She wouldn't remember a lot of the ride to the hospital, when she thought about it hard she'd have a vague impression of the inside of the magically-materialising black jag, and of a chill weight in her stomach. Standing at the foot of the bed in which her father lay, unconscious and awaiting a free operating theatre, it didn't seem to matter that much anyway. She gazed at him, her previously icy numb insides burning with pain. It didn't matter in the slightest what she could remember of today, the only thing that mattered a toss was whether the man before her, the man who had raised her, fought to keep her, cared for her and worried about her, all that mattered was that he live.

"I love you Dad." She said, softly, as a nurse came in to usher her out into the corridor. "Come back to me." She added, then stepped outside and went, numbly, in search of somewhere to sit and wait.

The tiny waiting room was empty, a TV playing away to itself in one corner. She sat down and stared at it, but saw none of the news of rail strikes and political speeches and celebrity blunders. Instead it seemed to her the TV was playing a movie of their lives. They'd been just fine, she recalled, just the two of them. Okay, the divorce had been messy, but it was over, and life was getting back to normal. Life was good, and seemed set on getting better. Dad had met Mycroft - she didn't remember how - and he was happy, for the first time she could remember, he laughed and joked and smiled every second of the day. It had been, oh, a few months after she met Mycroft for the first time - probably about a year after he and Dad had started dating - that she first heard about Sherlock. Dad must have known, she knew, but the first she heard of Mycroft's equally oddly named little brother had been a conversation on their sofa one cold October afternoon, seconds after Mycroft had taken a phone call from his mother:-

"I'll have to go, Gregory, Mummy's out of her depth." He had said, snapping his phone shut

"Everything alright, love?" Dad had replied, his brow creasing

"Sherlock's gotten himself expelled."

"Again?" Her father had said, sympathetically.

"Again. Honestly, there will soon be no school left that will have him!" Mycroft grabbed his jacket and hurried from the flat, texting as he went.

"Who's Sherlock?" Erin enquired, when he had gone.

"My's baby brother."

"Mycroft has a brother?"

"Yeah, Sherlock's about… oh, must be sixteen."

"Not that much older than me, then." She said, returning to her homework.

"No, he's a right oddball though. A bit too bright, you know? Not so good with people. Awkward."

Erin stretched a little, glancing at the clock on the wall, then fixing her gaze back on the telly.