Mycroft found himself, shockingly, standing between the diminutive pathologist Sherlock often referred to as 'his' and a thief with a gun. 'Diminutive' in the sense that she was physically smaller than both Holmes brothers. There was nothing small about Molly Hooper's personality. She was not the shrinking violet that Mycroft once believed her to be, and he knew her to be a terrific driving force in his brother's life. He'd stopped by Molly's flat for a monthly check up on his brother's well-fare when he came upon Doctor Hooper being held up by the thief. It would do no good to startle the thief, and Mycroft did not like to risk Molly getting shot simply because the thief could not control the hair-trigger-
Crack! Crack! Crack!
Well. Damn.
Mycroft looked down, seeing bloodstains beginning to blossom across his waistcoat and suit. He looked up to see the thief turn-tail and run. He felt himself fall to his knees, and Molly had grabbed him, keeping him from striking his head on the floor. She was fishing through his pocket, finding his phone. He managed to get out his eight-digit pass-code so that she could dial Anthea. Anthea would know what to do. He must have blacked out for a moment, pain would do that, and he found himself trying to locate where exactly he'd been shot. Not his stomach, not his heart (obviously). His left shoulder burned, as did his hip and hand. He would have been amused by the thief's poor shooting, if for the fact that he was in so much bloody pain. The man would be dealt with soon enough. For now, he tried to focus on something to keep awake. Molly hovered above him, and he found himself quite touched to see tears in her eyes.
"It's alright," she informed him. "Everything is going to be fine."
He grunted, trying to sit up. "Call Sherlock," he pleaded.
"Yes I have," she sniffed, gently pressing his head back onto her lap. "The ambulance is coming, I told him to meet us at the hospital." Sirens were wailing in the distance, and Mycroft was sure he heard a helicopter as well. It all faded again, he turned his head, seeing Anthea come sprinting into the flat, and both she and Molly began talking at once as EMT's filled the room.
The London Hospital
A machine was beeping to his left, steady and slow. Blinking, Mycroft expected to see harsh lights and a nurse or two prodding him. Instead the room was softly lit by a lamp in the corner, overhead lights were off. The room reeked of sterile hospital, and his thoughts came slow and hazy.
"Sorry, there's nothing I can do about the smell," he turned his head, surprised to see not Anthea, but Sherlock at his bedside. His brother sat bunched up in the chair at his bedside, scrolling through his mobile. "I made them turn off the overhead lights."
Mycroft stared at his brother. "I hate fluorescent lights," he murmured, finding his mouth was dry, probably from the morphine.
"Yes I know," Sherlock nodded. He was still looking at his phone. "Molly says you stepped in front of her, when she was threatened."
"There was a robber,"
"Yes I know," Sherlock again answered, again without the disdain Mycroft had come to expect from him. Mycroft studied his brother's appearance. Sherlock looked right back. "Well, brother-mine, what have I been up to?"
Chapped hands, washed in water that was too hot, probably in the last fifteen hours
Clothing worn for almost two days straight, rumpled from running about London, and sleeping in the chair the past fourteen hours
Shoes, water stained, dried on a heater which was turned up too high, leather beginning to crack
"You found the robber?" Mycroft asked.
Sherlock nodded. "I did."
"I expect Detective Inspector Lestrade has put him away."
"If by 'put away' you mean under guard at Barts hospital, then yes."
Mycroft frowned. "Hospital?" Good God, the morphine was making him slow.
"Mm," Sherlock had pocketed his phone, picking up instead a magazine, flipping through it.
Mycroft was looking at his brother's dry hands still. "Your hands are dry." Sherlock looked over the top of the magazine, and there was something unreadable about his expression. The heart monitor's beeping increased, and Mycroft was suddenly afraid his brother had done something that he could not prevent the punishment of.
"Not to worry," Sherlock tossed the magazine aside. "The wounds your attacker suffered were self-inflicted. Lestrade has assured me."
"Sherlock." Mycroft's tone was soft, afraid for his brother, and too what he must have been feeling. Sherlock met his gaze.
Fourteen Hours Prior
The thief had left a clumsy trail, and Sherlock, with the help of Anthea texting him several CCTV access codes, quickly found him in an abandoned car park not far from Molly's flat. Mary had been with him when he'd received Molly's text concerning his brother. They had split up, searched the car park. Sherlock wasn't quite sure how it came about, he found the thief bending over a pile of things he'd pilfered from Molly, gun carelessly tucked into his belt. Sherlock must have blacked out, because the next thing he remembered was Mary holding him back.
"He's unconscious," she said when he struggled against her. "I called Lestrade, he's on his way." They looked at the unconscious thief, and Mary picked up the stolen items. "We can bring these back to Molly."
"You do it," Sherlock replied. He was looking at his hands, noticing a good deal of blood on them. He looked at the thief, cataloguing the wounds. None were fatal, but heads did tend to bleed profusely. "I'm going to The London."
Molly found him in a bathroom, scrubbing his hands, the water had long-ago begun to run clean. She very quietly shut the water off, turning him away from the sink. She hugged him then, head pressed against his shoulder.
His hands were still wet, and he said so, but she insisted he return the hug, so he did, wrapping his arms around her frame.
"I nearly killed that man," he said at last.
She sighed against him, sniffling. "I know. But he didn't shoot your brother to kill him. He wanted to get away."
"He would have shot you as well, if Mycroft…" here he stopped talking, not wanting to complete the thought. He would have lost them both, and he became keenly aware of the magnitude of the loss, of what it would mean to him. The scars on his arms seemed to tingle, and he felt himself suddenly aching for just the smallest dosage of anything. He was in a hospital, it would be so terribly easy to get his hands on anything, even if it was only pill form.
Molly must have felt the change in his body language, because she held him tighter, lifting her head to look up at him.
"Mycroft is still in surgery, shall we go and wait for him?"
"I don't want to wait," he began to make an excuse. He needed to be alone. If he could just slip away… but Molly was holding his hand, and he could see she had no intention of letting him be.
"Then let's go for a walk. Anthea will text us."
He let himself be led out of the bathroom, down the hall and outside into the freezing January air.
Fingers laced together, they started down the street. They walked. And walked. And walked. Molly took him down busy streets, the hum of traffic and tourists and shouting vendors all blurred together into a steady hum. She squeezed his hand, bringing him back to the present. She didn't talk, and neither did he. She didn't expect him to, that much he knew, and was grateful. He thought about his brother in the hospital, three bullets currently being dug out of his skinny body. Anthea had texted him briefly that Mycroft was still in surgery.
He stopped quite suddenly, and Molly looked at him, confused.
"We have to go back," he informed her. "I have to get there before he wakes up."
Molly frowned. "What for?"
"His room, Molly, obviously, my brother is very particular about things." She still held his hand, not quite sure if this was a ruse or not. "Text Anthea, find out what room they will be placing him in, and tell her to send a bag from his flat," he continued. She still didn't move and he rolled his eyes, sighing. "I'm fine, Molly. You may come and help me, if you wish to."
"I will," she said. "Just tell me what needs doing."
Anthea had told him she had reserved a private room in the hospital. While Mycroft was in post-op, Sherlock and Molly changed the bedsheets. Anthea had sent over a bag containing linens from Mycroft's house, pajamas, and any other items he might need. Sherlock had seen to it that the lamp in the corner was added, and insisted the overhead lights were off, once his brother was settled.
"He hates overhead lighting," he paused, almost smirking. "Unless he's interrogating someone." His shoes were wet from walking all over London, so Molly made him take them off, putting them on the radiator to dry. She laid down on the couch, scrolling through her phone. Sherlock took the chair, doing the same.
"Sherlock." Mycroft watched his brother blink, startled out of his thoughts.
He sat forward in his chair, feet on the ground. "They tell me your hand was damaged the most, and that the bullets in your shoulder and hip were easiest to remove."
Mycroft looked down, seeing that his right hand was nothing but bandages.
"Don't try and wiggle your fingers yet," Sherlock instructed him. "Unless you'd like the nurse to come running in and scold you."
The morphine must have been relaxing him because he felt himself smile wryly. "At least I'm ambidextrous," he said.
Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly. "You haven't lost any important fingers, just the last two. Maybe Mummy will knit you a glove." At this they exchanged grins, knowing all too well that as soon as Mrs. Holmes heard, she would be picking out a pattern and yarn. Sherlock was the first to sober. "By the way, Molly called mummy and father, they'll be here sometime around eight."
Mycroft blinked, realizing he had no idea what day it was, let alone what time. "What time is it now?"
"Just after five in the morning, you've been unconscious since yesterday. Surgery was about eleven hours, post-op was another hour," he paused for a moment then. "And yes, I am aware in the role reversal here. I simply never thought I'd be the one waiting for you to wake up in a hospital."
His gaze flicked across the room, and Mycroft followed it, seeing Molly Hooper fast asleep on the couch. Several delivery containers barely touched sat on the table beside her. Mycroft realized that she too, was still wearing her clothes from yesterday.
Sherlock glanced at Mycroft again. "I do hope you won't make a habit of this." Mycroft regarded his brother, about to inform him of just how many times he'd waited for him to wake up in a hospital bed, when Sherlock continued: "And I promise I will try to do the same."
Mycroft did not speak for a moment, not even bothering to try and convince himself it was the morphine that was making him cry (though it probably wasn't helping any).
"Deal, brother mine." He very carefully shifted, trying to boost himself up. Sherlock reached for the remote, adjusting the bed so he was sitting up. "Now, if you will be so kind as to wake Miss Hooper, you'll find somewhere in here, I am certain, my wallet, I should like you to take her for something to eat, you're both far too pale, and if you will be good enough to send in Anthea, I should very much like to speak with her."
"To put her mind at ease?" Sherlock asked as he stood up, fishing through the overnight bag by the chair. He looked at Mycroft, eyes twinkling with mischief.
"That or thereabouts," Mycroft nodded. "And if you dare tell Mummy, I'll see to it she makes you a sweater for every month of the year." Sherlock fairly grinned.
"Deal, brother mine."