Sherlock looked down at his leg.

He would have been absolutely fascinated if it didn't hurt so damn much.

There was a bump where there should not have been, highly indicative of a broken leg. Really? Really? Just highly indicative? Not even absolute? Shut up, brain is fuzzy, full of pain. Shut up.

He looked at it for another second before a wave of nausea hit him.

Don't throw up, please, no, don't throw up, he begged himself.

He turned his head to the side, just in case, so he wouldn't get sick all over himself.

The wall was cool and scratchy against his head. There was something I should do... what was it?

Sherlock's brain was rather overwhelmed by the sheer amount of stimuli coming from the screaming nerves in his leg to remember. Which was a pity, considering that it was most likely important if he was thinking about it now.

Think think think think... he groaned. Did he? Must have been him, there's no one else around. Why is there no one else? What was I doing here? And most importantly, where the hell is John?

Sherlock swallowed against the wave of nausea that hit him as he thought about opening his mouth to call for John. Why does it have to hurt so much? His brain sluggishly started going through all the reasons for that before Sherlock shook his head, trying to get those thoughts out so he could focus on the ones that really mattered. Like where John was, and what he was doing here.

But shaking his head proved to be too much for him, and he threw up. The spasms sent shocks through his leg and nerve endings screamed for it to stop, for anything to happen to make it stop, even if it meant dying, because surely that was preferable.

Sherlock heard something that wasn't him. He was torn between calling out, because maybe it was John, or staying silent, because it could be the murderer they were tracking. Was that what they were doing? Tracking a murderer? Curse this damn pain overloaded brain.

Sherlock slipped away from reality for a bit, or at least he must have, because he had no recollection of moving from his position by the wall to the ambulance, and yet there he was.

"John," he called, panicking again. Maybe John wasn't there, maybe he was hurt, or dead, or kidnapped, why did I leave him alone, why do I always do this to him, he should just stay home and that way I'd know he was safe.

Sherlock's internal berating was cut off by his hand being clasped and John's comforting reassurance that he was indeed there.

"Shh, Sherlock. It's okay. We're going to the hospital and there's no way you can try and get out of it this time."

Sherlock smiled weakly, and looked like he was about to protest, keeping up appearances, except the ambulance hit a bump and John could see him visibly pale.

Don't throw up don't throw up please please not again.

John must have recognized this look on Sherlock's face, because he grew more concerned.

"Do we have to roll you so you can throw up?" he asked anxiously.

Sherlock wanted to shake his head, but only then realized he was attached to a backboard, making that impossible. He settled for a noise, not wanting to open his mouth just in case.


John nodded. "Okay," he said softly. "Just let me know."

Sherlock sighed, perhaps a bit louder than intended, because John looked worried again. Or more, because he hadn't really stopped looking worried.

It was too much for Sherlock's pain ridden brain. Perhaps John could do something about that.

"John... hurts," he mumbled, not meeting his glance.

"I know," he said soothingly. "They've already given you some pain meds."

"More," Sherlock grunted.

John and the paramedic exchanged a glance.

Sherlock supposed that was a good thing, because shortly he felt himself slipping...

Sherlock had always hated dreams. They were illogical and pointless. He especially hated dreams that were fever induced or drug induced, as they were rather vivid and screwed up. It was why he never did hallucinogenics. He detested not being able to trust what was real, whether it was while he was awake, or when he was sleeping.

The drugs that he'd been given had the awful effect on him of producing extremely vivid dreams that he couldn't be entirely sure were dreams or not.

He made a mental note to inform John that drug was off the table when it came to pain management.