-=|AUTHER'S NOTE|=-

Okay, first off, sorry about the lack of chapters. Also, I'm not a doctor. Not even close. I barley know what a concussion is. I also don't really know how hospitals work, only what I've seen on TV. So don't kill me for inaccuracy! I apologise again for the general lack of chapters. I just haven't really got round to writing.

-=|SHERLOCK|=-

Sherlock was thinking. Obviously, he did this more often than not. He was thinking about the case. The one with the murder. Well, suicide, but they didn't know that.

'What do you think you're DOING!'

Sherlock turned round. A man of about 30 ran up to Sherlock, waving his arms like a windmill. Sherlock leapt up, and ran out of the building. The man ran after him, but he couldn't keep up.

'DANMIT! That idiots' probably contaminated the area!'

Ha! More than they had? The man stopped, and Lestrade took hold of the man by the shoulders.

'Calm DOWN, Anderson!'

Ah, so Anderson was his name. Idiot. Sherlock could tell in his eyes. Sherlock bounded round the corner and whipped out his phone, and texted Lestrade. Then, as Sherlock was sliding down the concrete wall under the bridge where the homeless stayed, Lestrade texted him back.

Who are you?

Ha! Idiot! He thinks Sherlock was going to tell him? So Sherlock texted back, with some jealous glares from the others, and one of them piped up.

'Hay, where'd you get that from?'

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

'Just because I'm homeless doesn't mean I can't afford phones!' The man was about to open his mouth to reply when one of Sherlock's Irregulars stood over the man.

'Hay, Mister Holmes doesn't need to steal!'

I'm no-one who you'll need to know.

-SH

Then Lestrade texted back.

Okay then. How did you know about the man's death?

Not too difficult. They only needed to observe. Sherlock suddenly felt like a bit of insulting, so sent this:

I'd advise firing the man who I believe is called 'Anderson', by the way.

-S

And the funny thing was Anderson actually was an idiot.

Why?

Why? Why?

He's an idiot.

-S

But then Lestrade gave Sherlock something to think about.

Who are you?

Of course, Sherlock knew who he was, but whether or not Sherlock should tell Lestrade that he didn't know.

Time to test his intelligence.

I'll leave you to your deductions, Inspector Lestrade.

-S

Sherlock sent the messages, and in the time he wrote it one of the Irregulars was halfway in a fight with the man who had asked Sherlock about the phone. But then something odd happened.

Sherlock felt something big, solid and painful ram into his head, forcing is against the brick wall. Then his head felt heavier than a bus, a bus with throbbing pain in it's head. And to top it off, something was in his left eye.

Beep. Beep. Beep

What was that noise?

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Sherlock was somewhere… warm. Wrapped up. Sherlock opened his eyes. White. Sherlock closed them again. And beeping. There was a word for it. Began with an H…

Sherlock tried to ask where he was, but all that came out was a groan. He tried to move and all he did was stir up a hidden pain, like a tiger ready to pounce.

Hospital!

He was in hospital!

Then a voice. Not one he recognised.

'S'okay, dear. Just relax.'

So that's what Sherlock did. The pain died down.

'You took quite a battering!'

Then suddenly a big noise and a voice to match it.

'Where. Is. My. Brother.' The voice was full of anger, worry and fear.

It wasn't a question. It was a command.

Sherlock wondered who the man's brother was. Then his brain decided that that was the time to work.

He was the mans' brother.

Mycroft!

Sherlock opened his eyes again, and blinked till his eyes weren't blurry anymore. Mycroft thundered down into his ward, and once he got to Sherlock he relaxed and then began a full body check on Sherlock.

'No broken bones… wait, broken ribs… punctured lung… and concussion.' Mycroft then considered. 'How are you feeling, brother?'

'Like I was hit by a car.' The words where slow and dragged out, but Sherlock managed. Mycroft smiled in a 'diddums' kind of way.

'Well, that's an accurate description of what happened.'

Sherlock pushed himself up again, looking wide eyes at his brother.

'I was hit by a car? Again?'

Mycroft rolled his eyes at his brother, but before he could reply the nurse came back into the ward.

'Excuse me, sir, but I think you should come with me.' This was directed at Mycroft. Sherlock looked questioningly at Mycroft but Mycroft just shrugged.

Mycroft and the nurse left the ward, leaving Sherlock.

Sherlock ran. He was on the pavement. Only a few more minuets and he would be at his house, but he was running out of breath.

'Run, Sherly, run Sherly run run run

Before we have some fun fun fun

We won't get by

Without our Sherlock pie

So run run run run!'

Sherlock didn't need telling twice.

He ran down the hill, coming to the crossroads just before his house. He was halfway through the road when something hard, cold and solid hit his thigh and knocked him off his feet.

Everything was numb and he could feel the blood pumping around his body.

Just before he lost consciousness, he felt blood pooling around his head.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep

Greg didn't even know the man's name. Or his age, or even where he lived. But that didn't stop him pulling into the hospital to check up on 'S'. He pulled into the car park, and parked his car. The Inspector didn't really like hospitals, all clean and white and that smell. There was already someone at the receptionist when he got in. A smartly dressed man with an umbrella in his left hand.

'But there must have been a Sherlock Holmes!'

'I'm sorry sir, but only one person has been handed in with the injuries you described in the last 48 hours!' The receptionist had an annoying, high-pitched voice.

'Who has been handed in?'

'Patient confiden….' She never finished.

'Miss, I have the power to have you fired, framed for murder and maybe even sent to America to be given a death sentence. And you know what, I could do it all in one text.'

The receptionist gulped. Rather dramatically.

'Err… a Gregory Lestrade has been handed in.'

Lestrade had to admit, 'S' was good.

'Err, sorry, but Mr…?' Lestrade asked to the other man

'Holmes.'

'Ah, well, Mr Holmes, I'm Gregory Lestrade. And, can I ask, does Sherlock Holmes wear a long, black coat?'

Mr Holmes considered.

'Yes, he does wear that ridiculous coat of his.'

'Did you know he's been stalking crime scenes?'

'Better than the alternate.'

Lestrade was about to ask what that was, but the receptionist asked if they wanted to see 'Greg'.

They agreed and went into the ward. Lestrade decided to be the polite one and ask if Mr Holmes wanted coffee as Mr Holmes seemed to preoccupied with his… Brother? Probably. When Lestrade had got the coffee, he made his way into the ward the receptionist had told them he was in. There where a few patients. One stood out, though. Pale face, prominent cheekbones and dark, curly hair. Lestrade made his way to the bed, coffee in hand. There was a chair next to the bed, Lestrade sat down.

'Mr Holmes.'

'Lestrade.'

That was about a greeting. The man looked young, thirties maybe, he also looked bored, though the world just wasn't living up to his expectations.

'You stole my ID, then.'

'Yes.' Lestrade could tell this man wasn't one for talking.

'Okay. Going to tell me why?'

The man considered.

'No.'

The man considered again.

'Call me Sherlock, please.'

'Okay.'

The man with the umbrella came back in. His whole face just said disappointment. Nothing else.

-=|SHERLOCK|=-

Mycroft followed the nurse into a small, private room just over the other side of the ward. She led him in, and closed the door. There was a sofa on either side of the room. Mycroft took one, the nurse the other.

'Mr Holmes. As I'm sure you're aware, Greg's-'

'That's not his name!' Mycroft laughed, despite whatever the nurse was about to tell him. 'He's called Sherlock Holmes. The ID you found, it's stolen.'

The nurse took in this information.

'Well, regardless of his name, I'm sure you know his injuries aren't too good. When he was just brought in, we took blood samples, to be tested. The results came up a little funny, so we did a proper scan and full check on the blood. We found traces of cocaine in his blood.'

Mycroft, of course, knew this was probably the case. Sherlock's refusal to accept any help meant that this drug abuse had probably been going on for months now.

'We can't let him go home by himself.'

But at that Mycroft's heart sunk. There was no way Sherlock would go home with him, not by choice anyway. And if Mycroft forced him to come, then he's just climb out of a window. Or something.

'I can talk to him about this.' Mycroft couldn't think of anything else to say. The nurse led him out of the room and back to Sherlock's bed.

-=|AUTHERS NOTE|=-