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Mycroft was reading a rather tedious report on the even more tedious peace talks between two small Senegalese tribes, when his mobile chimed with the special sound he’d reserved for Sherlock’s texts alone. Glad for the welcome distraction but equally alarmed at once, he picked up his phone.
Ambulance. Now! SH
Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. Sherlock never bothered with something as mundane as exclamation marks. This had to be serious then. He reached for the intercom but before he could push a button, the door opened and Anthea glided in.
“Where’s my brother?”
“I’ve just come to inform you, Sir,” she held out a tablet for him to take. “There was an accident. On the playground.”
Mycroft looked at the screen. The CCTV live feet showed a London playground, indeed. The slide was overturned, lying on its side on the ground, and underneath it was a man, trapped by heavy steel.
Doctor Watson.
“Ambulance?” Mycroft kept his voice calm and his eyes on the screen. He took in every small detail.
Sherlock was pacing back and forth a few feet away from John, a little girl in his arms. He was blocking the child’s view with one hand. Mycroft could tell that Sherlock was torn between wanting to drop the girl to rush to his friend’s aid and wanting to shield her from seeing her father in pain. For now, protecting the child was winning out. Two other children stood on the other side of the fallen slide, two boys around ten, both rooted to the spot in shock. And John…
The Doctor’s face was pale and contorted in noticeable pain, but his eyes were clear and focussed on Sherlock. He was talking, obviously telling him to keep his daughter away.
Mycroft focussed on John’s lower body. The slide’s heavy weight was pressing across both his thighs and, oh, a small pool of blood was forming in the sand beneath John’s right knee. A rusty piece of steel had pierced the muscle just above. Considering the small amount of blood, Mycroft didn’t think a major artery had been hit. Still, with the weight of the slide crushing bone and muscle as well as the rust contaminating the wound, this would be considered a severe injury. Time was of the essence.
“The ambulance is on its way. Should be there any second.” Anthea’s voice was calm.
“Good,” Mycroft glanced up briefly. “Then have one of their regular babysitters brought by to take care of the child. My brother will want to accompany Doctor Watson to the hospital.”
“Any preference, Sir?”
“Whoever’s the closest, I should think.” Mycroft did a rough estimate in his head. “Mrs. Hudson?”
“At her sister’s for the weekend, I’m afraid.” Anthea typed something in her mobile, probably locating Molly Hooper and DI Lestrade’s whereabouts.
Mycroft was one step ahead already. He quickly sent a reply to Sherlock while he waited for Anthea to come to the same conclusion as him.
Eventually his assistant looked up. “I’ll go.”
“Thank you, Anthea.”
“Sir.” Calm and efficient as always, Anthea slid from the room. Mycroft concentrated back on the screen. He watched Sherlock read his text, saw his relief in the tiniest movement of his left shoulder, and the brief nod of thanks when Sherlock looked directly into the camera.
Then the ambulance arrived.
Mycroft watched two paramedics take care of John and hold him steady while three others, probably firemen, carefully lifted the heavy slide off his legs. Soon enough John was freed and placed on a stretcher, his wounds superficially treated to have him ready for transport.
Sherlock hovered by his side the whole time, with little Rosie pressed close to his chest. Mycroft felt a small smile tug at his lips and he shook his head fondly. Seeing his brother like this, well, he hadn’t gotten used to it yet.
But, Mycroft assumed, he would, sooner or later. He watched John being loaded into the ambulance truck and Sherlock handing Rosie over to Anthea who had arrived at the scene before climbing in after John, and Mycroft knew that he would get used to it.
Sherlock and John and Rosie… they were family.