It was when John saw the trademark "nondescript" black car at the scene of a crime after Sherlock had nearly gotten them all killed that he put the pieces together.
“It’s not Sherlock you’re worried about.” He said, leaning his head into the window of the car to speak with its passenger.
Said passenger didn’t blink, “If you are trying to suggest that I do not care for my baby brother, Doctor Watson, you are quite mistaken.” Mycroft Holmes looked as poised as ever in the back seat of the luxury car, trusty umbrella propped up on the seat next to him.
John raised an eyebrow, “I’m not saying that at all. But you usually just watch Sherlock on the CCTV. You don’t come in person.”
“Sherlock has been hurt, of course I would come in person.” The British Government sniffed, “I am not heartless, Doctor Watson.”
“Sherlock was hurt last week, even in the hospital,” John corrected, referring to when a suspect had nearly strangled Sherlock to death, “You didn’t come then. Sherlock only has a busted lip this time, yet you’re here. It’s not Sherlock you’re worried about.”
Mycroft gave the doctor an even look, “And who do you suggest-”
The elder Holmes raised an eyebrow, amused, “You are referring to the Detective Inspector, I presume.”
“Well yeah, you know that, I know you do.” John rolled his eyes, “In the past month, you’ve been at one of our crime scenes three times: first when Lestrade got bashed over the head by that homicidal drag queen, second when he got grazed by a bullet and needed to get stitched up, and…well, now.”
By “now,” John was referring to the fact that Lestrade had been shot in the thigh, dangerously close to the femoral artery. Luckily, John had tended to the DI’s wound until emergency services arrived. “You don’t need to be a Holmes to deduce that much…” he added.
Mycroft said nothing, simply watching John with an unreadable expression on his face. John took the silence as a sign the conversation was over, “Right then…I’m just going to…check on Sherlock then…”
Before Mycroft could reply, John had wandered back toward the ambulance, leaving him alone to contemplate the new information he had received.
Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade hated waking up in hospitals. It usually meant that he had gotten hurt because he hadn’t been fast enough on his feet. That he was getting slower, older.
He also hated the fact that he would be stuck in a dull hospital room, eating the dull garbage they considered “food” for weeks on end. It was a nightmare.
Through the vase of orange roses by his bedside was certainly new. Even when he had been married, his wife had never brought him flowers. And no one at New Scotland Yard was close enough to him to think of such a thoughtful gift. Even if Greg wasn’t much of a flowers kind of guy.
The steak dinner that was next to the flowers, now that was more his style.
“Don’t ask me where that came from.” His attending nurse told him when she came in to check on him, “I was told that you were allowed to have outside food, even though we usually don’t allow it.”
Greg thanked her, and waited until she left before pulling the tray close to him. It wasn’t just a steak dinner, he realized, but probably something worth several days of his salary. And it tasted like it too.
“Oh God, this is good…” He mumbled, stuffing his face with what looked like green beans when he noticed a note card tucked under the plate. Curious and in a better mood than he expected to be, he opened the card.
Gregory, I’m sure a man who is used to leg work must find bed rest dreadfully dull. I do hope the flowers brighten up the atmosphere, I thought they suited the situation. Also, I took the liberty of providing a decent meal for you: filet mignon, haricot vert, and glazed artichoke.
Get well soon, and I look forward to seeing you again.