Chapter 2
As the day rolled on, Sherlock had gotten dressed in his normal get up and sat at the dining room table, pushing around beakers to clear a space for his microscope to inspect his fizzling specimen.
John hadn't returned from his morning errand but he found no point in worrying over a fully capable man on a milk run.
Dripping a drop of liquid on the substance on the slide, Sherlock had to lean back as funes popped and smoked. Shifting his goggles to the top of his head, he leaned and scratched down his observations.
Popping his lenses back down, he leaned forward, stopping only at the buzzing of his phone, flashing his eyes at the screen for a moment, he ignored it and went back to work.
Again the buzzing. This time Sherlock grunted and tossed it over the back of John's chair, landing it on the cushion. Furrowing his brow, he continued his work, making a new slide and pushing it beneath the lens while ignoring the spasm of vibrations coming from the other room. It was probably just Lestrade, giving him the same spiel that he had gifted John with.
John. By this time, Sherlock's mind began to gnaw at him. He had been out for hours now, on a milk run. He hadn't even text-
Sherlock stopped in mid-thought and moved his gaze to the buzzing phone.
What could he be so excited about now that he was sending so many texts?
With a dish of bubbling liquids swirling in his hand, Sherlock pushed the chair back and retrieved the mobile from the chair. Flicking on the light to the front screen, he discovered that the texts were from in fact two people; neither of them John. Opening his messaging, he scrolled through the barrage from Molly and Lestrade.
Suddenly, Sherlock's heart dropped. The text he had just opened was from Lestrade.
Sherlock, answer your bloody texts! It's John… There's been an accident.
Sherlock took no time before he sprinted down the steps, glass shattering on the floor behind him.
He didn't even let the cab come to a full stop before swinging the door open wide and throwing himself in front of Bart's at a dead run, shoes clacking on the pavement. Dodging through the open door.
The man's head began to spin as he saw Molly and Lestrade rushing towards him, grabbing his shoulders as they shouted words of reassurance, even though their hands trembled with anxiety.
"What happened? Where's John?" He waved away their rambles with his hand.
"A cab hit him on the way back from the shop-"Lestrade started only to be interrupted by Molly "He has a broken leg, several fractured ribs and a severe concussion."
"We tried to contact you at the scene but you weren't answering. He's in the second room to the left down the hall," Lestrade finished.
Sherlock had tuned them as soon as their panicked voices started up again but getting the information he'd wanted, he pushed them aside and proceeded down the hall.
Evading bustling nurses and doctors, Sherlock pushed his way through the door to the room, his breath catching in his throat at the sight of John's limp, battered features. It wasn't long before his eyes started to water and redden as he pressed his hands against his lips and stepped a bit closer.
Behind him there was a rushing of feet and nurse spoke up. "Sir, you can't be in here…Sir?"
The words were nothing but unintelligible blabber to Sherlock and he continued to edge forward, reaching out for John only for his hand to be tugged back as he was led from the room by Lestrade and Molly.
"We're very sorry." Lestrade's voice droned in his left. On his other arm there was Molly, her hand rubbing his shoulder gently as she squeaked, "Yeah… Sorry."
Sherlock had refused to return to Baker Street, he wanted to stay the nearest to John as he possibly could, but, after an hour of coaxing, Lestrade and Molly walked him down to a cafe to get a cup of tea.
He didn't talk the entire time, just sat with the steaming cup in his hand watching out the window for Mrs. Hudson who had shown up not too long before the three left and had promised Sherlock if there was any change in John's condition, she would come and get him.
His lids fell half way across his eyes as he focused on the steaming beverage sitting in his hand. He could hear Lestrade and Molly whispering in the background, something about distractions and emotional turmoil Sherlock failed to understand when put into words.
As the light outside began to dim, the cafe cleared out until it was just the three of them. Empty saucers had been pushed to the middle of the table and Molly and Lestrade began packing up.
"Well, I better be off, sounds like I'm going to have a long day tomorrow." Lestrade announced, tugging on his jacket. His hand wrapped around Sherlock's shoulder. "Get home. Get some rest," and with that he left with Molly shuffling behind him and they went their separate ways from there.
Sherlock slid back his seat and stood, walking deliberately out the door, flipping up his collar as the cold air nipped at his neck. With glances up and down the pavement, he turned on his heels and headed home.