John found it intriguing watching Sherlock and Mycroft.
The possesive way in which the consulting detective watched over his brother was astounding, espescially considering that before the accident, he hadn't shown even the slightest bit of concern, or affection towards his brother. The sudden burst of sheer adoration that Sherlock had developed over the course of a single night was something John struggled to come to terms with, never having expected Sherlock to show such dedication to anybody but him. He couldn't deny that the dogged determination and irrational love he was applying to Mycroft at the moment was nothing short of a miracle- the way in which he fussed over his brother's wellbeing- checking with the nurses before every test, giving him blankets, talking to him, hugging him and caring for him, despite the fact that he was most definitley unaware of the effort Sherlock showed, and much as John hated to admit it, almost certainly wouldn't live to be told of it either.
John was no phsyciatrist, and certainly no Sherlock when it came to other people's emotions, but the way in which Sherlock was acting towards Mycroft seemed almost... apologetic... in fact, if John hadn't known any better, he might have thought that perhaps Sherlock was not doing this for Mycroft's benefit, but his own. Like, perhaps this was all to make up for something- the last grand gesture Sherlock could make to prove that he did in fact care for his brother, and show that for all those years cut off, all those years in which he tried to reject him, his big brother had never truly left his mind.
Whatever the reason, though, it was clear to see, there was something different in the way in which Sherlock looked at Mycroft- something in his eyes, something in his heart, something in his soul was a little different.
John just couldn't tell what.
It was for fear of breaking this spell of affection, perhaps, that John hadn't spoken to Sherlock at all in the week since he first saw his brother. Beside a few basic questions about food, drink and accomadation, they had not spoken. But then, Sherlock hadn't spoken to anybody, really. He quizzed the nurses about procedures and tests, but that was all. The whispers to Mycroft were the only words the touched his lips which had any real meaning to them.
Therefore, it was with great trepidation that John approached Sherlock with some news- news that the nurses had decided ought to be delivered by a friend.
"Sherlock." Said John, with heavy heart and mind, "You know that your brother is in an unresponsive coma... well... he has severe tissue damages to his vital organs, and his heart is failing fast."
John paused for a while, assessing Sherlocks face.
And Sherlock just sat there- unmoving, unblinking, mouth slighty ajar, with the hint of a tear in his eye.
John opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, struggling to find the right words to continue.
"You see... he is never going to get off life support unless... unless he has a heart transplant. And because of the damage to his other organs... it's going to be very dangerous. They're going to transfer him to a specialist unit in Wales to give him the best shot at survival, but... but..."
"But. What." Sherlock's two words were spat out through gritted teeth, icy and harsh, and John could tell the man was fighting back a heavy onslaught of tears.
"Well... I'm afraid there's... well, there's a nintey two percent chance Mycroft will die, Sherlock.
I'm sorry."
