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Consciousness returned in waves of nausea and stabs of headache. Memories surfaced slowly, blurred images on murky water — something tied to an old case.
Sherlock had never much cared about the consequences of his relentless crusade against London’s underworld, including the steady growth of his personal enemies. Reaching him in a city where he knew every stone, alley, and crossroads was no easy feat: he was always alert, armed, and Mycroft’s constant surveillance often neutralized threats before they materialized. His intellectual edge and sharp tongue also provided unconventional exits — distract, outwit, deceive, escape.
This time, luck had abandoned him. The attack came from behind, without even a courtesy chat about the weather. He’d fought back, but against five burly men, the odds were laughable. Still, he’d taken down two before the memories blurred into a thick haze of pain.
Sherlock lifted his eyelids. A flash of light pierced his temples. His brain, out of habit, absorbed details: a hospital room, private clinic, the smell of medicine and disinfectant, the steady beep of monitors. He opened his eyes fully—a man in a white coat appeared in his field of vision. A doctor. Mid-forties, quitting smoking, long shift, recently divorced.
“Ah, Mr. Holmes! You’re finally awake. Splendid!”
Sherlock shot him a hostile glare; the sound of the stranger’s voice reignited the throbbing pain and nausea, muddling his focus.
“Where am I?” he whispered through parched lips.
“Hammersmith Private Clinic, Mr. Holmes,” the doctor replied, reaching to examine him, but Sherlock jerked his hand away.
“How did I get here?”
“I’ll answer all your questions once you let me examine you. Dr. Attwood, by the way.”
Sherlock endured the examination stoically and answered curt questions about his condition. Afterward, he tried to sit up but nearly vomited.
“Please remain still. You mustn’t move. I did promise answers, didn’t I? Your brother brought you here.” Sherlock grimaced. “Two stab wounds, a traumatic brain injury, a cracked rib, extensive bruising.”
“And yet you didn’t call the police.”
Dr. Attwood lowered his eyes, suddenly engrossed in the notes on his clipboard.
“Your brother is waiting outside. He asked to be notified when you woke. Shall I fetch him?”
“Do,” Sherlock nodded, bracing himself. A meeting with Mycroft was an unpleasant inevitability, but at least his brother might clarify the odd inconsistencies — why bring him here instead of a closer public hospital? Why no police involvement despite the knife wounds?
Attwood exhaled in relief and left. Sherlock turned his head to the window and closed his eyes. He had no desire to face Mycroft in this state, let alone endure his condescending pity. The restless younger brother in trouble again—what a nuisance.
The door to the hospital room swung open. Sherlock heard the rustle of fabric, footsteps, and the doctor’s muffled murmuring. He frowned — over the years, he’d learned to discern even Mycroft’s mood from his gait — but the man entering with the doctor was not his brother. Sherlock sharply turned toward the door.
And met the curious gaze of dark eyes. Jim Moriarty radiated smugness and performative delight like a hundred-watt lightbulb. He bore not a shred of resemblance to a concerned relative.
“Hello, dear brother,” Moriarty trilled, sauntering casually toward the bed. “You’re looking lovelier by the day.”
Sherlock clenched his jaw and swallowed hard.
“I don’t recall us becoming family,” he hissed.
Attwood cleared his throat nervously. Moriarty turned to him.
“Still here, Doctor?” he inquired, voice icy. “I believe your other patients require attention.”
Attwood threw Sherlock a worried glance before hurrying out. Sherlock strained to sit upright, pain lancing through him.
Moriarty rested a hand on the chair beside the bed.
“May I?”
“As if I have a choice,” Sherlock snorted. “Make yourself at home.”
Moriarty sat, reclined lazily, and stared at Sherlock without a hint of shame. The longer his gaze lingered, the wider his smirk grew. Sherlock waited for him to speak first, but the silence stretched. The scrutiny grated on his nerves.
“Care to explain yourself?” Sherlock finally snapped. “I seem to have missed the fun while unconscious.”
“Nothing thrilling, really,” Moriarty drawled, scratching his brow. “One of my men accidentally scared off the brutes beating Sherlock Holmes. Called me. You can guess the rest.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes.
“Why save me? Last I recall, you threatened to kill me. How do I know you weren’t behind this?”
Moriarty looked deeply affronted.
“Really, Sherlock? This is my thanks? Idiotic questions and suspicion?”
“Expecting gratitude?” Sherlock said dryly.
“Hardly,” Moriarty cut back. “What use is your thanks? I’m an irredeemable egoist. Best tell me who did this.”
Sherlock grimaced, averting his eyes. Bile rose in his throat; his head spun.
“Friends of a man I put away for life. A dull case from last year. Once I’m out, they’ll be in cuffs. Police’ll find them quickly with my help.”
Turning back, he noticed Moriarty typing on his phone.
“No, I don’t think so,” Moriarty smirked. “Doubt they’ll see jail.”
“Oh?” Sherlock squinted. “Even if you shield them, I’ll track them down eventually.”
Sherlock was certain he’d find them, Moriarty’s interference or not. But his words amused Moriarty, who laughed.
“My naive little detective. I’m not shielding anyone.”
Sherlock flinched — the word “my” irked him more than the insults.
“Wait — what are you planning?”
“Ah,” Moriarty’s lips curled. “See, Sherlock, I’m terribly possessive. Even as a child, I hated others touching my toys.”
Sherlock finally grasped Moriarty’s meaning — his attackers wouldn’t survive to face trial. The injury fogged his clarity, but realization struck.
“Don’t interfere! I don’t need your help. They’ll answer to the law — ”
Moriarty’s phone pinged. He raised a finger, silencing Sherlock.
“Ah-ah! Our cowardly doctor tried playing hero and contacted your real brother. Warned him, didn’t I? Some people beg for trouble. Well, Sherlock, this was a delightful chat, but I must go.” Moriarty stood and strode toward the door.
“Stop!” Sherlock yelled, yanking out his IV. He tried to stand, but detached monitors blared alarms. Dizziness hit; nausea surged. He slid off the bed, crashing to his knees, pain searing through him as he vomited bile and water. He tried rising, but the room spun. The floor tilted — until Moriarty caught his shoulders, hauling him back to bed. Sherlock wiped his mouth with a sheet, glaring as Moriarty perched on the mattress edge, concern flickering in his eyes.
“Hospital gown suits you,” Moriarty sneered, shifting away. “Care so much about those bastards?”
“They’re mine to handle. Don’t touch them,” Sherlock growled.
Moriarty rolled his eyes.
“Fine,” he sighed. “Suppose we can make a deal.”
“What deal?” Sherlock asked warily.
“I’ll promise to leave them alive.”
“What do you want from me?”
“To follow doctor’s orders.”
Sherlock, primed for demands, choked out a hoarse, “What?”
“My sweet revenge for your recklessness. Bed rest: no reading, no gadgets, no thinking. How long will you last for the sake of men who actually tried to kill you? I’ll be watching. Closely.”
Footsteps and voices echoed outside. Moriarty glanced at the door and stood.
“Ta-ta, Sherlock!”
He slipped past rushing nurses, waving mockingly. Sherlock glared after him. Ahead lay unbearable days of forced rest.