Sherlock tapped his foot rapidly as the cab took the familiar route from Baker Street to St. Bart's. "Could you drive a bit faster? I need to get to the hospital as soon as possible."
"I'm sorry, I'm at the speed limit already and if I get pulled over it'll only take you longer to get there," was the cabbie's snarky reply, at which Sherlock pulled a mocking face after making certain that the man driving him couldn't see. Didn't the driver understand that getting to the hospital was important?
Of course, Sherlock had calmed down considerably since the night before, which probably made his case seem less urgent. Actually, it wasn't even that he'd calmed down overnight. He admittedly had a slight moment of panic when Lestrade called and told him that Watson had been hit by a car and admitted to the ICU, and perhaps some anger when the doctor had told him that it was too late to pay his friend a visit. But when all was taken into account, it was less than half an hour before Sherlock returned to his usual emotionless state.
However, the world's only consulting detective felt a brief surge of anxiousness as the taxi parked in front of the building. He took a few bills from his wallet, handed them to the cabbie, and exited the vehicle without a word. Today he didn't have to ask the woman at the front desk where John's room was (and it was a good job, because she was probably quite tired – according to the day old stain on her skirt she hadn't made it home last night, and her partially untucked blouse said she'd overslept). Passing her silently, Sherlock got on the lift and up to the ICU.
Once he reached his destination, Sherlock was pleased to find that there was no one stopping him visiting John today. He walked right into his friend's room and began doing the very thing that came most naturally to him – performing tests of his own, in case the idiot doctors had done it wrong.
John, who was unconscious when Sherlock entered the room, woke up just as his flatmate was checking the pulse in his wrist. "Sherlock," he groaned sleepily, clearly frustrated. Then it seemed to occur to him what his friend was up to. "Sherlock, what the hell are you doing? There's a machine just there telling my pulse."
Sherlock shrugged. "It could be wrong. I couldn't be wrong. So I took it myself."
"And that's as modest as it gets," said John with a slight smirk. "It's good to have you back, Sherlock." Whether it meant it was good to have his friend visiting him in the hospital or having him back from the dead in general (as he'd returned to Baker Street just two weeks before), it was hard to tell.
"Good to see you too," Sherlock answered in his usual aloof tone, and that was that. The taller man stood, put on his coat and scarf, and began to walk toward the door. "Goodbye, John," he called back over his shoulder before leaving the room, content with his visit to the doctor.
