Greg struggled to catch his breath as he hurtled through the corridors of the hospital, noting the number of the rooms as he passed them.
204…
205…
206…
A slim, suited figure blocked his way to room 207. A figure who had told him John was dead, had let him believe he was dead.
Mycroft had explained everything over the phone to Greg. The fall, the missions, and his current condition. After he had hung up, the greying DI had been in a state of shock. However, this had not stopped him from shooting out of his door, into his car and straight to Bart's.
Now here Mycroft stood, bold as brass, looking for all the world like he wasn't responsible for the misery of a great many people. John Watson was well loved by all who had met him (criminals they apprehended excluded), and they had all felt his loss acutely.
But it wasn't real. They had been lied to, left to grieve, and Mycroft hadn't done a damn thing about it.
"I assure you, Detective Inspector, the situation will resolve itself eventually."
Mycroft's words had echoed in his mind over the entire journey to Bart's. Damn him. Damn him straight to hell.
Greg had kept his fury buried deep under the surface, focusing instead on the fact that John Watson was alive, and Sherlock was with him, just as they always should have been. But he promised himself that if he ever saw the smug, smarmy face of a certain government official, he wouldn't hold himself back.
And that same face was the only thing between him and his not-dead friend.
"Ah, Detective Inspector, I'm glad you could come so quick-"
Mycroft was cut off by the fist that had connected with his jaw. Having already been punched several times already this evening as a result of his deception, Mycroft should really have seen it coming. But he did nothing to prevent the attack.
The force behind the Detective Inspector's punch threw him into the nearest wall. Cupping his chin, Mycroft winced as the pain registered. He was mildly impressed by the hidden strength of Lestrade.
As he had seen on Sherlock's face earlier, a cold fury had settled over Lestrade's features, all aimed at Mycroft.
"You utter, utter bastard," Greg snarled, a dark shadow crossing his features. "You let us grieve. You knew this whole time and you didn't tell us."
He took a step forward and Mycroft instinctively shied away, anticipating another blow, but Lestrade just leaned forward, close enough to whisper in his ear, grabbing his shirt to prevent him pulling away from his words.
"You let Sherlock waste away. You knew what losing John would do to him, you knew it would break him, and you let it happen. Everything that's happened over these months, everything your brother has suffered, is entirely your fault."
Greg let go of Mycroft, looking absolutely disgusted, before pushing through the door into the room where John was being held.
Mycroft sighed. Clearly it was going to take a while for his plan to become effective. It was unlikely that Sherlock was ever going to come around anytime soon, and Lestrade was going to need time. But it was their best hope. The Inspector was a reasonable man, and if anyone could bring Sherlock to forgive his brother, it would be Greg. But it looked like there was a long road ahead.
He pulled out his phone, sending Molly an update on their situation. A tearful phonecall later from the pathologist, Mycroft succeeded in reassuring Molly that everything would be absolutely fine. It would just take a little longer than expected.
Greg only made it a few steps into the room before stopping short at the sight that lay before him. He could have cried, not only at the sight of John lying there, alive and breathing, but at the image of Sherlock, slumped next to him, hands clasped firmly around John's, sleeping more peacefully for probably the first time since this whole ordeal began, comforted by the continual warmth that was John Watson, reassuring him, even in sleep, that he was really here.
John Watson was, well, as one might have expected experiencing a close brush with death. Pale, thin, broken and covered with wires. This was obviously not the same John Watson that had left them behind. Just as the man curled around his hand was not the same Sherlock Holmes that John had left behind.
Holmes reunited with Watson, the detective and his blogger. Greg smiled and the world seemed to right itself. It was still a pretty messed up situation, and not one he would ever have included himself in willingly, but something about seeing both Sherlock and John together again seemed to make all of that irrelevant.
A nurse bustle into the room, moving efficiently past Greg as if he wasn't even there and began to check John's vitals, as well as adjust some of the machinery that he was plugged into. She tutted disapprovingly at the form of Sherlock lying with his head on the bed, and moved to wake him.
"No," Greg cried out and the nurse froze. "No, please, just let them be. They've been separated for far too long and he's not slept since…" He broke off, voice cracking, thick with emotion at the thought of either of them being apart from each other again. The nurse looked conflicted, but upon hearing the pain in Greg's voice, decided to leave Sherlock be, and quietly left the room.
There would be awkward conversations to come, Greg was sure of it, but overall he knew that John and Sherlock would be happy to see each other again. Well, as happy as you could get in the situation.
Sherlock would have surely developed some trust issues regarding not just his brother, but also Molly and even John. They would have to work through that, and Greg would fully support Sherlock through that. After seeing him suffer so much, Greg wanted what was best for him, no matter what that was. Greg himself knew that he would need time to bring himself around to the situation and accept the fact that he'd been deceived by one of his best friend's in one of the worst ways possible. Of course, he could get over it, and begin rebuilding the bridges with John and Molly, maybe even Mycroft.
But now he was content to bask in the euphoria of John being alive, and definitely not dead.
It was with these thoughts that stepped fully into the room, pulling up a chair on the opposite side of the bed to Sherlock and proceeded to wait for one, or both of them to wake up.