Sherlock listened for once, and continued to breathe, although it was uneven and hesitant. Lestrade watched the detective's chest rise up and down. He'd removed Sherlock's shirt after realizing he was burning up. He could trace every rib on his chest and the track marks on his arms were glaring angrily at him.
The ambulance finally arrived and he bullied his way along, pulling out his badge and waving it around. That got him into the ambulance, and into the room where Sherlock was treated. He stayed with him, feeling a strange sense of attachment to the broken man.
Lestrade spotted that strange brother of Sherlock's who must have arrived at the hospital when the ambulance did, and was hovering, his presence intimidating the doctors. Lestrade had no clue how he knew, because as far as he'd known, Sherlock loathed his brother and was unlikely to use him as an emergency contact.
He approached Lestrade, and thanked him, and somehow, Lestrade felt like he'd been dismissed. He headed home after that, suspecting he was no longer wanted.
Mycroft settled in his brother's private room, sighing dramatically as he placed his umbrella next to his chair. Mycroft watched Sherlock writhing and shivering in the hospital bed, looking impossibly small. He sighed. "What am I going to do with you dear brother?"