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Visiting Hours

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The fact that Sherlock had a visitor was surprising enough. That it was someone Greg didn’t recognise gave him pause.

“Sorry,” he said automatically as the visitor turned to look at him. Beady eyes stared at him from behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, and unease slid down Greg’s spine. He glanced at Sherlock, who appeared to be unconscious. “I’ll just - sit over here until you’re done, shall I?”

That hadn’t been what he intended to say. He was going to go wait out in the hall, give them some privacy, but he couldn’t shake the sense of wrongness in the room. So he sat in the chair on Sherlock’s other side and pulled out his mobile, pretending to be engrossed in some important message.

The man left without a word or a backward glance. Greg watched him through the window until he was out of sight, then got up and shut the hospital room door firmly behind him. When he turned around, Sherlock was staring at him through half-lidded eyes.

“Hey,” Greg greeted quietly, going over to him. “Who the hell was that? What did he want?”

Sherlock gave a slow shake of his head.

“Nothing,” he said thickly. “No one.”

Greg suppressed a sigh. Of course. Why had he been expecting a straight answer out of Sherlock this time? He never got one, even under normal circumstances.

“Haven’t got long,” he said, curling a hand around Sherlock’s where it rested on the bed. “Just on a lunch break. Feeling okay?”

Of course he wouldn’t be, not after all that he had been through, but Sherlock nodded anyway. Greg glanced at the equipment and saw that they still had him on heavy doses of morphine.

“All right,” he said. “Well, if you need anything, send me a text. I can pick some things up at Baker Street tonight and bring them to you.”

He turned to go, but when he tried to pull his hand from Sherlock’s, the fingers tightened. He looked back. Sherlock swept the tip of his tongue across cracked lips.

“Please,” he said, his voice faint, “don’t go.”

And Greg knew without asking that it was because of that man; that whatever he had said - whatever he had done - had shaken Sherlock to his core. Anger surged through him, and he had half a mind to pull all the hospital surveillance cameras and bring the entire Yard crashing down on the bastard’s head.

Instead, he took his mobile out of his pocket with his free hand and punched in Sally’s number.

“Now that you mention it,” he said, “I do feel a migraine coming on. Better let Donovan know I’ll be out the rest of the day.”

Sherlock shut his eyes, visibly relaxing.

“Thank you,” he whispered.