A/N: Sorry about the cliff-hanger before. -csf


8.

'I'm alright, don't fuss, I'm alright', John insists. Sherlock wants to believe that, he really does, but the strange amalgamation of red and purple bruises and scrapes visible on John's cheek and hands are blatant warming signs to the simple deceit.

'You are not alright, John, look at you! Not to mention you ended up in the wrong hospital, and on other side of the Hippocratic oath!'

The patient sat on the hospital gurney smiles tiredly.

'Will you stop worrying? You've been pacing in circles for the last half-hour. I'm going dizzy just from watching you.'

The detective freezes to the spot, glancing guiltily to the short blond. John immediately clarifies:

'No, I'm not really dizzy. Well, I am, but I already was before you got here, Sherlock. You did not make me dizzy.'

Sherlock huffs in mock up derision, but he does not resume his concentric pacing in the tight space delineated by drawn curtains.

'Look, I'm fine, mate.'

'Just drop it, John, you are atrocious at deceit.'

'Would that be me you're addressing, or Ms Scottish Sleuth?' he grins to signal his success. 'With your brains and my write ups, Lupin will soon—'

John freezes as Sherlock suddenly seats on the spare chair and grasps John's hand in a tight vice grip; just on the other side from reassuring, more like a bit painful, but ever so reassuringly present.

'John. Please.'

It's a genuine plea from the hurting detective, one he can't quite verbalize. John has the words, Sherlock the mind; it's how it has always been. There are deep abysses in Sherlock's storm tossed green eyes as he finally locks gazes with John's dark rimmed midnight blues. Sherlock notices this particularly terrifying shade of blue is characteristic of painkillers kicking in behind John's heavy eyelids.

'We'll be in Baker Street in no time, John.'

The stoic doctor's shoulders stoop. 'Please', John whispers himself, finally betraying his pain and exhaustion, as if he knows that Sherlock saw it, so he finally relents to lower his breached defences. 'I broke your motorcycle, Sherlock. A car cut in just on the curve, and he probably didn't see me, and I tried to swerve, but I ended up losing control of the engine, and—' John sighs, and somehow manages to look even smaller and more vulnerable to his friend than the way he is already betrayed by the hospital gown or the ugly haematoma display.

'That's perfectly alright, John. I'd say I would get you another ride, but that's a lie for a long while yet.' Sherlock contorts his reassuring smile in an inexperienced way.

.

A shy knocking coincides with the last button housed in John's shirt by a dexterous detective playing a motherly role to his uncoordinated friend. The medication seems to have rendered John with two left hands, but contrarily to all expectations, the left handed patient is not in the least proficient in his temporary condition.

The hospital cubicle curtain rolls back by the action of detective inspector Lestrade. 'John? Yes, it's you, that's great. Got the wrong curtain twice before.'

'You took your time', Sherlock comments coldly, from the bedside.

'I'm not the one with mind maps of public buildings and secret services passes to restricted areas, mate. I got here as soon as I could. Missed all the fun, huh?' he adds, eyeing John, who looks a bit drugged up and ready to keel over.

When directly confronted, the small doctor-patient perks up and asks: 'Did Sherlock tell you I was here?'

'Yeah, mate, he did', Greg confirms, coming closer. The smallish doctor looks back, a bit glassy, a bit groggy. 'How are you feeling, John?'

The man's eyes narrow. 'Like I crashed my... my... Sherl, I can't remember the name. Two wheels, great speed, awesome gift?'

Lestrade looks on to Sherlock, who seems pained as he turns to his flatmate and requests: 'Shh, it's alright, take it easy, it's only the meds kicking in.' Lestrade is shocked at this caring Sherlock, soft as a big teddy bear, but the intervention seems entirely effective, and the doctor quietens immediately.

John nods. 'You're the clever one', he says mysteriously following deep trains of thought.

Sherlock smirks fondly, keeping his close proximity to the injured man, as a determined bodyguard. John's eyelids droop further and he leans over to rest his head on Sherlock's shoulder, conveniently close, as if it were an everyday occurrence, an absolute normal thing between them. Sherlock is sure that is not the case, but he won't pull away. Instead he cradles John's blond head, mindful of his injuries, after a second or two of handling operation calculations and simple shock, that is.

'Lestrade, can you give us a ride back to Baker Street?'

Tiredly, John seconds that: 'Yes, home, just as soon as I finish my shift. I'm a— a— What's it called, what I do, Sherlock?'

'It's called slurring, John. It's when you drag the words and mumble things. Do not worry, you'll be fine tomorrow.'

John tries to frown, then either by slight pain from his eyebrow cut or because his brain is too hazy, he settles for:

'Yes, captain.'

Lestrade sniggers softly behind John's back, and grabs John's battered jacket for them to leave.

.

'Well, I don't suppose you could do it, not in your current condition, John.'

A clear headed, returned to sanity, doctor John Watson is lounging on the sofa. Bathed by the next morning's soft glow, he keeps to this flat's central point due to his injuries. A lonely exile in his room would only hinder the poor doctor's recovery, handing him to his demons.

John watches Sherlock pace the living room rug with concern. Sherlock seems to have a dark metaphorical storm cloud that spreads and thickens in his wake. John used to think only cartoon characters could do that.

'Sherlock, why did you say Yes to meeting this Lupin character? He could be a dangerous fraud for all we know!'

'Ha! If only I were so lucky!' the detective releases as a tirade.

John presses his lips into a thin, grim line.

'That's it, I'll have to go with you, Sherlock!' he decides, testily.

The detective peers over the smaller flatmate through the fireplace mirror.

'May I remind you that you are in no condition, John? You are still peeing blood.'

'I'm not! Dark urine is a side effect of some medications such as— Wait a minute, how did you even— You ruddy stalker, how did you—'

'My bad. Ignore that. Mis-deduced, John.'

The doctor's stance is commonly referred to, in army jargon, as take-no-prisoners. Even the impressive unfurling bruises add to the overall effect, and Sherlock struggles to keep his affronted, arrogant air. But manages he does. For a good cause. He'll stalk John as he pleases, if it ensures the selfless doctor's wellbeing.

'No, explain to me how—' John insists still.

'Is stubbornness an indicator of mental degradation, John? Do not hide anything from me, I must know the worse, as you've been discharged early in my care, John.'

'I don't remember that, you overly dramatic git.'

'Hmm', Sherlock's face is grave. 'I'm afraid it seems a rather serious case, presenting memory lapses too.'

'Wait a minute, a hospital doesn't discharge patients to their flatmate's care!' John finally seems to catch up with his medical experience. Sherlock almost relents. Almost.

'How would you know? You were very confused, John. Possibly concussed.'

'I'm a doctor, Sherlock! It'd be great if you could remember that!' he snaps, angrily. Then he corrects, stiffly: 'At least at those times when I can recall all my words.'

Sherlock chuckles, John checks himself and feels the undignified giggles bubbling up inside him. The laughter is genuine when it erupts, taking over both of them. It mocks the grandiose acts from both, and it clears the thick atmosphere in the room. Sherlock grabs onto the fireplace mantel for balance, John curls forward and hugs his tender ribs.

John pulls his head back at last, conceding:

'Yeah, you can look after me, you nutter. You've done a great job so far, don't stop so soon.'

Sherlock is a rare shade of rosy shyness from the honest praise in an area where he is, undoubtedly, rather inexperienced. It's a good feeling, one he could get used to feeling. He seems to understand John a bit better. John is the nurturer, the caring friend. Sherlock usually thinks of himself as more of the wild nuisance type.

'Then I will endeavour to distract you by means of impersonating your Scottish Sleuth creation, John. Give me detail, if you please. Name?'

'But she's a woman, I made her up as a woman, Sherlock. Are you intending to disguise yourself as a lady?'

'Nothing so pedestrian, John. Pantomime season has passed and you require my presence until your condition improves. I'm wondering who we can enlist to our ranks.'

'Oh', John comments, finally leaning back on the sofa, establishing a comfortable longer term position. Noticing that, Sherlock nearly sighs in actual relief. He didn't think he'd witness compliance from the stubborn doctor anytime soon.

'Mrs Hudson in disguise, or maybe Molly, you mean? And you could feed them answers through an earpiece?'

'That's the spirit, John. Think it over. I need a proper story teller to establish our plan.'

.

DI Lestrade can't focus this morning. He blames it solely on John. He feels for the poor fellow. Crashed his ride. He wouldn't have been riding a motorcycle if Greg hadn't spurred Sherlock on to give back to John in the first place. The inspector thought Sherlock would power through with completely harmless and inappropriate gifts, like a spleen, an Egyptian beetle, or a monograph on a new type of ash. That's what Sherlock usually does on John's birthdays anyway.

But no, Sherlock has a deep competitive streak to him. Insisting a car was not the right gift for John - apparently John drives like a madman avoiding roadside bombs in Hackney - Sherlock got him something smaller, something John could weave through the city traffic more easily. A top notch motorcycle that was the immediate envy of everyone. Sherlock is not one to conform to suggestions.

So, in a logical way, Greg feels a bit guilty, carrying his share of the load on what happened. A car mismanaged an overtaking, too close to the curve. He didn't see John on the motorcycle until he was reeling against him. John tried to swerve, lost control, and crash landed on the curb, dragged along asphalt and then a slight ditch, that ultimately slowed him down. The motorcycle a wreck after following a similar path further ahead; John probably managed to kick the overturned machine away from him so not to get run over, John is one cool bastard under pressure.

And now he's being babysat by Sherlock; that should be a fitting punishment for not taking better care of himself.

Greg stops pacing the tiny glass office and lays a tired hand on top of the filing cabinet.

Right. He can't now face John and explain to the poor sod that this lousy inspector has been playing them all along. The farce must go on. But where can he find someone who has any interest in playing the mock detective Lupin?

Just as an answer sent from the angelic heavens above, or the blazing hells below, Anderson, the forensics expert, comes into view.

Greg reckons he would.

.

TBC