Time trickled. Or maybe it crawled. Or perhaps it was even sprinting, fast as light.
He couldn't tell anymore.
Lestrade was still around, and he was the one to greet Mrs Hudson, then sit her down and tell her. She cried.
Sherlock supposed she didn't need to be told. Seeing him like that should have been enough for her to know that something was horribly, horribly, wrong.
Lestrade whispered to her, took her to see John. She shouldn't have had to see him like that, all missing and broken.
He didn't want her to.
They came back with cups of tea, and left one on the floor for Sherlock.
It grew cold.
Mrs Hudson. The poor woman.
She sat above Sherlock in the chair he'd slipped out of, crying quietly and rubbing his back. It was odd for her to do that, but Sherlock didn't overly mind. It was comforting in a way.
Shouldn't he be the one comforting her?
Dammit, why were they all crying? John is still alive, still warm and breathing and alive. Sherlock could go in that room and hold his hand and feel the warmth, could catalogue the enzymes, the cell replication, could catalogue the cellular respiration, smell that quintessential John smell because John was not dead.
With a sudden burst of energy Sherlock threw himself to his feet, wavering for a second as his vision blacked out from the sudden change in position. He pushed through it, making his way out of the room blind, following John's call.