A/N: Hehe, just realised I use italics way more in this fic than I have in any other story. I really don't know why. Maybe it's just the type if stuff I'm writing. More violence. And yelling.

-pixie.

.:':. .:':. .:':.

Despite Sherlock's initial scepticism, John's health increased steadily. Within a few days, John had gained enough strength to leave his bed and take a few tottering steps. With the aid of his old cane, he was able to hobble around the flat, usually parking himself in his favourite armchair. Harry was delighted, as she really had taken his promise to heart. She'd made another promise of her own to him then - to mend her fractured relationship with Clara, to stay off the drink indefinitely, and to just overall be a better sister to him.

He was extremely glad of the news, but it was tempered with irritation that Sherlock refused to let him leave the flat. John had argued with him - quite extensively - but the consulting detective was resolute. John was not leaving 221B until a full recovery had been made.

So John set about getting better as quickly as he possibly could.

When he had told Sherlock that was what he would do, the other man had scoffed. "You'll recover at the rate your body dictates, and no faster. Really, John, you'll make yourself better more quickly by what, force of will? I'm not denying you have plenty of that, but the notion is absurd in the extreme."

John had just grinned at him. "Oh, how you underestimate me."

With that, John set about proving Sherlock wrong. It started small, just tottering around the apartment, cane clunking against the floor, for half an hour each morning. He gave Sherlock extensive shopping lists, and when the groceries arrived home John prepared giant meals that he wolfed down with abandon, and forced Sherlock to eat some as well. Although he would deny it every time the doctor asked, they both knew he had not eaten almost the entire time John had been sick. Then, as he got progressively better, John started on his usual daily workout, albeit a severely toned-down recombination. John was always the soldier, and he would always strive to keep himself in as good a physical condition as he could manage, even if the shapeless jumpers he wore veiled any aesthetic proof of this. Every day since he had been discharged from the army, bar the past few weeks where he had been unable to drag himself out of bed, John would follow the same exercise regimen, derived from manoeuvres used throughout his military training.

Old habits were hard to break.

In less than a month, there was no evidence remaining that he had been sick, and he took the opportunity to crow at Sherlock for the fact. The detective had snorted derisively and retorted that there was no proof that these actions had hastened his return to health, although secretly conceding that this was, in fact, likely the case.

"Just face it, Sherlock." John grinned at Sherlock from his armchair. "You were wrong."

"You could still relapse," he sniped back, fingers deftly stroking the strings of his violin as he tuned it.

The smile faded. "You almost sound like you want it to happen. Can you really not stand being wrong that much?"

"No, John, of course I-" He stopped his fumbling apology as a John snorted, then howled with laughter.

"Oh God, your face!" Tears of mirth streamed down his cheeks.

"Yes, John, very amusing. Alright, you got the better of me-"

John drowned him out with a particularly loud burst of cackling. Sherlock had the grace to allow himself a small chuckle.

"Oh, that just made my day," John gasped, sides shaking. Sherlock grunted noncommittally. John stretched his arms above his head, sighing in contentment. His merriment dimmed after a few seconds, and he looked at Sherlock seriously. "There's something that's been bugging me about that case you were on."

Sherlock looked up briefly, then returned to his violin. "Oh?"

"Yeah. Um, how the hell did you get me out of that building? Or get inside in the first place?"

His fingers flicked across the strings. "They let me in."

"They let you-" John cast about disbelievingly. "They let you in. Just like that."

"Yes," he replied, in a tone that indicated that it should have been obvious. John stared. Sherlock sighed. "I slipped up, alright? I was hacking one of their systems and... someone saw, and figured out exactly what I had and hadn't seen. Aside from things crucial to the case, I discovered that they had kidnapped you, and where they were holding you. They gassed you, and pulled out, knowing I wouldn't pursue them if I was taking care of you. It was a rather deliberate choice of drug, one that would keep you sick - and subsequently, keep me busy - for weeks, giving them enough time to gather their people and assets and flee the country. Although you might just find that they won't be bothering anyone anymore."

"Mycroft?" John hazarded a guess.

Sherlock shrugged vaguely. Wrong genius.

"Speaking of Mycroft, are you going to take up the case again? You know he'll probably make you, now that I'm better."

"Already solved," Sherlock replied dismissively.

"What?"

The consulting detective fixed him with a piercing gaze. "The case is solved, more or less. I had to do something during the rather extended periods of your unconsciousness. You have a simplistic understanding of how my minds works – God knows I've explained it enough times – you should have realised I wasn't just taking care of you to the exclusion of everything else for the past few weeks." Of course, this had been exactly what Sherlock had done, but as usual, he felt much more comfortable retreating behind his aloof, analytical mask than confronting the notion of caring about someone.

John took a moment to digest this, not entirely convinced. After all, wasn't Sherlock contradicting the statement he'd made at the beginning of John's recovery? He could see that Sherlock was avoiding having to deal with the emotions that he could never quite get the hang of in the first place. He allowed the younger man his indulgence, instead focusing on something else he'd said.

"You said more or less."

"Oh, that." Sherlock's lips twitched upwards, somewhat relieved that John hadn't pursued the more emotional route he'd been expecting. "Mycroft's having to do some damage control." Technically, it was the truth. They both grinned.

"Okay," John clapped his hands and rubbed them together, abruptly changing the topic. "I think we can officially say that I've escaped my brush with death and I'm back in full health. Is your stupid house arrest rule lifted yet?"

"I suppose." Sherlock was glad John had decided to steer clear of the exact circumstances of his kidnapping altogether. Sherlock's deal with Mycroft notwithstanding, Sherlock hadn't wanted to concern the doctor with the knowledge that Moriarty had been involved.

"Want to go see how badly Scotland Yard's been carrying on without you?" John suggested, a smile playing on his lips.

Sherlock smirked, placing the violin to the side. "Oh, I know exactly how bad it's been for those idiots."

"Still, a nice up close and personal wouldn't be too amiss? I've been cooped up in here almost two months now, Sherlock, and so have you. God knows what the criminal world's been up to while you've been in here playing doctor. Besides, I need a change of scenery."

"Alright. Let's go rub it in Anderson's face that they haven't even solved a third of the crimes that have come across their desks without me to point out the blatantly obvious."

John stood, intending to return to his room to get his jacket. He stumbled forward, catching himself on the mantelpiece just in time. "Okay, not a complete recovery yet, I guess." He pushed himself upright and smiled reassuringly, taking more confident strides to his room. "See, momentary lapse. I'm fine." And then, a spark of fear flickered in his eyes a moment before he pitched forward, already unconscious.

"John!" Sherlock lurched towards his friend, catching him and gently lowering him to the ground. "If you're somehow trying to prove a point, know that I'm not finding it amusing in the slightest." There was no response. Not that he'd really expected one. His own statement hadn't made much sense, anyway. Sherlock forced his anxiety down. God, but those emotions were irritating! He dragged John back to his room, tucking him under the covers. He placed his (only slightly) shaking fingers under his chin, pacing back and forth. He'd been expecting a relapse, but he hadn't been prepared for it to happen so soon, especially not one that came on with such suddenness. He remembered the predictions about John's state he had made to Mrs Hudson - that he'd eventually slip into a comatose state.

He looked down at John. The doctor was sleeping so deeply he looked like he might never wake up. With a sinking sense of foreboding, Sherlock found it a distinct possibility that he never would.

.:':. .:':. .:':.

"How is he now?" Harry's worried voice grated on Sherlock's nerves. Of course, she'd found out about John's relapse in a matter of days. With Harry's improved outlook on life, the two siblings had grown much closer.

He bit back an irritated reply for her to stop asking the same stupid question, and lied, "He was awake about an hour ago. Lucid, but weak." He had no qualms about lying to her. He didn't want to deal with her reaction if she found out that John had been asleep for over twenty-four hours, and was, rather definitely at this point, in a coma.

Harry bit her lip. "He was doing so well... I thought..." I thought my promise would be enough to make him get better. Stupid, Harry. Stupid, stupid.

Sherlock said nothing. He knew he couldn't keep up the charade forever. It would be an impossible coincidence for John to be asleep every single time she visited - and Sherlock was sure she would resume visiting every evening as she had done in John's first bout of sickness.

.:':. .:':. .:':.

John had been comatose for three days before Harry found out the truth.

When she did, she arrived, very drunk, at 221B. Stumbling up the steps, she tottered to the door and slammed on it with her fist until Sherlock answered. He'd barely had time to take in the mess that was her clothes and countenance before being overcome with the tell-tale reek of cheap alcohol. Gagging, Sherlock leant against the doorframe as his highly tuned senses were assaulted. "You lied." Harry seethed at him." He wasn' sleeping, he's been in a bloody coma!" Sheshoved past him. "John!" she slurred angrily, weaving in the general direction of her brother's bedroom.

Sherlock coughed and dry retched a few times, still recovering. Once he'd done that, however, he immediately rushed after Harry (moving considerably faster than she had done). He could already hear her hurling verbal abuse at the unconscious John.

"You can't be dis'pointed in me, John, you broke your promise first, jus' like last time! I needed you to be there, but where were you? Oh, that's right, gettin' shot. Hope that hurt, 'cause it hurt me. So it's your fault, see, not mine. You turned me into this, an alc… alcoh… a drunk person," she finished heatedly. She turned to face Sherlock a full second after he had burst into the room, the liquor in her system significantly impairing her reaction time. There had been a bottle clenched in her hand when she had entered the flat, and she had somehow set it upright on John's bedside table. Now, she swept it up again to take a swig, getting as much in her mouth as on her shirt. "And you." She lifted her forefinger from the bottle to point at Sherlock, taking an aggressive stance. "What're you doing? Why didn't you take John to the hopsital?" Sherlock sighed at her mispronunciation. Her anger and intoxication were giving her a speech impediment. Suddenly, she shot him a look of pure hatred. "This is one if your… science expediments, isn't it? John told me about those. You're s'posed to be friends, what friends do that?" Tears brimmed in her eyes, which then narrowed. "Was it all you? You're the one who poisoned John, it's all just for your stupid expediments? You bast-"

"Shut up, you drunkard! I did not poison John!" Sherlock snapped at her, losing patience, any respect she may have garnered in his eyes dissipating. Harry stared at him, wide-eyed, then broke down into a blubbering mess. "Oh, what now?" he said with disgust. "I'm supposed to sympathise with you, after you accuse me of slowly murdering John? Because you're drunk?" He looked down his nose at her. "That really is rather deplorable." Harry curled up into a small, sobbing ball. After a few minutes, however, her sniffling subsided, to be replaced with the sound of snoring. Sherlock regarded her with revulsion, considering moving her but eventually deciding he didn't want to subject himself to the stench of the alcohol wafting on her breath again. He moved his chair into the corner furthest from Harry, and settled down to wait until she woke up so he could kick her out.

.:':. .:':. .:':.

A/N: Drunk Harry is fun to write (which I realise is disturbing. Oh well.)

*sits back and waits for angry views about how mean she's being to John*

-pixie.