From almost the moment he was loaded into the ambulance, Greg was more or less oblivious. To the more intricate details of the plot he'd unwittingly dived into, certainly - but also to most everything else. The painkiller they had in him by the time they were on the road wasn't as effective as he might have liked, but it made him blank. The fear and the urgency died away and very little made it into his thoughts aside from his physical discomfort and - strangely - Mycroft's reassurances. Maybe it was natural to cling to those. The medics were repeating a variation on that theme.

At the hospital, he was present enough to speak with the surgeon - or, at least, to listen and nod and try to put on a good face. He was quickly becoming more exhausted than anything else, however, and he had enough faith in doctors generally and in the woman about to go digging around in his shoulder that the anesthetic was a welcome retreat, like falling asleep after a damned long day.

When he awoke in recovery, he had no idea what time it was, whether it was day or night, or really what on earth had happened; he was groggy, a little nauseous, and still hurting (what was the point of these drugs, anyway?) but deeply relieved to be awake. He could feel the obligatory worries about his work, the crime scene, and his officers pressing against the hazy boundary of his mind, but he let them stay there for the moment.

For now, all he wanted to worry about was twisting round to find a glass of water. It seemed enough of a chore to keep him busy for a good while.