A/N: I AM SO SORRY THIS IS LATE. ;~; Grad school's been a giant prat and I'm ridiculously busy. Next update in hopefully a week and a half - we've got one more chapter for this part! Unfortunately then we're probably facing a hiatus before the next one.

John arrived at the hospital and parked in his spot. Sherlock was like an exotic creature - John never quite knew what to expect when he was in the picture. Ignoring the elevator, John took the stairs. It would be quicker and he didn't want to risk getting held up on the staff elevators by a coding patient. Not that he didn't have sympathy for coding patients, mind you, but he had more sympathy for whichever psychologist had drawn the short straw and had to attempt to evaluate Sherlock's frame of mind.

Mycroft was standing just outside the elevators, his mobile in one hand and his normal umbrella in the other. He must have heard or sensed John, for the moment the doctor headed in his direction Mycroft turned and smiled. It was a strained smile, just a bit too tight around the edges. John carefully examined the ward. Nothing was broken, and there was no blood, so he doubted Sherlock had made a run for it. Probable psychological damage, then. For who was the next question.

"So you said it was urgent?" John asked, panting slightly. He wasn't as in shape as he used to be, and going up a few flights of stairs in a rush took a lot out of him. His army days were too far in the past. Distantly he made a brief resolution to exercise more. Maybe take up running.

"Indeed," Mycroft agreed. Without another word he led John to Sherlock's room and stood in front of the door. He turned back to face John, and his voice dropped lower, more secretive. "The psychologist left about a minute before you arrived, however…" Pressing a few buttons on his mobile, sound rose from the mobile Mycroft was holding in his hand.

John immediately recognized Sherlock's sneering voice. "I'm sure, as a psychologist, you can accurately evaluate my frame of mind. You're a serial adulterer. How many mistresses are you maintaining? And you have children with two of them." John heard a tsk and winced. "That doesn't count the one you murdered to maintain your secret, nor her child. They're buried underneath the tree at the house of your wife. Your first wife, that is."

And it continued. For three minutes Sherlock continued dredge up every secret that the psychologist had probably ever had, to stunned silence and the occasional splutter of protest. Finally Mycroft clicked off the recording. "Dreadful mess," he said mournfully. "The police had to come and arrest him. Sherlock was all too pleased with himself."

"And the problem with this is?" John asked, not entirely certain as to why he was there.

"Unfortunately the hospital is refusing to sign off on Sherlock's release." Mycroft's voice was steely. "At least not yet. While I could pursue…alternate routes, I do prefer to not cause a fuss."

"Or you won't blackmail the CEO unless you have to, eh?" John snorted.

"I know naught of what you speak, Dr. Watson," Mycroft tsked. "However, if I were to have the power to do such a thing - I agree your evaluation of the dilemma might be correct."

"And this relates to me how?" John lifted an eyebrow.

"I was able to, however, get the hospital to agree to release him with your signature." Mycroft's bland smile made more sense now. John was going to be the puppet. John ran a hand through his hair, sighing.

"Fine." Mycroft lifted an eyebrow and went to open his mouth. John held up a finger. "Not a word," he said. "I'm not going to argue with you because I know how it's going to end up. Not. Another. Word."

Mycroft's smile deepened and John had the feeling that the man smirked with his entire body. Fuck. It was bad enough that he had to take Sherlock home. He just hoped it wasn't a package deal. Pushing open Sherlock's door, he walked inside, shutting it firmly behind him.

Sherlock laid on the bed, staring resolutely at the wall. His face was blank, something that set off warning signs in John's head. No matter what Mycroft thought, this wasn't smug - this wasn't pleased. This was something different, something darker. Grabbing the chair by the side of the bed, John tugged it over to the bed and sank down into it, propping his elbows on the bed and placing his chin on his joined hands. He took some time and just sat, staring at the man who was putting quite a bit of effort into ignoring him.

They sat in silence for what John estimated was at least fifteen minutes, neither man speaking. John studied Sherlock's face, saw the minute little motions, the occasional blinks and twitches that proved that he was not made out of stone. Finally Sherlock broke. "Aren't you supposed to be asking me questions?" His voice wasn't the sneer John had heard on the recording. It wasn't defeated, wasn't vulnerable. It was carefully guarded, creating the maximum illusion that Sherlock was bored and fine - or would be, if John would just leave him alone.

"Weren't you supposed to be answering them earlier?" John countered. Sherlock's gaze flickered back to John for a split second, fast enough that John nearly didn't catch it.

"He was an imbecile. A murderer."

"But that's not what's bothering you, is it?" John's voice was quieter, and the flicker back to John was enough of a confirmation.

The silence dragged on long enough for John to get comfortable in his chair, long enough for the fatigue to start pulling at parts of his mind and making him groggy. He sternly told it to stop, and dragged his mental faculties back to full attention. This was Sherlock. Whatever bothering him was probably going to take John some time to wrap his mind around, even working at full capacity.

"How could they have missed it?" Sherlock's voice was derisive, harsh. John unclasped his hands and leaned back, watching Sherlock intently. "All the signs were right in front of them. I could see them. And they couldn't. How many puzzles are going unsolved, with the way they are?"

"We're not all as smart as you, Sherlock," John said, watching Sherlock intently. "We don't see all of the signs."

"Then why does the public trust them to solve such simple things?" Sherlock's gaze was on him now, his eyes wide and frantic. There was something else there, something that John wasn't sure what was. His pupils were pinpricks, and his breathing was accelerated. Sherlock looked almost high. He had the physiological responses of being high on some kind of drug, without the opportunity or access to any kind of drug.

"Have you taken anything?" John inquired in the silence that lingered.

Sherlock snorted dismissively. "No." There was a pause, and John watched the monitors, eyeballing the medication levels and other signs of Sherlock's health. He felt Sherlock's eyes boring into him. "Solving that case - the puzzle. It felt like a hit, like the drug surging through my veins." His voice was whisper-soft, shame tinging the words. Marvel tied with embarrassment, as if he dared not confess anything he thought.

"That's a good thing," John answered, careful to maintain a nonchalant expression. Part of him was hopeful, and part of him hated himself for that hope. Addicts were always the same. They always crashed and burned, no matter what they came up with. Sherlock would be no different. However, this was a start. If Sherlock could find something that would keep him off drugs, even if it was just temporary, that could be enough to get him the start of a stable foundation.

The room fell quiet again, although the silence felt a lot more comfortable that time around. John had relaxed into the chair, and Sherlock laid quietly on the bed, his gaze switching between the wall and the chair John was sitting in. It wasn't long before his breathing smoothed out and his pupils returned to normal, as if nothing had happened. There was a soft knock on the door and John glanced up to see Mycroft walk in. He could practically hear Sherlock rolling his eyes from where he was sitting, and he tutted quietly in response.

"Brother," Mycroft said stiffly, his eyes on Sherlock's form in the bed. "Dr. Watson. Has the necessary paperwork been completed?" John felt the hint of Sherlock's frown directed at him, and he stood and walked over to the computer tucked in the corner of the room. Some nurses and doctors did their charting on the computers in the rooms. It was most useful when performing a patient assessment, but it would work equally well for John to do his discharge paperwork.

"The hospitalist will have to sign off on the discharge," John said, frowning at the computer as he sorted through the confusing system. The ER used a subset of the electronic records system and John rarely had reason to delve into the more complex system that ran the majority of the hospital's patients. He had never had access nor reason to do so before. Stupid bloody buttons. He muttered under his breath as he clicked through various tabs, finally finding what he was looking for and entering the required data.

"You use a different system in the ER?" Sherlock asked, his focus on John. John nodded absently, closing out the program once he finished.

"You don't need the same things for ER patients," he explained. "We tend to track people for hours rather than days or months. Our needs are different."

"Interesting."

"You just asked that to distract me, didn't you?" John turned to Sherlock with a faint smile.

Sherlock watched him critically, tracked John's movements as he walked back over to the door. "Yes."

John chuckled. "I have to go find the hospitalist. If you two could prepare Sherlock for discharge? The nurse will be in to discontinue the IV. If you would rather me do it -" Sherlock had lifted an eyebrow. "Fine. I'll be right back."

He wandered out, quickly seeing the hospitalist assigned to Sherlock's care. Mycroft had picked the best of the bunch. "Hey," John said, moving into the doctor's line of view. His name was Dr. Thomas Osiem and John had worked with him a handful of times prior.

"What are you doing up here?" the doctor asked, leaning against the wall. He looked exhausted.

John jerked his head towards Sherlock's room. "Him," he answered.

"How'd you get messed up in that?" Thomas shook his head, running a hand through his hair. "Never had a patient accuse one of our therapists of murder - and be right about it, at least."

"He isn't a run of the mill patient," John agreed. "Look, I did his psych eval and cleared him for discharge. Yeah, I know. Ridiculous."

"That would never hold up in court," Thomas pointed out.

"Good thing his brother has no intentions of taking it to court," John responded.

"He got any follow up?" Thomas asked. They shifted farther down the wall until they encountered one of the indents with a computer resting in it. They weren't as common as they were in the ICU, but there were still enough computers for the nurses and doctors to share.

"You could say that, yeah," John answered promptly. "He'll be living with someone who knows what to look for."

"His brother, I'd bet," Thomas said absently, clicking through the discharge notes. "Scary feller, he is. Right about pinned me to the wall with those eyes of his. Not much better than his brother when it came to social skills."

"They are kind of abysmal." John couldn't hide his grin.

"Alright. Once his IV's done, and a nurse has gone over the discharge paperwork with him, he's free to go."

"Yeah, I kind of told him I'd do that."

"His brother didn't want another lawsuit on his hands, eh?"

"Is there even a nurse that would work with him on this floor?" John quirked an eyebrow.

Thomas snorted. "Probably not." He clasped John on the shoulder, giving him a fond smile. "Take care of you."

John watched him for a moment before forcing a smile onto his face. How much did the other doctor guess? He didn't want to know. "Yeah, of course." He laughed. "You too! Don't let that wife of yours run you to the ground."

With an enigmatic smile, the other doctor walked off, leaving John standing there. A nurse passed him the discharge paperwork and he thanked her and walked back to Sherlock's room. He was not surprised to hear snarky comments being met with derisive ones, and he sighed as he walked in. "Do I need to separate you two?" he asked mildly.

"Of course. Mycroft, feel free to leave."

"Oh do shut up, Sherlock," Mycroft snarled, his patience clearly running low. John merely lifted an eyebrow and both men fell silent, fuming in their own ways. "Your childish mannerisms are clearly infectious." This was said with more dignity, and John fought to hold back an eyeroll.

Ignoring the glares they shot at each other, John walked over and carefully slid the IV out of Sherlock's arm, taping a ball of cotton over the site. "Do you have something to wear, or are you going to wear the hospital gown home?" he asked mildly.

"I have clothes in the bathroom," Sherlock said with as much dignity as he could muster.

"Well, have at it," John said, gesturing. "Slowly, mind you." He watched as Sherlock slid his legs to the side and stood up. It startled him; he hadn't realized Sherlock was so tall. John got an eyeful of a firm, pale arse before Sherlock disappeared. It was then that he realized he had been ogling his patient in front of said patient's older, scary brother. Fuck. "Medical evaluation," he said, with as much dignity as he could muster.

"I am certain it was an evaluation of some kind," Mycroft replied, a smirk lurking somewhere in his carefully controlled face. "Not to worry. I have all necessary confidence in your ability to - evaluate."

The next few minutes passed in a hideously awkward sort of silence, the kind where John couldn't believe what he had done and preferred to pretend it didn't exist. Before long Sherlock came back in, and John was thrown for another sort of loop. Sherlock had dressed in a well-tailored suit, black in the jacket and pants with a crisp purple button-up shirt underneath. He looked like he had just stepped out of a magazine.

John stared. And stared some more. It was so different from the Sherlock that he had seen come into the ER, so different from the one in the hospital. Finally there was a cough behind him and he broke out of his concentration, jerking his gaze towards Mycroft. "Did you finish your examination, Doctor?" The smirk on Mycroft's lips was pure evil and John forced his features to remain neutral as Sherlock's gaze focused on him. John could feel the tips of his ears turning red and he damned the elder Holmes to the darkest pits of hell.

As he went to open his mouth Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "No need for the discharge paperwork. Are there any other boring boxes we need to finish? No? Then I think our time here is done." He turned to give Mycroft the fakest smile John had ever seen. "Good day, Mycroft." And then Sherlock was out the door before either could react.

"Better catch up," Mycroft said after a moment. John sighed and trudged out of the room, trotting to catch up with the long-legged man.

Sherlock slowed slightly as John approached, eventually coming to a stop in front of the elevator. "You know you're supposed to ride out in a wheelchair," John pointed out.

"Pedestrian," Sherlock replied dismissively, his focus on the elevator in front of him. They stood in silence for a few moments before John realized that Sherlock must have forgotten to press the button. He leaned forward and pressed it, noticing with a faint grin that the tips of Sherlock's ears flushed pink. So he had forgotten, then.

They rode down the elevator in silence, although John's gaze flickered between their path and Sherlock. Emerging from the elevator, John led the way to the physician's parking lot, Sherlock close behind. Neither apparently felt the need for conversation, and Sherlock stayed a half-step behind John, following his lead.

"You drive that?" Sherlock wrinkled his nose at John's car, and John bristled in its defense.

It wasn't a flashy car. It was a bit old, a bit battered. But it worked, and John wasn't about to waste any money buying a new one. "It works," he said defensively.

"I would figure as a doctor you could afford something better," Sherlock muttered, handling the car door as if it would explode or contaminate him at any second.

"I could," John agreed. "I just didn't think it was necessary." Getting in the car, he turned it on, staring pointedly at Sherlock until he rolled his eyes and buckled his seatbelt.

John didn't live far away, and it wasn't long before they pulled up in front of his small house. He took a deep breath as he stepped out of the car. This was it. He was bringing a patient home. He was bringing Sherlock Holmes home.

John just hoped that his house could handle it - hoped that he could handle it.