"John. Please, wake up John," begged Sherlock. He curled his hand around John's, mindful of the injured fingers, and rested his head against John's mattress, tears springing to his eyes. Mycroft stood aside, his hand pressed to his mouth, unaccustomed to such a show of emotion from Sherlock. Christian kept a close eye on the monitors still linking Sherlock to his bed, occasionally glancing at John's monitors.
"I love you John," he whispered, voice choking up. He started to sob painfully, breath catching as skin stretched uncomfortably and ribs complained.
"Come on Sherlock, let's get you back to bed," said Christian quietly. He stepped forward to take Sherlock's arm, and Sherlock snarled.
"No," he mumbled, wrinkling his nose.
"Yes. Your blood pressures have shot way up, and your bordering on hyperventilation. Bed," ordered Christian. Sherlock shook his head, and felt his whole body relax for a moment.
"Sherlock?" Asked Christian. Sherlock didn't respond.
"'Lock," said Mycroft softly. Christian crossed over to Sherlock, crouching down and pulling out a penlight.
"Pupils are responsive," said Christian, confused. Sherlock slumped forward before the convulsions took over, wracking his already exhausted body. Mycroft stood to the side, frozen in fear as his brother lost control of his own body.
"Christ. Mycroft, go find Carter, quickly!" Urged Christian. Mycroft fled the room, terrified. Christian lowered Sherlock to the floor carefully, pushing the chair out of the way.
"Come on Sherlock, we can get through this. Come on," encouraged Christian, rolling Sherlock onto his side carefully. Carter sprinted into the room, grabbing the pillow off Sherlock's bed and dropping to the floor next to Christian.
"Sh…sher…lock," croaked John weakly.
"Hit the call button; I want Mark up here now and another nurse," Christian ordered Carter. Carter jumped up, mashing the button on the wall, then returning to Sherlock's side.
"He's coming out of it," said Christian quietly. Sherlock groaned, the wave of exhaustion drowning him.
"Can you tell me your name?" Asked Christian firmly.
"'Lock Holmes," answered Sherlock sleepily.
"Where are you?"
"Hospital floor," whispered Sherlock.
"Good. We're going to move you back to your bed now, okay? Carter's going to help me, and then you can sleep," said Christian.
"But John," pleaded Sherlock, his eyes closing on their own accord.
"John will be looked after 'Lock. I promise," came Mycroft's steady voice from the doorway. Sherlock nodded, and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet and tucked back into bed. Mark appeared behind Mycroft, sliding past him to enter the room.
"Another one?" He asked.
"Yes, but that's not why we've asked you back," said Christian, turning to face his colleague.
"Why then?"
"John," said Christian simply. Mark turned to look at his most recent patient, who had his head turned toward them, eyes glazed, but definitely aware.
"John, you're awake," said Mark warmly, crossing the room.
"Suppose," he murmured. Mark stood next to his bed, taking new vitals, and John pushed him aside.
"Mycroft," he called, looking at the elder Holmes brother still standing in the doorway. Mycroft crossed the room to stand on the opposite side of the bed, looking at the man his brother had chosen.
"Yes John?" He replied.
"You're an arse. Bloody twat," said John, gasping for a breath through injured ribs. Mark tapped up his morphine dose, then listened to his chest.
"Lungs are working well, all things considering," noted Mark.
"Thank you John. Get some rest, and I'll get Lestrade and Molly to visit later," said Mycroft quietly. John reached out and snagged Mycroft's hand before he could leave.
"I understand why you did it," he whispered. Mycroft's shoulders sagged.
"I am sorry John. I am not used to having to care for my brother in such a capacity, nor did I realise how my actions would affect you," apologised Mycroft.
"Whatever you do, don't let Sherlock hear you apologising, he'll have a party," said John, releasing his hand.
"Okay. John, get some rest; we're going to take you down for more scans in the morning, make sure they're clear," decided Mark.
"After that, we'll keep you here for a while, just to make sure that you're okay," added Christian. John pulled the blankets up around his chin, eyes starting to close as he drifted off to sleep.
"As long as there's tea…"
"No sign of head trauma, no bleeds, intracranial pressures look good. I just can't understand why he was refusing to wake up," grumbled Mark.
"Could just be the fact that he needed to hear Sherlock's voice? They are connected, more than we realise, and each of them rely quite heavily on the other. Could it just be the relationship they have?" Asked Christian.
"It's all an anomaly," muttered Mark.
"He's still awake, there's no sign of a head injury, and he's passed all cognitive testing you've asked him to, and I still don't see how this is a problem," responded Christian, taking a sip of his coffee.
"Keep an eye on him. If he relapses, I want to know." Mark left Christian's office. Christian stood up, heading for Sherlock and John's room, determined to check on his two patients.
Sherlock drifted in and out of sleep, his body aching, trembling a little with each breath. John pushed himself up in bed, watching his lover sleep.
"Sherlock? Sherlock, are you alright?" Asked John softly.
"Hurts," whispered Sherlock painfully. John hit the call button, and glanced down at the bed, frustrated with his inability to stand up and get to him. Alice entered the room, tying her hair back.
"What is it?" She asked wearily. John glanced her over, and shook his head.
"You've been shagging Carter. Not a good look. Something's wrong with Sherlock," said John.
"What? How on earth do you…?"
"You're wearing his name tag, your makeup is smeared, and you're never late when John or I call you, but today you were exceptionally slow in answering," said Sherlock through gritted teeth.
"I'll get Christian," said Alice, clearly uncomfortable. She left the room, and Sherlock started gasping in pain.
"John, what's wrong with me?" He asked.
"I don't know Sherlock, but once Christian gets here we'll get you sorted," reassured John. Sherlock felt a wave of nausea roll through him, and before he realised, he had thrown up over the blankets.
"Geez Sherlock." John threw the blankets off his bed, and carefully put his feet on the floor. His knee twinged uncomfortably as he put weight on it, but he ignored it in favour of getting to Sherlock. Sherlock was openly sobbing now, and John's heart went to him. He carded a hand through Sherlock's curls, trying to ease his discomfort, his hand coming back slick with sweat. John mashed the call button harder, determined to get someone in to help them as soon as possible.
"Sherlock, they were supposed to check your blood sugar two hours ago; did anyone come in and check it?" Asked John. Sherlock shook his head and threw up again, crying out in pain. Christian skidded into the room, breathless.
"Where's Carter?" He asked.
"No idea," said John, concentrating on Sherlock.
"Sherlock, has anyone at all been in to see you?" Asked Christian.
"Alice came in earlier, injected something into my IV lines," said Sherlock.
"You didn't say that," said John.
"I didn't think it was relevant," said Sherlock breathlessly. He groaned before his body tensed up, bladder releasing, lungs decompressing. Christian pulled Sherlock to his side, John pushing pillows alongside Sherlock's back to try and keep him in recovery. Christian glanced up as Greg entered the room, Molly close behind him. She moved around to the same side as John, helping him hold Sherlock as he seized.
"Anything I can do?" Asked Greg, feeling helpless.
"Go to security, get them to put this hospital in lockdown, and I want to know exactly where Carter and Alice are right now," ordered Christian. Greg disappeared, leaving Molly with John and Sherlock. The seizure started to abate, and Sherlock's body started to relax.
"Molly, would you be able to help me clean him up?" Asked Christian quietly.
"Sure. John, why don't you take a seat?" Suggested Molly. John sat down, realising how exhausted he was, his ribs screaming as the adrenaline died down.
"I'm hoping this was the result of an insulin drop, but we're not sure. I'll get blood samples and I'll do a glucose level check as well, make sure he's stable," decided Christian.
"He said that something hurt," said John, clamping a hand to his chest. Molly noticed, and helped him stand before leading him back to his bed. She pulled the sheet up for him before returning to Christian, helping change the sheets and blankets around Sherlock.
"I hoped he was getting better," said Molly softly.
"Hopefully this won't set him back too much," answered Christian.
"Maybe we should change the dressing on his back; it's damp," suggested Molly.
"You stay here, I'll grab the supplies for it, and I'll check it over at the same time," decided Christian. He stepped out of the room, returning moments later with saline and dressing kits.
"Roll him on his side, we'll redress the wounds," said Christian. He pushed Sherlock towards Molly, and indicated for her to hold him carefully. She placed a hand on his shoulder, another on his hip, and held him steady as Christian peeled back the dressing. Angry red lacerations greeted him, some oozing pus and clearly infected.
"Christ Sherlock, don't do anything by halves," muttered Christian.
"What do we do?" Asked Molly, frightened.
"Stay with him; I'm going to find someone to help us out." Christian leaned close to Sherlock's ear.
"Don't you dare die while I'm gone."