The room was cold, bleak and silent but for the steady beep-beep of the monitor and occasional hiss of oxygen.
The consulting detective looked frail and ghostly: pale, alabaster skin against sterile, white hospital sheets. If John hadn't know better, he would have thought Sherlock was sleeping, but John did know better and, as he looked on from the dated armchair next to his flatmate's bed, his mind was filled with thoughts and questions.
Why? What had prompted Sherlock to do this? Could he have stopped it?
John had been under the impression that things were looking up for Sherlock. He had his work and he had someone. Someone. Who? Did someone else turn Sherlock back to drugs? Did something happen with this person that had caused Sherlock to do this?
He was overcome by a myriad of conflicting emotions. Anger at Sherlock for doing this. Pity for his friend that he had become so unhappy. Guilt for not realising how bad things really were. Fear at the prospect of losing Sherlock. And a desperate, crippling pain in his chest that was threatening to tear him in two.
John rubbed his hands over his face and eyes, realising he was incredibly tired. He wondered if Greg had arrived yet. And Mycroft. More questions. Greg and Mycroft. What was that all about then? John groaned and closed his eyes as he slumped back in the chair.
He was just starting to doze off when the door to Sherlock's room opened. John opened his eyes to see Greg enter, and he nodded a wordless greeting to the detective.
"Any news?" Greg whispered, his eyes trained on the pale form laid between them. John shook his head. "Not yet."
"Coffee?" the DI asked, nodding his head towards the door. "Mycroft can sit with Sherlock."
John raised an eyebrow at both offers. He could use a coffee. It was that or fall asleep, and well, if Mycroft was there, perhaps it was acceptable to leave Sherlock in his brother's company. He nodded to Greg and the detective slipped briefly back into the hall, returning moments later with Mycroft in tow.
"Doctor Watson." the elder Holmes nodded as he entered the room and rounded Sherlock's bed.
"Mycroft." John acknowledged, standing and freeing up the chair for the man to sit. He couldn't bring himself to converse with the brother of the man whose body was laid next to them. Mycroft should have known. He always knows. He knows everything about everybody and he should have known about Sherlock. He was only thankful that Mycroft also seemed to have no desire for conversation.
As he crossed to the door, John approached his flatmate; his friend and, mindful of tubes and wires, slowly and carefully stroked his fingers across the back of Sherlock's hand. "Why, Sherlock?" he choked out, his breath catching. "Just...why?"
Greg placed a placating hand on John's arm and gently parted them.
"Come with me, John." he said, voice gravelly and rough. "I have to tell you something."
Greg and John were sat in the busy waiting room, sipping tepid vending machine coffee, when Greg started to speak. "John, I had hoped Sherlock would tell you what has been troubling him, but it seems that, being a Holmes, that really isn't going to happen." Holmes men could be ridiculously frustrating and Greg had known Sherlock for long enough that he really wasn't surprised that he hadn't opened up to John. Not about this.
John looked at Greg, his face pale and resigned, ready to hear whatever it was the detective had to tell him. He just needed to know. "He told me he was seeing someone. I presume this is something to do with them?"
Greg took a mouthful of coffee and sighed before answering. "Not really." he eventually replied. He really had no idea how to share what he knew. This was one god damned awkward conversation, and they were having it in a none-too-private hospital waiting room, shared with anxious, waiting families and other concerned individuals.
He was pretty certain that the general ambient noise in the room would mean they wouldn't be overheard, but he lowered his voice anyway. "He's in love with you, John."
John stopped, coffee mid-way to his mouth. He what?
Greg continued talking in hushed tones. "This isn't the first time he has done this in recent days. I came round a couple of days ago and found him. Mycroft sent medical staff to see to him that time but this..." the detective stuttered. They were both all too well aware that the outcome of Sherlock's overdose was still unclear. "... this", he continued, "this is ... worse.
"He said it numbs the feelings. Makes him forget. Helps him to cope with how he feels about you. He couldn't tell you, John. He knows you won't feel the same. I'm sorry. Maybe if I'd told you sooner..."
John placed his hand on Greg's arm, stopping him. He could see guilt and responsibility all over the man's face.
"Stubborn git." John muttered, trying to keep calm in the face of this news. "I knew... I knew there was something. I gave him opportunities to open up to me. Every chance. I should have pushed. I should have known." His voice broke off into silent sobs and it was Greg's turn to comfort.
As the two of them sat silently in the room, neither noticed the unassuming man, who had been sat behind them, listening, as he stood to leave.
As Jim Moriarty exited the hospital, he pulled out his mobile phone and dialled a number.
"Sebby!" the Irishman purred, "I have a job for you."