A/N: Phew! *dries sweat from forehead* That took too long, sorry about that, I realised there exist a life outside this site too (just barely). Anyways, chapter two!

Nothing seemed to get better, no matter what drug or how much of it was injected into Sherlock's system. He didn't even calm down just a tiny bit, the pain appeared to be just as bad as it had been. He hated seeing Sherlock like that. He had, of course, seen the cocky, arrogant, selfish, unable-to-show-sentiment… man in pain or degraded before, but it was just as unsettling and wrong each time.

"Give him more. You have got to give him more." All of John's medical training was long forgotten in the heat of his friend being in pain. He knew it could be dangerous, but it wasn't helping!

"We have already given him more than he should have. You said he'd been having breathing problems, abdominal pains, head pains… Come on, if you're a doctor, you know what drugs can do when we haven't diagnosed the patient yet!" The young doctor sitting on the other side of the ambulance had an exasperated look plastered to his face, and John had to give in and acknowledge the facts.

John had to take several deep breaths to keep calm and try to make his own mind see reason. There was an emotional balance that should be kept, and the more distressed Sherlock became, the more composed John had to become. The whole situation was so surreal, but it was all made so very true as the doors of the ambulance opened and fresh air hit those inside of it. Next up was white walls and fluorescent lights rushing past tired eyes, and then an ICU room. Once inside, John got pushed out again by frantic doctors, trying to decide what to do. It wasn't fair, he thought. He was a doctor too, and it was his friend, and it was he who had been with him in the past few days when it all started. No, Captain John Watson would not be pushed outside of this. With defiance rushing through his body, he pushed the door open again. What he got to see sent him stopping dead in his tracks. Sherlock had finally stilled, but it didn't give John the satisfaction it should have, because his friend lay slumped and lifeless against the stretcher. His legs felt like jelly and his head had actually become cloggy and thick, that was before he saw the syringe in one of the doctors' hand. His heart rate went from rocketing sky high to sliding comfortably back down to the ground again. There was no need for him to be in there if they had sedated him, he could go back out and get some coffee at least, before he woke up and god knew what would happen. With that on his mind, John slowly backed out again and went to look for a wending machine.

Sherlock was confused when he woke up. He didn't recognize the room he was in, how he got there, or why he was there at all. It was definitely a hospital, but he couldn't deduce more than that, and it made him even more confused and irritated on top of it all. His body felt heavy and sluggish, not responding anywhere near as quickly as he wanted it to. It was as if everything was too tiresome and arduous to accomplish at the moment. Why did he feel like that? What had happened? Who had done this to him? Doctors? Where was John then? John! Where was John? Had something happened to him too? It angered him to no end that he could not get the pieces to fit together, or rather that he could not find the pieces at all. They were well hidden in each and every unreachable corner of his great mind palace. Sherlock let out a small but dramatic sigh, he had to get out of wherever he was and find out what was happening. He managed to sit up and take hold of the edge of the bed to support himself as he flung his legs over it and slid carefully down to the floor. A stinging tug in his hand made him stop abruptly and lean back against the bed. He took the IV line in his hand, inspecting it with a curious glance and then yanking it out. At that exact moment, the door to his room opened and he stopped rubbing the little laceration he had made, looking up at the man in front of him.

"Lie back down, please." The hand on his chest, pushing him back into the bed, felt intruding, and Sherlock decided he didn't like it.

The dark, slim hand was swatted away by a petulant and cautious detective. He climbed over the bed and jumped down on the other side of it, wobbling slightly when his feet hit the floor. Now he had ripped out the IV line, and it burned, but it hardly mattered as much as the dizzy spell he suddenly had. He tried to support himself by using the wall, just as the nurse rounded the bed and came towards him once more. It was too much, and Sherlock fell to the floor and pressed himself up against the wall.

"John. I need John." he hissed at the man who took a step backwards.

"After I've got you back into bed, alright?" he looked momentarily both confused and worried, but quickly stretched his hand out for Sherlock to take.

"I need John. Where is John?" if John could come in that door or the nurse could go fetch him, that would be just perfect, but nothing happened, the nurse seemed frozen in his posture. "Get John." Sherlock spat with his most venomous voice.

"O-okay, just… don't move."

Sherlock didn't feel like moving anyway, but it was because of that, and that only, that he sat in the exact same position when the nurse came back in with John in the lead. The disoriented, lanky man on the floor stole a quick glance at his blogger, sighing in relief when he found him unharmed.

"Come on up Sherlock, don't make such a scene." John held his hand out for Sherlock to grab. For a moment it was tempting, but he thought better of it and gathered all the strength he could muster to push himself off the floor.

"What is going on?" Sherlock demanded as soon as he was on his feet.

"Get back into your bed, let the nurse here insert the IV again, and then we can talk about what is happening." John crossed his arms, making him seem ten times more resolute and dangerous.

Sherlock shambled over to the bed, petulant as ever and not-so-furtively showing he wasn't going to be easy on the people around him. He wasn't tired, didn't feel off, didn't feel sick or like he had to lie down. He was just disoriented and wanted to know what was going on. No IV was needed, not even hospital, he just wanted home. John just had to tell him what all of it was, and Sherlock just had to play with it, then he could manipulate his way out of there. He would get out, if it meant he had to sneak out or trick people.

"Okay, you have had one hell of a week Sherlock… No wonder you can't remember anything of it, knocked you right out that sedative."

"What? Sedative?" Sherlock's eyes grew as he stared at John.

"You were in so much pain, Sherlock, they didn't have any choice. Nothing worked. And now we have to find out what is wrong with you." There was nothing to like with the pitying and sad tone to John's voice. Sherlock felt fine, although a bit shocked and maybe even more confused.

"There is nothing wrong with me, I feel fine. I just want to get back to Baker Street." Sherlock put on a pleading face, but John didn't buy it.

"You are up for a bone marrow biopsy as soon as you're lucid enough, and the doctors are ready. They will also take some blood samples and possibly sign you up for MRI. Something weird is going on in there Sherlock, and we have to find out. Sorry, you can't go home just yet." John fought an urge to take his friend's hand and comfort him, although he probably needed no such thing.

"They'll be ready for you in ten minutes. Someone will come in to take you to the biopsy." The male nurse who had been in there with them the whole time, smiled something like a reassuring smile to John before he left.

John smiled back and thought "I don't need any reassurance, you twat.", but shook it off and tried to focus on Sherlock. He wondered what was going on in that great mind just that moment. Did he even care, or did he just want to go home? What if he tossed and turned on all the possibilities, scaring himself into panic? His composed and careless expression told John otherwise, but he had learned it was just a façade. There was probably an inner turmoil going on in Sherlock's head, just as it was in his own. He was going to stay for the tests, they could be both tiring and exhausting, and who knew when the next time a pain wave would make its appearance? Sherlock would definitely become a pain in the arse for the doctors and nurses. He could at least try and keep the situation somewhat under a normal, social condition until it was inevitable that Sherlock would make someone cry. Until then, he had but one thing to do; keep himself and his own feelings at bay.

John didn't realize they had both been sitting in their own thoughts for ten minutes until a doctor, or more precisely the one in charge of Sherlock's case, came in and announced that they were ready for the biopsy. A female nurse, a rather good-looking one, John noted, followed the doctor inside and started to roll Sherlock out of the room. He sat with his arms crossed, and buried himself as far down in the mattress as he came.

"I can walk there myself. There is nothing wrong with me. There is something wrong with you." John just rolled his eyes and shrugged, as to show the two other persons in the room to carry on with what they were doing. "I don't need this!" Sherlock bellowed, more to his flatmate than to anyone else.

"I'll be right here when you come back!" John shouted just before Sherlock disappeared out of sight.

After a short break from the hospital, to go home to get some food down into his stomach and take a quick shower, John came back to find Sherlock just finished with his fourth, and hopefully last, test. It had been a MRI this time. He had looked just fine after the first test, the biopsy, if not a little bit agitated.

"You look fine!" John had exclaimed, noticing himself that he sounded a bit too surprised.

"Of course I do. I am fine. What did you expect to happen in there, me leaving this planet in a sky of pain and tears?"

"No… did you expect that?"

He had said it under a laugh, but quickly stopped when Sherlock looked away from him and didn't answer. It was probably for the best that he kept to himself that he had heard him all the way down the hall. "You're over the worst part of these tests now though, it isn't even certain that you have to take more of them!" Sherlock had just huffed at his friend's attempt at lightening the mood, and thus they left the conversation there.

He had looked fine then, not in any sort of pain or conflict with his inner self. After a couple more tests, John couldn't say the same. Sherlock looked like he had had quite enough, both emotionally and physically. Pale was an understatement if one should describe his pallor, and agitated was no longer a good enough definition of his mood. Once again, the detective seemed twitchy and uncomfortable in his own skin. Maybe he should have never left, it could have been hours ago that Sherlock had started to look like… well... shit. What came to John's mind at once, was that he was on the verge of a new pain attack.

"Hey, how are you doing?" that was a tad too soft, Watson!, a voice in his head said, but he whisked it away.

"I am sick and tired of this hospital, and the people in it, and all the tests, and needles, and prodding, and…" It seemed as if by saying it out loud, Sherlock finally realised how much it was all true. "I am going home."

"No, wait- what? You can't just- Sherlock!" John started to take action as the man in the hospital bed sat up.

"I am going home." He said once more, with a notch more anger in his voice. "If the case of being brain dead isn't contagious, thus my memory not having failed me completely while being in this hospital, then I believe there is a very important project of mine splayed out on the kitchen floor?" Sherlock jumped down from the bed to put a period to his sentence."And that can absolutely wait. Mrs. Hudson isn't home… do you know why by the way? And no one is going to enter that flat before we come home. I cleaned it up when I was there anyway, so there is nothing to worry about. Now get back into that bed!" A firm grip was taken around Sherlock's upper arm as he was starting to move about.

"No, you don't understand." He hissed and wrenched out of the strong man's grip. "I was working with the case, and I was onto something. There might be a relation between it and this."

"Sorry, what?"

"John, please do listen when I speak. The case and… and… thi-" Sherlock staggered backwards and took a grip of the mattress at his side.

John cursed under his breath as he grabbed hold of Sherlock, and took advantage of the moment to lead him back into bed. There wasn't much resistance from the detective, he seemed more than okay with laying back down. As soon as he sat down, he started to scrabble for the end of the gown he was wearing, dragging it up to just above his thighs. At first, John didn't understand what he was trying to do, but then he saw him piercing the right one with the most intense glare he had ever witnessed. That must be where it hurt. Next up, Sherlock threw his head back and let out a long, silent, choked moan, carefully rasping out John's name afterwards.

"Sherlock, come on, focus on something else."

Mostly, it's not because the pain itself is welcome, it's because it's different. A different pain takes the focus away from the one that has been plaguing you, makes you concentrate on something else, makes you forget.

The voice of an old friend of John chose that moment to appear. The idea he got from it was so unprofessional that he wished he had never even thought of it. He should really just call for someone, but what good would it do? If the idea would get Sherlock out of his misery for even a few seconds, that was enough for John to consider it. He waited for a few more minutes, ensuring himself that the attack wasn't planning on subsiding. If he was to go by the way Sherlock started to writhe and his continuation of whispering his name, it was only getting worse. Therefore, John took hold of Sherlock's shoulders and thrust him forcefully into the mattress. It made Sherlock hold his breath and open his mouth in a silent scream. John did it one more time, against his better judgement.

"Focus!" He gritted out in desperation.

"Stop." Sherlock groaned as he shied away from John, not wanting him to ever do anything like that ever again.

His chest was hurting now too, together with his thigh. What had happened to his chest? Had he been to x-ray too? Did they say anything? Oh… right… the microscope. What was happening? Focus! Was that tears forming in his eyes? Why did John do it again when he specifically asked him to stop? Come on, I know you can do it!

"Stop John. Stop!" Sherlock thought it came out as a demanding roar, while it really wasn't more than a pitiful squeak.

He tried to crawl as far away from his friend as he could. He was angry, confused and scared by the man, did he not understand that he just made it worse? If he could, he would have punched the man, aiming to break his nose, and not apologise afterwards. "I always hear that, but it's usually subtext.", likewise my dear companion, likewise.

John could see Sherlock's pained expression lightening up a bit, and that a more thoughtful one took its place. Mission complete. He felt awful, if Sherlock was a bit delirious, as he had been before under the attacks, what was he thinking of him then? He didn't like the way he literally recoiled away from him. At least he could relish a tiny bit in the fact that it seemed like Sherlock had forgotten about the pain for a few moments.

"John?" the small, nervous voice dragged John out of his bane of thoughts.

He caught himself looking around for the child who said his name, but when his eyes settled on the big-eyed man in the bed, he understood that wasn't the cause.

"Sherlock! I-I'm so, so, so sorry. I just- I tried to-"

"I know… Or, now I do. It worked. It stopped. Forget about it. My chest is a bit sore though, did you see the pictures? From x-ray?" Sherlock nodded to the pictures which were still up after the doctor had been in earlier that day.

He drew in a sharp breath when he got to see them, and then groaned in exasperation. Sherlock had a broken rib. He didn't know the microscope had hit him that hard…because that had to be it? He couldn't think of anything else. Of course it would hurt when he thrust and shook the man like that, what on earth was he thinking of? He should have just called for someone! So much for being a doctor, and a good one too, even an army doctor. John spiralled deeper and deeper into dark thoughts as the pictures before him blurred out.

"You only did what you thought was best John, no one can blame you for it. It worked, and I told you to forget about it, so stop bothering that poor little brain of yours with useless considerations." Sherlock smirked at his friend as he turned around. "I know you want to go home again and do something mundane. You have work tomorrow, and it's getting late, so I am making a guess at sleeping, maybe even another shower where you can toss and turn all those thoughts a couple dozen more times. Oh, and don't forget to call your sister, by the way, need someone to complain about your difficult flatmate about I assume." Once again, he chose one of those cocky expressions, while John stood still, just as dumbfounded as ever at his deductions. "Go, John, I'll do. I'm a grown man, I'm sure I can survive a night at hospital alone." The smile Sherlock gave him was genuine and reassuring.

Why did people think he needed reassuring?

"You are right, as always. Not sure if I'm going to make that call though…"

"You will."

"Shut up." John smiled back at Sherlock. "And by the way, you might want to take back that 'grown man' part, it's not you I'm concerned about. Just please, don't make anyone cry?"

"I can't really promise you-"

"Sherlock" John threatened.

"But, I can probably try, for your sake of not feeling embarrassed. Now go!" Sherlock waved towards the door.

"Thank you, Sherlock. But-" It really wasn't the best time of leaving, right after an attack like that, right after he had hurt Sherlock, and without telling anyone of the staff.

"Leave, John, it's fine, stop quarrelling with yourself now." There was something unnerving about how impatient Sherlock was, something that set of a bell in John's head. The daft bastard probably just wanted some time in peace, and it was with that John went to the door. He hesitated a minute before he locked the door when he heard Sherlock laugh:

"I'm fine!"

He was anything but.