Our tiny hideaway was in the basement of St. Bart's, so a doctor arrived within moments of my phone call.
What I did not expect was our second visitor, who walked in a few moments later without knocking or announcing himself.
I knew who he was: Mycroft Holmes.
I'd never met the man, although his reputation preceded him. He was brilliant, cold, cunning.
Not to mention, he was something of an ass.
Admittedly, that was my snap judgment, made when his first words were, "For God's sake. He jumped off a building today and survived without a scratch, and the one and only person in charge of his care allows him to fall in the bathtub a few hours later?"
For a split second, my anger flared.
"It was an accident, a mere slip in the tub," I told him.
"Nonetheless, I'll be requesting a more competent caregiver," Mycroft announced coldly.
"That would be the worst possible thing you could do for him," I said. I thought of the way Sherlock had leaned against me after he'd fallen in the tub; he was already starting to trust me. I wanted that trust to continue.
"He may suffer a setback if you do this," I warned.
"A setback worse than breaking his bloody nose?"
Inwardly, I flinched at his words. Outwardly, I kept my voice calm. "I thought you were the one who insisted on complete privacy and discretion in this case," I said. "We've already brought in a doctor. Now there are three of us who know the truth. Do you really want to make it four?"
The man set his mouth in a grim line. He knew I was right.
I glanced toward Sherlock's closed bedroom door, and could hear the doctor speaking to him. Sherlock wasn't responding much, however. That bothered me.
"Perhaps you could pop your head in and say hello," I suggested. "He's quite upset."
"I'm sure he's managing just fine," Mycroft said.
"He would benefit from a kind word," I said. "Or perhaps, a hug? A pat on the shoulder?"
The man just stared at me as if I'd suggested he fling himself off the top of the hospital.
A scream shattered the cold silence between us. The doctor's muffled voice rose in response, saying, "Sir, please. You must calm down."
"No!" was the anguished response. "No, no, no, no, no…"
The last "no" had broken off in a sob.
"Stay away from me," Sherlock was pleading then. "I don't want that… Please…"
I raised my eyebrow, certain that Mycroft would be the best comfort for his brother. Mycroft didn't meet my gaze, but he didn't move, either.
Something inside the room crashed; it sounded like a teacup striking the wall. "PLEASE!" Sherlock screamed. And then he was truly sobbing, gasping for air, heaving, "No… no… no…"
That was enough for me. I burst into the bedroom and was startled by the sight.
Sherlock was standing in the middle of his bed, his robe askew, his eyes wild. The doctor was standing on the floor, a hypodermic needle held in his hand.
Sherlock's face was crimson, in stark contrast with the white bandage wrapped over the bridge of his nose. The veins in his neck were tight, and I could see his pulse throbbing in his throat. Tears were streaming down his face, unchecked. His nose was dripping a mixture of mucous and blood.
In the next room, I could hear the door open and close with barely a sound. I hoped Sherlock wouldn't notice, and miraculously he didn't. I was grateful; I didn't want to explain to him that his brother had also abandoned him.
"What is going on here?" I demanded.
"I was going to give him a mild dose of medication," the doctor snapped. "For the pain. His nose is broken, and he has multiple contusions. And he's in the throes of a full-blown panic attack."
"Did you not read his chart?" I demanded. "He's a recovering addict."
The doctor had overlooked this information; I could see it in his eyes. But he was too haughty to admit it. "He needs to calm down, regardless. This will help."
"He was perfectly calm when I left the room!" I said. "Perhaps you're the source of this panic attack."
Sherlock turned his gaze to me, his teary eyes pleading. I walked to the edge of the bed and held out my hands. "Sit down, Sherlock."
I could feel his fingers tremble as he took my hands in his own. He sat down, hard, oblivious to the open gape of his bathrobe. I closed it gently, then wrapped the duvet around his shaking frame. He took my hands in his again, and I realized I was his lifeline, the only thing keeping his head above water.
My professional grip was slipping, leaving behind a fierce sense of protectiveness toward this suffering man.
For an undetermined amount of time, it was just going to be me and him against the world. Against the loneliness, the fear, the abandonment, the heart-crushing loss.
I was going to take care of him.
"This is absurd," the doctor snapped. "I'm his doctor."
I spun on him like a mother bear protecting her cub. "No, I am his doctor," I told him. "And as such, I can write him a prescription if he needs something for his anxiety.
"Thank you for your time," I said, before he could say another word. "I will walk you out."
The doctor gathered his things in a huff, and as he did so, I spared a smile for Sherlock. He sniffled in response and offered me a watery half-smile.
The doctor didn't wait for me to walk him to the door. He stalked out of the room, and a moment later, I heard the door slam shut.