AN: Hey. I was bored, so you guys got this. Thanks to fantasybean, GRock87 and an anonymous reviewer for their loverly reviews.

This chapter was prompted by fantasybean a couple of chapters back. Anyways, I am running out of prompts again, so off you go!

Review and prompt my children

Lily

I would genuinely never have guessed Sherlock's secret weakness.

Early in our acquaintance I had realised that, after long periods spent on cases, Sherlock would lock himself in his bedroom for a day or two or simply lie on the sofa staring at the ceiling, before either emerging or getting up, often in the same clothes he had been wearing during the period of activity. But for the life of me I could not work out what he was doing.

He wouldn't talk to me or even respond to anything, during these periods of sloth-like demeanour but I knew that he would sleep very little, if at all, because I could hear him moving around when I went to my own room.

It all seemed very odd, but, as I've said before, as it was Sherlock, I really had no right to complain.

Luckily for me, these incommunicado periods gave me some very welcome quiet time and fairly often I managed to do extra shifts at the surgery or clean up the flat around him, much to Mrs Hudson's delight. Unfortunately, it also had the following, rather drastic consequences. Which, if Sherlock did not constantly assure me was not my fault, I would never forgive myself for.

It was shortly after one of the longest cases we'd ever worked on. A series of people had been found all across London, having been electrocuted and killed. They were people from all different walks of life, seemingly with nothing to link them together. But obviously with Sherlock on the case, it had been about twenty minutes before he realised that every single one of the victims had been to the same addiction clinic in central London, known as the Polly Varney Rehabilitation Clinic. Sherlock told Lestrade his findings, who then decided (almost purely to annoy Sherlock) that he was going to get an undercover policeman in on it.

Nearly two weeks, of meetings, paperwork and being dragged home by me, later Sherlock stopped attempting to scream Lestrade into submission and decided to take the matter into his own hands.

He decided to go to the clinic posing as an alcoholic and find out what was going on. To cut a long story short, Dr Polly Varney was using an electrical current to try and discourage user from drinking, shooting up etc. Essentially the patient would be asked to set the current to an uncomfortable but not painful level; the current would then be increased to a slightly painful level when the patient was shown a picture of their chosen drug. That was the idea anyway.

It seemed that Dr Polly Varney's parents and brother had died of alcohol abuse, so she had decided that she was helping the addicts by increasing the current to a lethal degree. In fact Sherlock had almost died before Lestrade's team burst into the building, but that's not the incident that I'm talking about.

Sherlock had gone into the building with a radio, but it had been taken off him at the door of the clinic, so I didn't know what the hell was going on. He could have been dead for all I knew, so after going frantic for an hour I had called Lestrade, and the raid had taken place from then on. But the first I knew about the situation was when Lestrade walked out of the building towing a panicked looking Sherlock behind him, who didn't even resist when his brother turned up and shoved us both in the back of his car.

To be honest I highly doubt that he even noticed, because he has this weird ability to have hysterics completely internally. An ability I apparently do not possess, which became painfully obvious during that car ride.

Anyway, when we got home, something else became painfully obvious and that was the fact that neither of us had been home for about seven days, let alone gone anywhere near the shower or bath. And the way I respond to stress, is to clean.

I commandeered the bathroom and sat down on the loo until I felt better and stopped whimpering. It apparently took quite a long time, because when I emerged from the self-pity cycle, Sherlock was knocking softly on the bathroom door and requesting use of the bath.

And I let him in. Mistake number one.

Because it turns out Sherlock's periods of slothyness are in fact, periods of temporary narcolepsy.

Only another thing that he failed to mention on The List. Oh and did I mention he can sleep with his eyes open?

In this case I heard the bath running from the living room and then a small splash. Oddly I didn't hear the bath tap stop running, as naturally I assumed he had gotten into the bath, but dismissed it as the water being too cold or something, added to which, Sherlock had pissed me off considerably on this case and I was too tired to go and investigate.

A couple of minutes later, the tap still hadn't turned off, so I went to the bathroom and knocked on the door, trying to rouse him. After a minute or so, I began to get worried, and seeing as I live with Sherlock you can imagine just how desperate the situation seemed to me. After weighing up all the evidence, I decided that the most sensible option was to break down the door and, should he be ok, the door could be quickly repaired and in any case, it would calm my jangling nerves.

After a few minutes and a sore shoulder I finally burst into the bathroom. I was very glad I did.

I found Sherlock fully clothed apparently having fallen into the bath, but worse, his whole face had been fully emerged in water, so presumably he couldn't breathe. I stood in the doorway, gaping for a few moments before, luckily for both of us, the doctor in me kicked in. I almost had hysterics again as I hauled him out of the bath and laid him out on the floor.

It was fairly obvious he wasn't breathing but I checked his vital signs anyway. No pulse and no breathing.

I hissed through my teeth and scrubbed at my face 'Christ Sherlock, what have you done...' I patted my pockets and swore loudly when I realised I didn't have my phone, I ran into the living room and dialled an ambulance, fumbling with the buttons on my phone as I hurried back to the bathroom, and shouted all the details down the phone at some poor girl on the other end who told me an ambulance should be there within eight minutes.

And now, to CPR. I pinched his nose and tilted his head back, before breathing twice into his mouth five times, before going back on the chest. Linking the fingers of my right hand with the fingers on my left and pushing down on the centre of his chest with the heel of my hand, sweat beading on my forehead.

'Come on Sherlock.' I begged, through clenched teeth. I winced as I felt a rib break but I knew I had to carry on. On the next round of two rescue breaths, I felt Sherlock's hand move and when I next banged on his chest, he gasped, opened his eyes and coughed long and loud. I blinked dumbly at him for a few moments until he recovered, before standing up composedly and throwing up into the toilet.

'Christ...' I moaned. Sherlock turned over and smirked slightly on the floor.

'That's a very high resistance level you have there. Doctor.' I slithered down onto the floor next to him, shaking like a leaf.

'I thought you were a goner there Sherlock.' I moaned, covering my face with my hands.

'Of course not.' He wheezed 'I have learned to control my bouts of narcolepsy to an almost efficient level.'

I looked at him, lying on the floor next to me, his lips slightly blue and his breath coming in grating rasps. Good god, I thought. What have I gotten myself into?

'Well.' I said controlling my breathing 'Next time you feel like randomly falling asleep in the bathroom and almost drowning yourself, give me some warning so I can have an ambulance of hold.'

'There will be no next time John.' He rasped 'I can control my narcolepsy. Piece of cake.'

I laughed shakily and rolled over, as sirens and blue lights filled the room.