The hospital corridor smelt of old chemicals and sick. Nurses passed with ease, carrying the heavy burden of the dead on their shoulders. Sherlock walked behind his brother completely detached from what was going on around him. His mind and his body in worlds of their own. His breathing was catatonic, barely getting above normal rate. He turned the corner.
Mycroft was speaking to the grey haired woman sitting on the vinyl chair. Sherlock took a moment to realise that it was his mother. She stared at him for a few seconds before stretching out her arms towards him. Her skin was cold and it hit Sherlock like a knife. She talked softly to him, holding his cheeks.
Sherlock blinked trying to focus on her words. Her dry lips pursed and twitched and was distracting. Sherlock looked over through the ward window. Tied up to a ventilator and a heart monitor lay the familiar figure of his father. His hand tried to reach for the handle. He had to see. He had to know.
Mycroft pulled him back making him sit on the vinyl. He said something again, slowly as if Sherlock was dense or something. He nodded accordingly pretending to listen. Blood flushed into his ears. It was the sound of his heartbeat in step with the heart monitor of his father's room. His mother extended her arm trying to comfort him as he stared at his shoes. Mycroft was on the phone – cancelling appointments. He held his mother close slowly walking down the corridor. Perhaps going to the canteen or the family cots for a while.
Sherlock stood up, shaking. He tugged open the door and stopped. What was he... What would he... What the hell was he doing...
Sherlock sighed. Someone called out for him. He turned to see his father's arm extended up to him. Uncomfortable, he sat down on an armchair beside the bed.
The only time Sherlock had ever seen his father show true weakness was at the moment he begged his wife to take him back. Never had he seen a grown man cry. Now he was covered in wires and lying there, weak, tired and pale.
Sherlock said nothing. Watching him. His dad pulled him forward. Whispering softly in his ear. Sherlock sat back stunned. Then with terrified eyes he nodded. He took a moment to regain full knowledge of his body. He stood up and shut the blinds to the private ward. He then poked his head through the door to make sure that no one would disturb him. Shaking, his hands reached for the crash cart. He slid open one of the drawers and looked for the right syringe. Haloperidol. A sedative medication. But if enough was given to him then he would slip away. Or there was insulin. He knew that enough of that would send him into a coma as it burnt all the sugar in his body. There was no morphine. Maybe for good reason. Sherlock picked out the one he knew would do most damage. He clipped off the cap and threw it into the sanitation bin. He pulled forward his father's IV and injected it into the tube. His father grabbed his wrist staring at his son for a second. He groaned miserably and fell back onto the bed. Sherlock pushed on the plunger shoving the medication into his father's system.
He stared at the heart monitor for a moment, making sure that he was in the clear. He threw the syringe into the bin and nodded curtly to his father. Robert Holmes blinked then began to shout as a burning sensation passed through his veins. Sherlock did nothing for a second then ran out into the corridor shouting for help.
...
Help had come. But it was too late. The doctors had suspected that he would slip shortly. Sherlock was in the clear. He sat to the side listening to his mother talk tearfully to the doctors. Mycroft wrapped his arms around her trying to comfort her. He turned to his brother.
"You and dad were talking?" He asked.
Sherlock nodded.
"About what?"
Sherlock stared at his brother. "Is this an interrogation?" He asked.
Mycroft sighed. "No." He said. "No, it's not." He held his mother tighter. "I think its best we went home."
Sherlock nodded feeling numb. As if his body wasn't his own.