The Waters of Depression

A little short chapter of only 600ish words, cos I liked where it ended. The next one will be longer, and as always, thanks for reading. :)

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The hospital was white. There was no other word for it, as Sherlock lay on a bed, nurses and doctors swarming around him. John was slumped in a chair in the waiting room, Lestrade beside him offering soothing words. But they both knew it was nearly hopeless.

“I thought you were kidding about drugs the first time you said it. Back then you knew him better than I did.” John wiped a hand over his face. “I did this to him,” he breathed and immediately knew Lestrade was not going to have that. His face darkened.

“No one but himself did this John. You didn’t stick the needle in his arm or make him snort coke. You didn’t make him stay in a bath for-”

“But I did,” the doctor interrupted with a shake of his head. “I shouldn’t have left like that in the first place. He was vulnerable, whoever that man was, the one he was researching, those pictures were…but he knew him, and if Sherlock knows someone like that. Then they are important. He might have just been trying to get his mind of things and I-” there was a soft sob from John then and Lestrade sighed.

“He didn’t know him that well John. Honest. The only reason he knew the man was dead was because we brought him the case. He was being a jerk, like always.”

“Don’t call him that,” John growled. He was protective of Sherlock anyway, he knew. But speaking ill of the dead was something he would never allow. Even if it was true.

“But he is!” Lestrade insisted and John stood up.

“Gentlemen,” Mycroft’s smooth voice cut through their un-started quarrel like a hot knife through butter. John looked at him for a moment before sagging. Mycroft was worried, and it was visible. That could only mean he had bad news, or no news.

“Mycroft,” John muttered in way of a greeting. Lestrade held out his hand to shake and it was grasped as they introduced themselves.

“DI Greg Lestrade, so you are his brother?” he asked tipping his head back towards where they all knew the emergency room that housed Sherlock was. Mycroft nodded.

“Mycroft Holmes, indeed the elder of the Holmes family at the moment. Would you care to tell me what happened?”

John laughed then but it came out as more of a hysterical bark. “Don’t play Mycroft. You know everything to do with him, you must have seen him doing something and just ignored it.”

“Dear Doctor, as much as I keep up to date on my brother’s comings and goings through various sources, I do have a rather time consuming career. I did not see what happened to him, which is why I am here asking you.”

If it had been anyone else speaking those words John would have yelled, perhaps punched them. But it was Mycroft, and he knew he wasn’t lying, or joking. And that he really hadn’t seen a thing. “Believe me John,” he said a little softer. “If I had seen him going for that needle I would have been over there immediately. The needle is his last resort.”

John flinched and Lestrade opened his mouth to explain to Mycroft what he had essentially just done when all thoughts of talking were banished as the doctor walked towards them.

“Mr Watson?” he asked slowly and John nodded. “Please come with me, there is something we wish you to do for us.”

John paled, they were going to ask him to identify the body. He couldn’t do it. His legs shook as he walked and his stomach churned whilst his vision swam with unshed tears.

He followed the doctor into a room and looked upon Sherlock’s body. He mapped it with his eyes, the curly unruly hair, the high brow, long elegant nose and cute chin. The lips that would never again speak his name. He nodded.

“Yes, that is him. That’s my Sherlock.”