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They’d both been a bit distracted lately.

At least, John supposed they had been. He’d certainly been busy with Sarah—things were going well, really well, better than they’d gone with anyone for ages—and Sherlock… well. Sherlock had been a bit more lethargic lately, it was true, but there hadn’t been many cases for a while and he hadn’t really thought much of it. John had been warned, after all—sometimes I don’t talk for days on end, and it wasn’t as though Sherlock had specified the number of days he might be accustomed to string together in such a way—and he’d been so standoffish about John’s intervention that John had eventually just decided to let it run its course. He assumed Sherlock would snap out of it as soon as he had something else on which to focus his mind, as always. He’d be fine.

That was before John heard the shot, though, the crack of it echoing and bouncing between the hard surfaces of the buildings.

Lestrade immediately handed off control of the scene to the nearest-to-hand member of the Yard and took off to discover who had fired. John, for his part, had turned to ask Sherlock if he knew—

But Sherlock wasn’t there, and John felt the pit drop out of his stomach a split second before he heard Lestrade’s shout.

After that it was all half-frantic response, pressure applied to blood-slicked skin and Sherlock’s lips turning blue as he blinked around the pain and made wry comments with no breath to back his voice. John had to tell him not to talk, the idiot had a hole in his lung and even then he wouldn’t shut his mouth, just shut up and wait for once in your life, and he must have been scared because he actually listened. Even so, by the time John heard the approaching wail of the siren Sherlock’s eyes had fluttered closed.

John supposed he might get used to this, the aftermath of lead ripping holes in the flesh of men he knew, but this was London, not Afghanistan, and the pavement was hurting his knees. The paramedics, when they arrived, were reassuringly efficient and Lestrade bundled John into the squad car, turning on the siren so they could follow close behind.

They wheeled Sherlock back for surgery immediately. John slumped down in an uncomfortable chair in the waiting room, dropping his head into his open palms. Lestrade brought him coffee and clasped his shoulder but couldn’t stay long before needing to get back to the scene, and of course John understood.

Duty, yes; he understood that quite well.

“Call me,” Lestrade said by way of farewell, “if anything changes, or… for anything, mate.”

It was nearly five hours later when a nurse came out to inform John that Sherlock was out of surgery.

“He’ll be under for a while yet,” she informed him with an air of practised cheer, “but you’re welcome to wait back there, if you’d prefer.”

John both did and didn’t know what to expect when he entered the recovery room. He was prepared for it professionally, in the broadest sense, but the specifics were always unexpected; it was a shock to see someone he knew rendered so inert. The bones of Sherlock’s skull stood starkly under his pale skin, closed eyes ringed by circles so dark they might have been bruises. He’d been intubated—of course he’d been intubated, he had a pneumothorax, though John realised he’d been harbouring the vague notion that even unconscious Sherlock might figure out a way to refuse such treatment—and that was always a disconcerting sight, but his lips and nails were no longer blue-tinged and the monitors showed a steady heartbeat.

It was, under the circumstances, as much as John could have asked for.

Sherlock had remained unconscious for nearly half a day. When he came out of it he was disoriented (normal) and restless (less normal, but hardly a surprise in his case). The tube ensuring that air reached his lungs prevented him from speaking, and John did his best to interpret the shaky gestures and facial expressions, but Sherlock just seemed off somehow.

Stranger if he weren’t, John told himself, but didn’t quite believe it.

The early stages of Sherlock’s recovery progressed about as well as could be expected, the only immediate complication being a low-level infection that persisted despite the application of antibiotics. The tube was removed after two days and John had thought Sherlock would be glad at the restoration of his voice, but by then Sherlock had lapsed into a sort of listless stupor, staring blankly at the ceiling or curling to face the wall. His voice when he spoke was slow and scratchy-sounding, as though it hurt to force it through his throat, and he didn’t seem inclined to make the effort often.

John sat by his side for another day after that, but then had no choice but to return home; Sarah had been understanding, but Sherlock wasn’t, after all, the only ill man in London, and he had duties at the surgery. The hospital was on the other side of London; after work and on his days off John would take a cab there, spending as large a proportion of the visiting hours as possible at his flatmate’s side. Sherlock, for his part, largely ignored John on those occasions, either napping through the visits or refusing to engage in any but the most rudimentary forms of interaction.

It was one such evening when John arrived, exhausted from two long days at the surgery. He hadn’t been able to visit the day before, and was hoping he might find Sherlock in a better mood than he had previously, if only because he wasn’t sure he’d be able to respond patiently to the other man’s sulking.

At reception, though, John was told to wait. He’d only been there a few minutes when a doctor (Dr. Yates, John read from his name-tag) came out to speak to him.

“We’ve had to move him,” Yates explained, almost apologetically. “Last night. We were concerned about his mental state. He’s been non-compliant, refusing food, and occasionally seems to experience bouts of disorientation. This morning he actually threatened one of the nurses who came in to replace the bag of medication feeding into his IV. We’ve been in contact with his brother, who says he occasionally suffers from what he terms ‘black moods.’ He told us to speak to you in that regard. Has there been any recent pattern…?” He trailed off, delicately.

John could almost hear Mycroft’s voice, abdicating responsibility. John had contacted him, of course, but he he hadn’t come back from wherever he was since Sherlock’s injury. He nodded his head. “A bit.”

“Well, his recent behavioural patterns combined with threats against medical staff . . . we’ve moved him to the psychiatric wing for observation. We’re going to wait another day before beginning the formal sectioning process; perhaps the threat itself will be enough.”

John stared at him for a moment, blinking slowly. They were going to section Sherlock.

Dr. Yates continued. “His brother has agreed to sign the papers, if necessary, and of course we can take care of the rest in-house. You’re listed as his primary physician but I also understand you have a personal relationship, so I thought it might be best if he didn’t perceive you to be… well, if you didn’t have to be actively involved in the process.”

“Right, yeah,” John said, mind reeling a bit from surprise and a sudden onrush of anxiety. “Ah, thanks. Can I speak with him?”

Dr. Yates’ mouth narrowed, his lips pressing to a thin line. “You can,” he said, “but only briefly, and you’ll need to be very careful not to upset him. He is, as you can imagine, rather less than thrilled at the moment.”

John almost laughed that. “Yeah,” he said, “I’d imagine not.”

Dr. Yates led John down a long corridor to the psychiatric wing, then into the lift to Sherlock’s floor. Yates stood aside so that John could enter the room alone, a nervous feeling slithering down his spine to coil at its base. Sherlock was lying on his back, eyes squeezed tightly shut. He looks thin, John thought, even for him, even under the circumstances.

“Sherlock,” he said sternly, intending to force the other man to acknowledge his presence. He’d given up on such tactics days ago, but it seemed it might be worth the renewed effort.

“John,” Sherlock answered, not opening his eyes. Infuriating.

John clenched his jaw. “You realise,” he said slowly, exerting careful control over his tone in order to avoid erupting into the frustration he could feel battering at his ribcage, “they’re talking about sectioning you.”

Sherlock opened one eye, found John with it, then closed it quickly. “Hardly surprising,” he muttered.

“What happened with the nurse?.” Silence from the other man. “Sherlock. You can’t just— you threatened a nurse.”

“Don’t like the drugs.”

John shook his head. “Not her fault, is it? And the food?”

“Don’t like the food.”

It’s like talking to a child, he thought.

Then, because it was true and he might as well say it aloud: “It’s like talking to a child.”

Sherlock grimaced. John pulled the visitor’s chair close to the edge of the bed and sat on it, reaching out to set his hand on Sherlock’s forearm. The other man flinched away from the touch.

“Sherlock. Listen to me. You’re under formal observation, they’ll keep you here, unless—“

“It’s not right,” came the low voice, barely more than a whisper, interrupting him.

“What?”

“It’s not right,” Sherlock said again. “It’s just— John. There’s something. Something wrong, I can’t explain it.”

John took a deep breath. “Look, I’m sorry, I should have paid better attention before, perhaps. I know you haven’t been—“

Sherlock shook his head quickly. “No. No, it’s not that. That is, it is that, but also something else, something new.” He was twisting the sheet in his hand, his body language reading as somewhere between nervous and embarrassed, and John was struck by how unlike his usual self he was acting. “I’ve been sleeping too much, and I think….”

He trailed off. “Think what?” John prompted.

Sherlock let out a quick breath, flinching from the pain of it. “There are gaps, and. Well. Sometimes I get muddled, think I’ve heard something, or….” He stopped again. John wished he’d open his eyes. Suddenly Sherlock’s whole demeanour changed, hands clenching to fists, features pinched in anger. “But of course, you’re not— you wouldn’t listen. Don’t understand anything, can’t be bothered to pay attention--”

“Sherlock,” John said in a warning tone, a bit disoriented himself by the sudden shift.

Sherlock jerked his arm away. “Just get out,” he said, “you aren’t going to help, so just leave me alone.” He crossed his arms across his body, hugging them in tight.

John stood slowly on legs that felt a bit shaky. “Sherlock, if you’re really. I mean, this isn’t. Well, isn’t like you. I don’t care if you never forget it, or forgive me, or whatever you need to do, but there is clearly something going on. I’ve been a blind fool not to have done something about it before, and for that I owe you an apology. Maybe this is lucky, what’s happened.”

Sherlock was shaking his head slightly and appeared to be muttering to himself; John could see his lips moving but couldn’t make out any words.

“Right. Okay. Fine. Just… look, I’ll be back to see you tomorrow, all right? Just….” Take care of yourself, he thought helplessly, and didn’t bother to say it. Sherlock wasn’t listening, anyway.

John left without another word.

As it happened, John wouldn’t be able to visit for at least two more days.

“Standard policy,” Dr. Yates explained. “It helps the patients settle into a routine. And the restoration of visiting privileges can be a powerful motivator for our more challenging patients.” Of which Sherlock is clearly one hung in the air between them, not needing to be said.

“That’s if you think it’s necessary,” John said. "After the observations are complete."

“Of course,” Yates said amiably, with a smile.

Neither of them really believed that was a possibility.

Sherlock thought he really ought to be worried. There was a tiny, analytical piece of his brain that seemed to have detached itself and was floating somewhere slightly to the left of the rest of his consciousness, just over his ear.

It, frankly, didn’t recognise the rest of his mind, wasn’t sure what to do with the thoughts it overheard.

Sherlock might have been able to articulate the problem to John if he’d been able to speak those first few days, but with the tube down his throat he couldn’t. By the time it was removed things had become a bit too fuzzy, the disconnect a bit too wide.

Besides which it was all John’s fault anyway, because he wouldn’t ever just stay John. He’d be himself when he first arrived, but then his face would start to do odd things. His chin would slide slowly up toward his cheekbone or there would be a bee crawling in and out of his right ear. Sometimes his words would actually spill out of his mouth and splatter against the floor, and they weren’t always the same words Sherlock heard with his ears. John was lying to him—John never lied to him—there was the evidence, incontrovertible, puddled at his feet.

So he couldn’t be John, at least not all the time.

Sherlock could hardly bring himself to look at him. Just stay you, he’d think desperately, because it hurt to see the other man so changed. Can’t you see there’s something wrong with you?

But John couldn’t hear him over the buzzing of the bees in his ears, or maybe it was just that the buzzing changed his words so he couldn’t understand.

That doesn’t make sense, the analytical part of Sherlock’s brain insisted. John’s a doctor, he’d know how to get rid of the bees.

He must not want to be rid of them, then. He must like them. How unlike John, though, to choose the bees over being able to hear what Sherlock had to say—amazing, he’d called it, extraordinary, didn’t he miss that?—but it must be a side-effect of the terrible difficulty he was having staying John in the first place.

Sherlock wondered what his other name was, resolved to ask him the next time his face rearranged itself, if the bee was gone then. Not-John might lie, but Sherlock was too clever for that. He’d know; he’d see the real name slip from his tongue, he’d be able to read it before it splattered into a puddle on the floor. He’d make himself look, for John.

I’ll figure it out, Sherlock decided. It’s my job, after all, figuring things out.

Something was very wrong, and the analytical part of his brain recognised it. It wasn’t always like this, though, not always this bad. There was a pattern to it—there was a pattern to everything—if he could just focus long enough to see it. He was pretty sure he’d been more focused earlier. Maybe he would be again, if he could just wait.

Sherlock’s chest hurt. There was a hole there, or had been, but it had been stitched closed. Surely that’s dangerous, he thought; he was pretty sure it had been sewn with the same material as the jumper John had worn that day, and that wasn’t really wool at all. It had claws and teeth, but it hid them from everyone but Sherlock. It winked at him. John must itch awfully, he thought, all the time; how does he stand it? His own chest itched, too, but if John could ignore it so could he.

Then he remembered: John had been shot in the shoulder. That must have been sewn closed, too, and he pictured the blue thread writhing against John’s skin like it writhed against Sherlock’s ribs. The jumper knitted itself, he realised, out of John’s own scar tissue, fibrous tissue and inorganic filament. Strong. That’s why he wore it.

Sherlock didn’t want his scar to outgrow his skin, it was happening already, he had to stop—

“Oi! Stop that.” There were fingers grasping his wrists, pulling his hands away from his chest. “He’s scratching at it again,” the nurse said, not to him.

Sherlock recognised her, of course, because her face just then was her real face. She was the one who brought his soup that first night he could swallow his own food; it was cold and it burned his tongue. Impossible, and he’d known it at the time, too, but it didn’t make it any less true, and there was something he ought to remember about the words impossible and improbable, his brain was chasing the meaning in circles, but he kept getting caught up before he could overtake his own thoughts.

Sherlock didn’t want to be touched by someone who could do impossible things. Too unpredictable. He tried to pull his hands away but he was dreadfully weak, with the hole in his muscle. It didn’t make sense; if that were why, wouldn’t it just be on the one side? There was only one hole, he was sure about that. Almost sure.

You’re being an idiot, the analytical part of his brain told him. You observe, but you do not understand. The analytical part of his brain had Mycroft’s voice. Sherlock hoped it was a joke, because the fact that Mycroft might be inside his head was merely improbable and he didn’t think the British government should be left unattended.

He couldn’t move his hands anymore, and a surge of panic flooded up his spine, because there was something spreading through his veins, it would overrun his whole system if he couldn’t get it out, it would blanket his skin and put those fuzzy woollen thoughts in his mind.

Must have done already, said Mycroft, whispering it disapprovingly into his brain.

“Go away, Mycroft,” he heard himself say.

There was a startled laugh somewhere outside his body. “I wouldn’t have expected the effect to be quite so immediate, with his history.” It was a familiar voice, but Sherlock couldn’t quite place it.

“Well, no matter. We’ve got a few uninterrupted days to get it just right.”

Hearing came back first, as it always did, followed shortly by a slamming, intense pain in his chest. Sherlock gasped and tried to curl himself around it, only to find that he couldn’t move his limbs.

“Now then,” he heard a female voice say, “relax. You were trying to pull your stitches out, do you remember?”

He didn’t bother answering, focusing instead on keeping his lips pressed together to avoid giving voice to any of the noises crowding against the back of his teeth.

Footsteps as the nurse came into view. He didn’t recognise her, which didn’t really mean much; his mind was feeling reasonably clear, but he vaguely recalled that it had recently been… well, less so.

He was breathing heavily, the movement stretching his injured side painfully. The whole area felt hot and stiff, resisting the outward press of his ribs with each inhale. He was cold, he realised, looking down to discover that he had no blanket, and to confirm that his wrists and ankles had been strapped down. They’d had to do that while he detoxed, too. It was as hateful this time as before, but surely now that he was awake—

“My chest,” he finally said, managing to keep his voice fairly even.

The nurse frowned at him. “You were shot, Mr. Holmes. You don’t remember?”

“Of course I remember,” he hissed, fighting to control his breathing. It’d been ages, though, it shouldn’t hurt this badly, hadn’t been this painful since just after it happened. “It hurts.”

The nurse didn’t laugh at him, not exactly. “Of course it hurts,” she said. “You were shot, and then you practically scratched through to your lung. We had to redo the stitches this morning.”

Something was prickling in the back of his mind. “Whatever you have in that,” he said, nodding sideways toward the IV running into the back of his hand, trying to sound casual, trying not to beg, “doesn’t seem to be doing its job.”

She patted his leg. “It’s working,” she said with a bland smile. “Just give it time.”

Time. Time hadn’t been behaving properly, lately. Still, nothing for it but to wait. Sherlock twisted his wrists slightly, testing the give of the restraints (none), hoping she would notice and unstrap him. She didn’t.

Instead, a familiar-looking male doctor came in. “Mr. Holmes,” he said, sitting down on the chair by the side of the bed. “Good to see that you’re awake.”

“He’s been having some memory lapses,” the nurse supplied.

“I haven’t,” Sherlock snapped.

“Mmm.” The doctor made a note in his file. “Mycroft is your brother, Mr. Holmes, is he not?”

“He is,” Sherlock said, warily.

“And you’re aware he hasn’t been to visit you here.”

“I am.”

“Yet you were speaking to him earlier. Do you recall that?”

Sherlock did, vaguely. He remembered saying Mycroft’s name, wanting him to do something, but the doctor was right, he hadn’t been there. He didn’t know what to say, and so remained silent.

“We spoke to Mycroft,” the doctor continued. “And to Dr. Watson. They both indicated that you’ve been in a bit of a slump lately. Does that sound accurate to you?”

John. There was something he ought to remember about John. Sherlock pulled on the restraints with his good arm. He would have given a great deal to be able to have this conversation sitting up, rather than strapped down to a cot like some—

“Answer me, Mr. Holmes. Your full cooperation in these observations is vital.”

It was a threat.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, reluctantly. “Though only because there haven’t been any cases, it sometimes—“

“Cases. That’s right, you work with the police.” The doctor flipped through his notes. “You were out with members of the New Scotland Yard when you were shot, though, were you not?”

“I was,” Sherlock said, trying to ignore the note of doubt he heard in his own voice.

“So. When you say it was only because there hadn’t been any cases….” The doctor pinched his mouth into a disapproving line and made a note. “Since you’ve been here you’ve regularly refused food.”

The sudden change of topic surprised Sherlock into answering, despite himself. “It makes me feel ill,” he said.

The doctor laughed. “True, hospital food isn’t exactly renowned for being gourmet cuisine, but surely it isn’t enough to make you actively sick.”

Sherlock searched for the words. “No, I mean—in my head, it makes me feel… disoriented.” He wished he could unsay it immediately. Not quite it; probably just made things worse.

The doctor gave him a long stare. “Paranoia,” he muttered to himself, making another note.

“No—“

The doctor cut him off swiftly. “And you threatened a nurse who was trying to change your IV.” It wasn’t a question.

Sherlock did recall that, with embarrassment. He couldn’t do anything but nod, feeling the flush moving up from his neck. The medication made him feel odd, too, and that was stirring something in his brain, but the doctor was talking again and Sherlock thought he’d better pay attention.

“So. Then you were speaking to your absent brother. Do you ever hear voices, Mr. Holmes?”

He did, frequently, when he hadn’t been getting much sleep lately, mostly just the fragments of things he’d heard earlier in the day. They’d be played back by his REM-cycle-deprived brain as it fought to process information, shifting it from short-term to long-term memory, and it was usually his first clue that his body wouldn’t hold up much longer if he didn’t let it rest.

I shouldn’t say anything about that, though, it isn’t what he means, Sherlock thought, and heard himself admitting to it anyway.

“I see,” the doctor said, frowning down at the file as he scribbled notes. Sherlock fought the urge to crane his head in an attempt to read the paper. It was bad, whatever he was writing, he knew that much.

“Well, Mr. Holmes. We’re going to begin the formal intake process later today. It seems you might be with us for a while.”

Sherlock couldn’t shake the feeling that, somewhere along the way, someone had omitted a vital step. He hoped it wasn’t him, though if it was he couldn’t see what he was meant to do about it.

The doctor had left, after which the nurse fussed about for a few minutes, adjusting the IV and shifting things out of Sherlock’s sightline. Then she’d smiled, patted his leg, and departed as well, leaving him still strapped down to the bed.

“Be right back,” she’d said brightly, but that had been ages ago.

It was difficult to judge time in the windowless room, but Sherlock thought it had been several hours, at least. His chest burned, the cold air (still no blanket, not even a sheet over the gown) harsh against it, making him shiver. He felt jittery enough, anyway, was having a hard time holding himself still, and wasn’t that a laugh. He was hungry, he needed a piss, he wanted to know what was going on, he was bored.

It was a room designed, he realised, to be eminently boring. Lack of features was its primary feature. He’d counted the ceiling tiles, attempted to identify the various (muffled—the door was thick) sounds occasionally bleeding in from the corridor. The temperature persisted in being just a bit too low for comfort, but there were tremors running through his fingers from something other than cold. It would have been interesting if he’d been able to use the information for any identifiable purpose.

Couldn’t do much of anything but wait, though. Just when he thought he’d reached his limit with it—not that it mattered, he was coming to understand, and wasn’t that a disconcerting thought—an unfamiliar doctor appeared at the door; dark hair, heels clacking against the linoleum of the floor.

“Mr. Holmes,” she said, and it was almost kind. Close enough to it, at least, that Sherlock was willing to let himself be fooled, even if only for a few moments. “I see you’ve just joined us this afternoon.” Her face was a complete blank, Sherlock realised with shock; not expressionless, but actually featureless.

Faces aren’t meant to look like that, Mycroft’s voice said. Obviously, she must have a mouth. Look at the evidence, Sherlock. How else could she be speaking?

Sherlock knew that too, of course—he wasn’t daft—but oh. It was like that, then.

Right.

Sherlock bit his lip. He knew better than to actually respond, this time.

The new doctor was reading his chart (See there, eyes as well, Mycroft sneered), making small hmming noises in her throat. “Yes, yes, I see,” she said finally. “Well, Mr. Holmes. I do apologise—it appears that, you being down here at the end of the hallway and new, the orderlies didn’t visit earlier as they ought. I’m sure you must be rather uncomfortable by this time.”

It was an understatement. Sherlock was about to agree when he realised what the doctor meant. She was doing something near the foot of the bed, holding a length of tubing in her hand, and it took Sherlock a long time to get enough of a grasp on the situation.

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” he said, hating the uncertainty in his voice, his tongue feeling cracked and dry as it scraped against the roof of his mouth.

“Of course it is,” she said in a dismissive tone. “We can’t release you, not if you’re going to be injuring yourself and threatening the staff.”

“I won’t—“

“Mr. Holmes.” She stood and walked around the bed until she was standing level with his ribs, reaching out to yank open the edges of his hospital gown. For a moment Sherlock thought he could detect the set of her mouth, but faded again before he could focus his eyes on it.

She reached out and pulled at the dressing covering his left ribcage, pulling it off in one tug that tore at his skin. He hissed in a breath.

“See here,” she said reasonably.

Even Sherlock had to admit it was a mess, angry red and swollen, the stitches standing out in harsh contrast. It didn’t look right, the whole side of his body seemed distended. He wanted to move away from it, but of course that was entirely impossible for a variety of reasons.

“So you see why the restraints are necessary.”

“Yes,” he agreed, breathlessly. He couldn’t imagine how he’d done that much damage, just by scratching at the stitches, weak as he was, but the evidence was in front of him.

“So, Mr. Holmes,” she said, moving back around to the foot of the bed and grasping the catheter, moving her hand up to rest against his hip. “This may be a bit uncomfortable, but it will make everything quite a bit easier in the long run.”

Sherlock didn’t like the idea of the long run having anything to do with his current situation, restrained and bored and helpless. He clamped down harder on his lip and tried to use that thought to distract himself from the impersonal feel of her gloved fingers on his skin, the discomfort (wrongwrongwrong) of the tube going on, the rush of relief and attendant flush of humiliation that spread over his cheeks as the bulb settled into place and his bladder released.

The doctor was changing the bags on the IV. She reached down to pull the edges of his gown back together, almost as an afterthought, though she didn’t replace the bandage covering his stitched ribs and the cloth rasped and dragged against the sutures with every inhale.

“There you go, Mr. Holmes. We’ll start your full course of treatment tomorrow.”

She was starting to walk toward the door when Sherlock felt himself jerk against the restraints, calling out to her almost against his will. “Wait.”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes?”

“I need to—“ He didn’t know, actually, but there must be something he could do. “Can I— have you spoken to Dr. Watson?”

“Of course,” she said, a note of puzzlement in her voice. “He’s approved everything we’ll be doing.”

Wrong, Mycroft whispered triumphantly.

It was disconcerting to hear his suspicions voiced so clearly, even if only within his own mind, and suddenly Sherlock found himself struggling to sit up. The doctor was back at his side, pushing against his shoulder in an attempt to settle him against the bed. But she was leaning too heavily against his left side, it hurt. A gasp forced its way from his lips and he jerked away from the pressure instinctively.

“Mr. Holmes!” she said sternly, reaching out to press the button that summoned aid from the nurse’s station. “You need to calm down before you injure yourself further.”

Sherlock couldn’t stop himself, though, now that he’d started; the jittery feeling that had been flickering below the surface of his skin all day was slamming up against his brain in harsh bursts of frenetic energy. He still couldn’t stop when he felt the doctor’s hand replaced by the rougher touch of an orderly, saw the glint of the needle as she prepared an injection.

The needle entered his vein with a familiar pinch-burn, and he stilled instinctually at the sensation. That cold slide was the stuff of nightmares, had been ever since—

“That should settle you,” she said, and Sherlock thought he could detect an edge of steel under the words.

You should see her face, Mycroft told him conspiratorially, as though imparting a state secret. I don’t think she much cares for you, not at all.

For just a moment, Sherlock thought it might have worked. He felt the crawling, fluttery feeling subside and maybe it should have worried him but it was a relief, really; if he were to be forced to lie there, inert, at least--

Then Sherlock’s world melted into a rushing torrent of excess, an explosion of colour that dripped from the bland paint of the walls and burned his skin, thrummed and screamed its way through his veins. His nerve endings popped with the sensation, so overworked that he could scarcely even blink to block it out.

Even Mycroft retreated under the onslaught, lost under the static bursting of the air against his body.

It’s too much, it can’t go on, it’ll stop soon, he thought, over and over again, but his ability to repeat the words gave out long before they proved true.

By the time morning arrived, Sherlock felt as though he’d spent the entire night caught inside a wave, tumbling over and over, smashing his body against the rocks and bits of debris. He was wrung out and sore, eyes gritty, and he could feel that he’d have spectacular bruises from pulling against the straps holding him down.

It felt early (no clock) when an orderly brought breakfast, setting the tray on the table at his bedside. He was properly hungry by that time, enough so that he cheered slightly at the prospect of eating it… except that he couldn’t, obviously. A few hours later another orderly came by and took the tray away without a word.

Well, then.

By the end of the day he was convinced they were doing it on purpose. He had four other visits from orderlies and nurses over the course of the day; each time, Sherlock made a reasonable-seeming request—food, water (his throat so dry it burned), something to read—and each time the request was met with mild surprise that whatever-it-was hadn’t already been provided and a promise that it would be taken care of in short order.

Then the nurse or orderly would leave, and Sherlock wouldn’t see them again.

He stopped asking. Sherlock consoled himself with the thought that at least his head felt relatively clear, once he’d shaken off the effects of whatever he’d been given the previous evening, and even if the isolation and boredom were making him feel a bit unsettled. The walls seemed to be wavering slightly and occasionally dark shadows would dart out from behind the fixtures, but for the most part his surroundings seemed to be behaving as expected.

Well, maybe more than a bit unsettled, then.

A window would be nice, he decided, and wryly resolved to add it to the list of requests he’d make of the staff. It seemed they were just as likely to install one as they were to bring him something to drink, after all.

On the morning of the second day, Dr. Yates entered wheeling a cart containing a piece of equipment that Sherlock wished (fervently, violently) he didn’t recognise.

“Bit soon for that sort of thing,” he managed, by way of greeting, forcing his eyes away from it and up to the doctor’s face. Bit wrong century, he wanted to say, but didn’t.

Yates checked Sherlock’s chart and frowned. “Staff heard shouting in here night before last,” he said in a disappointed tone, “and you’re once again refusing food.”

“I’m not—“

“While,” he interrupted, “continuing to make excessive demands for accommodations. Hardly indicative of a willingness to cooperate with the process, Mr. Holmes.” Yates glared at Sherlock down his nose, and really it was all a bit too much. He bit back a retort, and couldn’t think of a thing he would have liked better in that moment than to be able to get out of that damnable bed.

“You haven’t shown a response to the medication these past few weeks”—there was a tiny alarm going off in Sherlock’s brain, he tried to listen to what it was telling him but his thoughts were whirring by too quickly to focus on any one of them—“and this self-destructive attitude is just going to get worse the longer we allow it to continue.”

Then Yates gave him a smile that was almost apologetic. “There have been dramatic improvements in ECT technology since its heyday, though. It’s really not at all like in the films. For one thing, we use anaesthetic.”

(Sherlock would think of that, later, over and over again: the casual mention of the anaesthetic which wouldn’t be forthcoming. Was it intentional? Did Yates mean to draw his attention to the casual way in which he disregarded the only thing that made this all bearable, or was it an oversight? Paranoia, wasn’t it? Sherlock, for once, didn’t know what to think.)

He had already wheeled the cart next to the bed and was swabbing at Sherlock’s forehead with an alcohol-soaked pad. Sherlock gritted his teeth, torn between the twin urges to pull away and to bite his fingers. He successfully avoided doing either, and counted it a minor victory.

Then Yates’ thumbs were pressing pads to his forehead. “Bite,” he said, holding out the wired peg, and Sherlock did because he couldn’t imagine that refusing wouldn’t make it all worse.

Then Yates stepped back and flicked a switch and Sherlock’s world erupted into fire, greyed out, roared. His chest felt as though it had been struck by lightning (hadn’t it? Wasn’t that what this was? He couldn’t remember), his muscles jerking in protest.

Then it stopped, just as suddenly as it had started, and Sherlock slumped, unable to recall how to organise his limbs into voluntary movement, feeling the tremors echoing through his muscles. His chest, though, and there was a smell, singed hair and— oh.

Dr. Yates was pulling the pads off his forehead, removing the peg from between Sherlock’s teeth, pretending not to be bothered by the smell. “It happens,” he said, but his tone was entirely devoid of understanding. “I’ll send someone in to get you cleaned up.”

He wheeled the cart into the corner of the room and left it there, then went out the door without another word.

Sherlock licked dry lips and waited for his body to come back under his control, trying not to think about the humiliation of having soiled his gown. That can’t have been right, he thought; surely there ought to have been a nurse in attendance, there ought to be someone monitoring him now, anaesthetic (certainly that last one, he’d been told as much). He tried to imagine what John would think of the whole thing but all he could see were those eyes full of disappointment and disgust. His thoughts refused to dwell on that image, veering sharply away.

It wasn’t long before a nurse appeared, and his humiliation was almost outweighed by the prospect of getting clean. She hooked the catheter bag to the IV stand, undid the restraints (finally, his muscles sore and feeling like jelly but it was bliss, he could have wept) and helped Sherlock find his footing.

He stood unsteadily and got his first proper look around the room. Nothing novel from his new vantage point except the washroom, to which he was being directed.

She followed him into the loo and stood, one arm on the IV stand, as he stripped his filthy gown and set it gingerly on the floor.

“Shower,” she said, curtly.

He waited for her to leave, but when it became clear that she had no intention of doing so he shrugged and cocked an eyebrow in her direction. The water was frigid and it was odd showering under a stranger’s gaze, not to mention the difficulty of doing so with the water hitting the sore part of his chest (a new burned patch, it had practically blistered, that couldn’t be right) and the awkwardness of the tubes still running out of the back of his hand.

He opened his mouth and let the water run down his throat, soothing it. By the time he was done he at least felt a bit more human.

He had time to towel himself dry and inspect the damage to chest, wrists, and ankles while the nurse summoned orderlies to put fresh sheets on the bed. Then she helped him into a new gown and— damn.

“I saw you, picking at your sutures just now,” she said reproachfully, as she fastened the restraints back onto the cot. “This is for your own good, you know, as you just can’t seem to leave well enough alone.”

It’s not “well enough”, he wanted to say, but bit it back, trying not to think about what it said about him that he was willing to adjust his behaviour so quickly.

Then again, he thought, the relief of being newly-clean settling through him, maybe they were right, maybe he really was being unreasonable and self-destructive.

It was enough to get him back onto the cot, at any rate, and to keep the feeling of panic under wraps as the buckles were refastened.

“I don’t suppose I could have a blanket,” he said, aiming for a bored tone as a chill started to make its way through his flesh.

The nurse looked mildly surprised. “Oh! You’re right, there isn’t one. Of course. I’ll just fetch one and come right back.”

He didn’t see her again that day.

That was getting to be a bit too familiar for Sherlock's liking. The shivering, too.

It was a very long night.

Sherlock was looking up at the stars.

Odd, he thought, there were floors above this one; there ought to have been some screaming. But perhaps whatever it was that had sucked the ceiling upward so swiftly—simply exploded it away, really—had taken them, too. Perhaps they hadn’t even had time to realise what was happening.

Don’t be stupid, he told himself ruthlessly. Those stars are far too bright. This can’t be London. The jagged edges of what was left of the ceiling flickered whitely in agreement, encouraging his thoughts down that path.

Oh. Hallucinating, then.

Sherlock thought it might be a good sign that he recognised when he was having a hallucination, even if he couldn’t stop them. He was getting fairly adept, he thought, at detaching himself from the situation long enough to assess whether something was or was not physically possible. He’d come increasingly to rely on that sort of judgement as he realised how little he could trust his own perception.

Still. He was bored, crushingly so, and real or not the stars were . . . nice. He’d enjoy them while they lasted. He’d have fallen up into them, if he could.

At least they’d let him up for this.

That was just about the only bright side Sherlock could see from his current position, curled on the floor of the washroom. Granted, most of his vision was obscured by the tile and his curled-in knees.

He was pretty sure he’d just expelled everything he’d eaten in the last month through his oesophageal tract. Just because it wasn’t physically possible didn’t mean it hadn’t happened.

The vomiting happened every time he actually ate anything. The nurse would bring in a tray and he’d gingerly swallow a few bites and feel a bit better for anywhere from six to seven minutes. After that the vomiting would start and the nurse would shake her head, looking disappointed.

“Looks like you’re back on the IV, then. We’ll try again at supper.”

Three full days of that and his muscles were aching, his mouth and throat raw, but at least they’d given up strapping him down after the first time. Once the heaving passed he was free to . . . well, sit and stare at the walls, mostly, but the sitting part still felt like a luxury.

He actually was starting to feel a bit more like himself. The ECT—he’d had one more session and it wasn’t nearly so bad, properly anaesthetised; he’d scarcely felt any effects when he came out of it—and the constant drip of drugs through the IV must be having some effect.

Sherlock hadn’t heard the door open, which was why it was such a surprise when a pair of trainers appeared in his field of vision. Turning his head a bit yielded the not-unexpected piece of information that they were attached to a set of legs which, it seemed likely, would be connected to several other bits of anatomy in turn.

John’s trainers. Very likely to have John attached to them, and John was the sort of chap who was very likely indeed to be in one piece.

He’d confirm it in a minute, Sherlock decided. When he had a bit more energy.

He’d been warned, he supposed, but somehow John just wasn’t prepared for the state Sherlock was in.

When he’d called after the proscribed two days, he’d been informed that Sherlock had been difficult and that it would probably be for the best if he didn’t have any visitors for a few more days. He’d called back every night since then, receiving the same news.

On the fifth morning, though, he’d received a call at the surgery from Dr. Yates. “He’s doing well,” Yates assured him. “Mentally, anyway, he’s improving, though he has a long way yet to go. Physically, perhaps not. He’s still refusing food; when he does eat, he makes himself vomit.”

That didn’t really sound like Sherlock. “As a protest, do you mean?” John asked, as it was the first explanation that came to mind.

“We’re not sure. Does he have a history of disordered eating?”

John had actually laughed at that. “Yes. Yes he does, but not in the sense you mean.” At least, he didn’t think so. Although…..

“We don’t usually like to do this, but I think it might be in his best interest for you to come see him. To speak to him, you know. And if there’s anyone else you can think of whose visit he might appreciate—who might be an inducement for him to want to get out of here—you might ask them to come along.”

John ran through the possibilities in his mind. Lestrade? Not an inducement unless he were dangling a fresh case. Molly? Not unless she brought him some fresh body parts for dissection, and John doubted that sort of thing would be smiled upon. Mycroft? Not on his life, and besides which he was still away from London. Mrs. Hudson? John didn’t want to fuss her. He wouldn’t bring Sarah.

What a small little circle of friends.

“Just me,” John said. “I’ll come by later this afternoon.”

And now here he was, looking down at a clammy, grey-skinned Sherlock on the floor of the loo in the psychiatric wing of a hospital and that, somehow, felt like an editorial statement on John’s entire life.

“Come on,” he said, kneeling at his side. “Up with you, then.”

He helped Sherlock to his feet and back out to sit on the bed (dragging the IV pole behind them), brought him some water, kept his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder while he drank it thirstily, rubbed the back of his neck affectionately.

“You’re all right, then?” At Sherlock’s nod, John went on. “It’s good to see you. How’re you feeling?”

Sherlock was looking down at his own hands where they were clenched against the sheets of the bed. He shrugged.

“You look bloody awful,” John said, trying to keep his tone amiable despite the actual words. “You have to stop this, you know.”

“Stop what?” Sherlock’s brow drew together; his gaze moved to John’s face, focusing on his mouth. Unnerving, really.

John sighed. “Seriously? The vomiting, Sherlock.”

“I’m not—“

“Yeah, you are. I spoke to your doctor. It’s not on, whatever it is you’re trying to do. Just try to cooperate and let yourself heal and you can come home sooner, okay?” Sherlock was looking at him in total bemusement. “Oh, just come off it, I don’t want to hear it right now.” John took a deep breath. “Are you feeling any better?”

Sherlock took a long pause before he spoke. “I suppose. It feels like I’ve been here a long time.”

John shrugged. “Six days,” he said, “it isn’t really such a long time for— what’s the matter?” Sherlock was staring down at the floor, and his expression really couldn’t be called anything but horrified.

“I’m losing time,” he said, finally.

“No, don’t think of it that way. You need this,” John told him. “The Yard’s doing fine without you. It’s quiet at the flat, but you’ll be back there soon enough.”

Sherlock shook his head. HIs eyes were back on John’s mouth, their corners pinched with strain. John couldn’t read the expression on his face, but everything else about his posture was screaming anxiety. “No, I mean I’ve lost a day.”

“I imagine you just lost track, it must be—“

“No.” The words were edged with steel. These sudden mood-swings of Sherlock’s had always been a bit unnerving, but suddenly John found himself looking around the room, wondering what he’d do if there were a physical confrontation. Take him down easily, said the ex-army part of his brain. Probably kill him trying, said the doctor part.

Right, okay. Maybe not, after all, his best plan. Hopefully entirely unnecessary in any case. Still, forewarned is forearmed and all that.

“I mean I’ve lost it. A day. It’s gone And you’re not telling me where it—“ Sherlock broke off, abruptly. Then, in an entirely different voice, quieter and less sharp-edged: “Days can’t disappear.” He sank back onto the bed, scrubbed his fingers through his hair. “That’s a— yes. Like the stars, right? Or the—“ His gaze flicked to John’s ear, away again. “Right. Not actually possible.”

John reached out, carefully, and took Sherlock’s hand. He half-expected the other man to pull away; when he didn’t, John pulled the hand into his lap and rubbed comforting circles into the skin. “It’s all right,” John told him, “it’s okay,” over and over again until the syllables ran together.

Sherlock fixed John with his gaze, his eyes shadowed. “‘I’m afraid,” he began, stopped, tried again. “John. I think I might, well. I think I might be losing my mind. A bit.”

He was sure of it. Sure as anything, sure as he’d ever been.

Except that it wasn’t physically possible.

Right. There was, after all, that.

Sherlock had heard John say six days and he knew, he knew there were only five, saw the number fall from his lips and it confirmed his suspicions, but that was one of those impossible things. Wasn’t it? That was one of those things he was meant to recognise as wrong.

John had stayed a while, catching Sherlock up on the news (such as it was) and trying to make him laugh. And it was nice, really, but Sherlock was tired, and it was hard not to feel ill when confronted with John. John his friend, John his doctor, John the representative of all the things his brain couldn’t handle just then.

When John left—with one more warning about eating, and Sherlock didn’t understand that, not at all, but he didn’t know how to begin to unravel it so he just let it pool there on the floor—it only took a few moments before Sherlock had fallen back and found himself drifting off to his first restful sleep in ages.

His last, too, though he didn’t know it yet.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Watson. Someone should have notified you. But Mr. Holmes isn’t going to be able to see any visitors until his privileges have been restored.”

(He and Sarah had had a fight about this visit. “So you’re going to go every night, now, is that it?” And John had understood why she objected, he really did, but the answer to her question was yes, would always be yes, and if she didn’t understand that, then one or both of them needed some space to think about how John prioritised his life.)

So it was frustrating, immensely frustrating, that he wasn’t now being allowed back to see his flatmate. “What’s happened?” he asked, aiming for a reasonable tone. The receptionist had a kind face and she looked tired. Even as frustrated as he was John didn’t want to take it out on her; he’d seen the way people in her position were treated by irate family members.

“It seems he— oh dear. You were his visitor last night, as well? He had a bit of a fit, after you left. Shouting and threatening. So he’s back down to Level 1 until he learns to be a bit more cooperative.”

John ran a hand over his face. Sherlock had seemed calmer when he left, but he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that the recalcitrant git had been, well, a recalcitrant git. “Right. You’ll let me know, then?”

“You can call,” the receptionist offered with a relieved tone; they both knew he’d be walking out of there that night without seeing Sherlock, so from her point of view her only concern was keeping him placated until he was out of her hair. “If you call and speak to his doctor, he’ll be able to tell you when Mr. Holmes can have visitors again.”

The cab ride back to Baker Street was a long one, with nothing to look forward to but an empty, quiet evening.

A week. Sherlock was sure, pretty sure, that he’d last seen John a week ago.

He wondered how much longer it would take before John forgave him.

That’s what he’d been told, anyway, when they came to wake him up the morning after John’s visit, that John was disappointed in the progress he’d made. “He’s worried,” the nurse said, almost kindly. “He’s asked us to speed up the treatment schedule.”

So. John had come and gone, and Sherlock had been left with this.

A week of isolation. A week of the constant drip of fluid into his veins through the IV. A week of daily ECTs—without anaesthetic, and he’d asked for an explanation of that, after the first time, but the doctor didn’t give any indication that he even heard him—and the burn on his chest that wouldn’t heal, blistering up again and again with each round of treatment.

A week of the injections.

Sherlock hated the injections most of all. It was an older treatment, Dr. Yates had explained, but John thought it might be effective in Sherlock’s case. Insulin; not enough to put Sherlock into a hypoglycaemic coma—“It was done that way, once, but now it’s a practice that’s frowned on for being a bit, well, barbaric”—but nearly so.

They made him dizzy and confused, made him shake, made him sweat. They also made him ravenously hungry, which would have been fine except that it seemed the doctors had altogether abandoned the idea of giving him solid food. Sherlock knew he was getting glucose and nutrients through the IV, but it didn’t do much to stop the clenching in his stomach.

John was punishing him, he thought as the fog started to descend on his brain once again. For not trusting him.

No, not punishing. Sherlock tried to erase the thought from his mind, because that again was not-trusting, and wasn’t that what John was trying to help him do? Helping him, yes, that’s what this was about; there was something wrong with Sherlock, he needed help, this was all meant to be helping. It was helping; he felt better. Didn’t he? He couldn’t remember how he was meant to feel, whether it was better or worse than he did in that moment.

He really ought to have trusted John. John was trustworthy. Sherlock did trust John, trusted him with his life, trusted him enough now to endure the treatments he’d ordered.

He could have refused (no he couldn’t,, his brain reminded him, he’d tried; was that what had made John angry?). But John thought this would help, so he’d try to let it it.

He’d try.

Time had become altogether too unpredictable to be of use to Sherlock anymore. It seemed to jump forward and backward at irregular intervals. He’d taken to ignoring it altogether.

That was why he wasn’t sure if he was meant to be expecting John or not when he appeared at the door of his room.

Sherlock’s first reaction was one of embarrassment. He’d failed; he wasn’t himself yet, and he ought to be, because John was a good doctor. The deficiency, then, must be Sherlock himself. Obvious. Expected.

“Problem?”

It was a defensive reaction, an automatic attempt to be the version of himself John expected him to be, because maybe then John wouldn’t be standing there looking so shocked, frozen in the doorway with his jaw thrust forward.

Still disappointed, then, which was just confirmation of what Sherlock had already known: that he was failing, had failed. His hands were still shaking from the afternoon’s insulin; he pressed them against the legs of his trousers, trying to hide it.

“Jesus, Sherlock, what—“ John slipped all the way into the room and snatched the chart from its hook on the wall, flipping pages, the frown deepening. Finally he let out a long breath. “Jesus.”

“That bad, is it?” He was aiming for casual, aiming for the self he remembered, the self who wouldn’t need to be here.

“We need to talk,” John said in a voice Sherlock didn’t recognise, a voice he probably hadn’t used since Afghanistan.

Sherlock jumped, wondering what he’d done, and it was only then that he realised John was speaking into his mobile; he’s somehow dialled it without Sherlock noticing.

“I’m with your brother,” John was saying into the receiver, “and what I’d like to know is what in the bugfucking hell you could possibly have been thinking, authorising half the shit they’ve put him through. Where in that enormous Holmes brain of yours—“

Then there was a pause, and Sherlock could hear, faintly, Mycroft’s tone on the line, though he couldn’t make out the words. John’s free hand was clenched so tightly the knuckles were white, and when Sherlock chanced a look at his face the other man was staring at him so intently Sherlock had to look away immediately.

“No, of course I wasn’t. Right. Okay. I don’t know precisely what’s going on here, but— “ Another pause. “Yes, of course I’m going to— “ Mycroft cut him off again and John clenched his fingers tightly around the phone in frustration. “Yes, of course,” he said finally, and hung up.

“Right,” he said, turning to Sherlock. “You’re going to have to explain to me what’s been going on, but for right now—“

Sherlock cut him off; he knew it would just make him angrier, but he didn’t want to know what was going to come out of John’s mouth. “I really do think it’s getting better,” he said, “the treatments are helping. Maybe just a little more time, then I’ll be ready to come home.”

John was staring at him, open-mouthed. “Right. Okay. That’s… not happening, Sherlock. Something’s gone— well, I’m not sure I entirely understand what’s happened, to be honest, but we’re not going to hang about here trying to sort it out.”

What John said next was so unexpected, Sherlock was sure he’d imagined it until he forced himself to look at the expression on John’s face.

“Think you can walk yourself out of here?”

There were some advantages, Sherlock supposed, to John being a doctor. Beyond the obvious, of course.

For one thing, he knew his way around a hospital; even in one with which he wasn’t overly familiar, he’d been able to turn up a set of scrubs and a pair of ill-fitting shoes (Sherlock had a pair of his own, at one point; he wondered what had happened to them). Neither of them said much as John removed the IV lines and then the cannula itself; John’s fingers were steady and assured, but Sherlock could see the rapid rate of the pulse in his neck. He felt a bit too disconnected from his body to assess whether his own heart might be going at a similar speed.

“I’m still not actually supposed to be here,” John told him as they both gave the room one last look. Nothing worth taking with him, Sherlock decided; nothing much but the fixtures, at any rate, and a toothbrush, but he thought it likely he still had one of those at the flat, if John hadn’t binned it. “I’ll explain about that later. But that means no one will be watching for you in particular; if we just walk out of here like we’re meant to be doing it, we’ll probably be all right.”

The set of John’s jaw belied a bit less confidence in their chances, but Sherlock wasn’t about to question him.

Finally, John grabbed the papers from Sherlock’s chart, tucking them into the side pocket of his jacket and leaving the clipboard hanging on the wall. He raised his eyebrows expectantly in Sherlock’s direction. “Ready for this?”

“I suppose I must be.”

John held the door for him, and Sherlock realised with a start that he didn’t even know which way to turn, having not actually walked through the door of that room during his time there.

Under the too-bright fluorescent light Sherlock felt insubstantial, like he might sink through the floor. He reached out and brushed his fingertips against the wallpaper, suddenly disoriented.

Then John’s hand was on the small of his back. “This way,” he said. “Follow me.”

Sherlock kept his eyes on the back of John’s head as they made their way down the hall and into the lift. Everything seemed very quiet and very bright until the lift doors opened on the ground floor, at which point everything became overwhelmingly loud; Sherlock hadn’t realised just how quiet his existence had been for the last— well. He’d decided that didn’t matter, hadn’t he?

John was tensed and ready at his side, but no one seemed to question their presence there, and soon they were out into the public area of the lobby. “Thank goodness for the ever-vigilant NHS,” John muttered. Then, focusing more intently on Sherlock’s face, he hissed sharply, “Don’t you dare.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed, wondering how John had been able to tell the room was tilting around him. He bit the inside of his cheek, hard, and the pain helped him focus as he followed John outside.

Then they were in a taxi and Sherlock was able to close his eyes and lean his head against the cool glass of the window while John flipped through the papers of his chart again and rubbed comforting circles on Sherlock’s knee. Sherlock would have liked to ask questions, but he was a bit too unsure of the situation altogether and so decided to leave the lead to John, who still seemed anxious.

Sherlock didn’t know what to say, how to reassure him (did he need reassurance, or was it something else?), didn’t want to make everything worse. He said nothing.

He must have slept, because it was much sooner than he expected when they glided to a stop on Baker Street. Somehow the distance between the flat and the hospital had seemed an impassable expanse, but here they were already.

John practically had to pull him out onto the kerb, and getting up the steps was… well, Sherlock hoped he’d be able to delete that memory soon. They did manage it, though, and soon he was stretched out on the sofa.

He’d spent entirely too much time on his back recently, but he supposed a bit more wouldn’t hurt.

“Right,” John was saying by his ear; Sherlock opened his eyes, tried to focus them on John’s face. Failed utterly, unfortunately, but he thought they were at least pointing in the right direction, which was something. “You can sleep in a minute, but we need to talk first, okay? I’m going to need to know how much of what’s written here is true, if there’s anything that’s been left out.”

Sherlock nodded, which turned out to be a spectacularly bad idea. He closed one eye, and John’s face came into focus. Better. “You know it already, what you asked.” He hadn’t refused (hadn’t been able to refuse; wouldn’t mention that he’d tried) anything.

“No. Wait, no, Sherlock, what?” John’s face creased in alarm, and he seemed to be fighting his own thoughts. “No, that’s not. I didn’t.” John took a deep breath. “That’s part of what we need to talk about, then. For now just humour me, okay?” He ran down the list of treatments, Sherlock confirming each item. “Baclofen? Along with these other drugs?”

“I don’t actually know what was in the IV,” Sherlock admitted. “I don’t think it was always the same. They kept trying different combinations, when nothing seemed to be working as it should.” When I wasn’t getting better, Sherlock meant. He was shaking rather a lot; he hoped John wouldn’t notice.

John sighed. “That’s not how— right. Okay. Well, from what it says here, what you were given was a bit, well, erratic, so there may be some lingering—“

Oh, now that was unfortunate; he’d vomited on John’s trousers.

It was his last thought before slipping into unconsciousness.

Sherlock was dreaming.

He was pretty clear on that, odd as it sounded. The dreams weren’t pleasant (the less said about them the better. They crawled through his unconscious mind trailing squirming, uncomfortable synapses in their wake; he’d delete them immediately) but they weren’t real and that was good enough.

The trouble was when he’d start to wake up—really just hazy moments of semi-awareness, when John would try to rouse him for water or trips across the hall to the loo—and there was something wrong, but he couldn’t seem to get his tongue around it.

Then he’d slip under, and it would begin again.

He woke up—finally, fully—with a gasp. John was at his side instantly.

Sherlock’s hands were shaking.

“My hands are shaking,” he said. It seemed foolish the minute he heard his mouth form the words.

And John laughed. “A bit,” he said. “Back with us, then?” There were dark circles under his eyes; he hadn’t been sleeping.

“How long.”

“Four days. This is the most coherent you’ve been. I think,” he said, “you’ve been experiencing some rather nasty withdrawal.”

There was a bandage on the crook of his elbow; John had had his blood tested.

Other things worth noticing too, he realised. There was blood on the pillowcase; more blood on the sheet, when he looked, and on John’s trousers. “What did I do?”

“What? Oh, no. You’ve been scratching at your chest.”

Oh. Oh. Yes, Sherlock remembered that, remembered dreaming it and before, too, the scar—

“Sherlock, stop.” John grabbed his wrists, pulled his hands away from where he was pulling at the front of his shirt.

Sherlock let him, forced his hands to relax at his sides, forced his attention elsewhere.

John was looking at him intently. “Look, I need to tell you, now that you might actually remember. Some of the meds you’ve been on, it’s going to be. Ah. You’re going to feel a bit unbalanced, for a bit. So, just—it’s not funny, damn you, stop laughing—talk to me, if you suspect you’re about to. Well. Do something stupid because someone’s been faffing about with your brain chemistry.”

Unbalanced, yeah. That about summed it up.

“And I want you to know,” John went on, putting his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, “I didn’t know. I should have. But— look, it probably wasn’t the best idea you’ve ever had, not telling me you’d made me your medical proxy. No, it’s all right, don’t look so— Christ, no, Sherlock, it’s fine. I didn’t mean you did something wrong, it’s just that I didn’t know, all right? So don’t think it was me, or— look. I should have seen it immediately. I’m sorry.”

He’d never seen that look on John’s face before. Regret, Sherlock realised; probably not an emotion John experienced frequently.

He wasn’t sure he understood, or not entirely; from what he did understand, it wasn’t even remotely okay. Wouldn’t be, he suspected, for a long time.

He also suspected that information was, at the moment, highly irrelevant.

“It’s all right, John,” Sherlock said instead, reaching up to cover John’s hand with his own.

Then (because he was tired, because he wanted it to be true, because regret was something with which he was all too familiar, because he knew that what John needed was something to do, a path toward expiation): “You’ll sort it out.”

The chaos in the flat was, John thought, subtly different than usual. It sent a current of alarm up and down his spine.

Sherlock had been back (back to himself) for nearly a month, and they’d both been driving themselves a bit mad, trying to sort out precisely what, just how. Never mind the why, though that was perhaps the most pressing question in John’s own mind.

They’d been on guard for a while, worried that someone would— what? Come and snatch Sherlock up again, take him back there? Eventually, though, they’d managed to convince themselves that the whole thing had been a matter of mere convenience, someone taking advantage of the situation, using the bullet to get to him.

Hell hath no fury like a minor civil servant whose brother has been tortured, and Mycroft had of course inflicted the scope of his authority on the hospital itself, but hadn’t managed to actually find anyone Sherlock recognised as having been involved in his treatment there.

It was as though everyone had simply vanished. All that came of the inquiry was a half-day shutdown of the hospital and an awful lot of question marks. They were left flatfooted, without suspects or leads.

And Sherlock. Well, although he wasn’t precisely sane (though, in truth, when had he ever been?), John thought he was nearly back to his old self.

Nearly.

John still watched him carefully, though, when he thought Sherlock wouldn’t notice. There was still something off, he seemed unsettled.

That, in part, was what was making the hairs stand on the back of John’s neck as he looked around the flat. It was the overturned chair, he decided. That and the pile of papers that had slid from the table to the floor; Sherlock had sorted them just the day before, he would never have left— oh, bollocks.

He called Sherlock’s name, mentally running down the list of places Sherlock might go if he were about to do something stupid (or even if he were just confused again; he still had moments of disorientation, moments when those pale eyes seemed to have nothing behind them but the reflection of John’s own face).

Sherlock’s shirt was in the hallway in front of the bathroom door. The man himself was standing in front of the sink, head bent forward, and it took John a moment to register that what he was seeing was blood. An awful lot of blood. It was coming from his chest, where it welled up in a single long line running along the outside of his ribcage, just beside the scarring from the bullet.

Sherlock didn’t even look at him, just reached out a shaking hand to John, an x-ray print crumpled between his bloody fingers. His other hand, John realised, was holding a scalpel.

“What are you doing,” he said, grabbing Sherlock’s shoulders, spinning him around, snatching the blade away.

“Just look,” Sherlock said, waving the x-ray again. His eyes were bright against a face that was even paler than usual, and John’s first thought was fever but Sherlock’s skin was cool to the touch. “Look, John. Please.”

John did look, then. It was an x-ray of Sherlock’s chest; he could see the shadow that indicated scarring from the bullet wound.

That wasn’t what was drawing his attention, though. There was something else in the image, a large square object decorated with some sort of design. A figure with wings, John thought, though the x-ray image was a bit too fuzzy to make out the precise shape.

“What is it?”

Sherlock gave a pained laugh. “I knew there was something wrong,” he said, “that I was missing something.”

Suddenly it all fell into place in John’s mind and he bit his lip. “Sherlock,” he said finally, “you can’t just—“

“Get it out, John,” Sherlock interrupted, his tone sharp.

“All right,” he agreed, his tone placating, “but we’ll do it properly, at the surgery.”

“No, John. Now. I can’t stand knowing it’s there, now that I’m sure. I just can’t.”

And he really couldn’t, John could see that; couldn’t abide it any more than John could refuse him after everything else.

“Okay,” John said finally and watched some of the tension leave Sherlock’s shoulders, though the incision he’d made in his own chest must have been hurting him. “I don’t have any anaesthetic,” John warned.

“It’s okay. I trust you.” Not to make it any worse than it has to be, he meant, and John thought that might even be true.

So he spread a towel on the floor and Sherlock lay on his back with a little smile of encouragement. Now that he knew what to look for John could feel the edge of the thing with his fingers, and Sherlock had done a decent job in placing the cut.

It was a thin metal plate, flush up against the bones of Sherlock’s ribcage, and John tried not to think about how it must have felt as he slid it carefully toward the opening he’d made. Sherlock had his head turned away and was pressing his head hard against the floor—John could see the tendons standing out starkly in his neck—but apart from the increasing raggedness of his breath he didn’t make a sound.

Then again, he’d had a bit of practise with this sort of thing lately, John realised, and the thought made him feel slightly ill.

Sherlock must have sensed his hesitation. “Please finish it,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, but it was enough.

The object popped free, finally, and John didn’t even bother to look at it, barely noting that it was still warm before dropping it on the towel and turning his attention to Sherlock’s chest. From here it was simpler, psychologically, and he even had materials for proper sutures.

When he was done Sherlock was breathless and pale but his fingers snatched at the plate impatiently. John took it from him and washed it off in the sink; now that the hard part was over, curiosity was getting the better of him, too.

It was a thin piece of metal about three inches square. There was a cutaway in the centre in the shape of a gryphon with outstretched wings and, below it, something that hadn’t been visible on the x-ray: a name.

Sherlock had pushed himself up to a seated position. “Bring it here,” he hissed.

Sherlock turned it over and over in his hands, drinking in all its detail with pale eyes and fingertips.

“What do you suppose it is?” John asked, after a few moments.

Sherlock looked at him, the expression on his face almost a smile. “A calling card,” he said. “He considers himself an artist, of course he’d sign his work.”

“An artist,” John echoed. “Who’s that, then?”

Then Sherlock’s face really did crack into a smile. “Moriarty,” he said, pushing himself to his feet, and though the movement was a bit pained John thought he looked more like himself than he had in ages.

“Come on, John. He’s just given us our next move.”