Chapter Text
There was a sickening, hollow moment that stretched out endlessly between Sherlock very obviously losing his footing and Sherlock hitting the pavement skull first. John was tearing after him, his thoughts a mosaic jumble of wordless terror. The back of Sherlock’s head hit the pavement with a sound that shoved John’s heart into his throat.
“Sherlock, you bloody idiot.” John fumbled with his phone while climbing down to his friend, one lurching step after the other. His internal organs had lost all rigid structure and sense of place, and instead churned aimlessly.
They’d been coming from opposite directions, with John circling around the warehouse to check the back alley in case Sherlock’s top suspect wasn’t quite as cornered as he thought, and had come around the corner just as Sherlock’s foot slipped across the wet rung.
There was blood under Sherlock’s head, and John dropped to his knees, pausing only to dial three numbers before setting his phone down, not even noticing the wet pavement under his knees. “Sherlock,” he said, hand gentle against his throat. Sherlock’s eyes were open, but unseeing. “I don’t know how your brother’s omnipotence works, but now would be a good time for him to have an emergency vehicle hidden away somewhere.”
But no mystery vehicles appeared out of anywhere, and so instead, John dialed 999 and shouted his intersection as he put his hands to either side of his friend’s head, bringing it into perfect alignment with his spine. He tore off his jacket, pressing the corduroy to the blood coming from Sherlock’s scalp as best he could without moving his neck, and waited.
*
“Mycroft,” Sherlock said, in a voice like a thin layer of ice covering a cacophony of thrashing water, “I can only assume I’ve crashed the bike.”
“Not Mycroft,” John replied. “Sorry.”
Sherlock had a sleeping mask over his eyes. While he’d been sleeping, his arm kept creeping up to cover his face, and he’d mussed his own bandages several times before John realized he was bothered by the light.
“Who are you?” Sherlock said in a sharp voice. “A doctor?”
John was almost amused. “Yes, but I’m not your doctor. I mean, I am, a bit, but I’m not acting in an official medical capacity at the moment.”
“One of Mycroft’s then,” Sherlock sneered. “Delightful. Well, go fetch my Victor. He has atrocious timing; I suspect he’s off getting a watered down coffee from the machine.”
“Uh.” John was pretty thoroughly thrown. “Sherlock, it’s John.”
Sherlock’s eyes were still covered by the silk mask, which made his hair in the back poke up at odd angles, but John could still hear the eye-rolling in his voice. “Every minion you meet wants you to remember his name,” he huffed, as if imploring whatever Gods Sherlock Holmes implored for the strength to deal with him.
“Oh, sorry sir,” John said, stepping towards the door of Sherlock’s private hospital room. “I’ll just go get Mr. Holmes.”
“Bring me Victor!” Sherlock shouted, and reached blindly to his side. Sherlock was suited for temporary visual impairment -- his grasp around the mug John had been nursing most of the night was almost immediate -- and flung it at him. “Not Mycroft!”
*
Sherlock was still shouting as John threw himself into the hallway. He flagged down a nurse. “My friend, Sherlock Holmes is awake, and he seems to be disoriented.”
She nodded curtly as she brushed past him.
Then he went to find Mycroft, still in his denims. He’d been pulled from whatever he’d been doing the night before that required him to look like he didn’t actually run the country from behind the scenes, and he’d arrived with no brolly. “Is everything alright, Doctor Watson?”
“Who is Victor, and why is Sherlock demanding to see him?”
“Of course I sent for him, the idiot child. He was in America last night; he’ll be landing in two hours,” Mycroft said, seemingly ignoring his question.
John tried another route. “He also said something about a bike. Know anything about that?”
Mycroft’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, that is something. Sherlock hasn’t had a motorbike in a decade, at least. How coherent was he?”
“He seemed alright, besides demanding to see some bloke I don’t know anything about.”
Mycroft made a skeptical noise. “You’ve never heard him talk of Victor Trevor?”
It was clear he wasn’t going to answer his question, especially when Mycroft made to brush past him. John didn’t budge. “If you’ll excuse me, Doctor Watson, I have to go tend to my brother now, he seems to not know what year it is..”
*
Sherlock refused to see anyone. Mycroft Holmes insinuated himself right into his hospital room.
If John knew anything about Sherlock, he hadn’t wanted to see him, either, but John knew from personal experience that when Mycroft Holmes wanted an appointment, it was near impossible to deny him.
John paced the waiting room, on edge and miserable as his best mate, his brother, and his nurse had a conference that seemed to drag on an on. Listlessly flicking through his phone to keep his hand from trembling, he found himself in his contacts. To be honest, he had very few, and most of them only products of his work with Sherlock. Surprise kicked him in the chest as he absently scrolled past Greg Lestrade’s contact info, feeling like a tit.
He dialed with a steady hand, glad to have something to do. “Greg?” he asked, when the line clicked on.
“Finally, you berk,” Lestrade huffed.
“Sorry,” John winced, knowing immediately that he knew. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Everyone thinks you’re Sherlock’s cuddly social-niceties handler,” he said, gruff. “Idiots.”
“I just wanted you to know he’s awake.” John said, quickly swiping his screen against the sleeve of his jumper, where it had been pressed against his suddenly clammy face. “And uh...”
“Spit it out, John. Is he … damaged? Mycroft told me there was a hell of a head wound.”
“I don’t know, to be honest. I only saw him for a minute. He was yelling about a Victor.”
“Well of course he wants him there.”
“Why am I the only one who doesn’t know who bloody Victor Trevor is?”
There was a choked-off laugh from the other end of the line. “You serious, mate?”