Thanks to those who reviewed the last couple chapters; your comments are much appreciated! The next chapter is nearly finished so it should be up in a few days. Once again, I don't own the characters or the show.

The DI was saved from any further inquiries by the entrance of a doctor, a small woman with a touch of an Indian accent. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes, admitted with suspected concussion and bruised ribs from an altercation," she read off the chart. "Hello, I'm Dr. Charya. All right, now if you could tell me what happened and what symptoms are you experiencing?"

Lestrade glanced at Sherlock, who nodded slightly. "Well, I didn't see the fight, but he was hit in the head with a handgun and kicked in the chest several times. He's also suffering from exhaustion brought on by several days without food or sleep."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at this last part. The doctor listened to his heart, examined the wound, and tenderly felt around his ribs. Lestrade watched as Sherlock tried not to cry out, and merely choked out a tense "Yes" when she asked if it hurt. She made Sherlock follow a light with his eyes, during which his hands were clenched around fistfuls of the fitted sheet in terrible pain.

Sherlock looked not only smaller in the hospital gown than in his trademark wool coat, but also younger, Lestrade noted. He wasn't as skinny as when Lestrade had first met the kid, but his arms were slender and barely darker than the white bedsheets. Only Sherlock's steel grey eyes indicated his true age.

The doctor took Sherlock's wrist and gently lifted it to take his pulse. There, in the crook of his arm, were the almost-faded track marks. Lestrade could remember when they were still an angry shade of red, the needle marks scabbing, Sherlock's pale eyes dilated beyond recognition. Now, the pinkish lines barely showed on his skin.

Lestrade was secretly relieved for this proof that the man was no longer using. A while ago he'd nearly overdosed, disappeared for a few months, and returned completely lucid. It seemed he was on the wagon. Of course, with Sherlock you could never really know. He could probably still solve crimes better than Scotland Yard while he was coked up. At first Lestrade had been worried about the drug use because of his own reputation, and then because the kid was no use to them dead. Now, he realized, looking at the 26-year-old's long, pale fingers trembling from pain, he was worried for Sherlock's sake. Hell, he'd actually become a bit fond of the kid. As cruel as he could be, Sherlock was refreshingly honest.

Dr. Charya stepped back and delivered the diagnosis to both men. "Well, you were right about the concussion. It's not major but it will probably take a couple of weeks to fully recover. We recommend taking it easy and limiting any physical or cognitive activity. You may find reading difficult. The nausea and dizziness should fade fairly quickly, but the fatigue and headache will last longer.

"You also have several bruised ribs, though none of them are broken. Unfortunately there's not much we can do for that other than wait for them to heal. Taking slow, deep breaths and avoiding unnecessary speech will help minimize the pain. You should be able to breathe normally in a few short days, and the chest pain will fade soon after that. I recommend that you stay the night here, but you'll be free to go home in the morning after another quick exam. Can your father give you a ride home?" she asked, nodding towards Lestrade.

Lestrade gave a short laugh and said, "God, no!" At the doctor's alarmed stare, he continued, "Sorry, just… father? Do I really look that old?"

"Oh dear," stammered the doctor, "Of course not, I apologize for making the assumption… you're his brother?"

"Colleague," responded Lestrade a bit forcefully. "But yeah," he added, recovering, "I can drive him."

Throughout this exchange Sherlock was starting at the ceiling, his mouth quirked in an amused grin as he tried not to laugh.

The doctor smiled, and there was an awkward moment of silence.

She regained her composure to say, "Now Mr. Holmes, if you'd like I can give you something for the pain—"

"No," Sherlock interrupted firmly.

Lestrade hurried to explain. "He can't have anything strong, what about ibuprofen?"

The doctor nodded. "Less effective, but it will help. Take the highest dose possible for at least the next two days but don't exceed that dosage. Now, I'm sending in a nurse to clean and bandage your head wound, but luckily you won't need any stitches. Shall I have her bring you anything to eat or drink?"

He shook his head slightly, and Lestrade answered, "Well, he can't keep much down, but he's barely eaten this week."

Dr. Charya nodded again. "I can give you an over-the-counter anti-nausea medication that's very safe. Not strong, but it will help you get a bit of food in your system."

Sherlock considered for a moment, and said, "Okay."

The doctor smiled and said, "Feel better, Mr. Holmes, and call us if anything worsens." She turned to leave

Lestrade stopped her to ask, "Is he allowed to sleep?"

She responded briskly, "Yes, that is a common myth. As long as you wake him up every two hours to check on him, he is welcome to go to sleep."

Once she exited, Sherlock grinned. "I had noticed… you're graying… a bit."

Lestrade glared. "Wait 'til you're my age."

Sherlock frowned playfully. "Hey now… I think it's… dignified. Your wife… thinks it's… sexy… by the way."

"What?" said Lestrade, trying to sound disinterested, rather than the combination of hopeful and flustered he actually felt. "Why do you say that?"

"Since the grey… it's all… mussed with more," he took a rattling breath, "than before. She must… like it. Don't… dye it… then she'll… actually leave you."

Lestrade was too dumbstruck to respond for a moment. Sherlock Holmes, giving him romantic advice? He chose to ignore the part where Sherlock somehow knew his wife had been talking of leaving him, and instead responded with a stubborn, "I'd never dye my hair."

Sherlock gave him a sad, knowing smile. "She does… love you, you know," he said, his breathlessness catching up with him. His deep baritone was soft as he spoke. "You'll… work it out… so long as you don't… do something," gasp, "incredibly stupid." A pause, during which Sherlock put on his deep-thinking face. "I'd give it… 46%... chance of success… higher than… the national average," he finished brightly.

"Hey, she told you not to talk," grumbled Lestrade, annoyed that Sherlock was always right. It was no wonder, really, that he was so arrogant.

Miraculously, the detective stayed silent. It must really hurt to speak then, Lestrade figured. There were a few minutes of silence broken only by Sherlock's labored breaths. Lestrade supposed he could probably work on his bedside manner. "Just," he started, clearing his throat, "Try to get some sleep."

Sherlock grinned and closed his eyes. "Told… you it's a… myth."