Sherlock was almost running down the corridors of the hospital. He could tell that he was going too fast. His wife's heels sounded like a metronome set to allegretto, and John was breathing hard to keep up with him.

The only thing that was in his mind was Mycroft.

Mycroft.

Every image before his face was one of his brother. His brother lying on a stretcher, blood on his chest; his brother the fat little boy eating a meat pie; his brother the protective, standoffish, annoying, paranoidly watchful, and problematic British Government.

It was Mycroft at every thought.

So he kept on nearly running. And despite the overwhelming urge telling him to stop making a fool of himself and slow down, he couldn't allow himself to do so. He was almost to Mycroft…Mycroft was what mattered now, not his dignity.

He was amazed—nay, shocked—that he had actually let that thought float before his mind's eye.

When they finally came to the room he had been assigned, Lady Smallwood was sitting outside, her legs crossed and hands on her knees. She is such a lady, Sherlock thought to himself. Seeing them, she rose from her chair with the dignity of a duchess and walked to meet them.

"Mr. Holmes," she said, clasping Sherlock's hands in her own. "It's so good to see you."

"How is he? How's Mycroft? Has the surgery gone alright?"

"Well, it has…" she said. Her voice dwindled as she turned to look at the closed door of Mycroft's room. She watched it as though it were the only thing between them and some ravenous beast.

"But I'm afraid he's slipped into a coma. At his age…they don't know how long it will last. Or if…if he will ever come out."

Sherlock's mouth had gone dry again. Calm. Calm. He repeated it to himself over and over again, regulating his breathing and reassuring himself.

Nevertheless, there was one question on his mind that had stuck there since he had first heard the news. He found the voice to ask it.

"Where…where was he shot? Exactly?"

"Well, that's something I wanted to tell you. It seems that—"

But Lady Smallwood didn't finish, for at that moment Sherlock's parents emerged from around a corner, hurrying quickly towards the throng assembled in front of Mycroft's room. Sherlock's heart sank. Of course, he was glad that his parents had come to see his mortally wounded brother, but…he was married and had his wife with him…and he hadn't exactly bothered to tell them yet.

Oh, dear Lord.

"Oh, Sherlock! You're here," his mother cried, her face wet and running to hug her youngest son. Sherlock embraced her awkwardly. His father was equally distressed, but he shook John's hand to show gratitude for the support.

"Of course. He's just come out of surgery, mummy," Sherlock said, patting his mother's head. "They say he's slipped into a coma."

Irene whispered to him, "How many grown men call their mother 'mummy'?"

"Shut up," he hissed.

"Ohh, a coma?" Mrs. Holmes asked, holding her sons's forearms in a vice. He nodded. "Oh, Sherlock, we cannot lose Myc. We simply cannot!" she said, starting to sob into his coat. He once again patted her head, but wished that she would empty herself elsewhere…into a hanky, at least.

Irene coughed into her fist. Sherlock caught her eye and implicitly shook his head at her, practically commanding her to shut up and keep her presence unknown. She only winked.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Sherlock," Mrs. Holmes apologized. "I'd no idea you had someone with you. Begging your pardon, dear. Who are you?" she asked, looking at Irene.

Sherlock's brain exploded.

He, John, and Irene began speaking at once.

"Client."

"Friend of ours."

"I'm his wife."

Sherlock's mother's eyes widened, and his father's mouth was ajar. Mr. Holmes gawked at the beautiful woman who was supposedly his son's wife, and turned to Sherlock with a look that demanded an explanation.

"Sherlock, dear boy…you've a wife?"

"Yes," Sherlock curtly responded, his eyes finding an interesting piece of ceiling to examine. He really did not feel like looking at anyone. His mother butted back in again.

"A…a…your wife? And just when exactly were you planning on telling us you had a wife? When was the wedding? Oh, for goodness sake, Sherlock, how could you not tell us?"

"Well, now you know. Surprise. Are we done now?" he demanded.

"Oh no, no, I don't think so, young man! I want to know: how long have you been married?"

"Six days now. We had it done without a ceremony. There wasn't time."

"No time? No time for what? Oh!"

Mrs. Holmes gasped and turned to Irene. She sucked in a vacuum full of air and her mouth was a cave. It looked like someone had dumped intrigue, concern, and delight all over her face like paint. "Are you—?"

Sherlock cut her off; he didn't even want to hear the next word about to spew out of his mother's mouth, so he blurted, "NO, she's not. Please, mummy. Do be sensible. At least…" he stopped short. As far as he knew, she definitely was not pregnant as of six days ago…

"I'm not," Irene said, catching his thoughts in her sharp wit and smiling into her husband's eyes. He didn't return the smile. After all, he was still furious at her for that little cough she had let out. It was because of that innocent little cough that his parents now knew he was married.

"But why didn't you tell us, Sherlock? How could you keep it from us? We've enough secrets in this family; why would you withhold this from your father and I?" Mrs. Holmes demanded, putting her wrinkled hands on her large hips.

"I suppose I forgot…in the rush of things. It was a scheme of Mycroft's."

"A scheme of Myc's? What do you mean, dear boy?" asked Mr. Holmes. The utterly muzzy expression on his father's face made Sherlock want to fall into a hole and never come out.

"No use explaining it now," he said, closing his eyes.

Mrs. Holmes smiled at the couple. "But ah…what a beautiful young lady! I'm surprised at you, Sherlock. I never would have thought…"

"Mycroft thought the same," Sherlock muttered.

"What's your name, dear girl?" Mrs. Holmes asked.

"Irene, mum. Lovely to meet you," she said, holding out her hand to shake it.

"Irene," Mrs. Holmes mused. "Lovely name, darling. Lovely name for a lovely girl."

Sherlock looked at his "lovely girl." He was so amused at his parents' bewilderment. Oh yes, fine; they don't know that this "lovely girl" is the woman who very nearly ruined the monarchy; that this woman almost had her head cut off in Pakistan; that this woman was a professional dominatrix with loads of blackmail material and was responsible for many a scandal; that this woman drugged me, beat me to a pulp with a riding crop, and paraded around in absolutely nothing when I first met her. Mummy and daddy have no clue of this, and it's hilarious.

Irene seemed to be reading his thoughts, and she smirked at him mischievously. The parents seemed to be thinking the two were sharing amorous glances. It was more like they were exchanging an inside joke. At least John was in on it; he chuckled nervously.

"Well, we're here because of Mycroft, aren't we all?" he asked, breaking up the awkward silence. "I'm sure we'd very much like to hear what Lady Smallwood was telling us just before you came in. She's been here since Mycroft was brought in," John said, smiling almost apologetically at Lady Smallwood.

"Quite right, dear boy, quite right," Mrs. Holmes chirped, wiping her eyes. Fresh dew had sprung from the faucet again as she heard Mycroft's name mentioned.

"Well, this morning outside a café," Lady Smallwood began, "where he stopped in to pick up a quick breakfast, a single gunshot fired from a rooftop somewhere. No one saw the shooter, but Mycroft let out a cry and—"

"Just a moment: were you there with him, Lady Smallwood?" Sherlock asked. He knew it was a bit of a delicate subject, but he was finding himself hilariously curious as to whether or not Lady Smallwood and Mycroft had been…out together that morning. And as he predicted, the lady blushed and smiled rather melancholically.

"Yes, I was. We had gone out for a bit before heading to work. He…well, it was my idea, if I'm to be honest."

Sherlock smiled and laughed under his breath. "As I thought; Mycroft doesn't do cafés. Well…not unless he's asked by Lady Smallwood, it seems."

John coughed. "Sherlock," he whispered, chiding his friend for being so trivial.

Sherlock's face forced itself back into its straightjacket-like expression of inquiry and he said, "Apologies for my interruption; please, do continue."

Her face went from bright red to stark white as she composed herself and swallowed.

"Well, as I said," she continued, "there was a single shot from above, but no one could locate the shot's origin. Mycroft let out a cry and instantly fell backwards onto his head."

"He fell backwards?" Sherlock once more interrupted, his eyes sharpening with interest.

"Yes, he fell on his back, why?" asked Lady Smallwood, all uneasiness.

"He fell backwards…" Sherlock whispered to himself. "And tell me: where was he shot?"

She looked at him knowingly. "This was what I wanted to tell you earlier. You see, he was shot just here," she said, whilst pointing to the same place on Sherlock's abdomen where he had been shot before by Mary Watson.

"Same place, then…that is interesting," Sherlock said, sighing into his hands. "He can pull through. He will pull through. The surgery went well, and in no time…he'll be back up."

"A few organs were damaged from the bullet, and they had to remove and repair portions of his stomach to stop the bleeding. The muscle and tissue around his stomach was badly damaged, and they detected bits of internal bleeding. The healing will take a large amount of time, I'm afraid," Lady Smallwood laboriously explained. "If he recovers…oh, I can only hope he will. He's been in a coma ever since they brought him here about an hour ago. I do…I do so hope that he will, Mr. Holmes," she said, sighing heavily and pushing some greyish blonde wisps behind her ears.

"I'm certain of it," Sherlock said, putting his hand on her shoulder and smiling timidly into her shy, blue eyes. Her lips curved pleasantly at the gesture.

"But I wanted to ask: I've just been waiting for you all to show. I hope you don't mind if I go home? Get something to eat? I'm quite famished," Lady Smallwood confessed, wiping her forehead and letting out a sigh.

"Of course," Sherlock said, almost allowing himself the liberty to hug the woman (which he ultimately denied in the end). "You've done enough for one day. Go home, Lady Smallwood," he said, smiling gently. "We will let you know of any developments."

"My prayers are with you all," she told all four of them in her soothing, soft voice. Her eyes glistened with tears as she looked at Mycroft's door one last time before walking away down the hall.

"What a charming woman!" Mrs. Holmes said, beaming. She was all rosy-faced now, especially as she tried to understand just what was happening to her boys and…their women friends.

Mr. Holmes smiled at his wife. "Capital. Just capital. D'you think she fancies our Myc, darling?" he asked Mrs. Holmes, his old, toothy smile striking delight into his wife's heart.

"I should think so, the way she went on about him! And to think! Our Myc going to a café with her. A café! Of all the places! Myc could never stand those cafés, you know… he never could…"

She went off into a solemn silence and started staring at the floor. She sniffled and continued to do so until Mr. Holmes went to comfort her.

"I'm not leaving him, Robert; I simply will not! I'm staying right here; right here! Until they let us in to see him, I'm not leaving. And you know something?" she asked, her red eyes round and excited, "I'm not leaving even when they do let us in. I'm staying right by my boy's side the entire night. Until he comes 'round!"

"And I, my dear, will stay right with you," said Mr. Holmes, kissing his wife's forehead and letting her rest her head on his shoulder. "There now, Violet," he said, patting her head.

"What doves," Irene whispered with admiration. She smiled at the two of them. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"What does that make you, a birdwatcher?"

"Please, Mr. Holmes," she said, irritated. "Have you no aspirations? That could be us, one day." This remark set John Watson into a fit of suppressed laughter.

"God forbid," Sherlock groaned quietly so that only she could hear.