Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or the BBC. Unfortunately.

I can haz shiny new fandom?

It happens, as Lestrade knew it would, when John Watson is out of town for a medical conference. Sherlock, who has a lengthy history of disregarding basic functions like sleep and a great deal of infuriating stubbornness, collapses in the middle of a case briefing due to what Lestrade assumes to be mental exhaustion.

Lestrade isn't there for the actual event, having stepped out of the room for a cuppa. When he returns, Donovan and Anderson are standing over Sherlock's unconscious body with identical looks that are a smidge too smug to be appropriate.

"The freak just collapsed," Donovon reports, sounding a little bored.

Lestrade resists the urge to give her a smack. "Did you call for an ambulance?"

"Happened before, hasn't it?" Anderson says. "Give him time and he'll come around."

"Ambulance, now," Lestrade says angrily, kneeling on the floor.

He slaps Sherlock's cheeks, and receives no response, which is altogether worrisome. He peels apart the eyelids and finds that the pupil size is normal (or so he thinks), which is much better news. He doesn't fancy a repeat of Sherlock detoxing anytime soon.

Sherlock stays unconscious until they reach the hospital, and Lestrade has to admit that he's rather thankful for it. He rings John twice and sends three texts—all with 'URGENT' in the subject line. Of all the goddamned days for this to happen...

They get Sherlock into a bed in the ER before he finally awakes in a sudden fit. He tries to struggle off the gurney, raising holly hell as he fights against the nurse for custody of the soft restraints.

"John!" he shouts, sounding not panicked (he never panics), but utterly incensed. "Where are you?"

Lestrade, who is watching from what he considers a safe distance away (near an exit and out of throwing distance), pinches the bridge of his nose.

"He's not here, Sherlock; he's at a medical conference. You're in a hospital; settle down and let the nurse do her job."

Sherlock shoots the nurse a poisonous glare. "She is incompetent. No one is allowed to treat me but John."

"You've been treated by other doctors before," Lestrade says, trying for reason and logic, but Sherlock is stuck in one of his irrational flights of fancy.

"And I was horribly sick for weeks afterward," Sherlock snaps back.

"You were in the middle of detoxing!" Lestrade cries, putting his hands on his hips.

The nurse has ignored this exchange in favour of flipping through Sherlock's chart.

"Name, please," she says.

Sherlock, in his usual display of childish pique, continues to struggle with his restraints.

"Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade provides grouchily.

"I need to know if he knows that, sir," says the nurse. "What year is it?"

"It's exhaustion, that's all it is," says Lestrade. "He didn't hit his head."

"Where you there when he fell unconscious?"

"No," Lestrade admits grudgingly.

"Then we can't be certain what happened."

A new nurse enters the room carrying a bag of saline solution and Lestrade closes his eyes briefly, because he knows what is going to happen before it actually does.

"Don't touch me," Sherlock says coldly. "I don't like to be touched."

The restraints are rubbing more than he would like against his skin, and he shuts his eyes as tight as he can. Unwelcome sensations have always been a problem for him, and Sherlock can feel his composure wearing thin. What he needs is someone who understands.

He needs John.

The new nurse, less sure than the older one, looks uncertainly at her colleague for help.

"Go on, then," the other nurse says. "It's just an I.V., Anna, he won't bite."

But he does throw temper tantrums, Lestrade amends in his head, and Sherlock, like always, doesn't disappoint.

Being strapped to the backboard has opened old discomforts, and his skin has become so sensitive that the thought of the unfamiliar woman touching him is highly distressing.

Sherlock doesn't classify it as fear, because that is an emotion that he can't quite process correctly, but the instinctual flinch seems altogether entirely right. The only thing he wants is to go back to his flat and play—to hear the discordant notes of E#, Ab—is to calm the gnawing thoughts racing through his mind.

Sherlock knows that John would also bring some type of relief—and his touch is not quite as upsetting because it is familiar. He's backed into a corner and his only real method of getting out is to unleash his only weapon: his mouth.

"You can't touch me without my consent—that's battery," he snaps.

"Sherlock, they're just going to give you some fluids," Lestrade says.

"Where's my phone?"

"I called him," Lestrade says in response to Sherlock's unasked plea.

"What's your date of birth?" says the nurse, doggedly trying to complete her form.

"Get these restraints off of me," Sherlock says coldly.

The nurse smiles nervously. "Hospital policy is—"

"Can we talk outside?" Lestrade interrupts.

The nurse raises an eyebrow, but complies. She draws the curtains around Sherlock's bed and steps out into the hallway.

Lestrade does his best to look intimidating. "I'm going to have to ask you to hold treatment, just until his primary physician arrives."

"We get uncooperative patients frequently, sir, and we don't cater to their fancy."

"The London Metro would greatly appreciate it," Lestrade says. "As a favour."

"There you are!"

Lestrade turns to see the most welcome sight: John Watson, done up in a nice suit, kind face marred with worry.

"What happened?" John asks.

"He collapsed," Lestrade says. "My guess was exhaustion, but he's your problem now."

"Yeah, yeah. Thanks," John shakes his hand, and then turns to the nurse. "Dr. John Watson. I'm here for Sherlock Holmes."