Author's note:
These characters belong fully to their author Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the plot of this fic is based on the amazing script for the third episode of the third season of the BBC series based on the book. I DO NOT OWN NOTHING EXCEPT THIS STORY.
Anyway, this is my first fanfic ( ! ) so plz be gentle ;)))) . Comment if you liked it (or not ) and tell me which was your favourite season!
The nurse smiled at Mycroft. "You are doing a very good thing sir. He hasn't spoken to anyone except the nurses since he came back from his… trip. Had as worried sick that Mr. Holmes" She led him down a long corridor and a few moments later she stopped in front of a small brown door. "In you pop now!" she said cheerily and left the way she came.
Mycroft sighed and straightened his tie. I could turn away and leave.
"He hasn't spoken to anyone except the nurses…"
He looked intently at the door. And opened it.
The first thing he saw was Sherlock. He was sitting in a chair, back turned to the door where Mycroft currently stood, looking at the window. He had an IV attached to his left hand and he was wearing his hospital robe.
Mycroft stepped forward. Sherlock didn't stir.
"Have you made a list? "
"On the table" came Sherlock's reply. Mycroft ignored how tired his voice sounded and walked to the table. On it was a small piece of paper written in Sherlock's handwriting.
It was a list of all the medication Sherlock had to take every day and the exact dosage. Mycroft's stomach clenched. It was a lot.
"Well. We are I suppose lucky you are alive, even after that stunt you did."
No reply.
"I didn't think you cared about the Watsons enough to risk your life about them." He paused. "But then again, you were always quite stupid." He said daring his little brother to answer to him.
"If you came here to mock me brother, I may suggest leaving. I'm a little tired to play your game now. "
Pleased that he'd answered, Mycroft turned to face his brother.
For a moment he froze completely.
Skin an unhealthy pale color, eyes hollow and tired and head slightly leaning forwards.
Mycroft felt like he had been punched hard in the face. His younger brother.
He quickly composed himself. Sherlock's eyes were studying him, waiting for some sort of reaction to his appearance.
"The nurse told me you never finish your meals." He eyed Sherlock, his gaze travelling from his face, to the IV, then back to his face.
Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "I merely have no appetite."
"Yes, well some good it's been doing you" said Mycroft crossly. He was getting mad at Sherlock. For not eating his food. For looking terrible. For being shot. For having Mycroft to stand there and pretend that it's not more than a lost appetite.
"Well, when there is a hole in your stomach, you don't feel like eating" snapped his brother
"If you had been more careful there wouldn't even be a hole in your stomach in the first place" yelled Mycroft
Sherlock's eyes narrowed.
"Well I'm sorry I got shot, and I apologize for having a surgery and I BEG FOR YOUR FORGIVENESS that I have to stuff myself with so much medication, that I CAN BARELY STAY AWAKE FOR A FEW HOURS AND- "He paused and sighed. "You know what brother, just do me a favor and leave already."
Mycroft managed not to flinch
"Now if you will excuse me, this has been lovely, but I think I'll lay down now."
Sherlock made to stand up but with a gasp of pain he fell forwards. He would have fallen on his knees, had it not been for Mycroft who surged forwards and caught him. Sherlock groaned in pain.
"Sherlock, Sherlock wha-what's wrong?" he asked, panicking
"I'm fine it's okay" muttered his younger brother. He tried to stand up but he yelled in agony and fell limp in his brother's arms again, shaking.
They stood like that for a couple of minutes in silence, the only sound in the room being Sherlock's unsteady breaths. Mycroft let him lean against him holding him by the arms and waist gently, so as not to hurt him.
He began to feel sick. He could feel every single one of his brother's ribs. He had already known that Sherlock was thin but right now, he felt so skinny and fragile, it made him hate himself for yelling at him, while being like this before.
I have to stuff myself with so much medication, that I can barely stay awake for a few hours
"I am sorry Sherlock, I didn't mean to shout at you like that…" he whispered in his brother's hair
"I just- I care about you, and you go around messing with all sorts of scum and I- I was so worried when John called and said you were having a surgery because you were shot in the stomach. And then they call me from the clinic, telling me you had somehow managed to escape through a window in you room and-" he stopped. It had just came out of his mouth, everything he had been keeping inside him this past week.
He had never spoken to his brother like that. Never.
"Thank you, brother mine." came a soft reply.
So Mycroft just held him and held him close to him, his arms around his brother's body shielding him from the pain and all the bad in the world, like he had always should have done. And they stood like that as close to each other as they had ever been when the nurses came and told Mycroft to go and sedated Sherlock because he had worn himself out yelling , but before the drugs took complete effect Mycroft heard him say: I needed that.