Chapter 3:

The Darker Side of Waiting

"I wouldn't try to get to Oxford street if I were you, John. I've heard the traffic's awful" drawled Mycroft, not letting a drop of emotion slip into his voice. He was good at that, well he had to be, considering his past. When John didn't reply he lowered the trembling phone from his ear, pressed the red button and set it calmly on the desk in front of him. The desk was still cluttered with papers, and Mycroft's elbows slipped slightly as he rested his head in his hands, sliding them under the glasses that he didn't realise he was still wearing. He rubbed his tired eyes, wanting nothing better than to go to sleep and forget everything but he knew that it was impossible, presides he had to deal with Sherlock sooner or later. With a sigh he looked back at the monitor on the desk, surprised to find that the camera had been zoomed in, showing his brother lying in the road in scary clarity. He could see everything. The ambulance crew had arrived and were rolling the young detective onto a stretcher, keeping his back and neck perfectly in line. This frightened Mycroft, but what terrified him more was the sight of the normally hyperactive detective laying still, his eyes shut and the long jagged cut on his forehead.

Mycroft watched through the camera as Sherlock's left leg, head, and neck were immobilised, his heart fluttering in his chest. He hated this, feeling so helpless. His little brother was in serious trouble but all he could do was watch through a bloody camera. The feeling reminded him so much of his childhood, the unpleasant memories gushing back like a waterfall. The eldest Holmes son only looked away from the scene in front of him when his little brother was wheeled into the ambulance and that ambulance had driven away. He glanced up, surprised to see the slightly hazy form of Anthea sitting across the room in a large armchair, typing away furiously on her BlackBerry as normal. The slightly blurriness of the room reminded him to finally take off the glasses that had been sitting on his nose much longer than necessary. He slipped them off, shutting them in the case with a snap and storing them in the breast pocket of his jacket.

Mycroft glanced at his watch, noticing that he had another 3 hours before he could visit Sherlock without looking overly concerned about his brother, which was something he was definitely not willing to do. Sherlock would be annoyed with him anyway, well if he were conscious that was. No, Mycroft felt that his presence at Sherlock's bed side too soon would cause more problems than it would solve and he didn't want to upset his brother at the best of times. Knowing he was not going to get any more work done now he put the precious papers back in their folder and then locked the folder in the hidden safe inside his desk. After sitting for mere seconds with only the clicking of Anthea's BlackBerry keys breaking the silence he had had enough.

"Tea?" Mycroft asked suddenly as scraped his chair back, unable to stand the quiet any longer.

"Oh, yes please" Anthea answered casually, still not looking up from her phone. Mycroft loved having Anthea as his PA but he had to admit the constant texting was beginning to get annoying; he couldn't talk to her anymore.

Fetching the tea didn't take long at all and soon Mycroft was back in his leather chair, in exactly the same situation as before but now with a cup of tea placed neatly on the desk. Anthea sipped hers quietly, texting one handed all the while. He took a glance at the golden watch on his wrist, burying his head in his hands when he realised the time. Only 175 long minutes of waiting left.

The main reception was thriving when John rushed through the automatic glass doors, almost bumping into them in his haste. There were doctors milling about, patients and visitors too but John paid them no attention as he wandered up to the main desk. The receptionist looked up from the computer screen when she heard him approaching. She was youngish, with dark straight hair and big brown eyes which opened wider when she noticed the retired Army doctor storming towards her.

"Hello, how can I help?" she asked trying to keep her voice buoyant as one does in a receptionist job.

"I'm looking for my, er, friend. He was knocked down by a car, do you know if he has been brought in yet?

"Name?" she asked, clicking quickly on the mouse of the computer, eyes flashing from side to side as she read.

"Sherlock Holmes" he answered robotically, "But I don't know if he was conscious when they brought him in so they might not know his name"

"No, no Sherlock Holmes here." She paused for a moment, still clicking furiously. "There was a call out for an unnamed white male who was hit down on Oxford Street about quarter of an hour ago though. Could that be who you're looking for?"

"Um, yes, sounds like him. Where can I-"

"If you go down that corridor to your right you'll get to a waiting room. Someone will come and inform you of what has happened when they can. Until then you'll just have to wait" she interrupted calmly.

"But I need to know when he-" John argued, unhappy being told to wait at a time like this.

"There is nothing more I can do to help you so please go to the waiting room" she snapped, arms crossed and her good receptionist mood now absent.

"Look I need to know what-"

"Look, Sir, if you do not leave this desk now then I will have to have you removed from the hospital" she warned, angrily.

John turned on his heal, huffing in frustration as he marched away from the desk and down the corridor on his right.

True to the receptionists word a large waiting area sat midway down the corridor. It was filled with those horrid blue hospital benches but the room was nearly empty of life, only a few small clusters of people. They all had the same anxious look on their faces, a complete contrast, he reminded himself, to the livid one he was wearing. He took a seat, the hard blue plastic digging into his back as he leaned his head against the wall behind him. John had seen many car accident victims in his short career in London and had had to tell many families the news they had been waiting for. He had seen so many different reactions, the good, where the families shakily laughed in relief that everything was going to be okay, or cried in joy, or simply hugged. But then he had seen the bad, the news where whole families would tear up, sobbing on each other's shoulders or sit in shocked silence, wondering what the world held for them now, the impact this would have. He couldn't help wondering to himself which reaction he would give when the news was finally told.

And that was the problem with waiting, it gave you time to think, time to mull things over in your head, time for niggling little thoughts to grow and grow until they filled your mind and drove you mad. And so John hated this, the waiting. He was normally such a patient person but somehow he was unable to tolerate the long spaces of empty time that surrounded him. The waiting allowed his mind to wander, dream up all sorts of terrible scenarios, was Sherlock going to ever wake up, would he die from some internal injuries, would he be brain damaged? The list went on and on, the dreaded thoughts thundering in his brain, consuming him, drowning him.

He physically jumped when he felt a hand come to rest on his shoulder, a sharp gasp escaping his lips. It was a Doctor, wearing blue scrubs with a stethoscope draped around his neck. He looked exhausted and, for a second, John felt his heart drop in fear.

"John Watson?" the doctor asked, his voice calm, showing no emotion.

The retired army doctor swallowed noisily. "Yes" he replied, his heart thrumming in his throat.