This isn't how things are supposed to be
There wasn't really a lot John could do, sitting on the floor of a hotel room, his friend unconscious on the floor before him. He busied himself with measuring Sherlock's pulse and breathing rate and removing some bandages from his bag. Suturing the cuts would have to wait until they had returned to Baker Street. Eventually Lestrade re-entered the room carrying the basin and sitting it next to the doctor. "I gave Mycroft a ring; he says that he is coming across now with the blood." John looked up sharply from soaking the cloth in the lukewarm water.
"Mycroft's coming? He's not just sending a car and an assistant?"
"He in fact insisted on it. He sounded almost, oh I don't know, sad? Disappointed? Something along those lines but those two were never renowned for showing their emotions for the entire world to see were they?"
"I suppose that's one way of putting it," the doctor replied distractedly as he focussed completely on his task.
By the time he was done with washing the blood from the newest of the wounds the water in the basin was a deep red and, at John's request, Lestrade disposed of it for him. When he returned John had finished and Sherlock's arm was swathed in a bright white bandage which was pretty much the same colour as the detective's skin. As he waited John was absentmindedly holding Sherlock's wrist, feeling the life blood pulsating beneath his fingertips as if he needed to remind himself constantly that his best friend was still alive. There was absolutely no indication by simply looking at him that he was still living. His chest barely rose as he breathed in and out rhythmically and he looked more like a skeleton than a person at that moment in time.
"Can I ask you a question John?" Lestrade asked to break the silence as they awaited the arrival of Sherlock's big brother.
"Hmm?" said John as a means of confirmation as he was drawn out of his reverie.
"Why do you think he did it, I mean all of this? It just doesn't seem like him."
"Ah, I don't know. I have often suspected something happened to him in his childhood, I'd like to know what but he is pretty adamant to not talk about it. It may have something to do with that, maybe. I'll ask Mycroft when he gets here; he may be able to shed some light on the situation."
"Do you think it's anybody's, I mean, perhaps I should have tried a little harder to stop people insulting him at crime scenes or…?"
"No Greg, don't blame yourself. He's mentally unstable at the best of times. If anyone should have seen this coming it should have been me, I live with him."
"John…"
"No, don't Greg. I know I'm not to blame, I'm not exactly making him cut himself. I just wish I could have spotted the signs, I'm a damn doctor after all." John's voice was rising in anger and frustration but he kept a firm grip on Sherlock's wrist despite his growing anger towards the man. Lestrade let him carry on. He needed to let it all out, the next few weeks with helping Sherlock recover were going to take their toll on the faithful doctor. "I just wish that he'd trusted me enough to tell me." By this time John was shaking, he was hurting with his emotionally crippled friend and Lestrade could only watch as the soldier began to crumble, he knew as well as John that this was going to be a painful recovery, if any recovery was made at all, and that John was going to have to be the one encouraging Sherlock and taking all the battering that went along with that role. In a way it was lucky that Mycroft chose that moment to walk through the door into the room causing John to instantly collect himself. "Oh brother mine, what have you done now?"