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He was in the middle of a video conference with the US when he could feel his phone vibrate in the inner breast pocket of his suit jacket. He immediatly knew that something bad must have happend. His phone was set on mute except for one emergency phone number with which his PA could contact him if something important happened. But he also knew that it was not important enough to upset the Americans by leaving the conference early – otherwise she would have called him instead of texting. That meant that at least it had nothing to do with Sherringford. He was unsettled none the less and made an effort to tie things up as quickly as possible so he could read the message. Twenty minutes later he was finally free to find out what was wrong.
There was a shooting in a case involving Sherlock. As far as I could find out he and one detective were hospitalized.
-AD
Mycroft called Anthea, who answered after the first ring. „My appointments for this afternoon have to be rescheduled.“
„Done.“
„I assume they’re at St. Bartholomew’s?“ The hospital was in the heart of DI Lestrade’s district and since Sherlock usually worked with him on cases of the police, they usually ended up there.
„Yes. Your car is already waiting, Sir.“
„Thanks.“ He hung up. During their conversation he had alrady hurried to the closest exit and seconds later he was sitting in the back of the car.
When he arrived at the hospital however, Sherlock and that doctor of his already came his way. Sherlock made a show of rolling his eyes when he saw his older brother. „Really Mycroft, I think you should get yourself a new PA. It was merely a graze, hardly anything to worry about.“ Mycroft raised his eyebrows. „Well, then I suppose I’ll go get back to White Hall.“ What a waste of time. Well, now that he was here he might as well ask about the other victim. „What about the detective?“
„Lestrade? He’s still getting opperated. Hard to tell wether he’ll make it.“
„Sherlock!“
He looked at his favourite doctor and put on an appropriatly sad face. „Don’t want him to, naturally, but I think his state is rather critical“, he mumbled.
Mycroft was beyond words. Nothing his PA had told him had suggested that the Dective Inspector was the other one who got shot. Maybe Sherlock was right and he had to get a new one. For now not showing how much the news had hit him was the best he could do. Sherlock didn’t need to know how much he cared for the DI. So he left the building with the other two and entered his car, but told his driver to just drive around the block and get him back there.
He then went back inside the building, asking where and when he could visit, maybe exploiting his position a little so he could visit him earlier, or to be allowed to visit him in the first place.
When he was finally allowed to see him, he laid unconcious on the hospital bed, his face as white as the sheets he was bedded on. As Mycroft had learned one bullet had hit the DI’s lower stomach and one had barely missed his heart. He had barely survived and not woken up since he got operated. Which was two weeks ago now. Mycroft swallowed and sat down on a chair next to Lestrade’s bed.
He didn’t leave his place all night – his position once again making it possible to ignore hospital rules that ordinary people had to follow, such as visiting hours – but couldn’t bring his mind to rest. He found it strange to be in this position. He had always held himself above any emotion, at least as far as possible (with Sherlock he had found it impossible, despite trying countless times). But DI Lestrade had surprised him. They had met because of Sherlock, of course, and in the beginning he had found hardly anything unusual or interesting about him. But he supposed that the man had made an effort over time to improve, to become someone who Mycroft would find impressing. He had tried to be more perceiving and to learn, to prove himself trustworthy and – should need be – capable of keeping secrets. All the while he made every effort to get Mycroft to relax a bit, or to smile more. It was adorable that Gregory thought he wouldn’t notice all these efforts.
Mycroft mentally slapped himself. Not Gregory, DI Lestrade. He couldn’t allow himself to give into his feelings. Gregory’s – no, Lestrade’s – efforts had proven more effective than the DI must have intended. It was hard enough for Mycroft to imagine that anyone would go to such lengths to be his friend, but impossible that the man had any intentions beyond that. If anything he probably just thought it useful to have a friend in such a high position.
When morning came, Mycroft had to leave for his job. But he visited the DI as often as he could. In the folllowing weeks he got hardly any sleep because he spent his days at work and his nights watching over the DI that had still not woken up. One day, after a particularly stressful situation at work, he finally cracked. He took Lestrade’s hand in his own and started to cry.
„Every night I watch over you. Every night I stay awake at your side“, he said in a husky voice. „I am unable to sleep because every time I close my eyes I think…“ His voice cracked and the next few words barely came out. „What if one day I wake up and you don’t?“ He lifted the fingers between his hands up and carefully kissed the knuckles. And when his blue eyes went back to the police man’s face, they suddenly locked with two brown ones.