Skype calls were nice but they did nothing to show Sherlock how his husband actually looked. Most times he would be able to tell how tired or stressed his husband was through the tone of his voice, the grainy resolution that accompanied the high quality vocals did nothing to help Sherlock gage how tired or stressed John was.
As he looked down at his husband, through the glass window his stomach clenched. Bags signifying exhaustion hung under John's normally clear eyes and there were tiny little lines stretching across his forehead where he had frowned far too often.
The rest of John's body was a mixture of wires, tubes, bandages and grazes. Behind him, Sherlock only barely listened as Mycroft explained what he had managed to gather regarding the attack that caused John's injuries.
'Not long after the sniper took his shot the terrorists started their attack a new. A medic was able to drag John into a house and control the bleeding until a missile hit the structure,' Mycroft explained.
Sherlock barely held back a scoff. He didn't need Mycroft to tell him that something had fallen on top of John; he could see the bits of debri that still littered John's hair.
Sherlock's hands twitched as he watched the nurses work, all the while making sure John kept breathing.