A wave of nausea hits him, and he leans further against the wall. Snatches of deductions float about the surface of his consciousness, but he can't make any sense of them – nor does he care in the slightest.
He's locked away in a disused wing of his mind palace, his whole attention focused on blocking out the pain. Physical pain he can somewhat endure; this is a different kind of pain though, and one he's not prepared to deal with.
The Moriarty in his head is mocking him now. Pain, heartbreak, loss, death. It's all good. You don't have to fear it.
He didn't fear it when he was the one struggling for his life, but it's different now. His whole world is being shaken to its foundations, and there's nothing he can do about it.
A gentle hand touches his forearm, and he snaps back to reality. Mummy is giving him that 'my dear boy' look he hates so much, but he can't bring himself to pull away this time.
He's vaguely aware of Anthea – or whatever is her name – whispering words of comfort at his father's ear, but he chooses to ignore her for the time being. He closes his eyes instead, and leans ever so slightly into his mother's touch.
"Mikey is strong. He's going to make it through."
"Mycroft," he cuts in sharply. "His name's Mycroft."
Mummy doesn't reply, and they fall back into an uneasy silence. His brother has been a constant in his life ever since he was born, he's not prepared for this to change anytime soon.
It's kind of ironic that their roles have been reversed on this particular occasion. Ordinarily it's Sherlock's business to get shot, or nearly strangled, or any possible variation on the theme; now he's the one standing in a waiting room while Mycroft is being rushed to casualty, and he doesn't like it in the slightest.
As much as his big brother irritates him all the time, he wouldn't know what to do with himself without Mycroft around. Who's going to tell him he's the stupid one, irritate him into doing things he'd never bother to if left to his own devices? Who's going to support him when he sticks his neck out one time too many?
It's quite difficult to reconcile the thought of Mr I'm-the-British-Government with the notion of mortality, and yet here they are now.
He sinks back into his mind palace, reciting the elements of the periodic table in order of increasing atomic number over and over again.
It's between iridium and platinum that a female doctor pokes her head round the door. It doesn't take Sherlock to read the answer they're waiting for written all over her face, and he releases a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
He catches a glimpse of Anthea's smile as he bolts for the door and leaves.
Whoever dared to attempt on his brother's life will have to deal with him now. And he'll make sure they are very sorry before he's done with them.