I woke with a start and my arms shot out around me. I sucked in a sharp breath and snapped my eyes open. I then lurched up off an unfamiliar bed. When did I get on a bed? I blinked my eyes to clear my vision and ignored my aches in pains. I think I am in Greg's bed, but I am not completely sure at this point.
Memories flashed back to me quickly as I remembered throwing the teacup at Mycroft and then Greg tackling me. Oh god, I hope Mycroft will not kill me. I ran my hand through my hair and tried to remember more of what had happened. The sheets were warm around me and I brought a hand up to rub my messy hair down. A soft clearing of the throat startled me and I looked over to see Mycroft sitting on a chair next to the bed.
"Oh god, I so sorry," I apologized rapidly, moving over to the side of the bed to get a closer look at the cut on his pale cheek. It was stark red and stood out sharply against the creamy color of his skin. I must have looked quite funny trying to untangle myself from the sheets so quickly.
"It's quite all right," Mycroft told me while holding a hand up to stop me in motion, "I must apologize for my behavior as well," the elder Holmes concluded. To say in the least, I was shocked. He was sorry? I am the one who threw the teacup at him!
"I still should not have done that," I pressed on, feeling terrible for what I had done. Mycroft just shook his head and rested his hand back in his lap.
"I completely understand where you were coming from," Mycroft sighed then. I could see he was just as tired as I was. It then hit me that this was Sherlock's brother, and even though they never got along, they were still very close. How could I be so blind? People other than me care about Sherlock too.
"Where is Greg?" I asked, not noticing his company in the room. I could not hear him fumbling around downstairs either.
"He had to go into work for a few hours, but he does send his apologies," Mycroft answered my question quickly. I looked down at myself to see I was wearing one of Greg's team rugby shirts and sweat pants. I could also feel that my bandages were replaced with new ones. It felt a little haphazard, but they were secured well. "Greg insisted that we get you cleaned up," Mycroft answered the question I held in my eyes this time.
I buried my face in my hands in shame. If they had cleaned my wounds then they would have seen the extent of my injuries. I know Mycroft and Greg already knew of the injuries, but never before had they seen them. I wanted to sink into myself because of the embarrassment. I felt the same as when Sherlock saw the wounds for the first time.
"It hurts," I mumbled out to Mycroft, feeling ever so weak in this position. There was nothing I could do to make the physical and emotional scars that Moriarty caused go away. "I miss him," I choked on the last word and attempted to calm my breathing. I did not want to cry again. I had done enough crying in the past day.
"I know you do," Mycroft said, his voice finally sounding like that of an older brother. I did not dare look at him; I did not want to see the pain reflected in his eyes. "We all miss him John," Mycroft placed a hand on my shoulder as I wiped away the water from my eyes.
"What are we going to do?" I questioned, but it went unanswered for a long time. Mycroft and I just sat in silence. I was still rubbing the tears from my eyes and his hand stayed as a comforting weight on my shoulder. It grounded me and let me know that this was real and really happening. If Mycroft did not know what to do yet, then we would not stand much of a chance in trying to track down Sherlock.
From downstairs, we both heard the front door creak open and close. Then we heard Greg's shout of, 'Bollocks, it's freezing out!' To be truthful, both Mycroft and I cracked a smile at that. I managed to get myself out of the bed and standing with minor help from Mycroft. We both traveled downstairs with me going slower than usual and into the living room where we all sat earlier in the day.
Greg was in the kitchen putting away a few groceries he bought on his way home. The teacup mess was gone and Mycroft took his seat in the chair once more. I sat on the couch again as Greg walked in. In his hands, he held a glass of water and the bottle of my prescription painkillers.
"I stopped by your place and picked these up for you," Greg told me and handed the pill bottle and glass to me. I nodded approvingly and took two of the white pills before drinking half the glass of water and setting everything onto the coffee table.
"Any news on Sherlock?" Mycroft questioned, his voice reverting from the brotherly tone he used on me and into the more serious tone he usually used. Greg sighed and shook his head as he took his seat next to me. I inwardly groaned, but I had not been expecting much of anything either.
"I have not seen or heard anything since he's left," Greg told us in an exasperated tone. He was also one of the ones who cared about Sherlock a great deal. "Surely he would have told someone he knew so they could help him," Greg muttered to himself.
Now, the words he just said sounded stupid and idiotic, but that is exactly what Sherlock would want us to think.
"I need to go to St. Bart's," I said suddenly and firmly, gaining a courage that I had not felt in a long time. This shocked both Greg and Mycroft, as they were now staring at me.
"Why?" Greg questioned, not putting my words and his words together to form the same thought. I almost wanted to make a Sherlockian comment, but I refrained from doing so.
"Because surely he would have told someone, and I think I know just who," Mycroft answered for me as he got to his feet. "Come now John, we have some questions that need asking," Mycroft said as he walked to the door. Greg watched me as I stood, still looking confused. I just smiled at him as I followed Mycroft out the front door.
"We'll be back soon," I called to him before closing the door behind me. I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders. Now maybe we stood a chance at finding Sherlock.
