Author's Note: Here we are! The third update today. We should now be all caught up and on schedule. Hooray! Getting my fanfiction account straightened out and managing my stories are really doing wonders for settling me back into my day-to-day life. Once again, pardon Sherlock's drugged-up-ness. And don't worry, after this chapter things will get considerably lighter. ;) I don't only write angst, you know!
Disclaimer: I have realized just now that the last two chapters did not contain disclaimers. O.O Oops. But rest assured, I still don't own anybody from SHERLOCK. I didn't during the last two chapters, and I don't in this one. :) There. Does that cover it?
"You're just a little confused," John said, as if it wasn't a big deal. Sherlock Holmes, acting like this, of course it was a big deal.
"Will it go away?" Sherlock was very grave when he asked that.
"Yes. Definitely, of course it will," John said, trying to mask his own worry.
"I'm freezing. Give me back my coat."
"No, you're not freezing. You're burning up."
"My coat, John. Please."
"You can't have it. You'll kill yourself overheating."
"It's so cold, and I'm losing it, and it hurts-" Sherlock broke off rather abruptly, turning his face into John's coat. John felt him begin to shake, no sound coming from him. Quickly he glanced at him, thinking he was choking…but he wasn't. He was crying. John turned slightly away from Chi-Sung, putting his shoulder between her and Sherlock to afford him some privacy. "John, there's something…something I'm forgetting, something important I have to tell you," Sherlock said, urgently, after a moment. His voice was still thick. "But I can't remember…Me, John. I can't remember…Oh! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, John. Don't hate me. I'm so sorry." The silent sobs shook his frame again.
John really was getting scared.
"Why on earth would I hate you? Why are you sorry?"
"I didn't get the shopping," Sherlock confessed. Delirious. John forced himself to sound cheerful for Sherlock's benefit.
"Good thing you didn't, too."
Sherlock paused, apparently trying to work that one out. After a moment, he said,
"Why?"
"Because if you had, I'd be even more worried."
Sherlock smiled a little.
"I'm so tired," Sherlock observed, "Stupid transport."
"How's your transport doing, by the way? How's the pain?"
"Appalling. Head. Eyes. Wrists, too, I think. Hadn't noticed that before." John glanced at Sherlock's wrists; they were bruised, and one might be broken from jerking against the cuffs. "I feel sick. I'm so thirsty. And cold. And tired. I think I already said that."
"Can you walk?"
"No. Can't move."
"You sure moved when I checked your eyes."
"Reflex, John. Involuntary."
"Right. Don't worry then. We'll get out."
"I didn't…I didn't get the shopping. I'll do it when we get back. I didn't…" Sherlock's head drooped farther down and his breathing evened out somewhat.
"Sherlock?"
No answer.
John looked at Chi-Sung, debating whether to send her for the police. He didn't trust her, though, despite her apparent distress. He certainly wasn't about to leave Sherlock alone with these people again; not hurt and confused and upset as he was. Nothing guaranteed he would still be alive when John returned; Chi-Sung informed him that he'd already stopped breathing once.
"Ah. Found him, I see."
John looked over his shoulder at the door…Mycroft stood in the doorway, umbrella in hand. He strode into the room, pale faced, stopping by the table and observing his brother.
"Unconscious," John explained, noting the flash of panic in Mycroft's eyes, "He needs help though. I'm not used to dealing with breakdowns."
"That's why we're here," Lestrade's voice said. He entered the room, gun ready, with the other policemen. Donovan was right behind.
"We've got these guys, John. You can take Sherlock for help now. Molly is coming with a stretcher-"
"I'm here!" called a breathless Molly, "Is he okay?"
"He will be. Help me get him on. Let's get him out of here."
Sherlock opened his eyes. He was in a bed. A real bed, and a comfortable one at that. The room was dark, though the glow of daylight still made it's muffled way through the heavy curtains drawn over the windows. It wasn't a hospital room…far too nice for that. The Diogenes Club. It must be. It was quiet, and Sherlock noticed that he felt warm for the first time in what seemed like far too long.
His head wasn't screaming at him, anymore, and felt a good bit clearer, though some soreness remained. He looked down at his hands. A stiff, white cast encased his right wrist; he must have broken it somehow. Apparently he was on the mend. His gaze flicked over the room again.
A little get-well card from Mrs. Hudson stood on the side table. Flowers from Molly. Silly sentimental stuff. And…a glass of water. Sherlock snatched it up, spilling a bit with his stiff unmanageable wrist, and drank it all at once.
It was pleasant lying there. He decided he would put off getting up for a while and just enjoy it a bit longer.
So he waited three minutes.
A fresh, un-rumpled set of his own clothes was waiting lying over the back of a chair ready for him. He threw his covers back and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Footsteps sounded in the hall, and the door opened. John was grinning at him.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"Getting up."
"Really."
"Really." Sherlock gave him a look that said, "duh."
"Sherlock, you can't get up yet. You're eyes aren't back to normal. Give it until tomorrow."
"My eyes are fine."
"Yeah?" John flipped the light-switch on. Sherlock yelped and buried his face in the blankets, and John turned the light back off. "You're doing much better, really, Sherlock. Just give it a bit longer. And I wouldn't try to get away, either," John went on, when Sherlock raised his head from the sheets and looked mutinous, "Mycroft's got a guard stationed outside the door..."
Sherlock's glance flickered to the window.
"...and the window," John finished. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And I'd play along nice, if you want in on the fun. Court case for Manson is tomorrow, Sherlock."
Sherlock was immediately interested.
"Did they get all of them?"
"Yes. Apparently Manson had connections with Moriarty."
"Of course."
"Moriarty was going to help him market his invention to the Honduran government after it was tested. Manson was smart enough not to tell Jim who he was testing it on, though, or I doubt Moriarty would've been so keen to help. You know, with his obsession. Wouldn't want anybody getting to you first."
Sherlock's gaze hardened, but he nodded.
"And what happened with the Honduran government?"
"Anthea and Mycroft got that sorted. Paid the officials involved a good amount of money not to buy the apparatus, and threatened to have them terminated if they did. You know how charming your brother can be. Apparently Anthea needed Mycroft's phone to prove Mycroft's personal involvement in the deal, and that she wasn't just using his name. He couldn't go personally, of course, for security reasons."
"So he sent his female assistant instead, to the murder capital of the world, no less. Typical Mycroft," Sherlock snorted.
"That's why it took so long to find you. I had to fly all the way to Honduras and back to get your tracking info from Mycroft's phone."
"So. The trial's tomorrow?" Sherlock looked pointedly at John. "You do realize I'm going, don't you? Whether you like it or not."
John shook his head, but couldn't help laughing with relief.
"Yes. We're both going. You were the one he tried to drive out of your mind, after all. And I gotta say, I was worried for a bit that he might have."
Sherlock looked away, and was silent for a long moment. John was sorry he'd said anything. That must have hurt.
"How was I?" he said, finally. John was careful with his answer.
"Pretty mixed up for awhile. You freaked the nurses at hospital out a bit with some of the stuff you were saying; Mycroft had you pulled out of there soon as we knew you'd be okay. We have doctors here and supplies; guess he figured you could recuperate just as well." John paused. Sherlock had apparently stopped listening. "Sherlock…are you okay?"
"Yes. Okay." Sherlock gazed into space, brow furrowed. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. He frowned.
"Because if you-"
"No John."
"What?"
"I know what you were going to say. No. I don't want to talk about it. You can go." Sherlock looked pointedly at John for a moment, and then looked away again.
"Um…right. Okay, then," John said, uncertainly, "I'll have somebody bring you something to eat and some more water, if you'd like."
"Fine."
"Really? Fine?" John was skeptical.
"Yes. Fine. Case is closed; time for my customary crash."
"Alright. Um…then…see you tomorrow?"
"Mm."
John withdrew, and stood outside the door a minute, thinking.
"I trust Mr. Holmes is comfortable, sir?" one of the guards asked. John nodded.
"Yeah, yeah. Thanks. He's…he's good."
But as he found his way back to the sunlit parlor in which he'd spent the morning, he wasn't so sure.
Author's Note: This was written before season three aired, hence the still-living-ness of Moriarty. ;) I want to thank everybody who has been commenting on here and leaving reviews; it really means a lot to me. And I want to encourage those of you who have something to say, to go ahead and say it! Even if you don't like what I wrote, as long as it's constructive criticism I'm totally open! Don't be afraid to be a bit harsh with your critiques if you feel you need to; that's how we writers get better, by being teachable. Love you guys! Next update, coming up Friday!
P.S. I just realized that I got ahead of my game and thought today was Monday. It's Sunday. So I just posted my Monday update a day early. Oops! Sorry guys. Still kind of scatterbrained from my trip. Next update hopefully really will be on Friday.