The surprise of finding Mycroft Holmes at his bedside was muted, as everything was, by the bleary after-effects of the anesthesia - but as Greg (very slowly) considered it, it seemed to make sense. He was the one who'd saved him, after all. Who else would it be? The only other candidates, his sergeants and his other men, were no doubt still busy. They'd visit, of course, but there was the job to do, and - what time was it, anyhow? They couldn't be expected ...

The relief he felt he hardly recognized as relief, wrung out as he was. But there was a warm sort of feeling, a comfort, in not being alone. Alone was what he'd come to expect of late, and any deviation in that flat line of solitude woke in him the perhaps over-eager urge to please, to try to keep the company he had.

It was a few moments later that he realized he'd probably been looking in Mycroft's direction for quite a while; that Mycroft had said something. Right. Focus. "You're -"

God, that sounded awful. He tried to clear his throat, took as deep a breath as he could, and made another go at it. "You're still here. How long have you ... How long's it been?"

There was nothing wrong with his memory, at least; he suddenly had a very clear memory of lying on the pavement and bleeding all over Mycroft. Fantastic.