"You can't just not let him see his brother! Sherlock's so upset, Mum, he was full out sobbing a moment before I left."
"I'm not sure it's a good idea, baby. I mean... look at him." Lizzie gestured towards the Mycroft sized clump of bandages and wires. "Would you want John to see you like this?"
"Sherlock will be okay. It wasn't their father, it's not like he'll be worrying about that. At the moment, he's just imagining all the worst situations, all the bad things that could have happened."
"This is one of the worst things that could have happened!" Lizzie said, exasperated.
"No it's not. Sherlock has seen Mycroft in a worse state than this." Harry's eyes were full of unshed, hot tears. "You don't think Mycroft managed to keep everything secret from him, do you?" She clenched her fists, anger filling her.
"No, of course I don't, but still, think about this sensibly, Harry. Sherlock is stressed and worried and missing his brother. Do you really think that coming in here, staring at a half dead boy covered in wires and bandages, unable to wake up, is going to help him?"
"Mum, he really has seen worse! He walked in when Mycroft... when he cut his wrists." Both Lizzie and Harry went quiet for a moment, glancing over at Mycroft, Sherlock's screams echoing around their heads.
"I don't want to add to his trauma. He's so little. He's seen enough. He won't be coming inside this room until Mycroft wakes up."
"Fine. I'll go and tell the sobbing five year old in the waiting room that not only can he not see his brother, but his foster family are keeping him away." Harry was bordering on tears again.
"Harry..." Lizzie sighed, running her hand down her exhausted face.
"No, mum, I get it. You're an adult, and he's just a little kid. You can do whatever you want."
"You think I want this?" Lizzie's eyes widened, her voice rising in both pitch and volume.
"I'm struggling to come to any other conclusions! All their lives, other people have made their choices for them. We are the first chance for them to make their own choices!"
"I know, my baby. I agree with you. But look at him. He's scary to look at right now. Sherlock may seem older than he is sometimes, but he really is just a five year old boy. I would never let John see you like this. Also keep in mind that Mycroft has been closer to a parent to Sherlock than a brother. It would hurt Sherlock to see him this way."
"Harry" Kevin piped up for the first time "it's not a good idea right now, okay? But soon, Sherlock will be able to come in and talk to him. I will make certain that he gets to see his brother as soon as he wakes up. I promise you."
Harry's shoulders sank a little, and she nodded dejectedly at her father. "Okay" she murmured. She shut the door firmly behind her as she left the room, adjusting her hoodie. When she got back to Sherlock, he was still rocking in John's arms, sobbing quietly. The more Harry looked around, the sadder the waiting room was. She could count nine people crying, including Jane, which she didn't understand, as Jane had only met Mycroft that day. It struck her that some of the people in this room would hear that their loved one had died. She felt sick at the thought that it could have been them. Harry shook her head and knelt down beside Sherlock and John.
"Can I see him now?" Sherlock asked through the sobs, spluttering slightly.
"Mum and Dad think it's a bad idea. He looks a little scary at the moment. You wouldn't want to see him. I'm sorry, Sherlock."
"No. No. No no no no no!" The little boy started off matter of fact and ended murmuring unfocused protests into his knees, shaking hard. Harry put her hand on his head, lightly stroking his hair the way her mother did it. Sherlock suddenly sprang up, his face red and streaked with tears, his hands shaking, and sprinted in the direction from which Harry had appeared. "Mycroft!" He screamed at the top of his lungs "Mycroft!" He kept running, shouting every few seconds, looking into every room.
"Sherlock?" Kevin's head poked out of a door, and Sherlock hurtled inside, pulled himself up on to the end of the bed and knelt on the blankets, looking only at his brother. "What are you doing?" Kevin asked, his voice raised, his balance having been knocked off by the little boy careering into him. Sherlock winced at the loud noise. Lizzie shushed her husband and reached out to touch the boy's knee.
"I know you can hear me, Croft. If he's in your head, if he's trying to get you, tell him to go to hell! Tell him to go right to hell, where he belongs, and you come back to me. I need you. I need you to come back." Sherlock's voice had reached a crescendo almost at a scream, and had broken. He scooted gracelessly closer to the head of the bed and curled up between Mycroft's arm and stomach, cradling himself in his brother's arms. The Watson's sat down, Lizzie almost in tears herself, and they waited for Mycroft.