Work Text:
Thirteen steps across.
Thirteen steps back.
Patience has never been his long suit. He can do it, when necessary, but it doesn't take long before he wants to push at events, to make something happen. He cannot make anything happen now. He hasn't the training. Surgeries lie in John's area of expertise, and John is lying in the care of the experts. He can only wait.
Thirteen steps across.
Thirteen steps back.
Pacing is better than inactivity, better than contemplating the memory of blood spatters on green grass, the memory of John's sudden cry, John's face as still and pale as ice. Better to walk, and count, ignoring the ache of bruises, the feel of dried blood still caught in the crevices of his skin.
Thirteen steps across.
Thirteen steps back.
Sgt. Donovan is sitting at one corner of the room, watching him as if he were the one who put the knife into John's chest. Mycroft's assistant is at the other corner, tapping out messages on her phone. Lestrade is in a meeting at the Yard. Mycroft is in Hong Kong. He is alone.
Thirteen steps across.
Thirteen steps back.
The carpet has a path in it like a train track, where dozens, hundreds, thousands perhaps, have trod before him, pacing, counting, waiting, hoping.
Thirteen steps across.
Thirteen steps back.