Sherlock was rather disappointed he missed the rescue, being a bit unconscious at the time, but John reassured him later that it was eventful, but not so much that Sherlock wouldn't have been bored if he were awake.

Of course, it really wasn't like he'd had a choice in the matter, only briefly regaining consciousness as he was loaded in the ambulance, Gladstone on one side and John on the other. His head ached and he couldn't even remember what had happened, until the kidnapping had flashed back to him. Of course, the events after the first seizure (was there more than one? Two? Three?) were foggy at best. His head ached just to think about it.

So he didn't and just looked at Gladstone, resting quite calmly.

I'm sorry, he told her with his eyes.

Gladstone sighed and cocked her head in a way that clearly said this is getting tiresome.

"Indeed," he muttered. "Indeed it is."

John looked at him with an odd expression. "Sherlock, who are you talking to?"

"Just Gladstone," he sighed.

John frowned. "Right."

"S'alright," he murmured.

If he was looking at John, he would have known that he sighed with his head in his hands.

"No Sherlock, it's really not. You need to stop getting kidnapped."

"Don't try..." he muttered.

John smiled sadly. "I know. But I don't like losing you, and having to find you, and then finding you tied to a chair, lying on the floor."

Sherlock struggled to spin his head to look at John.

"Stop that," he scolded. "You're on a backboard, stop squirming."

Instead, John leaned over Sherlock so he could see his face.

"Was on the floor?" he asked stupidly.

John nodded. "How else would you have hurt your head."

Sherlock reached a hand up to touch his head, and it came away bloody.

"Oh."

John settled his hand back at his side. "Stop moving you idiot," he said fondly. "We figure that you had a seizure and knocked over the chair. Suppose it could have been worse. You could have landed on your face rather than your hard head."

Sherlock could hear John smiling as he said that, and belatedly noticed he had closed his eyes. With effort, he opened them again.

"Two," he whispered.

"You fell over twice?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and attempted to shake his head.

"Seizures," he slurred.

"Right." John patted Sherlock's hand with his. "Well you just rest. We're almost there."

Thought I wasn't supposed to sleep if I had a head injury? Sherlock wanted to say, but the ambulance had stopped, and the doors were opened, and the sunlight was so bright, streaming in on his face, so he closed his eyes, just for a minute.

Sherlock was home at Baker Street the next day, still rather miserable, but not much more than usual. His wrists were bandaged, and he moaned about them aching, and his head had been stitched shut, and he moaned about that hurting.

John ignored him for the most part, occasionally checking to see he was still breathing, and putting on a Doctor Who marathon that was running for a good part of the day. (Sherlock moaned considerably less after that, not that he would admit it.) He woke him up to feed him supper, and watched him take his meds.

All the while, Gladstone supervised from her place on Sherlock's knees.

And in her world, all was well.

AN- Title is Latin and means 'This is getting tiresome'. Gotta love Latin.