Chapter Text
Sherlock was mildly annoyed by the third time his brother rang without leaving a voicemail, or, God help him, sending a simple text. By the fifth time, he was standing at the window of 221B, glaring at the blacked-out sedan waiting for him on the street below.
He answered the sixth call.
"To what do I owe this immense pleasure, Mycroft? I'm sure you're well aware that the temperature of the tongues needs to be precise for this experiment. You can't possibly expect me to abandon my work at this stage."
Mycroft heaved a weighted sigh, dreading the fallout of his next few words, and said, "Come downstairs, Sherlock. There's been a car accident... with the Watsons."
John. Sherlock immediately abandoned the cooling tongues on the kitchen table, what a shame, they were progressing just as he hypothesized, donned his coat and scarf, and was out the door without saying another word to his brother, gently pushing a confused Mrs. Hudson out of his way on the stairs.
"Oh, Sherlock, what's gotten into you? I've made you some-"
"Not now, Mrs. Hudson. Busy. John."
"Oh, have he and Mary finally called it quits? You know, I never quite knew what to think about-"
"Not now, Mrs. Hudson."
Sherlock made his way across the sidewalk and slid into the seat next to his elder brother. Fastening his seatbelt, he studied his brother's closely guarded expression. Other than the corners of Mycroft's eyes squinting slightly more than normal, worried, possibly about John, or more likely, about my reaction to John's accident, the man was unreadable. He was doing this purposefully, of course. With any other person, Sherlock would have already deduced the location, time, and vehicles involved in the accident.
"Fine, Mycroft. Tell me," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes, musn't let Mycroft know how involved I've let myself get.
The look on Mycroft's face, all raised eyebrows and pursed lips, told Sherlock that Mycroft knew exactly how involved Sherlock was with John, which was, unfortunately, not nearly as much as Sherlock had once wished to be. Only once though; John made his choice. I would know, I was the best man after all.
"I'll start with the most pressing information. Mary and the child are dead," Mycroft stated, his expression betraying no emotion. Always unattached, Mycroft. Sherlock took a deep breath, feeling regret for not visiting more often, for not getting to know John's little one better, for refusing to acknowledge how much Mary's friendship had begun to mean to him over the past year. Sherlock Holmes, with two friends? Mummy would have been astounded. He closed his eyes against the sunlight pouring through the windows of the sedan, suddenly too bright for a day that had taken two of the people he cares most about in the world. People he had vowed to protect.
After granting Sherlock a moment to process the information, Mycroft continued, "John is in critical condition. He suffered a punctured lung, a subdural hematoma, a few crushed vertebrae, and various other, far milder injuries. He will be in a medically induced coma until his first surgery in a few hours." A few hours? Clearly, Mycroft cares more about John Watson than he lets on as well.
John is alive. Sherlock released a breath that he didn't know he'd been holding.
"I know you... cared, however unwise it was, about Mary and the child. I'm sorry, Sherlock. For your loss."
Any other time, Sherlock would have rushed Mycroft through, only wanting to know information about the crime, where it happened, when it happened, why the imbeciles at the Yard think it happened, not having the time to waste on unimportant factors like caring. But Mary and Elizabeth have died. John may die, yet. He needs to know more about John's condition, but he can't seem to make his mind form the questions or his mouth form the words, only thinking, John is alive.
"Sherlock. There is no reason to add a third fatality to the list. Please do remember to breathe," Mycroft's tone was as condescending as ever, but the hand on Sherlock's shoulder was warm and strangely comforting. He squeezed his little brother’s shoulder gently, the biggest show of emotion Sherlock had seen from Mycroft since his drugged outburst about breaking hearts last Christmas.
Eyes still closed against the harsh reality of the situation, Sherlock nodded, and focused on regulating his breathing at a more respectable rate.
“We’ll be arriving at the hospital momentarily. Considering your current inability to speak, I assume you won’t object to my presence.” Sherlock knew it was a statement, rather than a question, and that Mycroft wouldn’t be leaving him alone any time soon. He must think this makes it a danger night. Doesn’t he know by now, I can’t get high when John needs me?
The hand on his shoulder squeezed again, and Mycroft added, quieter, “Sherlock, John is alive. We will get to see him soon. But I’d rather not explain to the nurses why you’re acting like a catatonic zombie, so please, say something before I get a shock blanket for you.”
Nodding, Sherlock took a breath and stuttered, “I- I’m not-,” not in shock, his mind tried to supply, but it came out as more of a jumble of meaningless syllables than the sentence he intended.
“Words, Sherlock. Surely you remember some, from school.”
“John is alive,” Sherlock murmured, almost inaudibly.
“Yes, Sherlock. Your doctor is alive, for the time being, and I am doing everything in my power to keep it that way. I’d suggest you open your eyes. We’re here now.”