A/N: This is another translation of my story. I published the original some time ago, but decided to translate it as well. Might be a bit fluffy, though I tried not to make it too sweet.

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters and I don't make any profit on my writing, it's just pure peasure.

The Guardians

This wasn't supposed to end like this. It was an easy, quick action, they knew exactly when, where and what. Sherlock told them everything with the precision of a Swiss watch. Lestrade couldn't only understand why in the hell the detective had decided to act on his own. If only he had been with John… But no, the doctor had gone away from London because of some family business. Sherlock Holmes had been left alone, and when Inspector had called him this morning, he had recognized from his voice that his uncommon acquaintance was about to hug him for giving him an opportunity to leave his flat.

Right now he didn't look happy. To be honest, no one was happy now. The wanted rapist had escaped the chase and Sherlock had taken it as a personal insult. Before anyone from the police had managed to react, the detective had thrown away his coat and jumped into Thames after the fugitive. No one had wanted to join him, so Lestrade had taken the coat from the ground and the police cars had gone along the river. There was a place when the road turned to the opposite direction than the river and it was where the fugitive had left the water. The abandoned storehouse seemed to be the nearest possible hideout.

When Lestrade ran inside, he knew something had gone wrong. Sherlock Holmes, being both pale and green, went to meet the policemen, tripping over his own feet. He waved his hand towards some empty shelves to show them where to find their rapist, then stumbled again and popped into Lestrade.

"Idiot," snarled the Inspector. Sherlock was pale and soaking wet. Not very wise when there was ten degrees and wind outside.

"Q-quit-te r-reas-son-nable st-tatem-ment," murmured Sherlock, clinging his teeth so much that he was barely understandable and it was the first signal that something was wrong. Lestrade had a closer look and saw dark circles under his eyes and his cheekbones, exposed more than usual. This didn't take a genius detective to make the proper conclusions. Someone here didn't recently eat, sleep, and was now in his shortest way to get ill. The Inspector maybe wouldn't move a finger to make the detective learn on his own mistakes, but he pitied John who would have to survive it later.

"Go to the car, you have your coat there," he ordered. Sherlock, surprisingly, obeyed. Except the fact that he stumbled after a few steps and fell over. Now Lestrade knew for sure that something had happened.

"Sherlock?"

"Unf-for-rseen c-comp-plic-cation-ns," jingled Holmes, shivering even more than a minute ago. Just when Lestrade helped him up, he noticed the red stains left on his hands.

"Oh, shit," cursed the Inspector, taking Sherlock's soaking jacket and throwing it away. It didn't matter how expensive it was. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"D-doesn-n't n-need…"

"Shut up. Donovan, call an ambulance," said Lestrade, leading Sherlock to the police car. He saw that the detective had been wounded, but as long as he was on his feet, he needed to be taken to some warmer place. In their situation it was the car. The policemen knew what to do, Lestrade always took his best people on the actions like this one. Right now he had to take care of that one additional person who ensured their success and put himself into troubles at the same time.

"Sherlock? No, no, don't pass out," he said, when Holmes leaned on him with all his little weight. "Where did he wound you?"

"Here. And here." Sherlock showed his ribs and arm with an indifferent gesture, making an impression as if his thoughts were far away. He was bleeding, but Lestrade wanted to stop his shivering first.

"Ok, sit down," the Inspector put the young detective on the seat and covered him with his coat. Sherlock curled up involuntarily and pressed his hand to his side. "Johnson, give me the blanket and the first aid kit," ordered Lestrade, trying to bend Sherlock's shaking fingers, convulsively clasped on the coat, so he could see the wounds.

„D-do you alw-ways-s hav-ve t-this-s b-blank-ket?" asked Sherlock and Lestrade heard in his voice real curiosity.

"Everyone has," answered the Inspector shortly. He took some swabs and put them under Sherlock's hand, hoping that he was trying to stop the worst bleeding.

"Inspector, we need you!" called Sergeant Donovan. She and the other policeman were dragging the man higher than she was and he was just about to collapse. The rest of the policemen were securing the area, so the Inspector covered Sherlock with the blanket and went to help Sally. They made the man sit down and then Lestrade recited all the standard 'you are under arrest'. The knife in the man's thigh suggested that Sherlock did quite well. Great, we will have to explain it later, thought Lestrade unhappily before the ambulance caught his attention. The car stopped near the police cars and one of the officers directed the paramedics to the fugitive. Lestrade went quickly to them.

"We have another one," he said anxiously. "There, in the car," he pointed at his car where Sherlock was still shivering under the blanket. One of the paramedics went there and to the Inspector's surprise had no problems with convincing the detective to cooperate. Despite this, Lestrade glanced at them every now and then. After all, he was responsible for the civilians during police actions and Sherlock was definitely one of them. And he was here because Lestrade had asked for his help. It didn't matter that the detective came here on his own will, that he was an adult and responsible for himself, because… well, because this was Sherlock. Because of this, and John's absence, Lestrade preferred to keep an eye on the whole situation and rescue Sherlock or the paramedic if necessary. Most probably the latter.

He didn't have to wait long. Sherlock's raised voice could be heard despite the noise around.

"No, I won't go. You are not allowed to force me to anything."

"I can't put stitches here," replied the paramedic, staying professionally calm. "Don't be afraid…"

"I'm n-not-t af-frai-d," growled Sherlock. His jingling teeth ruined the effect. "Just-t n-no."

"I will be right back," sighed Lestrade and left Sergeant Donovan with the arrested man. "What's the matter, Sherlock?"

"I'm n-not g-goin-ng t-to an-ny amb-bul-lanc-ce," said the detective stubbornly. "No."

"The injured refuses to accept helpm I can't just force him," added the medic.

Right, an ambulance. The Inspector should have known that Sherlock wouldn't easily trust the paramedics from the ambulance. He was surprised it went this well so far, but this only meant that Sherlock wasn't in his best condition.

"Everything will be alright," reassured Lestrade and it cost him a surprised look from the paramedic. "They will take you to the hospital and maybe release you today," he suggested. Sherlock shook his wet curls in response.

"No."

"Sherlock, spare us…"

"No," repeated Holmes sharply. "Les-str-rad-de, which w-word-d don't you und-ders-stand?"

"I'm going too," tried the Inspector. Damn it, John, where are you? They would use doctor Watson's presence now, he seemed to have an influence on Sherlock and he was usually the voice of reason in critical situations. The voice Sherlock surprisingly often listened to.

"No."

Lestrade exchanged helpless gazes with the paramedic. He thought briefly that if Sherlock hadn't moved an inch from the seat, the medic must have had difficulties with putting the dressings. Sherlock himself hadn't collapsed yet only because he usually argued with the rest of the world, but the lack of interest in his voice proved that he was losing his strength. Lestrade could bet that the only sugar Sherlock had in his blood came from these awfully sweet coffees he kept drinking all day.

"How is he?" he asked the paramedic, trying to find a solution. Of course they could always force Sherlock to obey them, because right now he wouldn't have enough strength to object, but in that case Lestrade pitied the ambulance staff.

"He's stable, though he worries me a bit," answered the paramedic. "Two puncture wounds, one cut, needs stitches. Low blood pressure, first signs of hypothermia and… malnutrition, I would say, but there can many various reasons."

Sherlock ostensibly ignored the meaningful look Lestrade gave him. He closed his eyes and covered himself tighter with the blanket.

"Can we take him by car?"

"Home?" asked Sherlock at once.

"No, to the hospital," replied irritated Lestrade. Really, he could be worse than a child…

"If this is going to calm him down, then yes," agreed the paramedic. "But straight to the hospital."

"Did you hear, Sherlock?" Lestrade leaned over him, unsure if the detective was still with them. "You can either choose the ambulance or my car. And no, I won't call a cab," he warned.

"I'm staying here," murmured Sherlock from under the blanket.

"Police car, then," said Lestrade. "I will try to find you there," he promised, though Sherlock probably didn't pay attention to that. The paramedic went back to the ambulance, and the inspector took Sally aside.

"Take my keys, you will drive with Sherlock after us," he said and gave her the keys and documents. Sergeant Donovan looked surprised.

"I am to take him to the hospital?" she repeated, as if wanting to make sure she understood him correctly. "Why not by ambulance?"

"Because he doesn't want," sighed Lestrade. "And I have to go with the prisoner, so be nice and just do it."

"I have to nurse Freak, great," snorted Sally.

"Donovan," said Lestrade warningly. "Try to be nice."

"Why? Why me?"

"Because I need someone professional," replied the Inspector impatiently. "And someone Sherlock knows. Take him there and don't leave him alone, I will try to find him. He will need someone he knows, even if you don't like each other."

"Cheers. And where is doctor Watson, by the way?"

"At the other side of England," murmured Lestrade. "Keep an eye on him, I will call Mycroft Holmes."

Sergeant Donovan nodded unhappily and followed her superior with her eyes. She put the registration certificate to her pocket and went to the car. One glance at the consulting detective ensured her that Lestrade was right. One thing was when Sherlock Holmes showed off and drove everyone crazy, but it was completely another, when he was wounded and really needed help. Sally put all her prejudices aside. Her superior expected professionalism from her.

"Where is Lestrade?"

"He's going by ambulance," explained Sally shortly and fired the engine. "You're on my mercy right now."

"I see." Sherlock didn't move to fasten his seatbelts, but Sally didn't point it out, just reminded herself to drive carefully. That was why the ambulance soon disappeared.

"Can you go to Baker Street?" asked Sherlock suddenly. Sergeant Donovan saw with the corner of her eye that he didn't even bother to look at her.

"No."

"It was always worth to try," murmured the detective and went silent. Sally glanced at him from time to time. Sherlock must have relaxed of he was feeling worse, because he leaned against the window. It was his complete immobility that alarmed her.

"What's going on, Freak?" asked Sally. She didn't get any answer. "Erm... Sherlock?"

Suddenly the pair of blue, fogged eyes looked at her in complete astonishment.

"You used my name," noticed Sherlock. "Why?"

"Because we have an unusual situation, Freak," answered Sally freely. Something similar to an unsuccessful ironic smile appeared on Sherlock's face. "Here we are."

Sergeant Donovan was forced to open the door and drag Sherlock outside because the detective was losing contact with the surroundings. She should be glad they made it to the doors before Sherlock's legs gave up and neither requests nor treats made him get up. One of the doctors helped her take him to his cabinet. He must have been informed, because he didn't even ask anything. When he started unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt, Sally decided that Lestrade definitely didn't think about such things when he asked her to accompany the detective, so she went outside. She assumed that Holmes wasn't going to escape until someone would dress his wounds. But, honestly, who would know?

"Sergeant Sally Donovan, I assume," said a middle-aged man. He was wearing a full suit, leaning on an umbrella, and for Sally he looked totally out of place.

"Who are you?" asked the woman coldly. Then she realized where had she seen such obvious predominance and arrogance, and her question was redundant.

"Mycroft Holmes," the man introduced himself. "I was informed that my brother was injured," he added stiffly.

"The doctor is taking care of him now." Sally pointed the right door. The presence of Sherlock's relative discharged her from accompanying him, but on the other hand Mycroft Holmes intrigued her. Until now, all she knew was that the whimsical detective had a brother, but nothing else. She knew that her curiosity was almost nosiness, but she couldn't help wondering if any other Holmes would be more bearable than Sherlock. Judging by Mycroft's demeanor, she seriously doubted that.

"Thank you for your help," said the elder Holmes officially. There was not even a slightest shadow of emotions in his voice. Sally only shrugged her shoulders and went to look for Lestrade.

Xxx

Sergeant Donovan was right, the elder Holmes didn't stick to the hospital. In fact, Mycroft was now worried about his brother and irritated by his lack of responsibility and the fact that he had to cancel his presence on a diplomatic dinner which prospered to be quite pleasant. When Inspector Lestrade called and told him what happened, Mycroft only asked Anthea to make some apologies and went straight to the Bart's. The black car and a good driver allowed him to arrive almost with Sherlock.

Like probably all the policemen, Mycroft had already cursed John's trip, whose presence always made everything easier with Sherlock, and now would save him trouble. Doctor Watson was for the time being the only person whose care Mycroft trusted enough. Since Sherlock had his flat mate, the elder Holmes interfered less in his life. Of course, he still used his influences to spy on him, but he could save himself frequent visits at his brother's home. They usually fueled Sherlock's hostility, and few times even caused his removal. But today Mycroft's presence was necessary, whether Sherlock liked it or not. The elder Holmes waited until the nurse went out the cabinet, then knocked politely and went inside.

"Good evening."

"How can I help you?" asked the doctor politely, looking at him above the papers he was filling in. Mycroft glanced at him, and then looked closely at his brother. Sherlock sat on the bed wearing only his trousers and coat. His hair, wet from water and sweat, stuck to his triangular face, and he kept his left arm on a temporary sling made of his scarf. Tired, weak, alive, summarized Mycroft. The fact that Sherlock winced at his sight as usual was a good sign.

"I came to take my brother," he said. "As I understand, he has got every help he needed."

"Yes, of course." The doctor looked at him, surprised that someone could even ask such question.

"Why did you bother to come?" asked Sherlock with aversion. "Didn't have to spoil that evening. Dinner in Savoy, wasn't it?"

Mycroft didn't bother to show surprise, used to his brother's comments, but the doctor glanced with astonishment at his patient.

"They will manage without me," replied the elder Holmes "I guess I will have enough entertainment this evening," he stated ironically.

"Your brother will require help," said the doctor. "If you didn't come, I would insist that he stayed in hospital tonight, despite his reluctance."

"I told you I won't stay here."

"I know, brother dear," said Mycroft sweetly. "That's why I'm going to take you to my place until John comes back."

"What? You're joking!" Sherlock jumped out of the bed, but then paled and sat down equally quickly. Very weak, Mycroft corrected himself silently.

"Doctor, can we talk privately for a moment?" he asked, ignoring his brother. Sherlock should realize himself that few more such quick movements and he would not manage to stay on his own and would be forced to stay in the hospital.

"Yes, please follow me." The doctor led Mycroft to the doors at the other side of the cabinet, which led to a sick room.

Xxx

Inspector Lestrade sighed in relief. His prisoner was already tended and locked in a single room. Two policemen guarded him, so Lestrade could allow himself a little break. Sergeant Donovan informed him that she had left Sherlock under care of his brother and a doctor, but Lestrade wanted to check on him anyway like he had promised the detective. The information on the wall told him where he should look the right cabinet. Before he got there, to his great astonishment he saw Sherlock walking relatively quickly to the exit. His hand, reached protectively to the wall suggested that the detective didn't really trust his legs.

"Sherlock? Where are you going?" called Lestrade. He saw that the detective shrugged when he heard his name, but he didn't stop. The inspector caught up with him without effort. "Sherlock?"

"What?"

"Feeling better?" asked Lestrade calmly. Sherlock must have regained some strength if he was going out.

"Not so cold," admitted Holmes. "I'm going home."

Lestrade wanted to ask something, but the detective already passed by him and left. The inspector could see through the glass door that he got into a cab and drove away. Lestrade was a bit surprised that Sherlock left the hospital alone, but when in the next moment an irritated Mycroft passed by him, he understood that the elder of the brothers hadn't intended to leave the younger without any care, only Sherlock had done it in his way as usual.

Xxx

Mycroft was indeed in a hurry. When Anthea texted him that his brother got into a cab, he said goodbye to the doctor and went straight to his car. There was no point in running; Sherlock could have gone to only one place. Instead of chasing the cab, Mycroft could drive straight on Baker Street. And so he did.

When he got there, there was no sign of the cab. Mycroft took from his suitcase a set of keys he had made some time ago and opened the front door. There was no point in disturbing Mrs. Hudson's peace.

Sherlock was sitting on the third step, probably where he had almost fainted. He didn't even try to stand up, but he spoke as soon as he saw his brother.

"I'm not going to your place."

"No, I see you prefer to spend this night on the stairs," answered Mycroft adjusting to is brother's tone. "Sherlock, don't act childish, you know you need help."

"Not yours. Mrs. Hudson is at home," pointed he younger Holmes out. He grabbed the railing with his good, but shaking from the exhaustion hand and pulled himself up, visibly to demonstrate his independence.

"Yes, and of course Mrs. Hudson will help you get upstairs," snorted Mycroft and crossed his arms, waiting what his brother would do. "Be reasonable, it will be more comfortable on the ground floor at my home."

"No." Sherlock went up a few steps, and then let his brother prove his reflex, when he lost balance. Mycroft was prepared for that and caught him in time. Sherlock stubbornly tried to get upstairs, so, willy-nilly, Mycroft helped him reach the first floor. All the time a bit disgusted by the whole situation, he placed his brother on the sofa and then brought him fresh clothes and a green dressing robe. Sherlock took them without thanks, but he soon realized that his wounded arm hurt more while moved, and it wasn't so easy to change clothes with only one hand.

"Don't you think it's becoming a bit embarrassing?" he asked indifferently, when Mycroft, as stiff as he was, helped him put on his pajama.

"Shell I call for Mrs. Hudson?" retorted Mycroft, reminding Sherlock of his earlier comment and he saw with satisfaction that is brother didn't find an answer. "Is it possible to order something good to eat anywhere near?"

"Chinese a block away from here," replied Sherlock at once and smiled happily at his brother's expression.

"Something healthier?"

"At Angelo's, Northumberland Street." Sherlock laid down on the sofa and looked suspiciously on his brother. "Don't tell me we're going to have one of these family dinners now," he groaned.

"Dinner at Savoy, remember?" Mycroft reminded him. It was a better way to convince Sherlock into eating than lecturing him. Mycroft already came to terms with the fact that he would not spend this night at home. He covered Sherlock with a blanket, which got him an irritated growl, and went downstairs to give some orders to Anthea. When he got back, Sherlock lazily searched for something in the Internet, this time on his own laptop; John had taken his with him. Sherlock completely ignored his presence, so Mycroft went to the kitchen. He put the kettle on and was a bit surprised he still knew how to do it. He didn't remember when was the last time he made himself a tea. Or for his brother. Sherlock wasn't even fifteen when he last time let Mycroft take care of him like today. He as then only a lonely, lost and rebellious teenager and Mycroft often had an impression that he still was. But then he accepted his elder brother's help, now he didn't. When he put sugar in both teas, Mycroft realized that he missed that. Sherlock was the only person he ever cared for. Mycroft didn't lie to John when he told him that he worried constantly. His brother was a bit crazy, and situations like today proved that he didn't care for his health and safety. Mycroft also noticed that John's presence in Sherlock's life was very useful and eased his life, but on the other hand deprived him of the excuse that let him just come to his brother and see if everything was fine. Right now he had his excuse and he was going to use it, a bit surprised that he really wanted that. It was why he didn't call John, though he could have him in London in less than three hours.

Anthea texted him she was waiting downstairs. Mycroft rolled his eyes and went to open the door; apparently his brother wasn't going to repair his doorbell. This time the noise on the corridor attracted Mrs. Hudson's attention.

"Oh, Mycroft, dear, good to see you," she greeted him warmly. She must have forgiven him the case with Irene Adler. The elder Holmes smiled politely, then turned to Anthea.

"Thank you. You're free for tonight, I won't need the car."

"Just call, if necessary, sir." Anthea gave him a box with food, with her other hand still typing on her mobile. Mycroft had already stopped wondering how was it possible she never left her phone. Well, that was part of her job, after all.

"You're staying for tonight?" asked Mrs. Hudson curiously, when he closed the door after Anthea. Mycroft sighed unnoticeably; there was no way he could escape the old lady now.

"Unfortunately yes."

"Something happened?"

"Sherlock got himself into trouble, it will be better if I stay as John is away."

"Oh, God, poor boy," sighed Mrs. Hudson. "What did he do?"

"Nothing that should concern you tonight," Mycroft reassured her. The last thing he needed now was Mrs. Hudson upstairs, fussing over her 'boy' she apparently thought of as her ward. The elder Holmes was grateful she took her of both his brother and John, who was essential to Sherlock, but today he would prefer to be alone.

"Do you need help?"

"No, thank you," said Mycroft politely. „I can still manage my little brother. Good night." Saying that, he went back upstairs.

The food brought by Anthea turned out to be very tasteful, even though it came from a cheap restaurant which owner had a dodgy past. That Angelo must have liked Sherlock like the men from South did. What was more interesting, the detective seemed to like the Italian food. Despite that, they ate the dinner in silence, because they couldn't find a single subject to talk about. Sherlock never spoke willingly with his brother and their meetings usually ended like that – with them both being silent and counting minutes to the end of the visit.

They didn't even finish eating when Mycroft thanked silently that Mrs. Hudson didn't come upstairs, because Sherlock started shivering in fever. The bath in the Tames apparently didn't suit him well. The elder Holmes helped his brother reach his bedroom, forced him to lie down and then went to look for John's medicines. Half an hour later Sherlock was sleeping, and Mycroft went back to the living room. Make yourself at home, told him Sherlock ironically before he fell asleep. The elder Holmes didn't have much choice. He took off his jacket and west with a sigh, and made himself at home.

Xxx

John got out of the cab with a bag in one hand, and a cup of coffee in the other. When Mrs. Hudson called him last evening and told him that Mycroft Holmes brought a wounded Sherlock, he caught the first train and was back in London at five in the morning. Mycroft tried to reassure him he had everything under control, but anyway John wanted to be at home. The question about dosing some of his medicines sounded alarming enough.

Silently, because he didn't want to wake Mrs. Hudson, he opened the door and went up the creaky stairs. He peeked into the living room and almost dropped his bag in surprise.

Sherlock's coat laid on one of the armchairs, and on the other hung the elegant dark suit that could only belong to Mycroft. The fact that the elder Holmes could take it off was strange enough, because the suit seemed to be glued to him, but it wasn't what surprised John the most. Mycroft Holmes was sleeping on the sofa. He was disheveled and wore some loose pants and John's jumper. World was ending… He looked so not Mycroft-like, that John laughed softly before he went to check on Sherlock and see what troubles had he gotten himself into during his absence.

The end