Chapter Three

Passing out was an intriguing experience.

He was used to the sudden blackness taking his vision before he passed out. He was used to the generalized weakness that left him feeling sick and exhausted. He was used to it...

... and yet, it was different every time.

This time, there was a lot of darkness. Darkness that was all consuming and infinitely more comforting than the reality of what was happening.

The pain vanished, the sounds drowned out, and he was remotely peaceful.

But Sherlock, a little voice whispered in the silence and darkness of his mind palace, you need to be conscious. John will be worried, not to mention he's injured. Sleeping with a head injury is not a good idea, for either of you.

But, the dark peacefulness of his mind was something that he rarely got to experience. And he didn't want to give it up just yet.

It wasn't like Sherlock was at all unhappy with his mind. Because, he wasn't. He loved his mind. It was the only thing that he did love, quite frankly, besides his work. As long as he had a case to solve and his brain was functioning quite correctly, there wasn't anything else he could ask for.

Solving mysteries was his life.

Solving mysteries had been his life for some time now, and it wasn't about to change.

Except, perhaps... perhaps it had changed.

He had met John.

He had met John and everything had changed. He hadn't wanted it to change- everyone knew that he was perfectly happy with his life- but one domino had toppled and the chain reaction had been spectacular. The reaction, as it were, was still ongoing. It was still an experiment that was under careful consideration.

It was almost as intriguing as passing out.

Wake up, Sherlock.

There was that nagging little voice in his head again. It sounded a lot like John.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock forced his eyes open, blinking against the light that was in such a contrast to what he had been recently experiencing. Darkness was nice, peaceful and relaxing; the light, irritating and annoying.

"Sherlock? Jeez, you-"

John was rambling. Sherlock efficiently tuned him out, trying to see past the black dots that were still trying to cloud his vision. He wanted to fall back into darkness... It was peaceful... Just- just, for now, he'd love to turn off all his senses and leave them off for a bit. Just this once.

"Sherlock?!"

Sherlock pried his eyes open again. He didn't realize that they had closed. "John, please do shut up."

"Okay, okay, you're fine. You need to breathe, Sherlock. Stay awake."

"I am breathing," he retorted irritably. "It's boring."

"So you say; now look at me."

Sherlock ignored him, blinking away black spots again. The world was rocking slightly; he was getting dizzy now, too? How unimpressive.

"Sherlock!"

He finally raised his gaze to meet John's panicked one. Sherlock didn't know why he was worrying so much. John was (mostly) fine; John shouldn't be worrying. John was worrying about him, Sherlock knew, but that was stupid.

He watched the panic drift somewhat from John's gaze as he finally met the doctor's eyes.

"Just stay awake, yeah? Help'll be here soon..."

Sherlock tuned John out again, placing one of his hands flat against the seat to push himself up from the slouch he was in. He stopped moving immediately when pain, white-hot, sickening pain shot straight up from his right leg when he moved it. The pain resonated within every bone in his body and he involuntarily gasped, clenching his teeth together afterwards.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock swallowed back the urge to be sick, letting his eyes deviate to his leg. His passenger door was caved in- the cab had come to a stop against a utility pole- but had... Well, obviously something had happened, lest his leg wouldn't hurt so bad, but he couldn't remember anything happening that could have caused injury to his leg.

To be perfectly honest, he'd lost track of everything when the car started spinning. It had been...

"I'm fine," he muttered, shivering. He'd never have any broken bones before, not even a sprain. He never so much as twisted his ankle during chases in London, no matter where they took him. Pain wasn't uncommon, of course, in his profession, but this was an entirely different type of pain. Not once had he ever been so... unwilling to test his pain threshold.

"Sherlock, you've gone pale, tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing," Sherlock muttered, closing his eyes again.

"Sherlock-"

"I'm fine," he interrupted, shivering again. He was fairly sure that it wasn't particularly a cold day outside, so the shivering was irksome and thoroughly unwarranted.

And, like a good doctor should, John noticed.

"Oh hell, you're shivering. Tell me what's wrong."

"Shock," Sherlock replied absently. "Where's Lestrade with those blankets?"

"Sherlock." John was using that tone, the don't-argue-with-me tone.

"John," Sherlock replied petulantly, looking to the window.

"Why don't you just say what's-" John broke off suddenly. Sherlock looked back at him. John was extremely pale, the complexion of his skin a stark contrast against the blood on his face. He had his hand pressed over his mouth again.

Sherlock looked back to the broken window, shivering yet again. "Don't be ill, John, it's atrocious," he muttered, although his statement lacked conviction.

John laughed slightly in return, and, in the distance, Sherlock could hear sirens breaking the inane chatter of useless passerby.

Ever the analytical one, Sherlock. Even when he's a bit more hurt than he actually lets on.

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