It had been the fall down the stairs that did it, kept John out for longer than Sherlock. He too had come to his senses in his own bed, Mycroft irritatingly seated in a chair by his bedside. He had almost childishly rolled over and refused to speak than converse with Mycroft right then, but he sighed and forced himself to a sitting position.

"Two stitches to the back of the head from being struck with the butt of a gun, mild bruising on the left wrist from restraints, otherwise the effects of the drugs in your system have now worn off."

"Yes, thank you, Mycroft," said Sherlock, voice dripping with disdain. "All quite obvious to anyone with half a brain."

"That would be how you managed, then." Mycroft smiled tightly at Sherlock. A familiar sniping match, for they did not do worry and affection well, but beneath it all he was glad to see this escapade had not ended too badly. "Dr. Watson has a mild concussion, sprained wrist, and cracked rib. I've taken the liberty of alerting the surgery to his absence for the next few days." He stood and picked up his coat from the back of the chair. "Try not to make a habit of this, brother mine."

Sherlock just snorted and waited until Mycroft had gone, before dressing himself in a silk dressing gown over loose trousers and a plain t-shirt, and heading out to the living room. When John surfaced, Sherlock glanced to his bedroom door.

"If you have nausea with your concussion, try not to be sick on the floor."