Author's Note: I seem to be a one fic pony in terms of content. I know what grade of indulgence I thrive on-Sherlock getting owned. No, it isn't very challenging and quite cliched but I consider my writing to be a familiar pillow in which to settle in and relax. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!

This is a semi SLASH story but very fluffy on those terms. Nothing hardcore.

THE SCORE

John was known to have exquisite rows. Being a servant of the people, he'd often had to haggle, coax and bargain patients over the general state of their health. To vaccinate or not to vaccinate? To remove or not to remove? He was intrigued by such bartering, knowing he would eventually prevail in the end. Sensible people rarely argued with a man wearing a stethoscope. The army had been a different animal, of course. Lose a limb or leave your entrails as souvenirs across the desert. No art to that at all.

In real time he could expect Sherlock to take up to several hours or even days to acknowledge another presence quietly shuffling about the flat leading its own life. Making tea. Washing dishes. Watching telly. He had a superb talent for drowning out the world even if the world was beating him over the head.

He was sitting up in bed when John entered the abysmally sterile room, absorbed in a tatted book by a Dutch philosopher. There was privacy to be had here and a chair which were minimal for what John was about to pursue. Necessary and unkind words would be flung but John had walked the killing fields of Afghanistan and tied limbs back on men's bodies. Dignity would be just as easy to realign. Forgoing the courtesy of a nod, John set his duffel bag on the floor next to the chair and seated himself.

Sherlock paid him no mind at first, even with his body blocking the lamplight. John accepted this show of pettiness and waited.

Exactly four minutes and twelve seconds later, Sherlock spoke.

"I'm a thoughtless twat with no inkling of how lucky I am." Sherlock's eyes never left the book. "How was Sarah this morning?"

John checked himself before answering.

"Oh fine. Sarah's ah...just fine." His hands worked unconsciously on the plastic armrests.

"There's gloss on your collar. Clairol by the sheen, dusty rose. Expensive taste your mademoiselle." Sherlock flashed a curt grin into the book. His lips were utterly bloodless.

"You look like you could use some yourself, mate." John chided. Sherlock didn't see the humor in it, naturally. His face fell in grand melancholy but he did not put down the blasted book.

"I'm bored."

"You're ill." John indicated the drip taped to Sherlock's thin wrist, flicking it gently. "And hospitals aren't meant to be fun."

"Well, they could bloody afford to be!" Sherlock sighed, finally tossing the book aside on the floor. "The only redemption to be had in this spic and span plain of Inferno is that I don't actually have to travel to work."

"Has Molly been to see you?"

"No." Sherlock's voice lowered. "I've asked several times but she won't come."

"She knows better." John leaned forward a bit in his seat, chuckling lightly. "You'll have her putting her job in a vice. Besides, you're officially on leave until further notice." John fought to lock Sherlock's gaze in his.

"When can I expect that?"

"As soon as you start complying with regulations."

Sherlock allowed an uncomfortable silence to settle in the air before taking up the gauntlet again. John could hear his blood pound softly in his ears.

"Mycroft sent you didn't he?" Sherlock's scathing smile could cut butter.

"No."

"Is that a lie?"

"Not to you, Sherlock." John said quietly. "Never to you."

Sherlock appeared mollified though his defense was still up. He folded his arms across his chest, opening the blue hospital-issue robe slightly. John winced at the trace lines of electric shock pads used not too long ago, angry and red on his pale flesh.

"I had everything under control." Sherlock muttered. John pursed his lips a moment before responding.

"No one held a gun to your head-"

"Exactly." Sherlock interrupted. "No one was holding a gun to my head! Do you know me at all, John?"

John schooled his expression to be as flat as possible.

"Y'know, I've just had a chat with your nurses."

"What have they told you?" Sherlock hissed.

"According to them, you haven't been eating?"

Sherlock's mouth twitched a little, hatefully. "I know my physiology well enough to realize when it must feed! I don't-" Color flooded his hollow cheeks at John's stern expression. He averted his gaze. "I cannot function on someone else's schedule."

"And your meds?"

"That's what landed me here in the first place." Sherlock huffed bitterly.

"It took an entire team three hours to get your heart started again."

"I commend them." Haughtiness. Sherlock was trying to force him into a dead end.

"Lestrade sent them flowers."

"Chivalrous."

The way Sherlock said that word made John's insides clench. He lost his cool sooner than he expected to. Sherlock 1, John zip.

"Look, you're being an absolute child, Sherlock! You're only putting on this show because you're here against your will!"

If Sherlock had jumped, stiffened, or even blinked John might have forgiven him. But the daft prat was intent on getting the better of him. Who to show belly first, who to win this round? John felt the loss like a physical blow twisting his gut.

"Surely you didn't come all this way to tell me that." Sherlock stretched. "My brother knew exactly what he was getting into when he signed the commitment papers."

"Were you even conscious then?" John spat.

He could feel the bile rise, feel his nerves tighten and stretch, constricting blood vessels and building heat behind his eyes. Military instincts had always served him well when dealing with the destructively deluded. He'd be damned if he gave Sherlock the satisfaction of watching him unravel. He took a deep breath, prepped himself to start again.

"You're shaking." Sherlock observed. Sherlock 2, John negative.

"Sherlock." John meant to keep his voice calm but it didn't work and he didn't care. "You can't keep hindering the people who are trying to help you. The sooner you realize that, the sooner you can leave." And come home.

"I appreciate your sympathies, John. You are truly a devoted friend. Leave the flowers on your way out."

Fuming, John quickly reassessed his approach. Sherlock was right. So far he'd been speaking to him as a friend, a flatmate and equal. His emotions, borne from concern and frustration, were giving Sherlock all the ammunition he needed for his callous mockery of it all.

It was time to change tactics.

"Did you know one of your doctors is seriously considering inducing medical coma to allow your recuperation to go unimpeded?"

"Really?" Sherlock sniffed. "That would be interesting at least."

"It wouldn't." John promised.

"Why are you here exactly?" Pale blue eyes pierced through John's quantifying every minute detail, every crease and involuntary twitch. When John's lips turned up in a smile, he was careful to ensure nothing lurked behind it.

"I'm here to make sure you get well."

"Oh hell!" Sherlock sighed. "Surely you've more creative wastes of time."

John frowned and considered this for a moment.

"No, actually."

"Well provided the ennui doesn't get me first, allow me to assure you I'll be out soon enough to terrorize the neighborhood." Sherlock said venomously, flopping back into his pillows.

"I could help with the ennnui." John kept his voice completely devoid of sympathy. "But first I'll need some opinions from your liver."

Sherlock pushed himself back onto his elbows, eyes narrowed.

"You're only here to humiliate me for breaking your rules. Admit it."

"Alright, Sherlock. I admit it." John pursed his lips and rose from his chair, bending down to pick up his duffel. "You've only got yourself to thank."

"Actually, I've got Mycroft to thank." Sherlock growled. His forehead furrowed when he noticed the array of medical equipment materializing from John's luggage. Pen light, tongue depressor, sphygometer . "John, what on earth-?"

John purposefully snapped on a pair of latex gloves for way of answer. Sherlock's entire body went rigid with contempt.

"The both of you are being so stupidly benign! Do you really think it necessary to go through all this just for the sake of watching me suffer?"

"That's one thing he and I would agree on."

"What?"

"Watching you suffer. Now sit up you noisy git, let's have a listen!" John set the stethoscope in his ears and breathed on the bell to warm it. Sherlock scowled but begrudgingly yanked down the collar of his dressing gown so that John could lean over him.

"You realize there are several people per day who perform this ritual." He hissed when John pressed the metal disc against his chest.

"Stop talking." John said, placing his other hand firmly on Sherlock's shoulder. "Breathe in and hold it"

Sherlock, successfully exasperated into compliance, sucked in a loud inhale. John heard the immediate increase in heart rate as Sherlock's chest swelled. It was shallow, the already nervous rhythm fluttering to a frantic pace. He counted a few seconds until Sherlock's lungs twitched uncomfortably.

"Good." John shifted the bell lower. "Now out." The heart protested in a series of quick, muffled beats before reluctantly laboring on.

"Are you learning anything my chart can't tell you?" Sherlock released in a huff.

"You're altering the charts by making yourself a nuisance." John did not meet his eyes. "Your body can't lie to me. In?"

Sherlock obeyed, redirecting his ire to John's collar. "Had it off with Sarah, then? Got the bed this time." He panted.

"None of your business." John pressed the bell firmly to the far side of Sherlock's ribs. Sherlock's heart skipped once.

"Ah, but that's what makes it so interesting." He said, drawing air into his lungs. He coughed a little on the exhale. "All that medical lot out there tell me is that they haven't had a proper shag in months."

Tugging down the back of Sherlock's dressing gown, John bared his shoulders so he could listen to his lungs. "You're lucky. If it weren't for the wages, those nurses wouldn't put their hands on you."

"You're putting hands on me." Sherlock said through the deep breath he was ordered to take. "You're getting about as invasive as anyone can get." He paused as John shifted the bell once more. "Are my levels acceptable, John?"

John didn't give him the satisfaction of a response. He was a doctor now, not a flatmate nor even a companion and Sherlock was going to respect that.

"Lie down."

Sherlock shifted on the bed, scooting towards the end so that his head could rest on the starched white pillow case. John kept his assessment professional, lifting Sherlock's T-shirt up to his chest and positioning the stethoscope below his navel.

"Breathe normal."

He felt the warm rise and fall of Sherlock's flesh as it lifted gently with his breath, the slight tremor that tensed the muscles of his belly, the anxious hitch. He stole a brief glance at Sherlock's face. His eyes were vacant, staring at the white curtains on the window. He shifted his focus to the faint, low-pitched beat of blood through the aorta. Sherlock's intestines were eerily quiet. No whistles or hitches. Not even a gurgle.

"Well?" Sherlock was impatient.

John stripped off the stethoscope and slung it over his shoulder.

"Breathe in and hold it." John placed both hands on the soft part of Sherlock's abdomen and pressed down gently. "Feel anything?"

Sherlock shook his head. John moved a little closer to his hip and pressed firmer.

Sherlock's breath left him in a surprised gasp.

"Alright. Sit up." John swiped the chart from its holder on the bed, clicked on his red pen and began scribbling. He paused only to absently place a thermometer under Sherlock's tongue

"I've been authorized to make editorial changes. I suppose it would be too much to ask for a urine sample?"

"Piss off." Sherlock growled behind the thermometer. John tossed him a plastic cup.

"After you."

Sherlock swiped it away rudely but got up from the bed, the IV stand complaining after him.

"Take your time." John assured.

Sherlock's only satisfaction was an unnecessarily loud slam of the adjoining restroom door. When he emerged, John politely removed the thermometer and jotted down the results.

"Your heart's working overtime and your bowels haven't much to say which means you're undernourished." He explained as Sherlock burrowed back under the covers, punching his pillows in a sulk. John continued, unaffected.

"You've been neglecting your meds so your blood volume hasn't had a chance to stabilize. You're also running a smidge of temperature." He laid the back of his hand against Sherlock's forehead.

"What exactly is a smidge?" Sherlock flinched away.

"A sign your immune system is gearing up for something bigger."

"Tell me John, is it possible to expire from boredom?"

"Only if you're spectacularly untalented." John busied himself with Sherlock's blood pressure. Grasping Sherlock's bicep (Sherlock refused to offer it up willingly), he runched up the sleeve and wrapped the cuff snugly in place.

"I've got to get out of here." Sherlock's wall had begun to crumble, rubbing his eye with his free hand. "There's too much going on out there, my head..." He sighed. "It won't quiet, it won't be still!"

"It might if you'd just take your sodding medication." John ticked off the figures next to Sherlock's vitals, noting the date and time.

"Alright." Sherlock muttered, never looking up.

Sherlock 2, John 5. John ripped the cuff off with a triumphant crack.

"Excellent. I'll be back tomorrow to check on your progress. Be civil, speak nicely to the overworked gals who come in to stab you with needles, eat all your pudding and if you are very very good, I'll send Molly up with a turgid forensics report."

Sherlock gave no response which was about what John expected. He packed up his bag, leaving a pack of mints and a crossword puzzle on the night table as an act of charity. When he was finished, he shrugged into his jumper and was about to take off with a salute when Sherlock's wrist shot out faster than lightening and pulled him down onto the mattress.

"Sher-!" John's protest was cut short by a fierce tongue pressed hard and fast, Sherlock's grip on his shoulders like iron. He bucked, tried to get away but Sherlock would not listen. He exhaled deeply into John's mouth as he struggled, let his tongue explore the warmth of John's lips.

John froze when he heard a faint metallic click at the door, his expression of shock and confusion reflected in the face of the day nurse holding a tray of medication.

"Eh, shall I come back-?" She ventured.

Sherlock finally let him go, dabbing at his mouth chastely while John cleared his throat and straightened his jumper.

"Not at all." Sherlock said comfortably. John was speechless as Sherlock politely accepted the small cup of pills, allowing the young lady to adjust his IV and complete her round.

John's breathing was still unsteady, his eyes voicing a silent question.

"Just evening the score, John." Sherlock picked up his book from the floor and buried himself in it once more.