Tall Buildings and Pill Bottles - A Johnlock Story

Hospitals and Mycroft

Johns POV

I stared at the note, my lips parted. I shook my head, "I thought he was getting better," I whispered. Mycroft looked at me sympathetically. "So did I. I'm always wrong about that though. As I was wrong to put him in that mental ward, especially with what Victor had gone through in one."

I glanced up, equal parts shocked at his admittance to being wrong, and the mention of Victor.

"what happened to Victor?" I asked, puzzled. Mycroft sighed, and looked down at his shoes as he responded. "Normally that's something I would let my dear brother tell you in his own time, but in this case... Well, Victor was Sherlock's first boyfriend, as you know," I nodded along. "And he had been in a mental ward for sometime before they met, and the conditions in that place were not very good. Abusive, actually. Sherlock was terrified that the same would happen to him. I would never let that happen though, and I didn't know what else to do."

He sighed again, dragging his eyes up to mine. They were greener than Sherlock's, and older, more weary, but the resemblance was there. "And now I'm afraid that I have no idea of what to do." I sat in one of the waiting room chairs, gesturing for him to do the same.

"Neither do I, unfortunately. But we've got a long night to figure that out. I assume that Greg's on his way?" I asked. He nodded, his thoughts elsewhere.

"Mycroft?" I asked, snapping him out of his thoughts. He looked up, raising his eyebrows. "Tell him about you two when he wakes up," I said, not leaving room for him to question. He nodded, not needing an explanation of how I knew.

We sat in silence, both of our minds traveling in circles, how could we not notice it? How could we not notice? Mycroft was the most observant man on Earth, save for Sherlock, himself, and well, I'm not them, but no one else is around him as much as I am. I am irrevocably in love with him, how did I not notice? I felt myself slip into an unending stream of thoughts, chasing each other down in my mind.

The only interruption was when Greg arrived at took a seat next to Mycroft, asking how I was holding up. At first I didn't register the serious concern in both of the older men's faces, until I realized that they had both gone through this before. While they were still hurting, I was completely at a loss of words and comprehension. I mumbled a quiet answer, and ran my hands through my hair, exhaling.

The three of us returned to silence, and I descended the steps into the depths of my mind. Not like a mind palace however, just spiraling thoughts, driving me in circles to the point of nausea. Greg and Mycroft occasionally spoke, mainly to each other, their hands joined.

I glanced at my watch, we'd arrived sometime around 7pm, and it was now already 1am. Sherlock was still in surgery, and would be for a few hours more, at maximum. Not only had he had severe cuts in his arms, but apparently the walls of his heart were quite thin, and the suicide attempt had nearly burst it. Apparently, he had not been taking care of himself enough, and his heart was weak. He had a narrowing of the arteries that supply the heart with blood, making his heart unable to pump well (AN: I might be on the track to study science and biology, but I am taking a couple medical liberties, I'm sorry, just roll with it. I wanted it to be more dramatic, okay?)

Only a few other people were in the waiting room, all with the same worn, saddened look I knew I too, held. I could feel fatigue tugging at me, begging me to sleep, but I couldn't even if I had tried. It was nearly 3am when I spoke for the first time in hours.

"What on Earth are we going to do?" I had been deliberating it in my head, and I couldn't think of anything. Everything had already been tried, therapy, medication, even a goddamn mental hospital. And they all worked for a while, and then stopped.