As soon as the words came out of John's mouth, a movement on the staircase caught his eye, and he saw two paramedics entering the cellar. He stared at Mycroft, mouth agape.

"Well, of course, I arranged for the paramedics to meet us here," Mycroft said. He went to greet the paramedic couple before they could reach Sherlock. "I want him en route to the hospital in less than three minutes, is that clear?" Mycroft demanded, shocking the paramedics into quick action.

Again, before they could reach Sherlock, they were interrupted. "Fuck, no." John. Standing in front of Sherlock, his arms crossed in protest.

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow, with a look like he thought John had finally snapped from exhaustion and concern. "John," he said, in his most negotiating voice, "it's all right. They're trained professionals, and they do work for the hospital. I have background checks to prove it." The paramedics exchanged a wary glance.

John stared Mycroft down. "They are fine. They are not what I am worried about." He paused for emphasis. "But the only place they are taking Sherlock is back to Baker Street with me."

Mycroft evaluated John's logic and emotions for a few moments. Finally he agreed, rationalizing that he could simply send over one of his assistants to help out, and plant some surveillance devices.

/

An hour later, Mycroft, his assistant and John had brought Sherlock back to Baker Street. They laid him in his own bed, propped up against all the pillows that he and John had between them, with the hope that it would be easier for him to breathe. They had removed the tattered hospital robe and binned it, sufficing to cover Sherlock up with a few blankets. John quietly bound Sherlock's gunshot wound with gauze and bandages. Both Sherlock's ankles were elevated with a cylindrical throw pillow, and he seemed to be resting in a semi-unconscious state, flickering eyelids at loud noises occasionally.

Mycroft spoke privately with Anthea and procured two bottles of pills from her, which he handed over to John. "These were on his prescription, John. One is for the kidney infection-"

"-and the other is for the pneumonia," John finished, after reading the labels. He sat himself in a chair at Sherlock's bedside. "Thank you, Mycroft. I really appreciate your help on this one."

Mycroft laughed. "Yes, I suppose you're welcome John, although he is my brother," he said. "If anything abnormal happens, or if you need anything, just let me know." Then Mycroft and Anthea were gone.

John took a deep sigh, rolling the pill bottles between his hands. He watched Sherlock's hitching chest as he rasped in breaths. Glanced over his face at all the bruises and cuts that were somehow tamer outside of the hospital, and outside of Moriarty's cellar.

He left the room briefly to fill a glass full of water and brought it back into Sherlock's bedroom. "Sherlock," he said a little forcefully, "I hate to do this, but I'm gonna have to wake you up and get you to take these pills, all right?"

Sherlock twitched indifferently. John shook him by the shoulder a few times, before Sherlock finally gasped and opened his eyes drowsily. He made an incoherent sound of confusion and John smiled at him. "You've gotta take some antibiotics, Sherlock," John insisted, showing him the two pills he had taken out. "Then I'll let you rest for a while."

Sherlock's eyes were falling shut again, but John persisted, shaking him firmly. "Open up, Sherlock," John implored him.

Sherlock groaned but obliged. John dropped the pills onto Sherlock's tongue and lifted the water to his mouth. Sherlock downed the entire glass, suddenly realizing his great thirst. Once John had put the glass on the side table, Sherlock leaned fully into his pillows, looking at John restlessly.

"Take a nap, Sherlock," John asserted. "I'm serious. I'll wake you in eight hours for some more pills and maybe something to eat." John gently tucked the blankets up around Sherlock's neck and smoothed them down across his chest and stomach. Sherlock made a token grunt of annoyance, but was too weak to really care. When John left, he was sleeping soundly.

/

Two and a half days later, John Watson found himself playing Sherlock's personal butler, fetching things from the kitchen and the closet for Sherlock's entertainment and use.

He walked upstairs with a slightly burnt cheese toastie and blinked in disbelief at Sherlock. "Why do you have my phone?" John asked, unconsciously patting at his back pocket where he usually kept it.

Sherlock smirked, although he kept his eyes on John's phone screen. "I pick pocketed it," he explained. "You didn't really think that I still needed your help sitting up, did you?"

John frowned and set the plated sandwich at Sherlock's table. "How did you figure out my password, Sherlock?" he wanted to know.

Sherlock coughed and then cleared his throat. "Antidisestablishmentarianist," he remarked. "I figured it out by the sheer number of characters that the set password contained. Not too many straightforward words that are that long, you know."

John shook his head. "How did you know that it wasn't a phrase or a sentence?"

"You don't trust your memory enough to recall a whole sentence for a password," Sherlock replied. "No, I knew it had to be a word."

"JOHN!" cried Mrs. Hudson from the sitting room. John exchanged a look with Sherlock before darting out into the shared room to see what was the matter. He came to a sudden stop as soon as he entered the room. "Oh my god…"

/

Five minutes later, Sherlock was getting a little concerned, but couldn't do much about it except yell at John to tell him what was happening. John came back, with a ridiculous grin on his face.

Sherlock groaned. "What now?"

"Bring it in here," John called out behind him.

Sherlock raised a brow in confusion before several delivery men started to enter the room, carrying flowers, baskets of muffins, fruit, and overstuffed animals. Sherlock just sat there in stunned exasperation. When they were all finished, the gifts nearly blanketed the entire floor of Sherlock's bedroom.

John occupied a tiny square that wasn't covered in gifts. "It's from-"

"Mycroft," Sherlock finished for him, disgusted.

"Want me to read the card?" John asked, barely containing that same absurd grin. Sherlock just looked at him. John went ahead and opened a small envelope and cleared his throat before reading. "My dearest brother, I do hope that you will take this as a reminder to be more careful. Eat some fruit, let John have some muffins, and think of me especially when you embrace the teddy bears."

Sherlock glared at John as if he were responsible for this particular humiliation. "Get rid of the stuffed toys," he ordered.

John sobered slightly. "Why? Do you think he's got them bugged or something?"

"I don't care. Just get them away from my bed."

/

Marill: WAAAAAAAAAAAAA! I'm done! This story took me all kinds of crazy directions, which I wasn't expecting, which I kind of love about it! Hehe!

Love, everyone, love!