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Brilliant Minds	By : FairyBean Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 4811 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, I do not Profit from this writing and do not know or own Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson or any of the other characters used in this work. I also do not own Sherlock (BBC) franchise or anything related to it.

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Chapter 4 - Mycroft actually cares

The apartment was as up market as he had expected, what he didn’t expect was the noise coming from behind the door. The file was held loosely in his hands and he pushed the door open to hear John screaming.

“Your fault!” before something smashed against the wall. Sherlock took a second to blink at that before he was in the bedroom. John was standing there, half dressed and holding another ornament of some kind. Mycroft looked worried.

“John just-“

“Don’t- Don’t you even call me that! You sent us there Mycroft! You sent him and they knew he would come! I didn’t even know that’s where we were going so how could they have known!”

Sherlock saw that John had somehow hurt himself, probably from something he had thrown and forced his legs to move. The photos scattered and fell to the floor in myriad of colours as Sherlock flung himself at John to stop him throwing the next thing.

“Stop, I’m fine,” he breathed and the ornament fell to the floor, as John’s arms wrapped Sherlock’s lithe body. Sherlock knew John was a being of emotion as opposed to intellect but he didn’t mind. All of this came from worry, he knew. And so he knew he could calm him.

“S-Sherlock you’re bleeding! You should be in the hospital. And you aren’t wearing shoes!” this realisation got Greg a look from both John and Mycroft.

“He’s rather like a hurricane, even sick,” he said in his defence. In reality he hadn’t noticed.

“Mycroft, dear brother. Would you inform me how ‘look after’ turned into ‘throw and shout’”

Mycroft blushed and Lestrade looked at him with a soft smile that it seemed he couldn’t help, but Sherlock didn’t care. He blinked again and shook his head. “Nevermind.”

“Sherlock, we need to get you back-”

“Home,” Sherlock said adamantly and tried to cross him arms. Truth be told John was holding him up with his arms now. There was no strength left in the Detective’s body any longer.

“Fine,” Mycroft said softly. “I’ll call a car. But I want updates, regularly,” he added with a pointed look at John. John nodded and looked to Sherlock.

“Sherlock,” he started softly. “I’ll have to carry you.”

Mycroft immediately left the room and pulled Lestrade with him, muttering something about an update on the case. John smiled.

“See, he knows when to act like a brother.”

Without waiting for an answer John lifted Sherlock from his feet and waited until the man was settled against him, his arms around John’s neck and his face nuzzling close. “Thank you,” Sherlock whispered, so quietly that not even the best of Mycroft’s bugs would pick it up. Then Sherlock shut his eyes and waited as he was carried to the waiting car.

*

There was complete silence as Sherlock collapsed onto the sofa. John had wanted to carry him up but there was nothing in the world that would let Sherlock show that weakness to any more people than he already had. Of course Mycroft had seen him weaker than this before, so maybe it didn’t matter.

“The photos,” he muttered but John merely smiled and dropped a manila file on his lap. Sherlock sat up, winced and fell back again. John sighed and bent to check him over.

Sherlock watched as John was crouched in front of him, surveying the damage for the first time. His eyes widened a little but other than that there was no sign that the doctor was in distress at all. Sherlock smiled. “I’m fine.”

“And I am the Queen of bloody Sheba,” John said without a smile. “Keep still.”

Sherlock was about to protest that he was never still when Mrs. Hudson’s loud gasp filled the room. Sherlock analysed her immediately and knew it was shock over the state of his body, and not that from that angle it must have looked like John was giving him a blowjob. That thought caused a smile to slip onto his face and Mrs. Hudson to frown and put her hands on her hips.

“Sherlock! You had us scared to death you did,” she started and took a step forwards. Then she stopped and shook her head. “I’ll make some tea for us John, you get him to bed.”

“I am staying right here,” Sherlock said immediately and pushed John away. “I have to look over these pictures and-“

He stopped as one of the pictures fell out of the envelope. It was the most recent crime scene, but the ‘after’ of Sherlock’s foray into the place. Sherlock picked it up and noticed almost absently that John was holding his breath. He tutted and discarded the picture in disgust.

John slowly picked it up. “Sherlock you-”

“The blood ruins the picture, you won’t get any evidence from those. They must have known that someone would pick it up. That there would be enough blood to cover their tracks and that the-”

“Sherlock!” John’s voice had gone high with supressed worry and pain. Sherlock cocked his head and waited. The ex-army man held his thumb in the other hand and shook his head. “That’s your blood.”

“Yes John,” Sherlock said slowly. He didn’t know what was going on here, but he knew Mrs. Hudson knew. Her face was soft and sympathetic.

“All over the alley. I didn’t go in to see the damage…the scene.”

“That’s alright, I remember most of it, and the unmarred pictures will help me navigate the Mind Palace until I-”

“No Sherlock, this is…you were!” his voice was tinted with anguish now but Mrs. Hudson smiled.

“Make the tea dear,” she said to John with a pat to his shoulder. Then Sherlock watched as John walked into the kitchen and began to clatter around. Three cups this time, though still checking inside them before plopping a tea bag in each. He turned his attention back to Mrs. Hudson.

“He was worried Sherlock. Now you be a good boy and indulge him. Otherwise I’m going to get a lot less nice.”

Sherlock locked eyes with her before he gave one nod. She smiled. “Forget mine John, I have an appointment to keep.”

*

John came out of the kitchen with two cups in his hand and looked at Sherlock. He took in the bowed head and felt a pang of sympathy. He had never seen Sherlock looking so lost. He wondered what Mrs. Hudson had said to him. But looking at those eyes when Sherlock looked up made him hold his breath.

“Sherlock,” he breathed “What is it?”

He stood, a little shakily and John moved to help him immediately, forgetting about the tea so it sloshed and burnt his hand. Sherlock smiled at him now that he was stood and he put the teas down.

“Thank you,” he said softly and then turned towards the bedroom. John stilled for a moment, and then gently scooped Sherlock into his arms.

“There’s no one to see,” he muttered before the detective could say a word in argument and so Sherlock settled himself against John’s muscular chest and let himself be carried to bed. “You do too much you know?” he said as he started to strip Sherlock down. He knew he liked to sleep naked but he couldn’t do that so contented himself with ridding Sherlock of only the outer clothes and leaving the underwear and a t-shirt.

“Ok,” Sherlock said as his eyes closed and John realised just how much effort it had taken for the Holmes to come to him from the hospital. His skin had a grey pal and he was breathing more deeply than he had before, though it looked laboured. “I’m going to sleep.”

John nodded, tucked him in and went to fetch a glass of water for if he woke up. Then he crept out of the bedroom and into the living room again before he straightened up.

“Mycroft didn’t you get enough before! Don’t you dare wake him,” he hissed and found that his fists were bunched tightly.

Mycroft stood perfectly straight as he regarded John with a cool look. Almost as if to say that he wasn’t the one being loud at all, so if anyone woke Sherlock it would be John himself.

“He shouldn’t be here. I came to take him back.”

The words shook John, stilled his very core as he looked into the steel grey eyes and saw that there was no spark in them. He was perfectly serious.

“No,” John whispered and shook his head, repeating the word louder for Mycroft, putting more emphasis on it. “He stays here. He stays with me.”

“Dr. Watson. If I wished to take him there would be no stopping me from doing so. You would in fact be unconscious in seconds if that was what I thought it would take. As it is, I just wish to check up on him, since I think he too would protest should I do something to you.”

“And you care what he thinks?” he muttered sullenly. Mycroft pierced him with a gaze so sharp then that John could almost feel the edges of it cutting his skin.

“John,” he started slowly. “Just because I do not show emotion in the way that you, and other so called ‘normal’ families do, does not mean that I do not care for my brother in every way possible.”

He stepped forwards towards the bedroom and John stepped between him and the door. “He just went to sleep.”

Mycroft nodded and moved past him anyway. John took his arm. “I said no,” he said, and his army training came in handy as Mycroft threw the first punch.

*

Sherlock coughed.

He sat up, blinking as he coughed again, and this time little speckles of blood hit the satin sheets. He took a moment to process what he felt. Elevated heart rate. Pain in various places, spread thin enough he couldn’t tell where. Sickness. Movement near impossible. Throat raw.

He forced himself to move, then he heard the voices. Knew it was Mycroft and made his way as quickly as possible to the door. He pulled it open, his chest heaving and before he could even say a word he knew what had happened. John was on the carpet, a bruise forming on his jaw.

“Mycroft,” he growled, wanting to tell him off but he knew there were more important things. “Ambulance,” he added and fell to his knees as blood almost fell out of his mouth then. John went pale and Mycroft had his phone out before Sherlock had finished the sentence. He almost smiled at that when Mrs. Hudson bustled in, saw the blood and almost screamed. She started towards him but John got there first.

Mycroft muttered something about told you so, and then was gone to wait at the door for the paramedics. John shook his head. “I’m a doctor, I should have seen that you weren’t well enough. I should have-”

“Stop it. It’s ok.” Sherlock smiled, knowing his teeth were bloody and that it would probably be horrific as an image for John to carry into sleep. But he could fix that later. Right now he needed the doctor to focus. To be a rock and not jelly. “I’ll be home soon. You s-stay,” he said and started coughing again. Ruptured oesophagus, he wouldn’t be able to talk soon. “Look after Mrs. Hudson.”

John protested immediately but Mycroft was there, was issuing orders and those orders were being followed. Mrs. Hudson’s arms wrapped John, and he was lost as he watched Sherlock be carried away on a stretcher. “It’ll be ok,” Mrs. Hudson muttered softly. “He’s a big boy.”

Briefly John wanted to agree with that. He knew Sherlock was a big boy, but in so many ways he was a child. That innocence to social norms, that spark in his eye when there was some exciting news. Even if the reaction was totally inappropriate.

He blinked then as the world was going blurry, heard Mrs. Hudson give a soft noise from behind him as the door to the house closed and realised he was crying.

*

Sherlock didn’t like hospitals. He hated the noise, the smell, the nurses that fussed over him. Worse he hated the look it put into his brothers eyes.

Mycroft was not a man of words. No Holmes was but there was no need for him to act like it was the end of the world. He had been the same when he had found Sherlock last time. When he had been on holiday from University, when he had overdosed on something he shouldn’t have been taking. And then he had not ended up in hospital, Mycroft had taken care of him at home. He wanted to be at home.

“I know, but I can’t fix this, and that doctor of yours isn’t in any shape to try.”

Sherlock blinked, 100% sure he hadn’t spoken out loud. Mycroft smiled at Sherlock as he was prepped, a mask put over his mouth. “As if I need words,” Mycroft breathed. “Come back alive, and I promise I won’t turn up for at least…96 hours. No wait 72 hours.”

Sherlock smiled a little as his eyes started to droop. “Done,” he said as he fell into artificial sleep. Mycroft had given him three days, three whole days he could spend alone. Well. Almost alone. He was sure John and Mrs. Hudson would no doubt be fussing over him like a pair of mother hens. They would probably back each other up too, ganging up on him to stay in bed, to eat when he didn’t feel like it.

Usually he would have dismissed that sort of thing, but he found he rather liked the idea of being the centre of attention again. Especially because he was getting nowhere on this case now he had been injured. Something just wasn’t clicking, and he needed to figure out what the medallions meant.

*

John winced at the bitter tea. Mrs. Hudson had added a shot of whiskey into his cup and he hadn’t had the heart to tell her that he didn’t need it. Maybe he did. Since Sherlock had left he had called Mycroft thirteen times. He was about to dial again and demand the answer machine talk to him when the mobile rang on its own.

He almost fell of the chair trying to get to it on the table. “H-Hello,” he answered quickly, noting he had spilt the tea but Mrs. Hudson was already wiping it up. He sagged against the sofa when he heard Mycroft’s voice.

“Come to the hospital. They think he will be out soon and I…” he paused and swallowed. “I think he would like to see you.”

John could have said something about how much that admission cost Mycroft but he didn’t have the thought right then. All he wanted was to see Sherlock alive and well.

“Is he ok?” he asked slowly and heard a frustrated noise.

“If I knew that then- just come here. There’s a car waiting,” he said and hung up.

John stared at the phone for a few minutes. Or at least he thought it was only a few minutes. When Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat quietly and then put her hand on his arm he snapped his head up. There was a man standing in the room now, and John had no idea how he had gotten there but he knew he was the driver.

“No pretty girl today?” he joked lamely and the driver gave him a small smile.

“No sir, please come with me.”

John nodded and followed without taking his coat. He couldn’t think straight. He was going to see Sherlock as soon as he came out of the OR. He was going to see his Sherlock covered in wires and other things to keep him alive. He didn’t know if he could do it.

Come on Watson, he berated himself you saw much worse than this in the war, you’ve seen worse since then. Pull yourself together like the army man you are.

He got into the car, he knew that but then there was nothing, a blank spot and he was standing in a waiting room with Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson had stayed at home to look after the place and tidy up a little bit she had said. He knew that.

“Mycroft…what-”

“He’s going to be fine John. I promised him three days without my interference if he came back from there. He wouldn’t pass it up.”

And as stupid and ridiculous as that sounded to his ears, the conviction in what Mycroft said made him feel better. Of course Holmes were the most stubborn of men. So of course they were going to pull through even the things that would kill a cockroach.

A small smile tugged at John’s lips at that thought but it was quickly pushed away as a gurney rolled out through the corridor he could see through a small glass pane. Sherlock lay on it, an oxygen mask on his face, an I.V drip in his arm and some heart monitoring wires stuck to his chest. All normal things after an operation, his doctor brain told him as his eyes scanned the rest. Catheter was in place, Sherlock would hate that so he wouldn’t draw attention to it. But there was nothing extra, nothing that would suggest complications, and the heart monitor was beeping steadily.

Mycroft’s hand on his shoulder snapped him out of his staring and he realised there was nothing there anymore. His legs chose that moment to give out but Mycroft had him, was saying something soothing. Then the doctor walked over to them and John rushed to his feet.

“How is he?” he asked loudly. Almost but not quite grabbing the Doctor’s coat. The man smiled as if he were used to the behaviour.

“For now he is out of immediate danger. But he is going to be here for at least three days. You can go and see him if you want to, but the medication, and the morphine will make him unlikely to remember that you did.”

“I want to see him. I don’t care.”

The doctor gave him a look. “Do you think you can keep him in the hospital this time? I understand he went walking last time. Through no fault of yours I’m sure, but he really needs to be kept here.”

There was some slight sarcasm to the doctors voice, or at least John heard some and bristled.

Mycroft was beside him then and he nodded to the doctor as if they passed every day. “Which room?” he inquired in that impeccable British accent of his, effectively cutting off any and all further conversation.

“801,” the doctor answered, nodding back at the taller man and Mycroft led John towards his brother’s room.

“You first, it will be you he wants to see.”

“But you-“

“Promised him three days. I can see from here, where he cannot see me.”

John nodded with all his emotion in his eyes. Mycroft sighed. “He chose well in you Watson. He really did.”

*

John didn’t hear what Mycroft had said as he was opening the door and taking in the scene before him. Sherlock looked alright. His eyes were open though they were minus that little spark that said everything would be ok.

“John?” Sherlock asked, and it broke John’s heart to hear that tiny whispering rasp where once there had been a full blooded baritone. He hurried to Sherlock’s side, aware the elder Holmes was watching from the blind covered window.

“Sherlock, its ok,” he hushed as the detective was trying to sit up, and fight with the wires that were preventing him from doing so. “Just rest for one minute will you?”

John was surprised when Sherlock stopped and lay back on the pillow. He hadn’t thought that it would be that easy. A heavy feeling settled in his stomach and lay there like a lead weight. If Sherlock was this compliant. Something had to be wrong.

*

Sherlock hated this, he hated the wires and above all he hated the catheter. He was getting out of this bed now and blast the consequences.

John had come in then, and he had stilled and looked at the man. He looked worn, ragged and a complete shell of his former self. But then Sherlock was starting to understand that the emotions that stirred within the being named John Hamish Watson were always and every time present in his appearance. He started to struggle again against the wires, he wanted to be up. To show John that everything was fine.

John’s voice broke through his struggles like the shards of glass had cut through his flesh. He lay back and took a huge breath, digesting the pain as well as the revelation that John was more damaged by this than he had originally thought.

He met the grey blue eyes of his only friend in the world and forced a smile to his face. “Everything is good. I’m alright,” he said and tapped his chest, wincing but avoiding looking sheepish at his own stupidity.

John smiled and softened his eyes as he put a hand to Sherlock’s head to feel his temperature. He was rather warm, but then again John knew that Sherlock was always rather warm to touch. He would have to consult Mycroft on the proper body temperature for a Holmes. That thought brought a small smile to his face as Sherlock pushed his hand away.

“When are we going home? I need to look over the evidence that Lestrade-” he trailed off as John was still smiling but shaking his head.

“We are staying here,” he said, and his face turned stubborn as Sherlock opened his mouth to argue. “We,” he stressed the pronoun “are staying right here. Together.”

Sherlock blinked. He hadn’t expected that and started to shake his head. “There is nowhere for you-” he stopped again as John flopped down in the chair. He looked like he was ready to stay for the long haul. “Sherlock, let Mycroft come see you before he leaves us alone. He’s worried.”

Sherlock looked up above John’s head to where he could see the shadow of the elder Holmes. He frowned but John cleared his throat and Sherlock sighed. There really was something going on with him lately. He would never usually have given a damn. Then again, Mycroft would usually be inside the room instead of outside. So maybe something was happening outside of him that he would have to look into later. “Alright, five minutes.”

Mycroft must have been listening as he walked through the door immediately and came up to the bed. He read the chart as John had failed to do so and hmm’d to himself. Then he looked up to his little brother. “You’re worse than that last time. Do me a favour and stay in bed this time yes?”

His tone was light but Sherlock knew the worry that he could see in those eyes wasn’t feigned. “Ah, I guess so. John won’t be letting me out anytime soon anyway,” he said sulkily and Mycroft chuckled.

“Finally found someone who can control the ever evasive Sherlock?”

John looked up and blushed. Then he coughed and stood up. “I’ll go get tea.”

“Sugar!” Sherlock yelled as his partner made a hasty retreat. He glared at Mycroft then and hissed. “You made him leave.”

Mycroft sighed and sat down with his brother on the bed and put an arm about his shoulders in a very uncharacteristic display. “You scared me Sherlock,” he whispered and Sherlock nodded.

“I know. But you don’t get scared. You’re the whole English government.”

Mycroft smiled. “And sometimes, I’m just Mycroft Holmes, brother to Sherlock.”

Sherlock leant his head against Mycroft’s shoulder. It was comfortable there but he found he would rather it be John. Either way his brain turned over into tickover mode, chugging through the clues he knew about, the scenes and other bit of information pertinent to the case without his conscious thought and he slipped into sleep.
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Brilliant Minds