Sherlock wakes up in darkness, lying in a stiff bed. Why can't he see? He runs through the possibilities in his head. Could he be blindfolded? No. He would be able to feel the fabric tight against his head. The sharp smell of disinfectant wafts toward him. He recognizes it from his constant visits to the doctor as a child. So he's in a hospital. Now the question is why. He has vague memories of the day before but nothing concrete. He remembers Lestrade and a hostage situation, but nothing else. A door creaks open, and someone steps inside. A man, judging by the heavy sound of his footsteps on the linoleum.
"Are you Sherlock Holmes?" asks the man, in a deep baritone voice. Sherlock nods. "Good. I'm Calvin and I'll be your doctor today," the man continues.
"What's wrong with me?" demands Sherlock "Are the lights out in here or something? I can't see a thing,"
Sherlock hears the man shift uncomfortably, his lab coat rustling against his legs. He inhales sharply and breaks the news. "You've lost your sight permanently. The toxic chemical you came in contact with was very corrosive, and it's damaged your corneas," the man pauses, clearly expecting Sherlock to panic. He gets silence instead.
The man continues speaking "I'm going to prescribe you some eye drops, to stop your eyes from getting infected. You can pick those up at the front desk. Also…" the man hands Sherlock a rustling paper bag. "You're going to need these,"
There are two items in the bag. The first is a pair of plastic glasses and the other is a bundle of three sticks connected with nylon string. There was a strap on one end and a rubber ball on the other. Sherlock realizes that it's a cane. If he tugged at this end… it should… The sticks snapped together into a sturdy cane, about four feet long. So that's how that works. He folds the stick away.
"The glasses are to protect your eyes from UV light and other things. I'm sure you know what the stick's for," the doctor mentions casually. "Anyway, is there anyone I can call to pick you up?"
Sherlock groans internally. He didn't want to deal with Mycroft right know but he genuinely doesn't have a choice. It's not like he has any friends. Sherlock doesn't do friends.
"Call my brother," Sherlock says at last. "His number is 020XXXXXXXX," The doctor flips open a notebook and scribbles down the string of letters, before leaving the room quietly, with a muted goodbye.
Mycroft is having a busy day at work. He is essentially the British government, after all. He is unbelievably irritated when he receives a call from the hospital telling him that his petulant little brother Sherlock has been hospitalized. Again. Did that man do nothing else?
Mycroft grumpily agreed to pick Sherlock up before hanging up the phone, with no idea of his brother's conditions.
Upon arriving at the hospital, he parks his car and saunters into the reception. The receptionist is a sweet young man, who isn't that good at his job. He's busy filing paperwork and doesn't notice Mycroft at first. Mycroft clears his throat to get the man's attention. The man smiles.
"Yes. How can I help you?" he says at last.
"I'm here to pick up my brother. Last name Holmes." Mycroft quips.
The man taps some numbers onto the computer, searching a database of sorts. Moments later, the receptionist finds what he's looking for. "Oh, Sherlock Holmes is your brother, right? He's in room 216. Just down the corridor to your left," he smiles. Mycroft nods and walks away.
Finding room 216, he cracks open the door, only to see Sherlock lying in a hospital bed, holding a cane and a pair of dark glasses. Sherlock's head whips around in confusion. "Who's there. Is that you doctor?"
Mycroft is a very smart man, possibly the smartest man on earth. He knows things that other people don't know. Things that no-one could ever know or ever want to know. His powers of deduction outclass even his brother's. He instantly knows what's happened. Sherlock has lost his sight.
"Oh Sherlock," he sighs. "What have gotten yourself into now?"