A/N: I told myself I wouldn't do a multi-chapter fic but I just can't help myself. Reviews mean more chapters (:

He was bored, bored, bored, bored and John wasn't here and he was bored. In fact, now he looked at the clock with the smashed face that still lay in a crumpled heap by the fireplace, now he looked John had been gone since yesterday morning and it was... just past midnight. Sherlock frowned and checked his phone, still no reply. So he was ignoring Sherlock's texts, fine, it had only been a spat, nothing of consequence ...or had it, had he said something that had really hurt John? It didn't seem possible. The man was strong, confident; he couldn't be hurt by silly little words.

The detective shook his head and picked up his phone to call his colleague, groaning when he noticed not one feeble bar of signal. He threw the expensive piece of kit across the room hearing a sharp crack and then a soft thump as it hit the wall and landed on the couch. He hooked his legs over the arm of John's chair and ran a hand down its back watching the trails of his fingers as they dragged the delicate fabric down.

"Mrs. Hudson!" she appeared almost instantly frowning and tutting and picking things up around him.

"What is it Sherlock? John's been out an awfully long time."

Sherlock glared at the fussing woman. "I noticed. I need to use your phone."

"You will have to use the landline dear; I can't understand those new portable phones. They make them so over complicated."

Sherlock moaned and swung himself to his feet stamping away like a petulant child. He rang John's phone, the number learnt by heart. (Just incase he was stuck without his mobile of course) after a tense couple of seconds the call picked up.

"Hello?" it was a woman's voice...a woman. A woman had answered John's phone, of course. He must've run to Sarah. Sherlock growled under his breath and clutched the phone tightly.

"Sarah. Can you put John on the phone?"

He was trying his best polite voice and she had the nerve to cackle. Sherlock squinted at Mrs. Hudson's wallpaper. "Oh this isn't Sarah. You might want to talk to him though."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, of course, that was exactly what he wanted idiot. There was a moment where the mobile was passed over and then John's sluggish, sleepy voice rang out and the detective sighed. He sounded drowsy, he must've woken them.

"John. Where are you?"

"Sh-Sherlock?" there was a soft moan then the call was hung up leaving the detective holding the earpiece away from his face and staring at it in disbelief. He didn't want to think about what could be happening on the other side of the phone, with his John. And there it was, his John nobody else's. He had managed through some extraordinary stroke of luck to procure a friend and he wasn't letting him go.

So he went to bed and he slept (kind of) and he woke up to an empty flat his face bunching up more and more as he looked around and texted again but found no replies. Well not from John at least, Lestrade had sent him a simple text about a lead on his latest case.

Twelve men injected with some sort of poison and tied in their underwear to the bed.

He had told the DI that he was busy with other things, he wasn't Lestrade's nanny but that didn't stop him from sending updates trying to bait the detective into being interested. He had more pressing matters to attend but he text back anyway, it gave him an excuse to pick John up from where ever he was, to see him again.

Lestrade didn't text back right away and so he called his colleagues mobile and the woman picked up again. "Hellloooo?"

"What is your address? I need to pick up John."

"You already have it honey."

She hung up again and Sherlock snarled at the phone, what did she mean! He span around eyes trailing over and over their collective junk (well it was mostly Sherlock's) until his gaze landed on a strip of paper, Johns familiar scrawl on the corner and it all came back to him. He had been writing something down when Sherlock had come home and then Sherlock asked for a cup of tea and the doctor flew off the handle. Or at least that's how he remembered it. Striding over he yanked the paper from under a small pile of books and clasped it tight in his hand rushing out of the door and down the street to hail a cab.

He stared out of the window counting off streets names as they passed them, hands jiggling on his legs. He was angry, angry at John for staying away so long, angry at John for choosing some woman over him. What about Sarah? He didn't seem like the type to cheat but then...he hadn't seen her around much lately either. It was true that when she was there he went out of his way to ignore her but then what are you supposed to do when the only person you've ever had anything more than contempt for starts going out with some woman from work. What's wrong with a detective at home?

It is more geographically sound.

He was pulled form his reverie by the rough voice of his cabbie. "Sorry mate. Can't go any further." Sherlock looked up to see police tape everywhere and he sucked in a breath leaping from the backseat and throwing a twenty at his driver.

He pushed his way past the barrier and found Lestrade looking tense in a bullet proof vest. "Sherlock, what are you doing here? I didn't even send you the address."

"No need. John found it two days ago."

"Two days...when exactly were you going to tell me that!"

"What's the situation?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes, used to being ignored. "Turns out eight of the twelve victims visited a brothel three days before they disappeared and when our guys looked over things again we realised they were missing for three days exactly before their bodies were found. Asked around and found out that only one person turned up missing from work at the times the men went missing. This is her address."

Sherlock froze.

The killer lived here, not a date. John sounded drowsy...drugged. She had him drugged somewhere in that building. He turned sharply blinking confused as Lestrade had carried on his spiel.

"So she is holding a hostage at gunpoint."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Positive, she shot Sergeant Phillips in the arm."

Sherlock stuffed his hands in his pockets, how inconvenient of them to shake at a time like this. He glanced at the house a simple three story townhouse, completely plain, boring and unremarkable. He glared at the plain red door, teeth grinding together.

Lestrade touched him on the arm and he realised the inspector had been calling his name. "What is it?"

"Johns in there..."

Then he couldn't hold back any longer, his heart hammering in his chest. Lestrade's eyes grew comically wide and Sherlock pushed past him, running up to the door ignoring the calls of the swat teams as he banged heavily on the peeling wood, the doorframe rattling with the force.

"It's me, Sherlock Holmes. Let me in."

There was a few seconds of silence and he thumped his hand back down. "I know you're in there."

"You wana come in honey bear?"

Sherlock frowned and bent down to look through the letterbox, his eyes meeting the make-up caked green eyes of the killer. "Yes." The eyes squinted with joy and suddenly the door was thrown open and he was yanked inside, the sound of a lock behind him followed by a chorus of shouts from outside.

He turned to face the woman sucking in a breath when he noticed the antique shotgun aimed directly at his chest and held by a beautiful black haired woman, lips ruby red and dressed in a tight black dress and black leather boots. She was simpering and smiling at him, batting her eyelashes. "Oh Sherlock honey, did I really have to go this far to get your attention?"

Sherlock glared at her and she smirked back up at him not noticing the three swat members peering in through the windows. Sherlock took a step forwards so she was stood just by the door and she grinned reaching a hand up to touch his face.

"Where is John?"

"Oh he is sleeping."

"This is a bit of a break in your pattern isn't it? John never went to the brothel; he isn't your usual victim type at all."

She sniffed and cocked her hips to the side looking down and then she lowered the rifle hands shaking as she looked back up at him, her face morphing into a snarling rage filled beast. "You were ignoring me! I had to get your attention somehow! Was I not interesting enough for you, you selfish arrogant stuck up pri-"

The doors burst open and she was almost instantly tackled to the ground the gun kicked away by one of the swat team. Sherlock barely glanced her way before he was off running up the stairs, winding through the corridors until he smelt it, the scent of lavender.

Lavender?

He skidded around the corner and exploded through a set of double doors, entering a heavily scented bedroom. The walls were a pale pink colour, the floor pale wooden floorboards. He took a step forwards, there in the centre of the room was a enormous four poster bed, draped in thick purple curtains that hid the mattress from view. He sucked in a breath and walked quickly to the side pulling the thick fabric over to reveal John.

John was...just lying there, the only movement the shaky rise and fall of his chest. Sherlock ripped the curtains apart and panted as he stared down, he was naked, bar a pair of boxer shorts, skin grey, and eyes rolling back in his head, hands handcuffed to the headboard. The thundering steps of the swat team filled his ears and he ripped his coat off laying it over his friend, (John wouldn't want to be seen like this)

The next few minutes were a blur, dotted with flashes of images, Lestrade's shocked face as John was wheeled out on a stretcher, the paramedic's hands on John's bare chest, the doors closing behind him as he stared out of the ambulance at the killer, her wink that shook through his bones and made his stomach flip with anger.

He just blinked at the doctor as he explained that John had been injected with a fatal dose of some poison or other but they had an antidote and it would be touch and go for a while. If he regained consciousness, it was a positive sign.

He focused on that part, he didn't care what had caused it and what they were doing to make it better just that John would wake up again, would turn to him and complain that Sherlock was always getting him in trouble and why does he keep doing this to himself and you didn't pick up any milk again did you, don't leave body parts there, how did this bottle of chemical end up here?

He sighed and slumped into the uncomfortable plastic covered chair beside John's bed. How selfish of him to keep his eyes closed, to stay in this silly little coma of his. How selfish of him too leave Sherlock in this in between state, trapped amid panic and his usual logic.

He blinked his eyes open a few hours later, his sleep interrupted by Mycroft's polite cough. "What are you doing here?"

He had the audacity to look offended and banged his umbrella on the floor. "I'm here to check up on you."

"Check up on me? There is nothing wrong with me."

"Well that's not quite true is it? It's not every day that you make a friend let alone have to deal with them being...incapacitated."

His gaze fell on John's prone form and Sherlock flipped his legs over so he was sat up in the chair, body leant slightly towards him as though protecting him from his older brother. He glanced at his colleague and back at Mycroft. "He will be okay."

Mycroft squinted at him, the same way he used to look at him when they were kids. It was a look that spoke of his greater understanding of human behaviour and...feelings.

"I'm sure he will."

He was being nice and it was then that the detective realised he must look awful, that his brother must be able to read his desperation in his face. He looked away. "It was my fault." His voice was barely over a whisper and he heard his brother sigh shifting his weight from one hip to the other. Johns chest was rising and falling regularly and form his position Sherlock could see the veins in his neck pulsing only slightly.

"No, it wasn't."

He couldn't look at him anymore so he stared back up at the seemingly concerned man. "I made him angry at me and he left again. I ignored her and so she took him."

Mycroft was quiet for a moment and then he fixed his brother with a somewhat inquisitive stare. "How did you get in here? Visiting hours ended hours ago. I of course am above such things but you...your a member of the public."

Sherlock blushed only very slightly and looked just over his brothers' shoulder. "I told them we were married."

Mycroft rose one eyebrow and smirked. "I see. And they believed you...how interesting."

Sherlock just glared at him. There was a hoarse cough from his right and he turned his head sharply, Johns eye lids fluttered and slowly they cracked open, warm hazel eyes peered out at him and he frowned.

"Not your date."

Mycroft sniffed and Sherlock glanced back him, tearing his eyes from his colleagues face, his sibling was hiding a smirk rather badly. "If you will excuse me, can't leave the office for too long."

He fixed Sherlock with that look again and then he was gone in a swish of expensive fabric. So the detective looked back and blinked at John's face, that fantastic face and his eyes looking back at him. That white hot speck in the pit of his stomach disappeared the more he stared and so he drank it up.

After a minute of blatant staring he realised John was looking at him oddly and suddenly the world was back in focus, as was his colleagues face. The area around his eyes was tight; teeth gritted together hands clasping the sheets.

"John? Are you okay?"

"My head hurts, and I can't remember anything from the...what day is it?"

"Thursday."

"oh."

Sherlock smiled and John blinked his eyelids drooping a little so Sherlock reached for his remote thing, pressing the button to call the nurse.

He sat back as they bustled around the doctor, asking him questions and injecting things into the iv. John answered politely smiling and thanking them, hands shaking slightly as he gestured around himself. The detective took the time to reassess his own physical state, his heart beat returned to normal, breathing less restricted now John was conscious, hands had regained their steady form and he relaxed back into the uncomfortable chair, a soft smile about his lips. He was here with John, and John was stuck with him, he couldn't leave again.

At least until he was discharged.

Eventually the nurses left and the battered mans tired gaze fell on him. "What happened?"

"What do you remember?"

"We had a fight... I was angry, really angry and I turned the corner and then I heard a scream...I think I heard a scream." He frowned, eyes focussed on the sheets as he tried to remember. "It was a woman screaming for help so I ran down this alley and I felt a sharp prick on my neck and I turned around and someone was laughing and then... I woke up on this bed. I was...oh god did the entire squad see me..."

Sherlock shook his head and the doctor's head slumped back to the pillow in relief. "She was keeping me drugged, it's all a bit hazy."

"Is that it?"

"No no... The drugs would start to wear off and it would get a bit clearer. I was..." Johns face dropped and he looked out at the window, dawn now breaking over London. Sherlock sniffed, he didn't know what to do so he did what he'd seen on the TV.

He put his hand over Johns.

It seemed to work the dishevelled man turned to him with a surprised gasp and then he smiled slightly biting his lip. "I was scared. I didn't want to...oh this is stupid."

"Go on."

"I didn't want to die with you angry at me."

The detective frowned blinking. He didn't know what to make of that...w hat did normal people do? Was that a good or a bad thing? So he decided being honest was probably the best method. "I wasn't angry, I was bored and thirsty."

"You mean you didn't even make yourself a drink?"

"My tea isn't as good as yours."

John chuckled and Sherlock joined him, hand still grasping his colleagues gently. Perhaps he was better at this 'human' thing than he had theorised.

The doctor yawned moving his hand from under Sherlock's and stretching, his shoulder popping audibly. "You should sleep."

He was positive that was the correct thing to say because John smiled again, nodding at him "Yeah. Are you going home?"

He ignored the warmth spreading from his stomach at the familiar way he said that, at the sad tone as if he almost didn't want the detective to leave, he also didn't call it 'the flat' anymore. Now it was home.

"Mmm I have a few experiments in the morgue so..."

"You really should get some sleep too."

"I did while you were in that coma."

John raised an eyebrow at him about to argue when his chiding was cut off by another massive yawn. "Fine. At least if you pass out you're in a hospital."

Sherlock laughed and stood hands in suit pockets awkward, watching his colleague wriggle down the bed eyes drooping shut. He was fascinating to watch and there was something about his face and his expressions and the way he spoke to Sherlock that made him feel... close to something. Like the ten inch thick walls he carried around with him were just tissue paper in the rain, dissolving into mush.

He waited until John was settled before inching out the door, passing the nurses on the way out. They looked at him smiling sympathetically and one put her hand on his arm. "He will be okay Mr. Watson. He just needs rest now."

Sherlock just nodded, he didn't understand why they were calling him Watson or why she needed to touch his arm. Perhaps they thought he was upset? Like John, when he had put his hand on the doctors he had made him smile. That was probably it.

Sherlock inched away from them and escaped for a few blissful hours to his lab, his peace interrupted by Lestrade being led in by Molly. She was looking at him oddly and Lestrade simply looked tired. "Sherlock, I can't seem to find John and I need to take his statement for the court case."

Sherlock placed the pipette on the counter and wiped his hands on a nearby lab coat. "Why didn't you just ask at the desk"

"I was going to but Molly here told me she knew where you were and that you haven't eaten yet."

The detective frowned at the blushing woman. "Why does it matter if I have eaten?"

"Because I can't have you keeling over and since John isn't there to look after you the responsibility has fallen on my shoulders."

"Look after me? I don't need looking after."

Why was everyone so worried about him all of a sudden, making sure he had slept making sure was eating. Sherlock glanced t his reflection in a test tube that contained silver nitrate, glucose and ammonia giving the silver mirror effect. His warped image seemed normal enough and so he chalked it up to everyone else ability to read emotions more easily, perhaps they could just tell that he was...worried? Tired? That he wasn't his usual mostly logical self.

Lestrade rolled his eyes, hand sliding into his pocket to pull out a twenty pound note. "Look I have twenty quid, I'll buy you anything you want from the canteen and you can take me to John afterwards."

Sherlock squinted at him; the note was crisp clean and smooth. "Did my brother give you that note?"

The detective inspector blushed a little; Mycroft had contacted him almost as soon as Sherlock had started working with him and always asked for checkups on Sherlock's general well being. "Yes. He seems to think that you're so distraught that you won't eat."

The detective glared at Lestrade's all too pleased face, he felt tense and humiliated. "Well he is wrong." Reaching out a pale hand he snatched the note from the inspector and gestured for him to lead the way, eyes now boring into Molly.

This was her fault.

He reluctantly ordered a portion of greasy chips and a side of sausages in some sort of gravy based sauce and slipped into the booth opposite Lestrade who was tucking into his dinner straight away. Sherlock sniffed and picked at his meal, it was true he wasn't very hungry. All he could think about was Johns grey pallor, the strange heat of his skin when his fingers had brushed across his cheek as he laid his coat on him. It made his stomach turn and right now he just wanted to go outside and steal a fag off anyone within a foot of him.

"You said you weren't worried."

Sherlock didn't look up instead he took a big bite of one of the sausages chewing slowly, fixing Lestrade with a triumphant stare as he tried not to gag. He didn't seem impressed.

"She won't stop talking about you."

Sherlock swallowed his mouthful and raised an eyebrow "Hmmm."

"Maybe next time you will answer my texts when I ask you about a case. You've never been so reluctant before."

"What do you mean?"

"Well it's been over a week since the last case you had a look at. Normally you take one or two more than that. Been busy?"

"I had some cases of my own."

"So you weren't just sat in that flat all day every day."

He said that like he knew something Sherlock didn't and the detective glared at him. What exactly what he trying to say? "You're clearly trying to get at something."

Infuriatingly Lestrade just chuckled and slid from the booth, checking the time on his phone. "Are you done? I need to get back before two."

Sherlock glanced down at his barely touched plate, he had managed at least a third of the chips and a whole sausage. He was done. He had almost forgotten about his little white lie when he pressed the buzzer to be allowed onto the ward. The nurse greeted him at the door an eyebrow raised in Lestrade's direction.

"Mr Watson, John is just talking with the doctor. Is this a friend of yours? Visiting hours aren't until three..."

"Oh no. I'm detective inspector Lestrade. I need to collect a statement from John Watson?"

The nurse smiled up at him and addressed Sherlock again. "He was asking for you."

Well that sent a tiny spark straight to his heart and he licked his lips hands in his pockets carefully avoiding eye contact with a now almost gleeful Lestrade. "Oh did he?"

"I told him, my husbands just the same always off in his shed, and sometimes I won't see him for hours on end. Get's so lost in his little projects."

Sherlock blushed, eyes on the floor. What exactly had John told her?

"Yes well, I expect they are vastly different form my own. "

With that he brushed past the nurse and made for Johns room.