Chapter Two

John Watson: and his Hospital Collection

Part One

Greg Lestrade: Belongs to John

Out of everything he did day to day, John never thought he would be killed by a car while he was doing the mundane task of going to his real job. It happened before he could really understand what was going on. He stepped off of the curb, at an actual intersection after looking both ways and it was his turn to walk, and he'd barely made it half way across the street before the harsh metal gill of a cab struck him hard. He'd been in worse situations, so being thrown across the street wasn't exactly a new feeling, but this wasn't the military and the ground was many times harder than he remembered it. He was aware of the sickening crack as he smashed his skull on the pavement and instantly decided that he had a concussion. Fractured skull, lots of blood, possible broken arm and he couldn't feel either of his legs, though he was hoping that was due to the bump on the head.

The car in question sped off without so much as checking if he was okay and John hoped dearly someone had gotten the license place. Unlikely, he knew, but he had bigger things to worry about at the moment. A couple of people gathered around him quickly, attempting to help him but obviously having no idea how to do that. The ringing in his ears prevented him from hearing anything they said, but he knew none of them were Sherlock. He needed someone who knew who he was. John wasn't even able to manage a name, let alone anything other than groaning, before he lost consciousness.

Three things happened after that. One; Mycroft found the drunk driver and his home. Two; Sherlock and Lestrade paid him a visit with included a lot of verbal assault and things that Lestrade would typically disapprove of. Third; the man was arrested and put in a cell where he simply disappeared never to be heard from again.

John was given priority in the hospital, with the best nurses and the best doctors and in only a day's time, he was fixed up almost like new. All the power and the money in the world couldn't instantly make his bones heal, after all. The sun was just peeking in through the blinds when he finally stirred. He groaned and immediately felt his head for any damage. Thankfully, he had a few stitches and a small bald spot, but that seemed to be all. A young woman touched his arm and it took every part of him not to accidentally smack her in the face.

"Shh," She motioned him softly. "Do you know where you are?" He glanced around a little, spotting Lestrade fast asleep in an uncomfortable chair. He was in the hospital, he knew that much. Even Sherlock wouldn't try to take him home after- uh- Actually, he had no idea what happened.

"Barts?"

"Good." She smiled. His nurse, then. He watched her replace the empty bag that he was hoping was keeping him from feeling any of the pain he knew was there. Another look over himself and he was very aware of the broken bones in his right hand. He was very glad for his ambidexterity. It looked like his knee was fractured; now he really did have a reason to limp, but overall, the injury was minimum. They'd done a good job, if he did say so himself.

"Do you know what year it is?"

"Two thousand, eleven."

"Very good. And you're friend over there?"

"That's DI Lestrade."

"Perfect." The little nurse touched the side of his head, examining the wound under the bandages. He flinched a little as it was touched, but allowed her to do her job. "There doesn't seem to be any permanent damage. You may feel a little nauseous, a little bit of memory loss, dizziness," Despite knowing all these things, John didn't bother to stop her. It was best to make sure he remembered, anyways.

"You just need plenty of rest. I'm your nurse May Adams. You have two more guests." She informed politely. "They've been fretting over you ever since you got here. You're very lucky to have so many good friends. I believe they stepped out for a smoke and will be back any minute now." Two? John barely expected Sherlock to be here, let alone anyone else. He wasn't even entirely sure what Greg was doing here.

"Could I get some water?"

"Of course, dear." She exited the room and Sherlock entered. Seeing John awake left him looking immediately relieved.

"John. You're awake." Which he knew meant more like 'I'm ecstatic that you're okay'. John pushed against the bed a little to sit upright, careful not to move too quickly lest his stomach flip. He smiled softly.

"Sherlock. Please tell me you've slept." It wouldn't be anything new, but John didn't want him staying awake just because he was a little hurt. Sherlock, of all people, should know he was tough enough to survive being hit by a car. On the other hand, he never wanted to do that again. The taller male sported a look of confusion and hurt.

"It's Mycroft, John." He murmured. John blinked and blinked again, and when that didn't work, he took to rubbing his fawn eyes with the fingers of his good hand. Still, his vision remained unaltered.

"Very funny, Sherlock." He scoffed back in irritation. Mycroft stepped into the room beside him and mimicked his brother look of consolation. He was at the side of the bed at once, examining his head wound in a very unlike Mycroft way. Sherlock stood to one side, lips firmly pursed.

"Those bloody doctors," The older male scoffed angrily. John humored the thought that he might be wrong.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?" Mycroft responded immediately. Lovely. Something was wrong in his head and he hoped it wasn't permanent. Lestrade shifted from his awkward sleeping position and happily smiled at the army man. He was okay. The smile was gone quickly, however, and he hurried to his feet. He hadn't entirely thought this through and he had no excuse as to why he'd fallen asleep in the little hospital room. Unlike the Holmes brothers, he actually required sleep to work. They were in competition with one another, but they weren't exactly going to start a fist fight in the middle of a hospital. Their waiting in the longue had been tensed and strained, mostly consisting of staring each other down vindictively, but their combined worry of John was enough to keep them from lashing at each other.

Sherlock had every reason to be here. He lived with John. Mycroft and he on the other hand, would have to scrap something together on the spot. Well, he would. Mycroft probably already had some nonsense reason that John would blindly believe because he was Mycroft. Lestrade decided that it would be best if he left. Not because he wanted to leave poor John in the hands of the Holmes, but because he wasn't sure how long the three of them could be in a room with live conversation without tearing each other apart.

"Ah. I'm glad you're okay, John."

"Which one of us is Sherlock?" The question instantly threw him off and Lestrade could only stare blankly at Mycroft. He debating asking the point of the question, but he knew that would be utterly pointless. He was a Holmes. Instead, he asked the question with an open handed motion to the man beside John's bed.

John looked distressed. On the other hand, it wouldn't be right to leave him with these two. Reasons aside, he would stick around until John insisted he leave. Hopefully, he wouldn't.

"John is having trouble distinguishing faces."

"I recognize Greg just fine." John insisted. Both brothers scowled a little, as if it was painful to acknowledge.

"We are brothers." Sherlock admitted hastily.

"And we do share some similar- features." Mycroft added.

"It's probably temporary. You just need some more rest."

"Perhaps it would be best if you two left the room." Lestrade suggested. He was met with two sharp stares. "If it's only you that he's confusing, wouldn't it be best if you didn't confuse him anymore? We wouldn't want his brain to lock onto the idea that you're each other."

"He's right." John agreed and the DI took it as a small win.

"It doesn't work like that." Sherlock scoffed. The wounded man glared at him.

"Have you even been to sleep?"

"They haven't. And they haven't eaten, either." Greg smirked pointedly. Like children who'd just been sold out to their mother, both Holmes avoided eye contact with the army man. Not that it mattered, since John's frown bored into the side of their heads like hot iron.

"Go home." He demanded. "Eat, sleep, change. I'll be fine."

"Don't worry. I'll stay with him. They're not expecting me to work today, anyways."

"Thank you, Greg. Leave." John ordered. Sherlock wanted to argue, but a single look from the blonde man sent them both on their way. So, they were perfectly alone. The perky little nurse returned with a cup of ice and a cup of water and Lestrade quietly sat beside the bed as John explained his new symptom. It was obvious they were flirting, and while it made him heatedly jealous, he knew better than to comment on it. It wasn't like John was going to jump out of bed and sleep with her. When she finally left, Lestrade moved his chair closer to the bed.

"Just let me know if you need anything." Greg promised, tenderly patting John's thigh under the thin hospital blanket.

"I'm fine, really. You can stop worrying about me."

"You were hit by a car."

"And now I'm on an IV drip. I just need some sleep, maybe some solid food, and I'll be fine. You're going to have a crick in your back, though." John smiled his heart warming smile. The solider in him really did shine through at times like these. Even when he was hurt, he put other people before himself.

"Oh, I'll manage to survive somehow. Why don't I go grab you something from the cafeteria?"

"Ham?"

"Got it." With a final glance, Greg left the room. It was alarming for them all to having John in the hospital, since it constantly seemed as though he were invincible. To work and live with Sherlock, he practically had to be. Sure, it was amusing that Sherlock and Mycroft were the ones to be mistaken, but it wasn't funny if it meant John had brain damage. Lestrade also knew that he would dearly pay for that later, but he couldn't be worried about it now.

He was struck with the sudden realization that, in fact, John wasn't invincible. Lestrade knew that when faced with a sudden near death experience, many people turned to do stupid things and he should have thought this through a little more, but he couldn't. Thinking was an awful thing for normal people. Thinking led to doubting and doubting led to not doing a damn thing. Lestrade had decided a long time ago, approximately the same time he met Sherlock, that he would rather fall on his face than live in the shadows. It was actions like these, however, that led to things like the marriage of his wife and the divorce of a woman he no longer knew. He would have never known unless he tried and just because the first time he jumped he fell, didn't mean it would happen again.

After all, what was flying besides throwing yourself at the ground and missing?

When he returned to the room, thankfully John was still awake. He was working desperate to scratch under his cast and by the looks of it, was failing horribly. The humor of the situation put Lestrade a little more at ease. He chuckled and John sent him a fake look of hurt.

"Let me help you." Lestrade took the straw from the tray he brought up and took John's hand in his own. He shifted it around carefully, as if the man's arm would break within the cast if he wasn't careful, and used the bit of plastic to scratch at the itch underneath. John let out a heavy sigh and an expression that was far too orgasmic to be brought on by an itch alone.

"Oh god, thank you." He breathed happily. Lestrade only offered another small laugh. He played with John's fingers in his hand, wondering if he could even feel his fingers. He could, apparently, and the pale digits curled up like an anemone. Lestrade pressed one of his calloused thumbs into his palm and the flower opened again.

"John,"

"That actually really hurts." The DI pulled his hand away immediately.

"Sorry." Not how he wanted this conversation to start. He sucked in a bit of a breath, realizing exactly how close John was watching him. Was it that obvious? Of course it was, he was a bloody open book and now he was holding up a magnifying glass so John could read.

"I- uh," Lestrade began awkwardly. "I love you, John Watson."

The silence was more deafening than a rejection could ever be. Pale hazel eyes stared at him with a mixture of confusion and search. It wasn't until he heard himself say it did the idea really come to life, that his heart flipped, and that he realized how much of an open ended statement it really was.

"I'm serious. I- I wouldn't even know how to begin this. I'm sorry. I know I kind of sprung this on you, seeing as you can't run away and all," John didn't humor him with a chuckle. "It's just, one day you might not wake up. One day, I might not wake up. And, I'm too old to be cradling my feelings away." More unwavering silence. Here came the ground. The impending doom wracked his chest with the smallest of trembles. He was really glad Sherlock wasn't here to point them out. After several seemingly endless minutes of trying not to break eye contact with the medic, John spoke.

"I have to think about this." For fuck's sake, now he had to carrying around the anxiety in his chest. He supposed it was better than 'no', or what he was expecting; 'I'm straight'. Better, but just barely. At least Lestrade knew it wasn't a definite rejection. He wasn't completely appalled by the idea. He squeezed John's wrist softly and nodded.

"Course. I'll just –uh. I'll just be off, then." Lestrade tugged at his cuffs a little, though it didn't make his wrinkled shirt look any better. "I'm still coming back. Don't want Sherlock trying to take advantage of you while you're hurt. We don't need him trying any experiments with morphine." He scoffed, but John only forced a smile. He couldn't pay attention to Lestrade's words, he was too disoriented.

Greg loved him. Him. Past the confusion, John saw how evident it was. He didn't mistake him for his wife, he'd just been drunk enough to throw caution to the window and John had instantly pushed him away. For good reason, of course, but now he could only think of what it would feel like to have the DI's lips on his own. He would admit it wasn't a terrible thought. John was barely aware when the man quietly left the little white room.

The very idea that kissing Greg might be pleasurable led him to actually consider it. There was actually some water to it. Lestrade was so use to dealing with Sherlock that it was unlikely he would actually feel threatened by him, as occasionally his girlfriends tended to be, and the DI wasn't going to go running after a couple dates. Beyond even that, he knew Lestrade to be a great man, even though the qualities he looked for in a woman were different than what was to be found in a man. If he was sincere with himself, he'd never actually thought of being gay and therefore didn't actually know if he was straight. To be fair, he loved women, but it was entirely possible to be attracted to both sexes.

It was a little strange trying to think of Lestrade as attractive from a romantically point of view. John's mind immediately tried to sort them into who was the 'boyfriend' and who was the 'girlfriend' and failed miserably. This was a lot to think about

Part Two

Sherlock Holmes: knows you Don't Sound Like Him

He was going to make Lestrade thoroughly pay. If anyone deserved to be at John's side at a time like this, it was him. Who knew what Lestrade would do? He couldn't argue with John and the thought that the little man thought he was his brother was entirely too aggravating. He looked nothing like Mycroft! Sherlock trudged home with his hands in his pockets and his scarf bundled up around his neck to protect him from the cold morning. He didn't plan on eating and he was positive he couldn't fathom the idea of sleep at the moment, but he would try. There was little else to do and if he returned to the hospital too quickly, John would be suspicious.

Mrs. Hudson was fretting, of course, and he brushed her away without a thought. John was going to be perfectly fine. It wasn't like he'd been shot again. The army man was hardy and if he had anything to do with it, John wasn't about to meet his fate at the front of some drunk. Even though he'd taken care of the stupid man the day before, he couldn't feel at ease just yet. John was still bed bound and confused and it felt strange to return home without John. Sure, he'd been in the flat a lot of times without John, but this time it was different.

After some violent poking around in the kitchen, and generally making more of a mess than he needed, Sherlock decided that he wasn't hungry at all. Still, he managed down a bite of food to prevent his stomach from growling at inappropriate times before taking to the couch. He'd gotten the corpse out of his bed, but it still smelled bloody awful. He was working on a new test now, though. How to completely eradicate the smell of rotting flesh. So far; no luck.

Try as he may, he couldn't sleep. John was in the hospital. John was in the hospital alone with Lestrade. Knowing his tiny mind, he was probably panicking. While panicking was completely predictable, the actions that panicked caused were not. People that panicked did erratic, capricious things, but Sherlock knew what Lestrade would jump to. He would admit his feelings to John in some touchy feely way and not knowing what to do with them, John would just kind of gap. He wouldn't respond right away, which gave Sherlock time to convince him otherwise. He wasn't entirely sure how he would do that, however.

John was a marvel, really. Even now, Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what he would do. When it came to feelings, John's were not normal. When he was supposed to smile, he frowned. When he was supposed to be happy, he was distraught. When he was supposed to be proud, he coward. If only it were that easy, though. When he was supposed to be happy, he was. When he was suppose to be mad, he was. There weren't gears in John's head. There wasn't a proper pattern, though a pattern of some sort, surely. Sherlock couldn't describe it, but it all boiled down to he had no idea how John would react to Lestrade's confession.

He wouldn't run, no. Lestrade was a good friend and running would hurt his feelings and John wouldn't do that. He wouldn't reject him, not as harshly as he needed to. If he rejected him at all, it would be kind and Lestrade would continue to pin after him. Perhaps he would accept him. Perhaps even with open arms. John didn't show any signs of being attracted to Lestrade, not even an unconscious glance or the need to trace the spots when they touched. Would the confession make him think? Would it make his funny little mind run ideas it wouldn't normally think of? Would he like those ideas?

Before he knew it, hours had passed. It wasn't unusual for Sherlock to get lost in his own mind. Sometimes he could go through entire thoughts and only a few minutes would have passed or a single idea and hours were gone. Time did not exist in Sherlock's mind. Time was irrelevant in most circumstances. In others, it was a challenge. A proper amount of time and any problem could be solved.

He made a show of showering, making sure his hair was still a tinge wet so John wouldn't complain. He changed into a pair of clean clothes (he hoped John would be back soon since he had no idea how to work the washing machine) and pinned himself up to go back to the hospital. If Lestrade was throwing caution to the wind, then he had no choice but to do the same. If he didn't, John wouldn't even realize he had choices. He didn't like this. Lestrade had managed to force him into a corner.

If he didn't, there was ever possibility that John would go along with Lestrade and he'd never have a chance. Even Sherlock wouldn't ruin John's happiness. Maybe. It was Lestrade, though. John wouldn't be happy with him. If he did, though, he could completely ruin their friendship. Not completely, per say, but things would turn to the rocks. It would be worse than if Lestrade was rejected. He actually lived with John. It wouldn't bother him, Sherlock didn't exactly need to love John. He didn't need to be anything more than good friends, but the very idea that they could be was exciting. Like a new case on triple homicide exciting. If he was refused, then there was nothing he could do. John, however, would feel guilty and regret and he wouldn't be able to look him in the eye for weeks after which would be a pain. No worse than having to watch John and Lestrade flirt at crimes scenes, though.

These people, Lestrade and his brother and the ready of the bloody police force, they knew he wasn't like them. It was so painfully obvious, even an idiot would see it. They knew that he knew that they didn't work like him. That didn't stop them, though, the fools. They tried to force him into molds, to make him like them and Sherlock hated it. Under most circumstances, it was impossible to force him to do anything he didn't want to do, but Lestrade had managed it. God he had managed it and for that, he was brilliant.

Sherlock trotted off to the hospital, shaking off the cold from the back of his neck and tugging on his scarf the whole time. He was pleased to see that John was alone in his little room. He was sleeping, but uncomfortably by the looks of it. He was right, then, Lestrade had confessed and now John was anxious. As he sat on John's good side, the man stirred away.

"John,"

"Sherlock?" A quick glance at the clock assured him that the afternoon was upon them.

"Good. I thought you might actually see me as Mycroft for the rest of ever." Sherlock complained. John could only offer a mild smile. At least there wasn't anything wrong with him. He was right. Sleep solved everyone. Now if only he could get Sherlock to sleep a little more.

"Did you eat?" He pestered on. He debating telling the taller male about what had happened, but instantly decided that was an awful idea. Sherlock would never let up on poor Lestrade. Not that he couldn't deal with this on his own. In fact, it wasn't any of his business, anyways and if Sherlock, indeed, was scaring away his dates, he wouldn't frighten off Lestrade.

"Yes." Sherlock whined.

"Did you eat or did you swallow a couple olives and call it a meal."

"Technically that is eating, John." He insisted. John glared at him. He pushed himself up gently, still relatively painless thanks to the drip. He unwrapped the other half of the sandwich he couldn't stomach earlier and handed it over. Sherlock frowned.

"Eat it." With a pout, he reluctantly ate. There was silence and silence was always nice. It was the good kind of silence, too, the kind Sherlock didn't have to think to. His stomach settled a little as he ate and watched John think. He was thinking of Lestrade, obviously, unconsciously eyeing the coat he'd left behind. The optimal time was now.

"John,"

"Mm?"

"The unyielding attraction I feel for you exceeds that of normal friendship."

"Pardon?"

"Don't be thick. I viehhm you." The sociopath murmured out around another bite of meat and bread.

"What?"

Sherlock sighed.

"I, Sherlock Holmes, am in love with you." John couldn't walk like him, but he was the only one that could keep up with him.

Part Three

Mycroft Holmes: is Self Sufficient

This was some sort of joke. Sherlock knew Lestrade had confessed and now he was mocking him. Lestrade wasn't around, though, why would he be mocking him? That wasn't it, then. He was jealous. Not romantically, but because he thought dating Lestrade would mean less time with him. He was just a man child, that was all. John, for the second time today, had no idea what to say. Sherlock just looked so serious, though by now he well knew that Sherlock lied. Was it was false face? He had no way of telling.

"Sherlock," He hadn't even decided if he was going to do anything about Lestrade. Was Sherlock actually trying to help him? With all the time he spent with Sherlock, he was finding it harder and harder to have simple thoughts. There was anyways something more with Sherlock. He was so complex and every time he thought he had pieced something together, Sherlock had to go and change again. He was never bored.

"Don't belittle this, John. I know Lestrade must have confessed earlier, and you're probably thinking that this has something to do with that and it does, but not in the way you think it does. In fact, since your tiny little mind can't grasp it,"

"And this started out so nicely."

"We both share similar feelings regarding you, along with, well," Sherlock ran the three way chess game in his mind before deciding that Mycroft knew what was going on and would be here in person soon enough. "Mycroft,"

"Mycroft?" John repeated with disbelief.

"He'll be here to tell you himself, considering he needs to stay in the game." The taller male smirked suddenly. "Mycroft hates games." John was in shock, obviously. Shock and confusion, which Sherlock didn't predict. John believed him. He was telling the truth, of course, but most people would doubt him at least for a little, it was a natural response to everything he said. Not John, though. Never John. It was hard, though, knowing that John trusted him. A sociopath, high functioning or otherwise, was still a sociopath and Sherlock could wreak all kind of havoc with John's trust and John knew that. Unfortunately, Sherlock's heart was not as cold as his mind and the silly little thing fluttered in his chest.

A ring broke them both from their thoughts. John glanced toward the little side table where his things sat, waiting for him to get better. Hesitantly, he picked it up. He didn't need the number to know who it was. 'Blocked' usually meant one of two people and he wasn't expecting a call from the other.

"Hello?"

"Hullo!" Wait. What?

Part Three

Mycroft Holmes: is Self Sufficient

Jim Moriarty: is Carrying on as he Always Does(?)

"I don't-" Of course, he could expect a confession from the consulting criminal as well. At this point, John hoped it was a death threat instead.

"Shh little Doctor. Don't tell Sherlock. I know you were expecting a call from Mycroft, I'm sure he'll keep trying." The man giggled on the other end and John averted his eyes away from Sherlock. The man could read him like an open book, it was likely that he already knew it wasn't his brother.

"You seem to have something of mine, Doctor Doctor, but I'm not sure if I want it back." Jim purred with a sickening sweet voice. "My, my, my, you're just such the little prize today, aren't you? Both the Holmes and the poor little DI. Just think, I could kidnap you and pin them all where they stand. Wouldn't that just be awful and there's nothing you can do about it." John wasn't sure what to say. If this was true, if they really did love him, than Moriarty was completely right.

"John," Sherlock was catching on.

"Even if you turn them down, that won't stop them. This will go hilarious with or without me, but that wouldn't be as fun for me. I've changed my mind. I want it back. Give it to me, or I'll make you dance." The tone sank suddenly into viciousness and John's heart firmed.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Give it back!" The voice crackled over the room and Sherlock snatched the phone away from him instantly.

"Moriarty. What do you want?"

"I want it back!" The dropped dead and pale blue eyes turned back to John. The blonde man's heart thummered away anxiously. He grasped at the little objects that had been on his person when he was brought into the hospital, but he found nothing. Some money, his ID, his phone, nothing. Whatever it was Jim wanted, he didn't have and that was many times more dangerous than actually having it. If this day got any more stressful, he might just be at risk for a heart attack.

"He's insane." Sherlock murmured. John only nodded in agreement. He was trying to insist that Moriarty might just be playing with them, which was possible. He didn't want to take that risk, even if he had no idea what he could do to prevent it. He didn't have anything! The phone buzzed again, but Sherlock simply handed it over. John nearly refused to answer it. No more problems. He hadn't even dealt with the ones he had. The number was recognizable this time, thankfully.

Part Four

Mycroft Holmes: is Self Sufficient

"I will protect you, John." John wasn't sure if it was better or worse than a confession. He could hear it in his voice, soaking in every word without having to actually say it. It was worse. Much, much worse. Moriarty was right, after all. He was in every girl's (and some guy's) dream place and John wanted none of it.

He was stressed out. Mycroft could hear it over the phone. He knew it. This was too much for poor little John. That wasn't a surprise. Even the strongest man faltered in the face of love and someone as loyal and gentle as John had no chance. This was going to turn against them and bite them each in the ass. There was nothing he could do, though. Even if he wanted to save John a little trouble, Sherlock had already made his choice for him. His brother would never understand how fragile the mind was, not when he treated his own how he did. He didn't realize John wasn't like him.

"You have nothing to worry about." He tried to persist gently.

"I want you to leave me alone." John said firmly. "All of you. Tell Lestrade. I don't want to see you. I don't want to see any of you. I have to- I have to think. As long as I'm in the hospital, I don't want any of you anywhere near me."

"If that's what you want." Mycroft sighed patiently and John hung up. It was a little disappointing, but he wasn't complaining. Time was a good thing. Time meant he was thinking, debating, and making logical conclusions and Mycroft would accept his decision whatever it was.

"Sir," The young woman glanced away from her mobile a little.

"Hm?"

"You're eating again."

"So I am. My next meeting?"

"Five minutes ago."