John returned to the room a little bit after Jim fell asleep again. He tossed Sebastian a carton of milk and a shrink wrapped sandwich before moving to Jim's side to check up on him.

"Did he wake up at all?"

"Yeah, for a bit. Long enough to ask for junk food, at least."

"Well, that's a start, I guess. I was hoping he'd stay awake long enough to answer a few questions, but they're not that important."

"If you're planning on asking him who the current prime minister is, it's a lost cause. He's convinced that there's some mysterious bigwig with an umbrella fetish running the British government."

"Er, right." John cleared his throat awkwardly and dragged his own chair up. "Sherlock's the same way, only he "deletes" the information to make room for blood splatter patterns and the like."

Sebastian smirked. "That's nothing. One time Jim spent so much time programming that he accidentally started writing notes using binary. Took him a week to get things sorted again."

"I found out that, despite speaking three language fluently and two more in fragments, Sherlock doesn't know the difference between an adjective and an adverb."

"Jim tried cutting the crust off a sandwich using a a meat cleaver once."

"I caught Sherlock trying to bash a screw into a shelf using a mallet one time."

"I bought Jim a houseplant as a birthday present a while back. He thought that it was the sun's heat that made plants grow, so he put it in the microwave to make it bloom faster."

John snorted in laughter, unable to hold it back as he imagined how surprised Jim would have been to find that he had cooked his marigolds. "Okay, I think you win with that one. Although I'm sure that Sherlock's done something just as ridiculous; I just can't remember anything right off."

"I don't know, John," Sherlock stated coolly from where he was leaned against the frame of the door. "You seemed to find it rather amusing when I used dish soap in the laundry."

"Sherlock," John smiled guiltily from his chair, embarrassed at having been caught. "I wasn't expecting you to stop by."

"Yes, well," Sherlock sniffed. "I knew you were taking Jim out of the coma today, so I thought I would drop this puzzle book off for him. Doubtless you wouldn't want your patient to die of boredom just after fixing him."

"I'm sure he'll be happy to see it, although I don't know how much puzzle solving he'll be able to do for the next couple of days. He's going to be pretty heavily drugged."

"That's why I brought him a coloring book, too." Sherlock dropped his bundle of books and crayons at the foot of Jim's bed. John raised an eyebrow at the assortment of coloring utensils and knick knacks Sherlock had brought; it looked as if he were supplying a five year old with a month's worth of goodies.

"You didn't rob a grade school teacher's treasure chest, did you?"

"No," Sherlock scowled. "I bought them. Well, most of them. Some I had laying around the flat. And some I nicked while at Lestrade's flat."

"I didn't know Lestrade has children."

"He doesn't. He has a child. A daughter, I believe, who lives with his ex-wife."

"Oh, well, that explains the My Little Pony story book, at least."

Sherlock smirked slightly. "I thought Jim would identify with Knight Shade."

"Oh god." John shook his head, but collected the book along with the other junk Sherlock had brought and dropped it into the drawer of Jim's nightstand. "Is that all you wanted, then?"

"Essentially, yes. Although I was hoping you would come with me to a crime scene. Sally has begun accusing me of murdering you due to your absence as of late, and I would much prefer to prove my innocence this way than by another drugs bust."

John frowned, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I can't leave yet. There's still a few things that I need to take care of here. I can give Lestrade a call, though, if you think it would help get them off your case."

"Right." For a moment, Sherlock almost looked disappointed, but then he regained his composure with a casual wave of his hand. "Of course. It's not a problem. I'm sure it's an open and closed domestic murder anyway, hardly worth my time. I'll be off then."

Sherlock strode out of the room just as abruptly as he had entered it, leaving a gaping silence in his wake. John cleared his throat and turned his attention back on his patient, carefully checking the various monitors around the bed before settling back down in his chair.

"When he's better, what are you going to do?"

"What?" John looked up from where he had been focusing on Jim's chart. He frowned, a bit confused by the dark expression on Sebastian's face.

"When he's better, are you just going to let him go? You and your crime solving boyfriend don't seem too apt to just let London's most intelligent criminal just slip through the cracks."

"That's true..." John ran his fingers through his hair, frowning up at the ceiling in concentration. He had really hoped to not have this conversation. He had really hoped that things would work themselves out without his having to make any sort of decisions or reconsider any of his ethics. Obviously, Sebastian was going to force the issue, whether or not John wanted to think about it at the moment. "I hadn't really thought about it, honestly. Although, I can promise that I won't do anything one way or the other until he's completely healthy."

Sebastian scowled a bit, apparently not satisfied with John's evasive, half-answer. Fortunately, however, Jim began moaning just as he opened his mouth to press further. Sebastian's attention was quickly diverted to Jim, and John sighed in relief at the distraction. He really didn't want to have that conversation, at least, not until he figured out what exactly he planned to do.

"Hello again." Sebastian's demeanor had changed completely; he was now smiling down at Jim affectionately and just barely touching his hand as if still afraid that hand-holding was forbidden.

"Again?" Jim's speech was indistinct at best, but still recognizable.

"Yeah. You woke up once a little while ago."

"Oh." He was shifting sluggishly beneath the covers as if trying to sit up, although it seemed that the medication was still making it difficult for him to have a proper understanding of the placement of his limbs. "Did we talk about marshmallows?"

"A bit, yeah."

"Good. Was 'fraid I dreamt it."

"Do you want anything? Are you feeling okay?"

"Drink?"

Sebastian nodded and poured the chocolate milk that John had brought earlier into a cup. He helped Jim sit up a bit before pressing the glass to his lips. All perfectly normal behavior for a patient and their caretaker. That is, until Jim's tongue darted out to taste and then his eyes grew wide in horror and he smacked the glass out of Sebastian's hand, causing milk to splatter across his front and sheets.

"Jim!"

"I don't want it!" Jim screamed. He looked to be on the edge of a complete meltdown; his shoulders were shuddering violently and his breath was coming in harsh, shaking gasps. "You can't make me drink it. I don't want it. Don't want to have it." He continued many variations of this, all the while teetering closer towards a full-scale panic attack.

"Jim..." Sebastian stared down at him blankly, not understanding at all where his sudden, vehement opposition to chocolate milk came from. "You like chocolate milk..." He finally finished lamely, his shoulders slumped as he realized he had no clue what to do for Jim.

Taking pity on Sebastian and realizing that the man was probably no less emotionally stunted than Jim himself, John stepped in to try his hand at defusing the bomb. "Hey, Jim. It's okay. If you don't want it, you don't have to have it." John wrapped his arm around Jim's shoulders, not quite restraining him, but applying enough pressure to ground him. "I can get you anything else you want. Would you prefer some juice or water?"

It took repeating himself a couple of times, but slowly Jim began to return to himself. John watched as the thrumming of Jim's pulse evident in his neck slowed, waited until his breathing had become more relaxed and less like desperate gasps. He continued rubbing slow circles on Jim's back while talking him down.

"Do you still want something to drink, Jim?"

He nodded, quietly muttering, "Apple juice."

John looked up at Sebastian who nodded his assent. He briskly walked in the direction of the nurse's station in order to retrieve the juice. He was confused; Jim loved chocolate milk and always asked for it, without fail. He was upset; he had never been so utterly useless in helping Jim when he needed it. He was angry; what right did John have to interfere? He would have gotten it under control eventually. Probably. Maybe. Then again, he thought that maybe he should be grateful for John's intervention. John seemed to have known exactly what to say and when to say it, whereas Sebastian always fumbled with these sorts of things.

Meanwhile, Jim was gradually settling back into something resembling normality. If collapsing into John's arms while murmuring something about "Don't want to sleep anymore" could be considered normality. John simply continued gently shushing him and muttering the usual soothing phrases while he waited for Jim to calm down.

"Feeling better yet?"

"No. I'm sticky."

John looked him over, slightly mystified at how a single cup of chocolate milk could cause such a mess, both literal and metaphorical. "You want to get cleaned up, then?"

"Yes."

John began going about the business of removing the evidence of Jim's panic attack, stripping the soiled cover off the bed and retrieving a rag to wipe the sticky liquid from Jim's arms and face. He was working on sponging down Jim's chest when Sebastian entered the room once again, carrying a cup of apple juice and looking as if he were seriously considering tackling John to the ground.

"Hey," John casually pulled away from Jim, smiling his best placating grin. "If you want to finish up here, I'll clean up the floor and get him another set of sheets."

"Yeah, sure." Sebastian stepped up to take John's place. He worked the rag around the various areas of stitching on Jim's stomach, cautiously applying as little pressure as possible. Jim gave a low hum of contentment, his eyes falling closed while Sebastian continued his work. "You're not going to fall asleep on my again, are you?"

"Mmhm." Jim's lips quirked in a small smirk but his eyes remained obstinately closed.

"Not very nice of you. It's been boring these past few days, you know. John's a nice guy, but he's dreadfully dull."

"I heard that," John said from the floor.

Sebastian grinned but kept on talking as if John hadn't interrupted. "And he has a terrible sense of humor. You should hear all the awful jokes he's been telling me. And that flatmate of his, he's an obnoxious sod."

Jim let out something close to a giggle, whether from Sebastian's verbal abuse of his nemesis or the careful cleaning that was coming dangerously close to stroking, Sebastian wasn't sure.

"Seb, you're tickling me." Jim gave another giggle as the rag dipped along his side to wipe away the last droplets of milk.

"Sorry." Sebastian quickly dropped the rag onto Jim's nightstand and pulled his gown back up around his shoulders, suddenly very aware that it was Jim, his boss, he had essentially been molesting.

"Seb?"

"Yes, Jim?"

"I'll drink your chocolate milk if you promise not to put drugs in it."

Sebastian frowned, looking Jim over to get a rough estimate of how aware he was. Judging by the half-dopey look in his eyes, not very. "I never put drugs in the chocolate milk, Jim."

"That's what Mother said, too."

"Oh." He shifted awkwardly, now completely unsure what was expected of him. "Um, I promise not to put anything in your chocolate milk, then."

"That's nice of you."

All through this exchange, John had been pulling fresh covers on Jim's bed and tucking them around his legs. This allowed him to do a quick check up of how the wounds below Jim's waist were healing while also surreptitiously feeling for any signs of fever and his pulse. All seemed in order, so he moved on to a more thorough examination. He pulled his clipboard over and cleared his throat, drawing Jim and Sebastian's attention to himself.

"John? Seb, why is he here?"

"He's your doctor, Jim."

"Oh." He blinked at John, cocking his head in confusion."Why?"

"Um...I'm not entirely sure. Maybe he'll explain it to you when you're feeling better. For now, why don't you just answer his questions?"

"Okay."

"Alright then," John flipped to the next page on the chart and clicked his pen. "What's your name?"

"James Smith-O'Connor-Franklin-Potter-Dickson-Moriarty-Doyle."

"Okay...That's good, I guess. Um, what year is it?"

"2010."

"Uh, that's..."

"No, that's right for him. He always subtracts a year because he believes that the year 2001 was a government conspiracy and should therefore not be counted."

"How does he-Never mind. Do you think he'll be able to answer 'How many fingers am I holding up?' like a normal person?"

"He might do it in Russian, but sure."

"Okay, Jim. How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Quattuor," Jim smirked.

"I'm pretty sure that's four in Latin."

"Good. He seems fine, then, I guess. Well, no less fine than usual, at least. I'll have to do a more thorough check up later when he's less drugged, but I'm pretty sure we got everything taken care of before any permanent damage happened."

"Can I sleep now?" Jim's asking seemed completely redundant. He had already curled onto his side and his breathing was taking on the easy rhythms of slumber. Sebastian carded his fingers through his hair before quickly jerking them away and gruffly clearing his throat.

"Yes, that's fine. Sleep all you want."

"Mmkay. Don't forget that I want marshmallows when I wake up."

"Yeah, sure, Jim."

John and Sebastian remained quiet while Jim fell into sleep. John went about cleaning the rest of the mess from Jim's panic attack up while Sebastian sat protectively by Jim's side, now shamelessly clutching his hand as he recalled how helpless he had felt during the incident. He never wanted to be that useless again.

"You know," John said from the corner of the room where he was wringing out the rag in a sink. "Getting Jim into the hospital without anyone knowing was fairly easy, but I think that getting him out would be even simpler. Especially if one were to do it during the afternoon when the hospital's the most busy. I don't think anyone would pay too close attention to an orderly and a patient going on a bit of a walk around the hospital grounds."

"That makes sense..." Sebastian frowned at John, mostly understanding what he was saying, but also very dubious of his own interpretation.

"I think that Jim would really enjoy going on a walk, too. He'll probably be perfectly capable of it by the end of the week, in fact. Something to consider." John smiled that same cuddly-jumper smile he gave everyday, as if he weren't suggesting the easiest way to smuggle a criminal out of a hospital.

"Yeah," Sebastian smiled in return. "Jim does enjoy a stroll through the park once in a while. I'll be sure and mention the idea to him."

"Good." John began collecting his personal belongings and packing them into his bag. "I'm going to head home for a bit and catch some sleep, then. My phone number's on the nightstand, as usual. And why don't we hold off on the chocolate milk for a bit, yeah?"

"I think that's for the best."

John gave a half wave goodbye before easing out the door. Once the room was out of sight, he gave a long exhale. He suspected that he had just committed some great crime against humanity which he would be punished for in the afterlife. Then again, he was no saint, anyway, so he didn't think his chances of having an enjoyable afterlife were too good to begin with. People as hypocritic as himself didn't seem to fall into many of the good books of any religion. Really, the best he could hope for was being reincarnated as a beetle or maybe a moth. At least then his torment in the next life would be short. Shorter than this one, at least.