True to his word, Mycroft came in every day. Anthea came in for a large part of the middle part of the day to take over the vigil, but Greg would always end up back waiting by Sherlock's bedside with a stiff back on a hospital chair.

At night while he slept, Greg dreamt of horrible things. He would see Sherlock, lying on the floor, lifeless – but this time Greg was too late. He didn't kneel by Sherlock's side and on picking up his wrist find a fluttery, weak pulse. In the dreams Sherlock was cold, not feverishly hot. In the dreams Sherlock was stiff. In the dreams he knelt by Sherlock and picked up his wrist to find nothing. No life beat at all. He woke up sweating and breathing too fast.

It was a relief when the breathing tube was taken out of Sherlock's mouth on the second day, and when he was deemed stable to be moved out of ICU on the third day.

After four days of talking endlessly to an unconscious Sherlock, Greg thought he was going to go insane if he wasn't going to be answered. Sometimes he just chatted about trivial inane nonsense, sometimes he updated Sherlock on what was going on in the world, sometimes he talked about cold cases, sometimes he read aloud to him. Greg just wished he'd be answered. At least the chairs in here were more comfortable; in the wards they had nice plump blue ones.

"Anyway, I told the wife it was ridiculous, but she did it anyway. I suppose it turned out all right in the end though, hey?" he sighed at the usual lack of response. He snorted; Sherlock would've hated this conversation if he'd had a say in it. "All right Sherlock, I'm going to fix myself another cup of tea, I'll be back in five, tops."

He patted Sherlock's hand and was about to stand before he was interrupted: "And a tea for me thanks, that would be lovely."

Greg almost keeled over as he saw Sherlock's mouth moving and heard the weak stream of words coming out of it. Finally, after what seemed to him an age but in reality was two seconds, Sherlock slid open those icy eyes of his; for some reason, Lestrade thought they seemed extremely white, and the irises that changed colour so frequently looked positively sapphire. Greg grinned like an idiot, and clenched Sherlock's hand.

"Hold me back so I know you're really awake Sherlock; clench my hand!"

The younger's fingers wrapped around the hand gripping him, and squeezed. Greg knew then that Sherlock really was awake; he could feel his very alive and conscious weight pressing on his hand and knew that it wasn't a hallucination. If it was possible, Greg's grin stretched even more widely across his face. Something blossomed inside him, a feeling of relief so great that he felt like Sherlock was one his own. But then the smile started to slide off Greg's face when he began to berate the boy.

"Sherlock Holmes, do not ever do that to me again! Ever! You gave me the biggest bloody heart attack when I came in…and I saw you…lying on your floor…" Greg trailed off, remembering how completely and utterly bloody terrified he'd been. "Why?" Greg asked, dejectedly. He'd thought Sherlock had been lessening the drugs.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but just at that moment, a nurse bustled in.

"You're awake – how lovely!"

Greg stepped back to let a stream of nurses and doctors check Sherlock up and down, who was now scowling heavily. With the usual impeccable timing, Lestrade noticed Mycroft silently appear at the doorway. Greg wondered how Mycroft did it; he always managed to arrive exactly when he needed to. Even if he was arriving in time for something he needed to deal with that was completely unexpected, he had a knack of just always being there.

Greg thought that perhaps he was a magician or could see into the future. Always in the right place at the right time. Except for Sherlock's overdose. Mycroft's sixth sense failed then – bad time to stuff up as well. But Greg tried not to think about that. Mycroft sauntered over to stand next to Lestrade, twirling his umbrella, watching his brother deal with the doctors.

"How'd you know to come so bang on time? He woke up not three minutes ago."

Mycroft smiled his mysterious smile, and Greg knew he wouldn't be getting an answer. So instead of pressing it he changed the topic.

"Ten quid says Sherlock only takes two days to make one of them cry," Lestrade wages.

"My dear Inspector, there is something wrong with him if it takes that long. Six hours."

"Five quid that it'll be the short brunette nurse to crack first."

"Not very good at this betting lark, are you? The red-head will be the first to go, I assure you."

"You're on, Mycroft Holmes."

"Prepare to lose 15 pounds, Gregory. I've warned you."

"Oh that's right, I forgot: you're prophetic and omniscient, aren't you? Maybe I should listen to your advice."

"You really have been around my brother's propaganda too much. God knows what he says about me."

"Well…it's not all completely good things…"

"I'm surprised he's said anything good at all."

"Well, no, he hasn't."

Mycroft smiled for a moment, and then turned his attention back to Sherlock, now berating the nurses for the positioning of the IV line. He crossed the room and talked in a low voice to Dr Barker, the doctor in charge. Greg waited awkwardly, cringing while he listened to Sherlock's sharp tongue shooting poison at everyone within a 50 foot radius of him.

"Do you have any sense at all? What have I been admitted for? You think the standard dose of that drug will suffice me? Any child would be able to see that being a drug user and therefore having a high drug tolerance would mean that the normal dose would do absolutely nothing – this is why I never go to hospitals. No one is as competent as I am, so they can't help me anymore than I can help myself."

"You can't help yourself if you're unconscious Sherlock. Now stop being so puerile and just quiet down," Mycroft scolded him with raised eyebrows.

"Don't keep the Korean president waiting Mycroft, he's the only one who wants to hear you talk. And don't put those papers on that table!" he barked to the nurse. "They'll fall down the back and – oh, there they go."

Sherlock was only amused watching the redheaded nurse push the bedside table out of the way and reach down the back, scrambling around for the files that had fallen off.

"Who puts a stack of paper on a slanted surface? Obviously they won't stay there for very long."

"Stop your muttering Sherlock," Mycroft strode around the room, finished with his conversation. He appeared at Greg's shoulder once more, smiling ruefully over to his brother.

"Our nanny used to call him the hurricane; wrecking havoc and leaving rubble wherever he went."

Greg chuckled.

"Unfortunately, Detective Inspector, I have a very busy schedule today. Judging by my brother's tedious whinging he's going to survive the day, so I'll say farewell here for a few hours. The office really is tiresomely demanding of me. But I will be back before too long," Mycroft nodded to Greg, and without bothering to attempt to disturb his sulking brother he swept through the ward doors, umbrella spinning all the while.