When he turned, he would probably think that the drugs had finally kicked in, for there was Mycroft Holmes, sleeping in a chair near the bed, his hand holding up his head as he dozed. With the creak of the hospital bed, though, he started to stir, blinking.

He had been for hours, after the surgery. He could do nothing during it besides, well, fret, so he had turned his energy outward. Taking the Tong agent into custody. Informing the family what had happened with their daughter. Taking the Chinese ambassador and his son firmly in hand about what would be done for reparations. Informing Lestrade's ex-wife about the incident and then firmly telling her to stay away.

Finally, though, he received the text that Lestrade was out of surgery. That he would make it but it had been a close thing. The bullet had nicked a vein, but the worst of it had been repaired. Now it was just a matter of time. He got himself a change of clothes, and prepared to wait with Gregory, so he would not wake up ... alone.

There were other reasons, he realized, but he was not going to examine them. Let those be shoved down, firmly down. Still, they swirled around his dreams, and even as he woke, he lost the battle to giving Gregory a sleepy, pleased smile when he saw his eyes open. He cleared his throat, and sat up, making a face as his back cracked, "Ah, good, you are awake."