Chapter 2:

Phone calls and Taxi rides

John was slumped in his favourite chair with his eyes shut in a way that would have made Sherlock proud when he heard the repetitive ringing of his phone somewhere across the room. He huffed in annoyance and opened his eyes as he stumbled across the room, a little light headed from sleep. It was probably Sherlock calling and John knew he would only make the mistake once of not answering the consulting detectives call when he was on a case. He had wanted to go with his friend that morning but the younger Holmes had bluntly refused, saying that whatever he was doing was a "one man job". John had sulked about the rejection for a while before he finally fell asleep in his chair, still worn out from the tiring week at the surgery. When the phone was finally located, under Sherlock's still half full cup of tea, he was surprised to see Mycroft's name as the caller ID. Confused, John pressed the green button and held the phone to his ear.

"Hello?"

"John, Sherlock's been hit down" came Mycroft's icy voice through the phone, sending shivers down his spine. The bluntness of the comment confused him; maybe he had heard it wrong?

"What?" asked John, his brain refusing to accept what he had just been told.

"I know you heard me correctly, John. Sherlock was knocked down by car on Oxford Street, he ran into a road. I think it might be best if you go to him, you are his Doctor after all." continued the elder Holmes brother, his voice as calm and empty of emotion as always. From the way he spoke you could never guess that his little brother had just been hit by a car.

"Where is he?" asked John, finding it hard to keep his voice from shaking.

"They will take him to Saint Bartholomew's Hospital."

John nodded slightly wondering whether or not to try and find Sherlock on Oxford Street or drive straight to the hospital. He needn't have worried for long as Mycroft's cold voice interrupted his thoughts, doing that creepy mind reading thing that Sherlock excelled at; maybe it was a Holmes thing?

"I wouldn't try to get to Oxford street if I were you, John. I've heard the traffics awful" drawled the elder Holmes, his perfect calmness obvious even down the phone line.

John swallowed loudly, his body frozen in shock. He didn't want to believe the news but he knew it was the sort of thing that could happen to Sherlock, he had seen the detective rush across busy roads before, missing his death by a second. It was such a Sherlock thing to do, he could become so wrapped up in his own head that he would forget what was happening around him.

Eventually John became aware of the high-pitched dial tone emerging from the phone that was still clamped to his ear. Slowly he lowered it, his brain coming back into focus. He needed to get to Sherlock. Shoving the phone in his pocket he darted across the room before thundering down the stairs.

"Sherlock's been run down!" he yelled at Mrs Hudson's door on his way past, hoping she was in and not bothering to stop for a reply. He fumbled with the lock even though his hands were perfectly steady, but eventually the wooden door swung open. The blast of cold air cut him like a knife as he stepped onto the street, reminding him of the coat that was still up in the flat. Annoyingly, Baker Street was completely void of taxies. John had gained a compete jealousy of Sherlock's ability to hail cabs and have them flying up to meet him shortly after their first case but John had never, never wanted that ability as much as he did now.

John huffed in annoyance as he started running down the road towards Crawford Street deciding that even slow progress was better than no progress. Anyway he was more likely to find a cab on one of the larger roads. Mid-way down Baker Street a black cab loomed in the distance. John raised his hand, waving wildly, needing this cab to stop. He nearly jumped for joy when the yellow indicator flashed, showing the cab was pulling over.

The drive to Saint Bart's was not a long trip really; Sherlock made it there most days, either to look at bodies or to beg Molly for more gruesome science experiments or just to "borrow" the lab equipment. Occasionally he even walked there. But the drive took forever for John with only his racing heartbeat the worries for company. It was one of those days that when you're in a rush every single set of lights would change to red and it would take twice the normal time to get wherever you were going. The traffic slowed as they neared the Hospital, increasing Johns fidgeting enough to alert the driver.

"I'm sorry for the traffic, mate. Apparently someone was knocked down on Oxford Street, caused quite a jam" the driver explained, glancing back at his passenger in the rear-view mirror.

"Yea, I know." Replied John, trying and failing to keep his voice normal. "It was my flatmate. That's why I'm…" he trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know." mumbled the driver, unsure how to reply as the car lapsed back into silence.

The driver didn't try to restart the conversation after that, leaving John to wander in his thoughts. Had Mycroft actually said anything other than that Sherlock had been hit? John didn't think so but couldn't work out if this was good or bad news. Or maybe the elder Holmes brother didn't know. No, that was impossible: Mycroft knew everything. The puzzling thoughts filled John's mind until the driver of the cab coughed loudly. John startled and opened his eyes, trying to remember closing them in the first place.

"We're here" the driver said, nodding his head slightly towards the window. It was true, outside the window of the parked car was the expensive front door to the hospital.

"Oh, thanks" Mumbled John as he rummaged in his pockets before sighing when he remembered that his wallet was still in his coat. And that his coat was still in the flat.

"Don't worry about it, drives on me" Grinned the cabbie, noticing John's hurried searching followed by the sigh.

"Um, thanks so much." He replied quickly as he scrambled from the cab. Without a glance behind him, John crossed the path, then, with his heart hammering in his throat, he hurried up the stone steps towards the gliding glass doors of Saint Bart's.