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The Prey	By : amandalee Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3756 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
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A/N: Mycroft tells John the story of Sherlock's abusive ex. Summarized as a flashback.

Chapter 10

2003

As much as people believed otherwise, Mycroft did indeed sleep. In fact, he cherished those moments when he could truly shut himself away from the outside world. His brain, a well oiled machine though it was, worked far too fast, even for him, and though sleep brought dreams - mostly of memories both close and distant - it also brought relief. He thought himself lucky to actually have a full eight hours on this night.

However, he knew that luck was fleeting and dishonest. He had slept nearly two hours when his phone rang. As much as he would have loved to ignore it and turn over to go back to sleep, Mycroft was far too important to ignore a call.

Grabbing the phone, he paused for the briefest moment when he saw whose name was on the tiny glowing screen. He picked up the call, wondering what Sherlock had been arrested for this time.

"I trust you do know it's past two in the morning, don't you?"

Mycroft was able to tell from the first few words uttered by DI Lestrade that something very serious had happened. This was not simply a case of minor possession of drugs, solicitation or pick-pocketing, or any other common misdemeanor that Sherlock often got himself arrested for.

"I'm sorry to bother you so late, Mr. Holmes, but it's about your brother..."

"Yes?" Mycroft breathed, his heart rate nearly spiking.

"He's been brought to the A&E. I don't know much, but... He's supposed to be in pretty bad shape," Greg Lestrade said in a grim voice.

Mycroft closed his eyes, images of his little brother, pale and still, with a dusting of white powder on his waxen face flashing through his mind; how Sherlock would look after the drugs had finally claimed his life.

"Overdose?" he croaked out, even though he had already guessed the answer. Lestrade's reply was therefore a shock to him, like having a bucket of icy water thrown in his face.

"No, sir. He's been assaulted. A woman reportedly called the police having heard commotion from the flat above hers. Your brother was found, alone. But we have reason to suspect that--"

"The flat," Mycroft interrupted, and his grasp on the mobile phone hardened instinctively. His brain had already formed another possible scenario, but he needed some more facts to confirm it. "Where is it?"

"In East End. We're working hard to find out who it's registered on."

"No need, I think I know," Mycroft ground out from between tightly clenched teeth. White hot anger was starting to replace the paralytic feeling of panic which the call had initially caused. "I'll meet you at the hospital, Detective Inspector. Be there."

"But I haven't told you which hospital," Lestrade said, sounding more than a bit baffled.

"I know which," Mycroft snapped. "Now we must get a move on!"

He hit the "close" button on his phone, ending the call. Considering where Sherlock had been found, it was not difficult to calculate which hospital, that had Accidents & Emergency admittance, was closest at hand: Royal London Hospital.

Mycroft dressed with quick, jerky movements, all thoughts of sleep banished from his mind. He was needed elsewhere.

"That lowlife! That wretched, twice-damned bastard!" he growled to himself as he exited his flat. The man would pay for hurting his brother, that much Mycroft could swear to.

Two phone calls were made en route to hospital. One of which involved a very private investigation of the flat where Sherlock's 'boyfriend' lived. Mycroft hated the idea of giving the two-legged beast who hurt his brother such a sentimental label. Though not a very physical man, Mycroft fantasized stepping on the evil shit's testicles nonetheless, slowly adding his bodily weight and causing the most heavenly cries of pain to fill the air.

Fortunately, Mycroft knew the value of friends in low places. His call was returned minutes later with the information required.

The second phone call had been completed by the time he walked into Royal London Hospital. As expected, the medical staff knew to step aside, and any who were new in the building had been warned ahead of time not to interfere.

Greg Lestrade was lingering in the corridor outside of intensive care when Mycroft arrived, looking to be in desperate need of a cigarette. The elder Holmes noted a hint of a smile on the detective inspector when he looked up and saw his approach, though Lestrade seemed to catch his own expression and quickly put an end to it.

"He's still alive," Lestrade stated.

"Clearly," Mycroft replied coolly. "Otherwise we would be in the morgue."

Swallowing nervously, Lestrade fidgeted with something in his pocket; a cigarette lighter, Mycroft deduced. An hour plus without a cigarette was far too long for a chain-smoker like Greg Lestrade. Mycroft was pleased that he had managed to keep his own smoking habit limited to the occasional social event.

"Tell me what you know," the politician ordered, his mask still fully intact.

"He's been roughed up pretty badly," Lestrade said. "Unconscious, hasn't been able to give us anything. There might have been drugs involved, to tell you the truth."

Of course, Mycroft thought. Hardly surprising. He was grateful, however, that Lestrade made no attempts to sugarcoat the truth.

"We're still investigating the name on tied to the flat where Sherlock was found. Obvious alias, search came up empty. Neighbours tell us that they've seen a tall, red-headed man with pale blue eyes move to and fro, though. Could be our guy."

"Let me guess... Well-built, late thirties, frightening appearance? An identifying scar on his right temple?"

Lestrade blinked, dumbfounded. "You know him?"

"I know of him," Mycroft said grimly. "Sherlock has been seeing him for a number of weeks now, against my wishes." He sighed, shaking his head. Since when did Sherlock ever do anything according to his brother's wishes? He was convinced that his dislike of the man Sherlock chose to call his 'boyfriend' played a large part in why the younger Holmes kept seeing him.

"I'm sorry," Lestrade offered with genuine sympathy. Though Sherlock was often a right pain in the arse for Lestrade and the Met, it couldn't be denied that the soon-to-be middle-aged DI cared about the tortured young genius.

"But he's twenty-three. Not a child anymore. Doesn't mean he knows his own best, though."

Mycroft nodded curtly, and the two men stood still as statues and just as silent as ones. Thick white curtains and screens prevented them from seeing into the intensive care unit, but Sherlock was in there somewhere, perhaps dying this very minute. If that were the case, he should at least not have to die alone. After fifteen minutes of torturous waiting, Mycroft was ready to hound down the next person in a white coat he saw passing.

As if on cue, they were approached by a rotund middle-aged man whose name tag identified him as a trauma surgeon.

"I'm Doctor Camden," he informed them, and Mycroft felt like telling him not to waste time on the obvious. "Are you waiting for news on the boy that was brought in?"

"Indeed so," the politician said. "How is he faring?"

"Are you police or family?"

Lestrade pulled a face that Mycroft did not miss. It was a look which said, "you're new here, aren't you?" Mycroft ignored it, staring the doctor down as though Camden were an insect he might flatten into the floor.

"I am entitled to the patient's information," he replied. "One can tell you have not been informed of this, but I trust you know it now. So... what is the condition of young Mr. Holmes?"

Doctor Camden gave him a wary look, but only stared for a few seconds before returning to his report. "The worst we've come across is his head..."

Already Mycroft felt his heart-rate increase in speed, but he revealed none of it in his stance or expression. He simply stared, unreadable and stone-faced as the physician continued.

"There's a fracture in his skull along the linea temporalis," he gestured to the side of his head behind the temple to explain out of instinct. Resulting directly with a subdural hematoma. We're doing our utmost to decrease the intracranial pressure. His attacker kicked him about quite a bit, leading to one rib broken and another cracked, as well as a ruptured spleen, and his arm is broken at two places in the ulna..."

"Will he live?" Mycroft asked. As far as he was aware, his expression still betrayed nothing, but he was beginning to dread the list of injuries and simply wanted to know the most important fact.

Camden swallowed dryly. His discomfort was clear now, as though he feared giving bad news to what was a very important and likely very powerful figure.

"The speed of his neighbor's response was key. If anyone had found him later, he would be dead now."

Would be dead, as in presently alive. Mycroft might have sighed in relief were he a weaker man. He heard Lestrade react in his place.

"Still unconscious, I presume?" Mycroft asked.

"Yes," the doctor replied. "But there's yet no knowing when - or if - he'll regain consciousness. Or if he's sustained brain damage, and if so, to what extent. What we can do for now is to monitor his intracranial pressure and make sure the hematoma does not return. We've performed a craniotomy to drain the area and to repair the damaged vessels. There is nothing more we can do at this point. Only time will tell."

The doctor had begun to nervously wring his hands, visibly bothered by the two men's silence. "If you have any more questions..."

"I'd like to see him," Mycroft said.

"Only family for now," Doctor Camden said quickly. It clearly had not struck him that Mycroft was of any relation to the strung out and badly beaten young man that had been brought in earlier.

"Is there a next of kin we can notify...?"

"That would be I," the civil servant said stonily. He was beginning to reach the end of his patience, and the last thing he felt like dealing with was a difficult physician. Not when Sherlock's life hung in the balance and the perpetrator was still out there.

"That's my little brother. Now take me to him, Doctor, or I swear you will never set your foot in another hospital again!"

Camden blanched, but he did not question or contradict Mycroft this time. The elder Holmes felt Lestrade's tired but sympathetic eyes in the back of his neck, as he silently followed Camden to where his little brother lay fighting for his life.

Lestrade had already caught a glimpse of Sherlock when he was brought into A&E, but the sight of the younger man was still alarming. He was personally very surprised that Mycroft could stay so still at first, then walk with such an even stride as he approached the bed, where the battered figure lay motionless. Either Mycroft Holmes was the most composed man Lestrade had ever met, or the most cold-hearted.

Perhaps a mixture of both, he considered. In the elder Holmes' line of work, having a heart was a liability.

As the silence grew thick, the DI awkwardly cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," he offered. "I can't imagine what you're going through now."

Mycroft did not even turn to regard him.

"Your sympathies, though kind, are doing nothing to help my brother," the civil servant stated. "If I were you, I would keep in communications with the police station. While you do your job, I would appreciate some privacy."

Holding back a rueful sigh, Lestrade nodded, even though Mycroft could not see it, and quietly left. The police officer in him wished he could have said something reassuring, but what?

Once he was quite sure he was alone with Sherlock, Mycroft slowly approached his brother. The already slender body laying unconscious in the bed seemed far too small now. Though he considered himself a rational man, he felt a fleeting hope that this unfortunate, mangled thing laying before him was someone else, that Sherlock was somewhere else, safe and sound and looking far less like a corpse from a vehicular collision.

Indeed, Sherlock was not even recognizable. His face was swollen and purple from the assault to the point that it likely could not move even if he were awake and attempting to speak. Mycroft felt a peculiar twinge in his stomach when he noted something protruding from the side of his brother's head and realized it was a catheter, inserted for drainage. Suddenly feeling weak, he finally took a seat in a nearby chair.

The rhythmic beeping, wheezing and hissing of the machines currently keeping Sherlock alive did nothing to soothe him. Instead they were a constant reminded of the severity of the situation. Sherlock might never wake up again. Or even if he did, he could be so gravely brain damaged that he would wake up to a life not worth living. Mycroft knew that his brother would rather die than live the rest of his life as a vegetable, and the elder Holmes could sympathize with that. It would be his choice, also.

Mycroft had no reason to doubt the care provided at the Royal London Hospital; they had succeeded in keeping Sherlock alive so far, but he decided nonetheless to have his brother moved to a private facility as soon as he was strong enough to survive transport. Sherlock would be given the best possible treatment by the best doctors available, all of it done very discreetly. Sherlock abhorred the stench of hospitals and never wanted to stay, regardless if his condition warranted it. Mycroft was fairly certain that if his brother were conscious, he would try to leave even now, with multiples fractures and internal bleeding in his rake-thin body.

Glancing at the wall clock, Mycroft saw it was almost half past four. He might as well stay until he was needed at his office in roughly three hours. He had plenty of work planned for the day, stacks of paperwork to go through and several important meetings. The world did not stop because of one personal tragedy, even if it happened to one of the most important men in Britain.

Despite hospital policy dictating against it, Mycroft kept his mobile turned on, set to vibrate. He was expecting a call and was positive it would come before it was time for him to leave.

He expected to be informed immediately when his team had apprehended one Sebastian Moran.

TBC...
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The Prey