Next Of Kin

By Moonhawk64

Disclaimer: I own nothing except a cat that is apparently destined to grow up to be a bear, if the vet is right about her breed. I don't own Sherlock, et al, however, because slavery is illegal. I only wrote this for enjoyment, not money.

A/N: Edited to address a plot hole. They still probably wouldn't do it this way, but that's what's called "creative license." By the way, I'm American, but I've just spent the last couple of weeks watching various versions of Sherlock Holmes, so I'm afraid some "British" has crept into my writing. Sorry for the inconsistency.

DI Gregory Lestrade took in the lavish appointments of the long, black limousine in which he rode with the Holmes brothers. The butter-soft leather seats, the wood-laminate trim, the sound-proofing which effectively silenced the sirens of the ambulance they were following behind much too fast. There was even a mini-bar, which Greg had to resist the urge to partake of. It had been a long day. A long week, actually, and it was not done yet. Instead of the wished-for scotch, he turned his attention to his companions, who had been silent since the automobile had started moving.

"He's a survivor, you know." Greg told Sherlock. Sherlock barely glanced at him, but Greg had not merely been voicing a meaningless platitude in order to cheer up the thin, pale man (although he was slightly less pale with the first-degree burns giving him unwelcome color). Sherlock had gotten off relatively lightly, with only the burns and singed hair. John Watson, however, had suffered worse, although not from the explosion - or even the half-drowning as they'd escaped the explosion by jumping into the pool. John had instead been shot, the bullet traveling, as near as they could tell by the cursory exam by the first-responders, through his back just below the clavicle and out his chest very close to the heart. He'd been rasping pink froth into the oxygen mask as he was loaded quickly into the ambulance, indicating a punctured lung.

"He's survived being shot before." Greg went on earnestly. "Hell, I'll bet he'll even survive the Zombie Apocalypse. Course, you probably don't even know what a Zombie Apocalypse is..." He muttered, mostly to himself.

"Actually," Sherlock croaked, then cleared his throat. Chlorine was not kind to the vocal chords. "John made me sit through 'Shaun of the Dead'. Said if the Zombie Apocalypse ever came, he wanted a sniper's rifle, because the farther away you can kill the enemy from, the better." He finished listlessly, and turned to stare out of the window. Lestrade frowned.

"Most people want a sword." He answered, trying now to simply distract Sherlock. "Probably because it's more glamorous." Sherlock's eyebrows puckered in puzzlement at that, but he apparently didn't see fit to comment. After a moment, however, he did deign to say,

"John did once say he learnt how to use a Falchion in the army. Why, I don't know." At Greg's look of confusion, Mycroft chimed in for the first time.

"It's a machete-like sword used for chopping strikes."

"Oh. Sounds very...practical...for a Zombie Apocalypse." Lestrade commented. Mycroft nodded. Before he could say anything more, however, the big car came to a halt. Greg was startled to discover they were already at the entrance to the hospital's trauma center.

The three men barreled into the emergency room. Mycroft went immediately to the petite, but competent-looking redhead at the admissions desk to inquire about John, however, several minutes of intense, but quiet conversation later, Mycroft returned to the other men.

"She won't tell me anything." He said huffily. "Harry Watson called. Someone's already informed her of what's happened. She's on her way, but gave the nurse strict instructions not to give any information to anyone who is not next of kin. Even the police." Greg looked startled.

"What?" he said, "but...?"

"Next of kin only." Mycroft repeated firmly. "Which means only Harry Watson."

"Damn! We need to -" Sherlock started towards the admissions desk, but Mycroft stopped him by placing his umbrella across Sherlock's knees with a minimum of movement. "So what are we supposed to do until she gets here?" Sherlock snapped. Mycroft merely raised his eyebrows, then said, "Get a coffee and sit down to wait." And did just that.