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“You’re late!” Sherlock complained as John Watson entered the flat. Sherlock didn’t bother looking up from his laptop as John walked across the living room floor; he expected him to go directly into the kitchen and put the kettle on. However the sound of footsteps heading straight upstairs made him stop reading and listen more intently.
It was a Friday night and therefore there was a good possibility that John had met Lestrade for a drink after work. It wasn’t unheard of for the quick drink to turn into a much longer session; especially when one or other of them had had a particularly bad week. But the footsteps, although heavy, were not uneven and therefore John hadn’t decided to go immediately to bed to sleep off the excesses.
Wanting to find out more, Sherlock got up to check John’s coat. There was a faint but unmistakeable hospital smell. Again John’s movements had given no indication that he had been injured in any way; had it been Lestrade then John would certainly have texted him; equally if it had been anyone else they both knew, Lestrade would have told him. Therefore it had to be Harry.
Sherlock could hear John banging drawers in his room as he got ready for bed. Whatever had happened must have been, at least in part, self-inflicted. Sherlock went into the kitchen and made some tea. He waited until he heard the creak that indicated that John had got into bed, followed by the second creak as he turned to face the wall, before he headed up the stairs, two mugs in hand.
Holding a mug in each hand made it impossible to knock and therefore Sherlock didn’t bother, but walked straight in.
“What do you want?” John asked.
“I’ve brought you some tea.”
“Oh! Thank you.” John rolled over, picked up the mug and looked at Sherlock for the first time since he had returned home.
Sherlock noted the combination of anger and hurt on John’s face. “How did it happen?” he asked.
“Walked out of a bar, stepped into the road without looking at the traffic and was hit by a delivery van.”
Sherlock nodded.
“When did Lestrade phone you?” John asked.
“He hasn’t. I deduced it must have been Harry.”
“You would. Lestrade was with me when I got the phone call and drove me to the hospital. He offered to stay, but he’s on an early tomorrow, so I told him to go home.”
Sherlock stood up. John looked surprised and said “Oh right. Good night!”
“What? I’m coming back.”
Sherlock went back downstairs to the kitchen, opened the fridge door and peered inside. After a moment’s consideration he took out the cheese and a tomato and two tubs of spread. He took the lid off the first tub, looked with interest at the white furry sections on the top of the spread and put the tub back on ‘his’ shelf. The second tub was new, so he used that to make John a sandwich and carried it back upstairs, together with a rather crumbly packet of digestive biscuits. He passed the plate over to John.
“Oh, thank you,” John said. “This is a surprise.”
“You’re always telling me I need to eat and from what you’ve told me you won’t have had any opportunity this evening.”
John opened the sandwich up and started to inspect it.
“It’s okay,” Sherlock said, “I used the new tub of spread.” He waited to ensure that John was going to eat the sandwich before adding, “How serious?”
“Broken arm, broken ankle, and she’s banged her head. They won’t know how serious the head injury is until she’s sobered up.”
Having finished the sandwich John unaccountably threw the plate on the floor. Sherlock considered the action and then said, “It’s not just your sister’s drinking again that’s upset you.”
John scowled. “None of her so-called friends – the ones she’d been in the bar with, bothered to wait with her when she was knocked down. A passerby phoned for the ambulance. She was left on her own.”
“Are you really that surprised?”
“No, I suppose not. It’s just that I started thinking, while I was waiting for Harry to be x-rayed, what if it had been me? Who would have been sitting in the waiting room with me?”
“Firstly, Lestrade wouldn’t have gone home, even if you’d told him to. Secondly, Lestrade would have phoned me and insisted I come to the hospital, threatening me with no cases for a month if I didn’t. Then, as soon as Mrs Hudson knew, she’d have been there.” Sherlock counted on his fingers for emphasis. “Molly Hooper would be there like a shot. Even Donovan has a soft spot for you for some reason.” Sherlock wriggled all the fingers of his hand, before starting on the other one. “Mycroft would no doubt make his presence felt; or if not he’d send his assistant.”
“Okay, okay,” John raised his hands in mock surrender. “I get the message. Thank you. And now, if you don’t mind, I should get some sleep, before I have to go back to the hospital to try to persuade Harry to accept whatever help is available.”
“Of course. Good night, John.”