Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters from that TV series or books mentioned.

Sherlock was not faring as well as his previous flatmate. Nurses had complained and, if his count was correct, around 11 of them had asked to be transferred to a different area of the hospital. He was going for a record. Mycroft groaned from the chair by his bed as the 12th nurse stormed out, Sherlock having just screamed obscenities at her. "How long with this ridiculousness go on, brother mine?"

"It is not ridiculous and it will go on until John visits and talks to me." Sherlock sat, his posture similar to that of a pouting child, his arms crossed in front of the white gown. "Also, I don't understand why I still have to be here. I recovered, so I can go home. It's fine, really."

"No, Sherlock, you can't go home and you have not recovered. I will see what I can do about John, but I cannot promise you anything. He left for a reason you know." Mycroft moved his head into Sherlock's line of sight even as the 30 year old child looked away pointedly. "Why, Sherlock? Why didn't you go to him for help?"
"Because he had just bared his soul through a heartfelt confession of wartime horrors, and I wasn't about to go bothering him with a simple high!" Sherlock shouted, causing a nurse outside to start and turn around to walk quickly away. "Not when he has far greater issues than his needy flatmate. Or, rather," Sherlock let out a hard laugh, "former flatmate."

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sherlock, it wasn't a simple high, you nearly died! If you think I am just going to sit by and watch you destroy the relationships with everyone you love, then you are even stupider than I thought. And, you know that John would help you no matter what. He doesn't care that he has his own issues, John Watson is a doctor and that is what doctors do."

Sherlock sighed. "Well then, Mycroft, I think I am in need of a doctor." He put his head in his hands. Mycroft left, grumbling about emotions. Sherlock wiped his face as the new nurse entered. He gestured aimlessly to nothing in particular. "You can do whatever, I won't bother you this time. I don't think I'll be bothering anyone for a while."

When Sherlock returned to 221B a week later, Mrs. Hudson greeted him with a warm smile and a plate of equally warm biscuits. He managed to reply with a smile and a nod, taking a biscuit to be polite. On the way up the stairs after ignoring Mrs. Hudson's pestering questions, Sherlock wondered when he had ever done something just to be polite. Must be John rubbing off on him.

He half expected to see the short blogger bustling about the flat, complaining about skulls and fingers in the fridge. But instead of that, there was silence and dust collecting on the shelves. Everything was right where he left it, except… Except the small plastic bag of white powder. "Damn it, John!" He shouted, shoving a vase off a shelf. He wasn't even sure why he had a vase, but it had just showed up one day and it wasn't important enough for him to complain.

There was a faint "Ooh!" from Mrs. Hudson downstairs and then silence. The kind of silence that presses on the ears and is so quiet it hurts. Sherlock picked up his violin, but couldn't find a tune he wanted to play. So, setting it down, he swiveled around to face the rest of the flat. John's armchair was still there. That would have to go; there was simply no room for it. Sherlock turned it on its side as he walked past to go to the second bedroom.

The bed was made with hospital corners and some of the drawers were still partially open. All evidence that someone had lived there was removed, except for the pens and paper on the desk. Sherlock walked in and closed each drawer with a soft thump. His face was impassive and stoic but his fingers betrayed his emotions, flicking against each other at his sides.

Days slipped by, but John never called. Molly came by to see how he was doing and to let him know that John was working at Bart's if he ever wanted to visit. Sherlock never did. Lestrade stepped in to update him on cases if he ever wanted to drop by a crime scene. Sherlock never did. What was the point? John wasn't going to be at the crime scenes and John wouldn't forgive him for interrupting his work.

Mycroft had had enough from his younger brother and finally put his foot down. Sherlock was moping, and his older brother stormed in. "Well, hello, brother mi-" Sherlock was cut short. Mycroft grabbed a fistful of his shirt and brought him to his feet from the chair he had been sitting on.

"John has found a job; he's even got his own flat. Isn't it time you stopped throwing yourself this little pity party, and got out there to do something?" Mycroft said and though his voice was quiet, it was dangerous. "Get off your sheet-wearing ass and get over John. It's time, Sherlock. If I don't hear that you've gone to Scotland Yard within the hour, there will be hell to pay." With that, he let go of Sherlock and left, leaving the younger man to readjust his shirt.

Sherlock wasn't headed to Scotland Yard as his feet pounded on the pavement. He drew to a halt, staring at the imposing building that was Bart's Hospital. His eyes flicked up and down, searching each of the windows for the familiar form of John Watson. He was nowhere to be found, but that didn't surprise Sherlock. It was Wednesday, so John was working. Probably in surgery right now.

Entering the hospital, he was reminded of every hospital he had been in. No matter how different the infrastructure, every hospital looked the same. And that infernal smell clung to the inside of Sherlock's nose. Clearing his throat, he walked over to the receptionist, a nurse with short red hair. "Is there a John Watson working here?" He asked, giving her a fake smile.

She barely glanced up at him, but kept typing on her computer. "I'll let him know someone dropped by, but he's very busy at the moment." She looked up at him when he kept standing there, and recognition dawned on her. Sherlock could see the thoughts racing through her mind as she scrambled to figure out what to do. Eventually, she must have come to a conclusion, because she spoke. "He's in surgery right now, but when he's done, you can meet him in the doctor's lounge. Just down the hall, up the stairs, and it'll be on your right." She handed him a guest ID card and turned back to her computer.

Once Sherlock had accomplished his goal, he followed the nurse's instructions and arrived just outside of the lounge. There were a few TV's, two of which had football matches and the other had a cooking show. A buffet full of cafeteria food was in an adjoining room for lunches and there was a small table and bench for you to sit while you enjoyed your meal. Sherlock wasn't much for waiting, but he bought some noodles and took a seat to watch an incredibly pointless football match.

John had just finished up his surgery, some idiot had swallowed a key to see if he could get it back up, but it hadn't come up. Instead, the key had brought up all sorts of issues in the man's stomach and he had to have surgery to remove it. But now that he was recovering in a separate room, key-free, John went in for lunch. He brought his own lunch to save money, but he ate in the lounge anyway. Catching sight of a football game on, he jogged over to grab a chair, his paper bag bouncing at his side. Taking a seat, he was abruptly interrupted by piercing multicolored eyes on an angular face that stared at him in surprise. Sherlock Holmes had never seen John with a beard.