A/N: Long over-due update for this series. Here it is, hope it's worth the wait! The first part is called 'First Meeting'.

As a doctor, John was able to get away with visiting more than normal family members could. There was also the small detail that he wasn't actually a family member. Or the small fact that he had never actually talked to the patient he was visiting the three days that Sherlock was comatose. He rarely stayed more than a few hours, mostly after his shift, but each day he would go upstairs, nod to the nurses, and install himself into a chair by Sherlock's bed.

John guessed that Mycroft's influence was why the nurses did not kick him out, especially when he lingered while they were doing report. As an ER doctor he often sent patients up to the ICU and knew most of the staff by name. It was gratifying to see that the most experienced nurses and doctors were handling Sherlock's care, routine though it was. John didn't know why he felt so relieved. He still did not know why he even came to sit by the man's bed, but he did it anyway, sitting and reading quietly out loud to the sleeping man.

It was three days later when Sherlock first showed signs of moving. John had arrived a few hours before his shift was set to begin to sit with the comatose man. Sherlock's fingers had twitched and an eyelid had fluttered open, drawing John's attention immediately. His heart rate had increased slightly, sending the monitor beeping, and immediately the nurse monitoring his care had came in, stethoscope around her neck. "He's waking up," John told her, scooting closer to the bed instinctively. His other hand was on his mobile, sending a text to Sherlock's brother. Mycroft had texted him the first time he had shown up at Sherlock's bedside, nearly giving John a heart attack.

Not that it had really surprised him that Mycroft had his number. The man had been impressive enough to gain access to a secure ER, he was certainly able to get his hands on to John's personal phone number. "Where's his brother?" the nurse (Charlotte) asked John quickly, a penlight in her hand as she checked pupil reflexes. Sherlock jerked away from her hand and John smothered a grin, pleased. He was waking up, and he was fighting.

Now if only he could stay clean. John's mood sobered a bit at that. He hadn't wanted to think what would happen once Sherlock woke up. The whole thing was silly, really, since John did not even know Sherlock. The curly-haired man had no idea who he was, or what he had done. John was ridiculously attached to someone who would not even recognize him. It was silly and sentimental and John didn't give a flying flip. There was something about the man that was so damned charismatic that John felt like he was being pulled towards a black hole.

"He's trying to talk around the tube," Charlotte murmured, her soft voice amazed.

"Let's get Dr. Sanders in here so we can get him extubated, then," John told her, standing up so he could examine Sherlock's face. The eyes were open, and John was startled by the colour. They were a soft gray-blue, icy and warm at the same time, an odd juxtaposition. It was mere minutes before the ICU doctor stood in the doorway, Mycroft right by his side. John smiled at Mycroft, grateful. "He's waking up. I thought you might want to be here for it."

"I'm not sure he'll appreciate it," the older Holmes hedged, uncertainty clear in his voice and his posture. John shook his head and crooked a finger in his direction.

"I don't care if he'll appreciate it or not," he said frankly. "You're his brother and you have far more of a right to be here than I do." Mycroft seemed to consider this before he nodded sharply, walking over to Sherlock's other side. John didn't voice it, but he did not want to be the sole person around when Sherlock woke up. Every time the man's eyes fluttered open they seemed to turn in John's direction and the ER doctor wasn't certain what to think. He had no right to be there, but he was, and he had decided he would feel more comfortable if Sherlock knew someone else in the room.

"Alright, let's get that tube out." Dr. Saunders, the chief of the ICU, sauntered forward. Immediately John backed up, allowing both him and Charlotte complete access to the head of the bed. It wasn't often that they were able to extubate people in the ER (most of the time when they were intubated they stayed that way), but he knew the theory behind it. It wasn't long before the tube was carefully pulled out of Sherlock's mouth, leaving him coughing and spluttering. The ICU team did a quick physical, backing away as soon as it was apparent that Sherlock had regained full consciousness.

It was then that Sherlock opened his mouth and started talking. His voice was hoarse and raspy, but strong nonetheless. "Get away from me, you imbeciles!"

"Look, if we have to, we'll tranquilise you," Dr. Saunders gritted out. "Please calm down. We'll be done soon, you just need to hang in there for a bit."

"Mycroft, get out." Sherlock turned his attention to his brother, the startling eyes narrowing in absolute derision. "You've gained two kilos since I last saw you. Diet not going so well, I take it?"

"It's nice to see you alive, brother dear," Mycroft remarked quietly, seemingly unbothered by Sherlock's derogatory remarks. "After you showed up in the ER and coded. Twice."

"Only twice?" Sherlock shook his head, his hoarse voice dismissive. "I'm losing my touch." John bristled, and it was then that he came under Sherlock's scrutiny. "And who are you?"

"Shut up and let the nurse finish her assessment," John said firmly, infusing the command with as much of his authority as he could. A tour in the military after he had graduated medical school had given him quite the parade voice and he was gratified to see Sherlock stop what he was about to say. He was tense and scowling, but he had kept his mouth shut. That was an improvement. John turned his gaze to Mycroft, his peripheral vision focused on the nurse who was doing the fastest assessment she had ever done. "How many times has this happened before?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock drawled, cutting off the older brother before he was able to speak. Charlotte and Dr. Saunders left, although John was certain that at least the nurse stayed near the exit of the room in case Sherlock got too agitated. Sedation could be necessary if he was unable to calm down. "Did you bring me my own pet doctor this time? At least this one is something nice to look at."

There was a sharp noise as John's hand came in contact with the metal of the chair he was in. He had stood up with his mobile in his hand and it had clanged sharply against the cheap chair. "Now you bloody listen to me, you little ungrateful bastard," John started, seething and beyond caring how unprofessional he sounded. "I saved your life. Twice. Your brother was beyond worried about you. Stop acting like this is some little drama that you can orchestrate at your will, and be grateful you're alive. We almost lost you."

The other two people in the room were staring at John with wide eyes, startled by his outburst. John was nearly as urprised, although he refused to show it, arms crossed strategically in front of him as he stared Sherlock down. Sherlock averted his eyes and John felt a small flicker of triumph. "I am no one's pet. I've been sitting here, waiting for you to wake up, and now that you are, it's nearly enough to make me regret the time that I spent waiting." Sherlock went to open his mouth and John lifted a finger. "But I don't. You're awake, and alive, and feisty, and that's more than I can say for some of the patients I see that come in like you did."

Both Holmes brothers were staring at him now. Mycroft had an eyebrow lifted, slightly surprised at the vehemence of John's words. Sherlock was staring at him, his eyes slightly wider than they had been, as if he was uncertain of how to react. Finally he looked away, looking straight ahead. "Sit down."

Shrugging, John did so, settling back into his chair next to the man in the bed. It couldn't hurt. If he was really lucky he might have changed something in the way Sherlock thought. "What's your name?" Sherlock demanded.

"I'm Dr. John Watson," the doctor responded evenly. "Your name is Sherlock Holmes. Just in case you don't remember." He paused, watching as Sherlock's eyes narrowed, although the curly-haired man had not turned to look at him. "You overdosed on heroin, which I can't stop you from ever taking it, but I'll help you if you want to be rid of it." John watched several expressions flash over Sherlock's face in the span of a few seconds, from confusion to realisation to something bordering hatred and anger.

"You're sending me to rehab again," Sherlock hissed.

John shrugged, examining his nails in the guise of patience. "I'm not planning to. Mycroft? What about you?"

"How did you two meet?" Sherlock's gaze flickered between the two men as he cut his brother off for the second time, accusatory.

"Over your nearly dead body," John answered before Mycroft could, his voice nearly cheerful. His eyes flickered to the clock. "I have about an hour before I have to work, so if you have any more questions, might as well ask them now." The quiet beeping of the monitors was their sole background noise, echoing hollowly in the overly large room.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock snarled at Mycroft, who merely smiled a bland smile.

"I will leave you two alone," he said politely, standing and walking towards the door.

"Mycroft!" John protested. He watched as the politician slid out of the room and closed the sliding glass door firmly behind him. Sherlock's eyes were ignoring his brother and focused intently on the doctor in front of him. John turned his gaze back towards the man assessing him, relaxing as he did so. If Sherlock was anything like his brother then he would be able to read all of John's life story if he chose to.

"What do you want?" Sherlock said finally. It was as if he had read all of John's story and had been unable to conclude why John would be there. Which was fine with John, because he had not quite figured that out himself.

"Nothing," he answered honestly. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as such a declaration, nearly accusing in their intensity. "Really, Sherlock. I've worked with enough addicts to know that I can't force one to get clean. You have to want it."

If John had not been studying Sherlock with nearly as much focus as Sherlock had been directing his way, he would have missed the slightest widening of his eyes and the barely-there part of his lips. He had managed to surprise Sherlock, then. He couldn't help but feel the slightest bit pleased at having drawn such a reaction out of the ornery man. "I don't want it," Sherlock said finally. His voice sounded different, more lost. It tugged at John's hardened heartstrings.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" John inquired quietly. Something shifted, something that led John to believe that no one had ever honestly asked Sherlock that question before. There was a vulnerability to his face, quickly covered up by his mask of a stoic distastefulness for the rest of humanity.

"I don't need to tell you that." Sherlock lifted his arm and glared at the IV in the crook of his elbow, one the nurses had fought hard to place.

"You need to stay hydrated," John chided automatically, scooting closer in the metal chair to take Sherlock's arm in his warm, deft hands. "The nurses will be so upset if this infiltrated. You don't have many veins left." A quick glance assured him that the line was still patent, able to be used, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He doubted that an awake, wiggly Sherlock would be much easier to poke than the uncomplaining unconscious version.

He glanced back up to see Sherlock watching him with an odd, somewhat surprised expression on his face. "You are slightly less horrible than the majority of humanity," Sherlock declared.

"Coming from you that is probably a ringing endorsement," John said dryly.

Sherlock didn't bother to answer, instead shifting his focus restlessly about the room. "Why are you here?" He seemed frustrated with his inability to answer the questions without asking them of John, fingers twitching spasmodically in the cotton sheets as he leaned against the support of the bed. He shifted constantly, small movements that made John want to tie him to the bed.

"Because I want to be. Stop moving, you're going to hurt yourself." Gently John took Sherlock's hands and settled them on the bed. "Charlotte - your nurse - is going to come to transfer you down to the regular med/surg floor soon, I'd bet," John said, checking the clock. "Based on your progress I'd estimate about the same time I have to leave for my shift."

"Your presence at the conclusion of your shift would not be horribly revolting." There was an anxiety to Sherlock's words, matching the cautious way his eyes glanced around the room, looking at everything but John. "Perhaps I would be able to tolerate it."

"Is that your way of asking me to drop by again?" John said with a chuckle. He smiled slightly. "Yeah, I think I can do that. If you're not asleep, anyway."

They sat quietly after that, the silence companionable. John spent his time checking Sherlock's various monitors, doing some of the grunt work to prep him for transport so that his nurse could wait a bit longer to take him. He could feel Sherlock's eyes following his every movement, attempting to puzzle him out. John had, apparently, presented a conundrum that Sherlock had not been prepared for, and he was going to do his best to resolve that.

Finally the clock ticked to the point John couldn't ignore it any more, and he stood up with a yawn, stretching and relaxing muscles that had tensed from his vigil. "I'll drop by for a bit after my shift, yeah?" he said, looking at Sherlock for confirmation. The bed-bound man inclined his head a bit, and John grinned.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was cautious, treading carefully as if he was approaching uneven ground. John had just reached the door and he turned around, questioning. "Thank you."

John smiled, something warm and genuine that came with no difficulty. "No problem," he answered. With that he was out of the room, opening and closing the door behind him. Just out of sight he spotted Mycroft standing there, observing Sherlock's various monitors on the replicas at the nurse's station. "You okay?" John must have surprised him, for he jumped.

"Yes," Mycroft answered smoothly, as if he had never been startled. "My brother is, unfortunately, quite strong willed and we so rarely see eye to eye on even the simplest of topics. His addiction to illegal substances is merely another thing in which we disagree."

"He has to want it," John said, somewhat agreeably. "Did you raise him?"

"Yes." Mycroft's eyes flickered to the door of Sherlock's room, something wanting and lonely in them that John recognised.

"From a young age, too, I'd bet," John continued. This time Mycroft looked at him, the intensity of the gaze deepening. John felt like a bug under a microscope. "I don't think your parents are dead, but I don't think they are involved with either of you. I'd say you were - probably twelve or thirteen. Sherlock would have been probably five or six."

"How do you know this?" the elder Holmes asked, a low hint of confusion and wonderment sounding oddly out of place.

"Personal experience," John said with a shrug. "Anyway, I have to get to my locker to change or I'm going to be late. I told Sherlock I would drop by after my shift. Feel free to go in and see him. Charlotte will be coming to collect him to send him to the regular med/surg floor. He should be discharged in another day or two, once we make sure he's not suffering any ill effects from the CPR."

"Thank you," Mycroft murmured, his eyes focused back on the glass door to Sherlock's room. Apparently he wasn't going to pry, and John was fine with that. Some wounds were best left alone.

"If you need anything, you know where I am." John waited for Mycroft's nod of acceptance before he strode over to the elevator. If he was lucky he could trade off a shift for the day Sherlock went home. It was ridiculous, and unethical, and John had to be careful, but Sherlock seemed to have no one in his corner and if he would let John get away with looking after him, even the slightest amount, he was going to take advantage of that, no matter what.