In the end, despite Sherlock's best efforts, he went to Charlene's. She didn't come to pick them up until visiting hours were all but over, at Sherlock's request, but still...
They did eventually get some wind of Cassidy. It turned out that she had not so much sprained her wrist as shattered it. Otherwise, though, she was completely fine ("Oh, thank God!" Mrs Johnston said, finally able to relax now that all of her children were located). Sherlock went to visit her, since they wouldn't let him see John while he was sedated, and she was as irritatingly positive as ever. Although he'd never have admitted it, he almost didn't mind. He had to hear something good, he guessed, even if that good was 'well, at least we'll all be okay in a couple of months!'
That night, he laid awake for hours. He was exhausted, and by all rights he should've fallen asleep immediately like Michael did, his snores echoing around the room a minute after the lights were turned out. Somehow, though, he couldn't relax enough to drift off. Everything he very carefully hadn't thought about during the daytime crowded in on him - what would happen next? Would Mrs Johnston be able to pay for their medical bills? What if she couldn't, and she decided she had to get rid of them? And what if John's leg didn't heal right? What if he couldn't run and jump and climb the magnolia tree anymore? Even Mycroft, the untouchable one, Mycroft had a concussion. His brain had crashed into his skull. Even if Sherlock hadn't known what that meant, he'd know it was bad - bad enough to keep Mycroft overnight.
No, he knew he wouldn't sleep well that night.
He woke up the next morning not feeling rested at all. If anything, he felt more tired. His eyes were lined with dark shadows. Michael joked if he wanted he could probably be accepted into a raccoon's colony if he wanted to, until he saw that Sherlock wasn't laughing.
"It's going to be okay," he told him seriously. "Don't worry so much. It will turn out, okay?" he said. Sherlock shrugged, thinking of his suitcase, still half packed at the Johnstons'. Michael was right that he wouldn't have to worry about that, at least.
Charlene brought them back to the Johnstons', where Mrs Johnston had been since early that morning. Sherlock was glad to see her, glad that she was all right, but he still couldn't bring himself to ask the question stuck nagging in the back of his mind.
Mrs Johnston refused to bring them to the hospital, however. They had to wait for Rob and Charlie at the very least, she said, and besides that she was still extremely tired from the previous day's events and could very certainly use a good day's rest. To Sherlock's worried complaint that John would think they had abandoned him since he hadn't seen him since the previous day, she smiled and told him she had been by to see him that morning.
"How was he?" Sherlock demanded. "Is he doing all right? When can I see him?" Then he blushed, embarrassed at his show of emotion.
"He's fine, Sherlock, I promise. We're going to go see him and Cassidy this evening - iafter/i we've all had the chance to rest up a little," Mrs Johnston said. He bit his lip, but didn't say anything, not wanting to push his luck.
He brought a book upstairs with him to read and hopefully to pass a couple of hours with, but he couldn't focus on it. After staring at the same page for almost ten minutes, he gave up and laid it down on the bedside table, giving in to the swirling clouds of thoughts and worries and anxieties in his mind. He thought about the same things over and over, the same thoughts and trains of thought, but he couldn't think of anything else - couldn't even conceive of anything else to think of for more than a few moments.
Eventually, because he truly was exhausted, he fell asleep.