(Thank you so much sweetie! Of course you can – I hope you like it!)
Mycroft bolted out of the car, not even bothering to close the door behind him. Anthea watched from the front seat as her boss stormed into the hospital, his umbrella under his arm, his face set in a deep frown. Mycroft halted in front of the receptionist, who was painting her nails.
“Gregory Lestrade.” Mycroft barked.
The receptionist frowned. “Sorry?”
“Where is he?”
“Oh, the DI. He’s in room 1B.”
Mycroft tore away, stomping down the hall. His shoes squeaked on the floor as he walked. The hospital was infuriatingly big; nurses in blue uniform scuttled about, tending to patients in long, clean wards. People everywhere was coughing, sneezing… dying. Mycroft tried not to think about the latter. He eventually made it to the room – several police officers clustered outside, and Mycroft had to prise them out of the way. He dismissed them with a wave of his hand and entered the room. His heart swelled when he saw Greg, laid on the hospital bed, a needle in his arm and his eyes tightly closed. Donovan sat next to him, reading a book.
“Who are you?” Donovan frowned.
“Get out.” Mycroft drawled.
Donovan must have seen the desperation on Mycroft’s face – she hurried out of the room, growling orders at a few officers that still hung around the room. Mycroft closed the door quietly.
Now they were alone, Mycroft had a chance to observe Lestrade properly. His face was grey, his chest wrapped up in tight white bandages like an Egyptian mummy. His mouth was slightly parted, showing hints of white teeth between the soft pink lips, and his hands were splayed on his thighs, the fingertips making claws. Mycroft shuddered. He sat in Donovan’s chair, placing a cool hand on Lestrade’s arm.
“I’m sorry, Gregory.” he whispered.
For a moment, Mycroft imagined that Lestrade’s eyelids fluttered – that the DI would magically awake and sit up and kiss him and say that he was fine, that Mycroft was being an idiot as usual. But nothing moved. The heart-rate monitor beeped slowly, consistently, grating on Mycroft’s nerves like Chinese Water Torture. Mycroft wasn’t usually impatient – he had Sherlock for a brother, after all – but this was pure agony, waiting for his Inspector to be well again.
A nurse tapped on the door and entered with a bundle of new bandages. “Oh, sir!”
“Hello.” Mycroft didn’t take his eyes off Lestrade.
“Um, you know what happened then?”
“Three gunshots.” Mycroft murmured. “Chest and leg areas. Flesh wounds.”
“That’s right.” the nurse bit her lip. “I-I have some new bandages, so…”
Mycroft stood up, taking them gently. “I’ll put them on him, thank you.”
“But-” the nurse started to protest, but Mycroft’s clear, dangerous gaze stopped her. She left the room without another word.
Mycroft turned back to his DI. Get better soon, Gregory. For both our sakes.