine the interior of his prison.

Mycroft led the way down a long, boring, white corridor, and then up a staircase to the private rooms. Soon they were standing outside 's room.

"In you go. I'll warn you that Harriet is already there." said Mycroft, before walking stiffly back down the corridor, umbrella swinging slightly.

Sherlock pushed the door open, and was greeted by a snarling Harry.

"What are you doing here?" she snapped, half rising.

"Don't bother to get up." said Sherlock, crossing the room in a few strides, and sitting opposite Harry. Ignoring her, he examined his friend.

He didn't look to bad. A bit bruised, but he'd been patched up. That was all that mattered. Lestrade had said there was all manner of things that could surface when the man woke. But Sherlock didn't like the idea of John waking up, and not remembering him. So he didn't think about it.

"What are you doing here?" asked Harry, breaking through Sherlock's thoughts.

"I've come to see John. You do realise you repeated yourself?" he said simply, giving her a long suffering look.

"Your in big trouble, you know?"

"I'm easily forgiven."

"Oh right. Saint Sherlock." she sneered.

"Please. People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones." scoffed Sherlock, feeling a slight pleasure in tormenting John's sister.

"And what is that supposed to mean?" she snarled.

"You are perfectly aware of your problems, Harriet Watson."

Harry opened his mouth to shout a retort, but was cut of by a feeble moan.

"Sherlock?"

There. A titchy cliffy, but nothing to serious. Updated in about a week again.

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