They arrived at A&E, the nurses immediately fretting over the man covered in blood. They left him alone after realizing none of the blood was his, but he was left on a stretcher behind a curtain, shock blanket still in place, scarf still clasped in his hands.
"John?" Sherlock said suddenly.
"Lestrade?" he said uncertainly.
"Of course, you're Lestrade, I'm not daft," he snapped. "Where is John and how is he doing. Go! Check!"
Lestrade, a bit flustered by this sudden turn of events, nearly tripped in his haste to obey.
He found John in a trauma bay, looking decidedly worse, but still alive. The room was a hurricane of activity, doctors and nurses rushing about, weaving wires and lines. Lestrade really didn't know how they managed to not get tangled up in them.
John looked rather small on the bed.
"Sorry sir, you can't be here," someone said, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"Police," Lestrade replied to the woman who must have been a nurse, flashing his badge. "Can you tell me how he's doing?"
"Frankly, we're shocked he's still alive. I really can't tell you more. I have to go," she said, rushing off into the storm, bags of blood in her hands.
Lestrade nodded, knowing that she wouldn't see, but didn't care.
He returned to Sherlock.
"Well?" he demanded.
Lestrade stared at him, entirely unsure of what to tell him, or how.
"He's still alive," he managed. "I guess we just have to wait and see."
Sherlock huffed.
Lestrade sat down on the foot of the bed, careful to avoid Sherlock's blood splattered pants.
Waiting with Sherlock was hell.