Thank you, Spirit the Fire Dragon, for being my beta reader. She has some good stories you should check out too-after reading this, of course. I recommend "If I Die Young" and probably some tissues.

I Want to Know, Too

Current Events

Who was the current Prime Minister? Who was the previous Prime Minister? Who was his current MP? Anyone who was an MP? Who was the most recent member of the royal family? Failing at politics, who was Beckham married to? What country won the last world cup? Who was the current Doctor?

Sherlock's insufficient answers to questions such as these had him sitting up and scowling at that same first perky blond nurse three days later. Despite his objections to relating famous people to his brain health, Sherlock was being held "for observation". His habit of deleting this information as soon as he heard it was difficult to kick. Efforts to reclaim famous names right after deletion led to much confusion. When the doctor or nurses would discuss their exasperation over his lack of knowledge of current events, Sherlock would strain to hear the answers and store them away. Victoria something was not Prime Minister and had not been in the royal family for a while.

John found this hilarious. That and he poked fun at his potential brain injuries.

"If you hadn't of turned around while running like an idiot, you could only had a broken arm. Just wait 'til they ask you about the sun."

Though John was teasing Sherlock, he was visibly relieved when Sherlock was able to reply to his banter. When Watson had first walked in, Sherlock noted his knit brows and a certain lack of breathing. After Sherlock began complaining about having to trifle with meaningless information, John's face relaxed and one side of his mouth raised into a half grin. Something in Sherlock's own chest loosened at the sight of John's crooked smile. The nurses he bothered had eventually reassured him that his flatmate was well, but seeing him in a calm state actually set him at ease.

John's visits were short and attended by Lestrade. Though Lestrade did not believe that John and Sherlock were directly responsible for the destruction of the pool, he had to keep them apart so they could not discuss the events before the explosion. They were the only people found at the scene, and Lestrade could not dismiss them until Sherlock's memory checked out. The remains of the explosive were sent in to be analyzed, but as no one was killed it did not get the highest priority.

The broken arm wasn't really the only wound John had. There was a cut on the back of John's head. Staples held the gash together as John dipped his head to show Sherlock his wounds and allow his to deduce what happened. Lestrade had gotten angry with this game, as it was a form of sharing information. It was too late, as Sherlock saw the head wound to come from something metal with a small lip and a hinge, likely from a clasp on the blue pool cover John had been found under. John's broken arm was boring, just from trying to catch himself from his fall.

Today, John was arguing with Lestrade over a scone he had deposited onto a bedside tray. Mrs. Hudson had sent her love and baked goods to her two renters in the hospital. This scone was all John had saved for Sherlock. Lestrade did not want to allow any unapproved foods until Sherlock was in a better state. Sherlock tried to reassure him that carbohydrates were beneficial to brain function, but the detective inspector bent forward and pocketed the scone.

Sandalwood aftershave. Dropped matchbook. Tie in a new knot.

Sherlock's desire to continue to get visitors not wearing scrubs kept him from blurting out that Lestrade probably wanted the scone for himself. The detective inspector was wearing a different, cheaper aftershave and a package of hotel matches had fallen out of his pocket when he put away the scone. He must have taken up real smoking once again. Lestrade was having some time away from wife and from the look on his face when John produced the scone, he missed her baking. Sherlock envied the thought of real tobacco smoke.

"Out. Patient's family only at this time."

The doctor walked into the room and shooed out Lestrade and John, as they were not related, they were not supposed to be there. However, Lestrade's badge had initially gotten him past the diligent head nurse who now stood behind the doctor. It had helped that the nurses wanted to curb his annoying inquisitions into John's well being.

Dr. Pazzi, Sherlock's new neurologist, began looking over the most recent charts. The head nurse would take notes as he evaluated Sherlock's current state. Dr. Pazzi was an older man who was brilliant with a drinking problem. However, the alcohol abuse was not what led the nurse to need to take notes and make corrections. The corrections were being done by the head nurse, Sherry, to cover up the slow onset of Alzheimer's. It was a particularly sad ailment to be attacking the top neurologist in London. Lestrade had made demands for Sherlock to be in the care of a top physician as potential witness testimony had been locked in his head. Mycroft had done the actual string pulling.

A vase of flowers lay on the table beside Sherlock's bed. He examined the lilies from Mycroft as the Doctor asked him the same questions he had been posing every day:

"How do you feel?"

"Any unusual pains?"

"Who has visited you today?"

"Do you remember what you talked about?"

"Any unusual pains?"

Again. Repeated questions. My memory in question, really?

Then the similar annoying celebrity questions would start. Sherlock drawled out the answers mimicking Doctor Pazzi's own boredom with the questions. Dr. Pazzi would have quit his job if he was not so afraid being at home alone all the time. Sherlock noticed some days he wore his old wedding ring. Other days he observed him unconsciously touching the pocket it likely resided in. His wife had passed as Sherry would frown piteously at the ring when he wore it. Sherlock would hear Sherry's questions coming from the hallway where she was checking to make sure the doctor was not at the stage of his disease that he had forgotten.

These deductions were the most interesting bits of brain activity Sherlock was able to experience. Much of the day Sherlock was trapped in his own head staring at whatever slight changes had taken place to the room itself. Mostly, he wanted nicotine. As more time passed without one, he was becoming more irritable.

However, once he recognized the doctor's ailment, Sherlock backed off from his aggressive patient stance. The staff could not be annoyed into releasing him and Sherry was extremely likable middle-aged red head. She reminded him of Mrs. Hudson and even brought him an occasional scone with his hospital issued meal. Sherlock would enjoy it even more next time knowing that it would anger Lestrade. Also like Mrs. Hudson, Sherry remarked on his thinness and had forced at least three pounds on him through five scheduled meals a day. Sherlock's sharp responses may have also been lessened due to issues with his broken leg. He had remembered running on the partial fracture leading to a clean break. Now, a recent fall had left him in great pain-after he had attempted to get up and walk on it yesterday. He'd hoped to throw on his coat and waltz out.

Probably tore my ACL. Too bad; couldn't hide it. More time in this damned place. Surgery probably needed, too.

Sherry had been trying to distract him from his pain until the doctor returned. She hoped lending him a few books she said she scraped together would cheer him up, even if they were some trashy vampire novels. He was told the books were very popular with young teenage girls recently. When he started complaining about the teen romance to Sherry, she claimed that she had never read them. A light blush crept over her cheeks as she looked down at his charts, nervously flipping through the pages. Sherlock knew she was lying and that the books likely belonged to her. The books were rough looking used paperbacks. She probably did not want to read them herself but had bought them with a book club she had mentioned before. Despite her misgivings she had liked them. The books must have been loaned to other nurses to have them all on hand to give him. They were more enjoyable when he imagined Sherry reading them with a book club of other older ladies.

"Morphine."

The word caught Sherlock's attention from the lilies and his fondness for over middle-aged women who brought him scones. Sherry was filling out a form in the doorway as Dr. Pazzi gave her specifics on volumes to be allowed over time. It was about time they did something about that pain. He was starting to believe the blond nurse and her compatriots were getting back at him for being so annoying for the first twenty-four hours. The nicotine patches were not allowed in his room, though John had tried to bring them in once in a book of logic puzzles. The book was a disappointing collection of dull "Who did Sally send her gift to and what did she send?" type puzzles or, worse, they were dull little blocks of nine you were supposed to fill with all the digits. Sherlock had built a reaching device out of the paper that was confiscated within a few hours. He was not allowed any more gifts after that.

Mostly he spent the days alone, not allowed even to watch the television as Lestrade did not want his memories tainted by the media. John's few visits were restricted to less than ten minutes. The lack of stimulation was driving Sherlock very stir crazy. Even Mycroft's visits began to be something Sherlock looked forward to as a highlight of his day. Though he had not particularly tried morphine before but he had tried the poppy drug it was derived from.

Sherry and the blond nurse, Jill, now returned to his room rolling in a complex IV drip. The blond seemed quite pleased with his new drug regimen, no doubt thinking this would yield a quieter, gentler Sherlock. Though he had backed off, he was naturally what John described as an "annoying git". John was kind enough to also mention how brilliant he was from time to time, though. Jill had balked at his mention of her pregnancy with one of the ER doctors and told Sherlock to mind his own business. When she asked him casually about his observations of the other nurses, privacy seemed less important to her.

The working of the contraption was explained to him, though he could deduce he was given a button and that the time intervals discussed between doctor and nurse meant it would only be dispersed within given intervals. Sherry was telling him about a surgery on his leg tomorrow and his likely release within the week as he tapped at the button she handed him. A familiar warmth spread up his arm. Jill's devilish smirk was the last thing he saw that he was certain was real. After that, things began to defy logic.