The hospital was white and bright and very busy, or at least the parts Sherlock saw were. It wasn't his first time in in the emergency room, of course, but it was the first time he'd been to the emergency room forJohn, and that was worse than going for himself. If it would have fixed John's leg, he would've broken his own - but that wasn't a possibility. Really, there weren't any possibilities at all - nothing Sherlock could do but sit and wait, and he hated it. Every minute they took to look at his head and make sure he didn't have a concussion and all of that nonsense was a minute that he could have spent finding John and Mycroft and making sure they would be okay, or something - anything but just sit there and wait for them to finish with his head. He almost couldn't stand the waiting, nearly leapt up several times, but it wouldn't have done any good. He'd still have to get the doctor to tell him where they were, and the doctor wouldn't tell him until she was finished.

Finally she was done, and he stood up quickly and impatiently.

"Where are my brothers at?" he demanded.

"They came in with you, right?" she said. "Which kids are your brothers?"

"The tall, corpulent one, and the

blond one with the broken leg," he said.

"What are their names?" she asked him. "I can find out for you." Obviously, Sherlock thought, ever more impatient, or I wouldn't have asked you.

"Mycroft and John Holmes, that's M-Y-C-R-O-F-T if you don't know how to spell it, which I imagine you don't," he said.

"All right, I'll tell you as soon as I can," she said. "Until then, come with me. Your mother is in that room and you can stay with her -"

"She's not my mother," Sherlock interrupted sharply. "She's just taking care of me. She isn't my mother."

"Oh, do you know your mother's phone number then? We need to give her a call and let her know you were in an accident," she said.

"She's - not here," he bit off somewhat jerkily. "Mrs Johnston is - my foster mother." The doctor looked surprised.

"Oh, I'm sorry about that. I didn't know-"

"Well, obviously not, or you wouldn't have said that!" Sherlock exploded. "I don't care about stupid niceties. I just want to see my brothers. So could you tell me where they are?" The doctor's eyes widened for a moment, and he thought she might be angry, but she only put her hand on his shoulder and steered him into the room Mrs Johnston was in, then left without saying another word.

Mrs Johnston was laying in bed. She looked fine, bruised and beaten but otherwise okay, and he wondered why they had admitted her. He rather didn't feel like talking, however, and so he didn't say anything, only sitting in the chair in the corner. Mrs Johnston, however, did not feel the same way.

"Sherlock! Thank heavens, are you okay? I haven't seen anyone else. You look alright - have you seen the others? How are they?"

"I haven't seen them, I'm fine, leave me alone," he growled, and she, surprised, didn't say another word.

Rob and Charlie came in next, gripping each other's hands tightly. They had refused to let go of each other since they had gotten out of the car, no matter what, and Charlie's eyes were still as big as saucers, but they seemed okay. Mrs Johnston pestered them for information as much as she had Sherlock, but Rob refused to speak and Charlie didn't know anything. Sherlock was in the only chair in the room, so they climbed up on her bed and sat next to her, one on each side with her arms wrapped around them, and still holding hands, although the grip was loosened a bit.

A few minutes passed, and still there was no doctor, no one coming with news or a room number or just to drop in and say that everyone was fine, until finally Michael arrived, right arm in a sling, which was odd since Sherlock had thought he was uninjured.

"Michael! Are you alright?" demanded Mrs Johnston. Clearly she had not expected a sling either.

"I'm fine. I popped my shoulder out of socket - hurt like the dickens when they popped it back in, and I'm stuck in this sling for a couple of days, but I'm completely fine otherwise. How are you, Mom?" he said, and Sherlock could have screamed - did he have news or not? Did he know where the others where? But he couldn't speak.

"Oh, I'm okay. I got a nasty concussion, but other than that I'm fine. They're keeping me here overnight for observation, though, just in case. Do you know what happened to Mycroft and Cassidy and John?" she asked, this clearly her primary concern.

"Oh, Cass is okay. She broke her wrist, apparently, but she'll be fine in a few weeks, and other than that she's right as rain. And Mycroft will be okay. I didn't see what happened myself but someone told me he conked his head too - he'll be staying here overnight just like you. I think he's okay otherwise. I have no idea what happened to John, though, I didn't see anything and I haven't heard anything at all. We'll have to wait." He sat down on the bed, which creaked between the combined weight of himself, Mrs Johnston, Rob, and Charlie.

Sherlock was out of his mind with worry now. Where was John? What if he was really and truly hurt, or if his leg was shattered beyond repair? What if they put him in a room so far away he couldn't go see him, or he needed surgery, or- he worked himself into quite a state, he just couldn't stop worrying, and no one realized. No one even noticed him, all by himself in the corner, about to explode with worry, and then he just couldn't do it any more, and he stood up, and he left. He had seen a bathroom down the hall, and that was where he headed, not for any real reason, but he just had to leave, he just had to get out of there.

The bathroom was quiet and empty, which was just what he needed. He locked himself into a stall and for a moment stood still, completely, perfectly still... and then the dam broke and he was gasping and sobbing and tears streamed down his cheeks and he almost couldn't breathe, he couldn't think, couldn't calm down for what seemed like forever.

The door to the stall he was in was pulled open easily. He hadn't quite locked it all the way, and it wasn't difficult for Michael to open at all. Sherlock didn't even care, he nearly didn't even notice when Michael knelt down and wrapped his arms around him. But it was warm and soft and comforting, and eventually he could breathe and think again.

"You'll be okay, Sherlock, they'll be okay, it will all be okay. We'll find John soon and he'll be fine. And whatever happens, I'm here, okay? I'll help you. I can help. It will be okay, Sherlock," he said softly.

Sherlock remembered himself suddenly and stood up stock straight, mortified at being caught in such a state. He could feel a pit in his stomach eating away through his organs, like a piece of stone burning through everything it touched, dense and hot and terrible. His face turned red in his embarrassment, redder than it already was from crying, and if he had died at the moment he almost wouldn't have minded.

Michael clearly felt differently than Sherlock did, and Sherlock was glad to see that he didn't make fun of him, although his pity, Sherlock thought, was nearly as bad. But it couldn't get to much worse, so he let Michael lead him to the sink and help him wash off his face. He refused to go back to the room, though. He couldn't go back in there and see them all again and hear Michael tell them about how he had been found sobbing his heart out in a bathroom. He wouldn't.

Michael understood this, though, somehow, and he didn't try to make Sherlock go back in. Rather, he brought the chair out and set it by the door, not quite in view, which was still too close for comfort, but it was better than inside. And then in a move that surprised Sherlock, Michael grabbed an extra chair from the room next door, which was empty, and set it down next to him without a word. There they sat, waiting for something to happen, and waiting for news of John.