Sherlock woke to the beeping of a heart monitor and the stench of bleach and hand sanitizer. Hospital. Of course. At least his second trip up to that roof had ended here and not with him getting tortured in Russia… or what John thought had happened. Sherlock's eyelids were heavy and kind of stuck together. How long had he been out?
He peeked out of one eye. There sat John, reading some crap magazine that had obviously been left in the room for people waiting.
"John," Sherlock croaked in a 'hello' fashion. His friend looked up, surprised. John closed the magazine and sat it down.
"Sherlock," John said back, also in a 'hello' fashion. Worry clouded his eyes, though. He probably had so many questions.
"What happened?" the patient asked groggily.
"I could ask you the same thing," John said seriously. All Sherlock did was raise an eyebrow in confusion. John sighed.
"Exhaustion. Malnutrition. Dehydration. Why?" It was rhetorical. "Because Sherlock Holmes couldn't eat a damn sandwich or have a glass of water."
There was no response from Sherlock. How could he explain? He didn't need food or drink or sleep, as long as he had a case.
"The case-" Sherlock started.
"The case?!" John said, almost amused, but calmed down, "The case will always still be there when you wake up, Sherlock. You don't have to torture yourself."
"I don't feel it."
"I'm sorry you don't feel it, because we all see it," John said, "We all have to sit there and watch you drive yourself mad, thirsty, and hungry, because you care about 'the case' more than yourself." He sat back in the chair and sighed. "You need to stop."
"I'm sorry, you know," Sherlock said, meekly.
John nodded. "I believe you."
The men sat in silence for what seemed like forever, but Sherlock saw ten minutes, forty seconds go by on the wall clock.
John spoke up first, "We will find Moriarty, you know. Or whatever sick bastard this is."
Sherlock simply nodded, but it was enough.
"So," he said, trying to break the ice, "How's Mary?"
"Ah," John responded with a smile and slight chuckle to his voice, "the million dollar question."
As the conversation took a positive turn, Sherlock knew that John was right. They would find Moriarty and they would do it together. Until then, the two friends would carry on and wait for the day when Jim was finally gone.
That night, Sherlock had to do one final check. Down the spiral stairs he went, to the padded room. To his relief, there sat Jim Moriarty in his rightful place. Chained and controlled. Crazy but contained.
Sherlock could climb the stairs in confidence. As the city of London quieted in reality, Sherlock's sleeping subconscious took him to the room with the golden doors. He spent that dream-filled night with his loved ones, knowing Jim could be stopped. Finally.
The End.