He inhaled and regretted immediately that he had. A sharp pain spread from where his lungs had been. He thought that it did not feel so different from fire, a burning sensation grabbing the whole of his body. Spontaneous combustion sprang to his mind and he would have snickered at that had it not been for the terrifying pang that seemed to tear apart his ribcage. He found it almost impossible to breathe. Gasping for air he allowed his head to drop back onto the ground. The pain in his temples felt blue. God. This was hardly bearable. He forced his eyes shut and felt warm. John kept saying his name. Over and over again. John was there. He did not have to be afraid. Sleeping time. He would allow himself to rest. Dying felt. Good. His body felt numb and heavy. So peaceful and quiet, he thought. And then he passed out.
He came to in hospital, harsh white light blinding him. As his lashes fluttered angrily, he heard a muffled voice say his name over and over again. Edgy. He also felt a hand on his. In his. And he smiled. I'm dead, he thought, and, this is not as bad as I thought. John. Must be John. Panic washed over him when he realized that it could be anybody who had taken his hand. He had to be sure. He had to see. Slowly he opened his eyes to the world to find his brother watching him with a frown. He looked worried and Sherlock tried to deduce the reason why. Mycroft had not shaved. His hair was greasy, his shirt and collar rumpled as if he had slept in his clothes. His skin was of the greyish complexion common in grievers. Ah. Hospital. That was it. Mycroft had been looking after him. Something had happened and he had got himself here. And Mycroft worried. But now he smiled his peculiar little smile. Sherlock smiled back and let his hand relax into the touch, "My-"
Red. This pain was red. He felt the fire burn his insides and numb his body. And he did not understand.
"Don't. Speak," the older Holmes reasoned from somewhere far away. Why not speak? What's the matter?
"You got shot," the man gulped and pouted disapprovingly, "Three bullets, Sherlock. You lost a lung. Pneumothorax and pleural effusion, they call it. Your chest will feel sore for a while. That's the drainage. Your breathing when you speak is. Irregular. That's why it hurts. Nothing to worry about," the wicked little smile was back in place and Sherlock's curious eyes narrowed, "Then there's the injury to your. Groin. Clean shot through the triangle. Torn ligament. Burst vessels. Similar to a bad case of hernia. Only that this will probably cause a limp. And then your shoulder," Mycroft paused dramatically to revel in his younger brother's reactions, "Joint's dislocated. Moving your arm might come a bit jerky at first," Mycroft finished and sat back reading Sherlock's thoughts. A limp! And an odd arm! He knew his brother could take the pain and he knew as well that he would accept the scars. But moving without his habitual smooth elegance was just not his style.
"Good to have you back, though. We were getting a bit anxious. It's been two weeks after all."
"Two," Sherlock gasped. Ah. Here we go again. Stupid. Sherlock closed his eyes and resolved to not speak again. Ever. But he held on to Mycroft's hand.
It was one of the rare moments in his life in which Sherlock Holmes was glad to have a brother like Mycroft. And one of those rare moments in Mycroft's life that he was able to watch his little brother with honest concern.
"You haven't asked about John," Mycroft resumed after a while, "I believe that you settled things with him?" Sherlock did not stir but his skin seemed to grow even paler.
"He's been provided for. I know it's only of little comfort, but we did the best we could," Mycroft ignored the stray tear on Sherlock's cheek, "He'll be fine."
Sherlock barely listened. He could not fight the tears. He felt weak and defeated. His own arrogance had robbed him of what had become most precious in his life. He had lost. And he was all alone again. His chest heaved visibly but he tried to appear as non-plussed as usual. After all, he had agreed to the bargain. It had been either this. Or his and John's death. John's death. It had been that which made the difference. He was used to risking his life. He could never risk John's. And so he had agreed to getting shot. He had agreed to dying. So that John might live. Without him.
"Where-," he had croaked and Mycroft had understood. His brother was strong. He would mend. Yet, he was certain he knew what John meant for Sherlock. He was sure that their separation would leave much bigger scars than the wounds would. But he'd get by eventually. They both would.
"Italy," Mycroft said and Sherlock nodded, "not that far away, is it? Place is called. Sentignano. Near Florence. Rather remote. You'll be settled into a snug villa. Hardly any close neighbours. One very reliable housekeeper. I'm afraid you will be travelling light. But there'll be turtlenecks and jeans at the house. Charmingly ... rustic," Mycroft Holmes sneered. Sherlock nodded again. Italy. Well, this wouldn't be too bad, he supposed.
"When-," Sherlock fought the terrible headache and nausea.
"A fortnight from now, I'm told. We'll keep you under surveillance. You should be strong enough for the journey by then," Mycroft stated and added, "I don't envy you. Being dead is likely to be most exhausting."
Sherlock opened his eyes and just stared, a very faint movement of his lips indication his gratefulness. And Mycroft saw.