Diagnosis
A tall, dark haired man with a blue scarf paced beside the hospital bed, glaring at the nurse when she tried to get him to stop and giving anxious glances toward the patient on the bed as a doctor examined him. When Sherlock's back was turned doctor and patient gave each other a wry, understanding glance that vanished as soon as he turned around.
"Well?" Sherlock demanded impatiently as the doctor rolled his sleeves back down. "What's his diagnosis?"
"Bruises, cracked ribs, possibly some recurring headaches in the future. Just like the first three doctors told you if you'd bothered to listen."
"I don't need pleasantries, I need facts. Why couldn't they have just told me that in the first place?"
"I'll be perfectly all right, Sherlock," the patient replied tiredly, shooting the former an exasperated look.
Sherlock froze for a second as if considering the probabilities of that being a fact, then nodded abruptly. "Right." He whirled. "John?"
"Coming," the doctor chuckled.
John turned to the man in the bed as Sherlock bolted out the door. "Whatever else may be between the two of you, obviously worry is reciprocated," he commented.
Mycroft Holmes chuckled slightly in acknowledgement, and John turned away and hurried after his friend.