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Sherlock paced from door to window and from window to door in the small hospital room, finally stopping at the foot of John’s bed and addressing him.
“Your continued stay here is inconvenient.”
“Tell me about it,” John answered tiredly. He’d have rolled his eyes, but the thought of moving them was too painful.
‘You said they’d check you over and send you home. You said we’d only be here a few hours.” Sherlock looked up at the wall clock, clearly annoyed. “You said that six hours ago.”
“Six hours ago I didn’t think I actually had a concussion,” John answered. He started to shake his head, winced, thought better of it. “Sherlock – go home. You’re exhausted.”
“Go home?” Sherlock repeated. “Why would I do that? You’re here.”
They stared at each other. Sherlock looked genuinely puzzled. John’s face softened through the pain.
“You’re not leaving.”
Sherlock shook his head and blinked. One eye blinked normally. The other eye was nearly swollen shut. He liked to think himself proficient in hand-to-hand combat, but he’d let his guard down when John had taken the lamp over the head in the chase through the furniture warehouse.
“Didn’t they offer you anything for that black eye?” John asked. “An ice pack at least?”
Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh. “They offered,” he said. He touched the corner of his eye as if feeling for the edge of the bruising.
“Why don’t you go talk to Lestrade?”
Sherlock scowled. “I already have. And to Mycroft.”
“Mycroft?” John moved his head a millimeter or two, canting it a degree or two to see Sherlock. “What was he doing here?”
“I’ve no idea. He just appeared after I spoke with Lestrade. He feigned concern for you.”
“Mycroft?”
Sherlock shrugged. He looked around the room impatiently. “Is it really necessary for you to stay? We have a perfectly adequate bed at 221B and you can certainly monitor that concussion yourself. You are a doctor.”
John sighed. Sighing hurt less than shouting, wringing his hands or giving Sherlock another black eye.
“Sherlock – go home. Get some sleep.” Let me get some sleep.
“I can’t. It’s raining.”
“Raining.” It hadn’t been raining when they’d arrived. There’s been no rain in the forecast either.
“Yes. Raining. And I don’t have an umbrella.”
“How do you know it’s raining?” John chanced, realizing that arguing with Sherlock was never productive. “The curtains are closed.”
Sherlock turned and used both hands to pull the curtains open with a flourish. To John’s surprise, it was, indeed, raining.
Sherlock gestured toward the rain. He wanted to make a point, after all. But something outside caught his eye and he peered down at the street twenty feet below.
“Is that…? No. It couldn’t be.”
He cupped his hands around his eyes and leaned against the window.
“What is it?” John asked. He hurt too much to show this much interest. He should just close his eyes and fall asleep and ignore Sherlock’s theatrics. They might be endearing sometimes, but they decidedly weren’t endearing now.
“Mycroft,” said Sherlock. He was clearly irritated.
“Mycroft?” John repeated. “Mycroft is outside in the rain?”
“Yes.”
“Well, at least he has an umbrella.” John smiled, then squeezed his eyes shut. It might take fewer muscles to smile than to frown, but smiling hurt a lot more right now than scowling and sighing. Smiling made his brain hurt.
But Sherlock was leaning against the window now, still cupping his hands around his eyes, still watching.
“No – he doesn’t.”
“He doesn’t have his umbrella? And you sure it’s Mycroft?”
“It’s Mycroft.”
“Well, what’s he doing?”
“He’s talking to someone.”
“Thanks for that newsflash.” John really wanted to roll on his side and face the wall with his pillow over his head, but settled for closing his eyes again.
“Oh good lord! They’re kissing!”
“Not funny, Sherlock. My head hurts. I have a fucking concussion.”
Sherlock spun around.
John took one look at his face and was out of bed, tearing off the blood pressure cuff and blood oxygen monitor. He could not ignore the pounding in his head and painful vertigo as he stumbled against Sherlock, shading his eyes and looking out onto the pavement in front of the hospital. The rain, and most likely his concussion, made everything out of focus.
“Where?” He blinked several times and leaned against Sherlock.
“There.”
Sherlock pointed to a spot just below them, a spot conveniently illuminated by a street lamp.
“Oh my God – that is Mycroft. And – Jesus Christ, Sherlock. That’s Lestrade with him!”
Shouting, even strangled shouting, was not a good idea. Definitely not a good idea.
“Lestrade? My brother and Lestrade are snogging in the rain?”
“Apparently.” He tried to will away the smile but was unsuccessful.
“Impossible.”
They were both leaning against the window, foreheads side by side against the cool glass, spying on the scene below.
Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade, wrapped in each other’s arms.
“When…?”
“How could I have missed this?”
“What the hell does Greg see in him?”
“Greg?”
“I think you’d better learn his name, Sherlock, considering.”
“Considering he’s got his hands on my brother’s arse?”
“I’ve never seen you this protective of your brother’s arse before.”
“Oh – ewww.”
Sherlock was obviously reacting to the renewed kiss. The renewed, heated, vigorous and very physical kiss. Oh, please! Greg was cupping Mycroft’s face with both his hands. The gesture was tender and sweet, only – this was Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft.
Wait – did Lestrade just kiss the tip of Mycroft’s nose?
“He’d better get his hands out of Mycroft’s hair,” Sherlock muttered. “He might pull out the plugs before they get a chance to take root.”
“Protective of Mycroft’s hair now, too, Sherlock?”
That statement was punctuated by a renewed downpour. The kind of downpour that forces one out of the rain and into the nearest doorway or pub.
Except – it didn’t seem to work that way for Mycroft and Lestrade.
Their faces pulled away from each other, and they looked up, as one, into the downpour.
And Mycroft laughed.
“He’s laughing.”
John’s voice was a whisper. Of disbelief, surprise.
“He doesn’t laugh. Not like that.”
Lestrade pulled him into another kiss, then grabbed his hand and led him away. John and Sherlock watched as Mycroft kicked at a puddle.
Something changed in Sherlock’s face.
It softened – if only for a moment.
“They seem … happy.” John took Sherlock’s hand and laced their fingers together.
“Like two goldfish in a bowl,” murmured Sherlock.
He squeezed John’s hand, remembering a long-ago conversation with Mycroft, when the wounds of his absence were still raw, when John’s ghost still haunted 221B.
I’m not lonely, Sherlock.
How would you know?
Fin