***Author's Note***

It's that time again. TOWEL DAY! Time for more fic prompts from Douglas Adams quotes!

"Nothing travels faster than the speed of light, with the possible exception of bad news, which obeys its own special laws." ― Douglas Adams, "Mostly Harmless"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade. Where is he?"

Greg's head shot up at the thunderous tone, and he jumped from his seat nearly toppling his tepid terrible coffee. "Shit. Sorry… Shit, uhm… Mr. Holmes, yeah?" He wiped his hand on his trousers and stuck it out to shake. He received a glare in return, and quickly shoved it in his pocket.

"Holmes? Wha… No. It - he has relatives?" Sally nearly dropped, but quickly recovered and reshuffled, the case notes they'd been working on together over the tiny table in the hospital lounge.

"Mycroft, please." He stated coldly to Greg, then turned to Sally with narrowed eyes. "I believe your presence is no longer required here, Sergeant. Good day."

"But, I…" She held up the file.

"Good. Day."

"Better head on, Sal. Take mine too, yeah?" Greg handed her his notebook and the car keys. "Get some rest. We'll catch up tomorrow." He watched her jog off, casting a worried look back at him once she'd reached the lifts. He turned back only to find the full laser sharp attention of Mycroft Holmes focused on him.

"My brother, Detective?"

"Greg."

Mycroft wrinkled his nose in distaste. "I'm sorry?"

"You told me to call you Mycroft. I'm Greg. If Sherlock's going to be helping me out, I suppose we ought to be properly acquainted." He stuck his hand out again.

"Gregory." Mycroft's handshake was a stiff, formal thing. Greg shook his head. "I am not now, nor ever, interested in trivial pleasantries. My brother's life was endangered assisting the MET, my only concern is his well being. I must insist you tell me where he is this instant."

"I assure you, he's fine. Or soon will be. As we speak, he's receiving the best attention you could imagine." Greg smiled despite Mycroft's scowl.

"After your officers failed to subdue a violent suspect, my brother was viciously attacked. I have just visited the private room secured for him, and neither my injured brother nor his security detail are anywhere to be found. Please, Gregory, explain to me how this situation is fine." Mycroft punctuated his speech by dramatically tapping the floor with his umbrella. "And consider your future with the force carefully."

Greg cleared his throat and took a step closer. "Look mate…" Mycroft scoffed. "I don't care how far above my pay grade your position is, you don't scare me." He swallowed hard and hoped Mycroft didn't see. "My suspect is on your most wanted list. Your brother stepped in, quite to the shock of everyone I might add, to assist an officer in distress. Yes, he's a bit banged up, but he'll be fine in a matter of days. And for that you can thank Watson."

"Watson?" Mycroft looked taken aback.

"John, yeah. Subdued the suspect, but got the worst of it. When Sherlock heard he was being moved to a secure, private room, and John was going to be stuck in the first empty bed in the ward, he was livid. You can imagine the scene."

Mycroft hummed, but remained otherwise silent.

"Your brother may not care much for anything other than himself and what he can get out of a situation, but… well…" Greg motioned with his hand for Mycroft to follow, and walked quickly through the curtained off beds. He stopped when a familiar voice could be heard just on the other side of the thin barrier.

"Describe it to me."

"It's a boot print, Sherlock." John chuckled, then groaned.

"Details, John! Be specific."

"Ugh, okay, left foot. Not combat boots, possibly some sort of work boot. The toe end of the bruise starts just below your shoulder blade, and is darker purple, so likely reinforced toe…"

"Definitely reinforced." There was a moment of silence and then both men giggled. "Continue, please."

"I don't know. Probably size nine or ten."

"Which?"

"What?"

"Is it size nine or ten?"

"For godsake, Sherlock, how could I possibly know that?"

"You're useless, you know that?" Sherlock grumbled without any real heat. "Here's my phone. Take a picture."

"Oh, for fuck's… Here, gimme." They could hear fumbling and finally, "Shit, this is hard with one hand."

"Useless." They both giggled again. "It's passable. Maybe there's hope for you yet, Doctor Watson."

"Piss off, Sherlock. Let me sleep."

"John, you can't yet. Your concussion."

"Are you planning on going back up to your ivory tower any time soon?"

Sherlock growled, and Greg was glad to see the tinge of shame on Mycroft's face. "God no."

"Then I'm under constant surveillance, am I not?"

"Hmm." There was the obvious sound of a body and blankets shifting. A chair scraped across the floor. "John?" It was barely a whisper.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"You will be alright?"

"Yes. As long as you let me get a moment of rest. And the two idiots on the other side of the curtain stop eavesdropping. Piss off, Greg."

"You too, Mycroft. Cancel that ridiculous private room. And go away." There was more giggling as John tried to shush Sherlock.

Mycroft huffed, and turned to Greg. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again.

Greg shrugged and led the way to the lifts. "It appears there is one thing Sherlock cares about more than himself."

"I just…" Mycroft shook his head in disbelief. "How has John Watson done what no one else ever could? How has he not run screaming away?"

"As long as he keeps doing it, I'm not going to question it." Greg laughed. "You look like you need a drink."

Mycroft turned back in time to see a nurse step out from behind the curtain that concealed his brother and Watson. She was actually smiling. "I think… Yes. A great many drinks may be in order."