Carer
Set immediately after the Great Game. Mycroft deals with Sherlock as John is taken to hospital.
This wasn't the first time Mycroft had had to pull his brother back from the edge, far from it. The younger Holmes had a very volatile relationship with the rest of the world, so clung - without realising, Mycroft thought - to those who didn't immediately bounce off his arrogant attitude and woeful social skills. The latter was a Holmes trait, unfortunately, one he had learned to mask with government training.
Upon discovering Dr John Watson was one of there people, he'd personally combed through his past, and had been delighted with what he'd found; ex-army doctor, would be able to cope with the health hazards Sherlock called experiments. Not the best family life, would have some sort of resistance to Sherlock's distinct lack of humanity. John Watson, he decided, was a diamond scattered amidst gravel, and a suitable candidate to stop the world's only consulting detective from pressing the "self-destruct button" that he was so fond of.
And because of all of this - how all of his expectations were met and bettered - he'd forgotten John was human. Mortal.
Upon hearing Sherlock and John had been caught up in a bombing, he'd left immediately without guards, protocol be damned. Their father was dead, their mother well on her way; he would not loose Sherlock to the whims of a madman, whatever the cost.
The swimming pool - or so his Sat-Nav claimed it to be - was no more, the structure entirely collapsed into itself, a frightening amount of rubble surrounding it. Barely breathing, he located DI Lestrade. Of course; any sign that Sherlock was in serious trouble would have the man there immediately. 'Where is he?' he asked immediately, not bothering with pleasantries - this was hardly the place, after all.
'Sherlock's in there,' he said, pointing to an ambulance with its back doors open. 'John's been taken straight to hospital.' Thanking him with a nod, Mycroft manoeuvred around the various emergency staff, heading straight to his brother.
Obviously, the younger Holmes' injuries weren't too severe, or he'd already be in hospital. But what he saw made his blood boil. Sherlock was sopping wet, curls plastered to his head. The numerous cuts and scrapes had been mopped up and most had stopped bleeding, leaving only angry red welts , and a map of bruises were blossoming across his pale skin. That wasn't what infuriated him - he was relieved beyond words that the younger man was in such a good condition, considering a bomb had caused the injuries. No, it was the vacant, glazed-over eyes and lack of movement that made him angry. He'd been drugged.
'Sherlock?' He got no response. Mycroft tried again, a little louder. Unfocused, dull blue eyes turned to look at him. Without the intensity and intelligence burning in them, they were horribly reminiscent of the years Sherlock had been on drugs, sometimes so doped up that he didn't recognise him.
'…Where's…John?' he asked, the pain medication slurring his speech.
'He's already been taken to hospital.' Mycroft said clearly, pleased to see the look of comprehension in his brother's face.
'There was…a bomb.' he mumbled. Mycroft was surprised at how quickly the drugs were taking effect. But, then again, after just over four years of been sober as a judge, Sherlock probably wouldn't have much resistance anymore.
'I know, and the perpetrator will feel the full weight of the British government when I catch up with them.'
'Good.' Sherlock's eyes threatened to close, and he swayed where he sat. Mycroft growled internally; whoever had drugged Sherlock would live to regret it. There was no way he was going to let him be shipped to a hospital; both brothers had been to more than enough when their parents medical conditions had been diagnosed. No one noticed him leave Sherlock and discreetly slip the ambulance driver a note with 221B Baker Street written on it, along with a large wad of fifty pound notes. No one noticed him pull away in his armoured car, heading the Sherlock's flat the await the arrival of the ambulance.
The ambulance pulled up less than a minute after Mycroft's arrival. The driver helped him manoeuvre a completely-out-of-it Sherlock up all the stairs, then left once they were at the door marked 221B, presumably to go back to the bomb-site.
This was all too familiar to Mycroft; finding Sherlock high on cocaine, or whatever else he took, and be landed with bringing his junkie of a brother back to whatever pit he was staying in. But he didn't trust anyone else with him, so accepted his position as Sherlock's unofficial, unwanted and unasked for babysitter with only minimum complaint. True, this time he had been doped against his will, and there was the worry about John's condition hanging over their heads.
Sherlock's eyes closed all the way the moment Mycroft deposited him on the bed. It was odd, seeing Sherlock' face so…calm. When he was truly asleep, his mind was still whizzing through puzzles and connecting pieces of evidence, and he was never truly resting. But now, his face was slack, calm. He almost seemed content, and it was safe to say he'd remember very little of the night's events when he woke up.
Looking around, he saw a reading chair in one corner. It wouldn't do to leave Sherlock to wake up with a headache, a patchy memory and no idea where John was. And it wasn't too uncomfortable, he was pleased to note. And so they were; one sleeping the sleep of the drugged, the other so exhausted it made little difference.
Sorry if Mycroft was OOC, but I think he tries to interfere with Sherlock's life because he's worried something will happen to him. Reviews make me happy J