Night falls
When he entered the waiting room, Mycroft was leaning heavily on his umbrella, and the lines on his face were a lot deeper than John remembered. Part of his face was slightly swollen, although someone had done a magnificent job at covering the bruises. Still, looking at the immaculately clad man, once again the epitome of a British gentleman, he found it almost impossible to believe that he had been abducted and then dragged down the side of the Shard barely a day ago. What gave him away, however, were his eyes – they were as shrewd as ever, but they lacked their usual alertness, and there was no spite in them, just weariness.
"John," Mycroft greeted him. "I am sorry it took so long to organize what you asked for. But I had to retrieve the required items myself, obviously, and then everything had to be inspected and processed to approve their use in intensive care. I was delayed since I had to check Sherlock's bills and internet purchases to establish the details of his shopping habits three years ago."
John blinked in confusion, trying to grasp what Mycroft had said. Finally, it hit him. "You mean, you didn't know which shampoo he used?"
Mycroft's mouth twitched with annoyance. "No, John, I did not. I am not Sherlock; I do not habitually identify and catalogue shampoo, perfume and soap brands in case a corpse smells of them." Mycroft distorted his mouth. "I am familiar with the products common in my social class, but Sherlock did not use those, and beyond that I do not concern myself with such trivia. So, no, I do not know which toothpaste he favours or whether he uses a conditioner to tame those curls."
"He doesn't." John felt a sour taste rise in his throat, along with his temper. "Why did you not just ask me, then?"
Mycroft stiffened like a lantern post – it was a sight to behold: momentarily all movement ceased, including his face, even his eyes. Wrenching himself from the frozen state, he gave a small laugh. It sounded oddly distressed. "Would you have known?"
John glared at him. "I used to live with your brother, Mycroft. I know by what order he sorts his socks, which foods upset his stomach, and what triggers a migraine attack. Believe me, I bloody well know which products were on the shelf in the bathroom; I did most of the shopping for God's sake!"
"Ah," Mycroft just uttered, looking offended and chastised at the same time. "Well, then you can check whether I researched correctly." He handed him a dark blue quilted holdall.
John stared at him in anger a few more seconds, then took the bag and looked inside. It was all there – the fine bed linen, the grey woolen blanket with green and blue stripes, Sherlock's shaving kit, soap, toothpaste, and even his hair brush. And the red dressing gown, of course, though it would be a while before he had any use for it.
Mycroft smiled thinly. "I was not sure whether the woolen blanket from Sherlock's bed would endure the disinfection procedure, but it seems finest Scottish wool resists everything."
"What's that?" John picked up a bottle that looked like it didn't come from a shop.
"Body lotion," Mycroft explained, looking just a little bit uncomfortable.
John looked up in surprise. "Sherlock never bothered with anything beyond the necessary," John said. "I don't remember ever seeing anything more than a hand cream in winter."
"Well, yes," Mycroft conceded, "as a child, he had extremely sensitive skin, which caused him quite some discomfort. I supposed lying in a hospital bed might provoke that problem again, so I had the same lotions mixed for him that helped in the past."
"Oh, that's, uh, that's great," John stuttered, "he really needs that. I mean, they have stuff here, of course, but I'm sure this is much better." He screwed off the lid curiously. "In any case, it smells a lot better," he chuckled. In fact, the white lotion did not smell of much – if at all, it carried a slight milky scent like whipped cream. "That's really good, Mycroft, thank you. I'm sure it'll help."
"I do hope so, John," Mycroft replied, for once without a trace of irony. "By the way, there's no need to worry about your wife or your friends, they are perfectly safe."
"Any trace of Moriarty?"
Mycroft pursed his lips. "A small one, but, remember, he is a master of deception. We are working on it." He picked up his umbrella. "Please inform me of any development regarding Sherlock – your personal observations are most welcome, the doctors here do update me on medical details of course, but I value your opinion concerning my brother's well-being highly."
John blinked, taking a moment to process it. "Sure." He cleared his throat nervously. "I'll let you know if anything changes. Aren't you …" He turned around and pointed towards the closed doors of the ICU. "Aren't you going in to see him?"
"No." Mycroft gave him a tight-lipped smile and made to go.
"Whyever not?" John blurted.
Mycroft stopped. "Neither of us would benefit from that," he stated. "My presence will at best have no effect on him, at worst upset him. He knows I care, John, and unfortunately in a way he loathes. I take no pleasure in staring down at a for once speechless Sherlock Holmes." He seemed lost in thought for a moment, then turned to John again. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a criminal mastermind to catch." With that he left, walking away as calmly as ever, feigning unconcern.
John stared at the tall figure until the automatic doors closed and wondered whether Mycroft was afraid of seeing his brother in such a fragile state or whether he assumed Sherlock would hate to be seen like this by his brother. John frowned. Or maybe Mycroft just didn't want to swap his three-piece-suit for a cheap isolation gown.
He shook his head and returned to the ward. Walking into Sherlock's room, he stopped dead in his tracks.
The bed was gone.
His mind came to a halt: he could not take in any sounds or sights, least of all process them; his heart forgot to beat, and he stopped breathing. For a few seconds his world ceased to move, and he was suspended somewhere between reality and nightmare.
But then he felt his heart lurched violently, and all of his blood rushed down to the floor, sucking it from his brain, leaving him reeling and nauseous. The bed was gone. He stumbled and just about managed to get a grip on the doorframe, easing himself to the ground. His legs refused to carry him, and his whole body suddenly felt like a huge lump of rubber, numb and uncontrollable. The screeching noise in his head was back, accompanied by a vice-like pressure, threatening to burst his skull.
The bed was gone. Sherlock was dead. Dead.
For a long time, that was all he could think. Gone. Dead, dead, dead.
Suddenly he realized he was hyperventilating, and badly at that. No wonder the earth seemed to tilt sideways – John forced himself to breathe more slowly and deeply, his fingers digging into his thighs until he felt the pain, clearing his head a bit.
Observe, his brain commanded, sounding uncannily like Sherlock.
The bed was gone, yes. But the machines surrounding it were gone, too – meaning, they had taken down the portable equipment, mounted it onto the bed and wheeled it out all together. Modern ventilators and the like could be transported easily, running on batteries, the information being transmitted to the hospital's local network via Wifi. Had the patient been dead, they would only have removed the corpse.
Alive, then.
The door flew open. "Oh, Dr Watson, I'm so sorry!" Nurse June barged in, hurriedly kneeling down next to him, grasping him by the shoulder. "I couldn't find you, otherwise I would have told you, I'm really sorry!"
"He's not dead, is he?" John managed to force out.
"No, no," the nurse assured him – and fell silent.
John turned to look at her. She was tense, and very worried, hair untidy, slightly sweaty, scrubs rumpled. Why? Unless she had just got into a fight, it could only be from performing CPR. "But he's in danger," he concluded. "You rushed him out, probably to do scans, more likely straight to surgery." He swallowed and thought he would vomit.
Nurse June nodded. Holding her breath, she began to speak – and then stopped. Twice, she seemed to change her mind about what to say, then settled for jargon. "We had a code blue."
Cardiac arrest.