Author's Note: This is my second fic in this fandom and I've again deftly avoided writing Sherlock's voice. In my view, he's the deep end and I'm still dog paddling. But I had him text in my last fic and moan in this one so I'm making progress…baby steps, y'all.
SWEET DREAMS ARE MADE OF THESE
The sound of medical equipment running in a hospital room has a tendency to remind one just how fragile life is. Breath, reduced to the swoosh of a respirator's bellows. The essential pumping of blood through the body, nothing but beeps and numbers on a screen. Alarms when it all goes wrong, unnatural silence when all goes well. Except that, in a hospital room, the word "well" takes on a different meaning.
Mycroft stood mannequin-like in Sherlock's hospital room, listening to the sounds which were helping to keep his little brother in the land of the living. The man himself was also still, but in a different way than Mycroft. The latter didn't move because his mind was stuttering through the new reality before him—Sherlock, shot; Sherlock, potentially dying; Sherlock, shot. For Sherlock's part, his body had all the animation of a wax dummy as it reeled from the impact of a quarter inch hole being punched through his chest.
They both might have held their positions for who knows how long had the need to investigate and act on the shooting not broken into Mycroft's thoughts. He didn't know who shot Sherlock, and didn't like not knowing. Whoever it had been might come back for another try. No matter how much security Mycroft laid on, people could be bought, weapons could fail. It was even possible that someone could outthink him, although the idea would be laughable under different circumstances. In any event, the best protection for Sherlock would be to have the threat neutralized. Extreme prejudice would be satisfactory indeed.
Even as he debated strategies for proceeding, something disturbingly close to sentiment drove Mycroft to step next to his brother's bed. At that distance, he could clearly see Sherlock's chest rise and fall, a comforting sight notwithstanding the sizable just off-center bandage (so close to the heart) and central line running under the skin.
Sherlock's breath caught, making the blood pressure readings on the device next to his bed race up alarmingly. Mycroft reached for his arm out of instinct, grabbing his brother before he could figuratively fall (again).
Sherlock moaned and his eyes opened slightly, but with no sign of focusing or the brilliant mind behind them.
"Sherlock," said Mycroft sharply.
Sherlock moaned again, louder this time. His breathing became irregular and the heart monitor began to beep wildly. He tried to toss his head, seemingly agitated by the oxygen mask on his face.
"Sherlock, stop," Mycroft ordered. Sherlock didn't comply and Mycroft knew they'd be joined shortly by hospital staff. For some reason he didn't want to examine closely, he didn't want that. All that noise and busyness would burst what felt like a bubble containing only himself and the man lying before him.
How to calm his brother before medical assistance became necessary?
Mycroft leaned close to Sherlock's face and lowered his voice. "William," he said.
No response.
"William, brother mine, relax," Mycroft whispered. "It's just a dream."
This was memory coming to life. When Mycroft and Sherlock had been little (and Sherlock had been William), bad dreams plagued them both. For Mycroft, they were often of dark things crowding him with vague menace, not unlike the real threats he faced every day as an adult. For Sherlock, the monsters had been more concrete—evil beings who threatened and bullied him or, on occasion, his dog or family members. Sometimes, when he was very young, he'd bring the house down with his screaming.
Mummy and Father could help, of course, although their solutions tended to physical comforts. Rocking, holding Sherlock, rubbing his back-all useful soothers but ones which failed to completely banish his fears. What did work more often was Mycroft's voice, saying over and over again that it had just been a dream, nothing that could really cause any permanent damage after all.
That voice was one that Mycroft found again as he leaned over his brother's hospital bed. Sherlock settled slightly at its sound.
"My…," he mumbled. "I hurt." Mycroft closed his eyes briefly.
"Yes, William, I know it seems that way, but it's just a dream. Nothing to be afraid of. You'll wake up tomorrow and…". Mycroft paused. Going the path of telling Sherlock that the pain in his body was all in his head might not be the best choice. Not that a lie wasn't useful now and then, but it might simply not be effective in this instance.
Having a bullet enter then be forcibly pulled from your body was on a different plane than a scraped knee. Never having been shot himself, Mycroft couldn't be certain whether the agony could be ignored in favor of a pretty distraction. But since no other options presented themselves (other than calling for morphine, which he was still oddly reluctant to do), Mycroft forged on.
"It will be Christmas. And this year, no relatives or family friends to contend with. You and I will have the entire day to go on adventures, and read by the fire, and eat all the sweets we want. Mummy and Daddy will have bought us presents. Of course, they'll try to tell us that they came from Father Christmas, but we'll know better. Even so, we'll let them believe they've fooled us just this once, it makes them so happy."
The numbers on Sherlock's various monitors steadied.
"Then on Boxing Day, William, we'll all go to London. You know you love the city. We'll take a crime tour of the Thames, then see the pirates exhibition at the Royal. We can ride in cabs and drive past the palace…you can even thumb your nose at it again, childish though that may be." Mycroft remembered all too clearly when Sherlock had done that exact thing on a childhood trip. Looking back, that ridiculous behavior foreshadowed the differences the brothers would grow up to have—one, devoted to Queen and country; the other, scornful of authority and all its trappings.
Sherlock's softening breath caught Mycroft's attention. It appeared that his brother was falling into a peaceful sleep.
"You need your rest for all the excitement we'll have, William. So sleep well…it was all just a dream. Nothing to worry about anymore." Mycroft straightened. Sherlock's defenses were down, giving them both a rare glimpse into the relationship they'd once had and treasured. So what needed to happen next seemed a travesty, but couldn't be helped. Sherlock needed defenses and the best one was a good offense…
"Sherlock," barked Mycroft. "Sherlock, you have to tell me now. Who shot you?" It was like tearing off a bandage. Quick and unexpected was best—in his current state of relaxation, Sherlock would handle the question better. Hopefully, sleep would come back to him without a fight.
Sherlock's eyes snapped wide open. "No..." he moaned. Mycroft tensed, fearing that his strategy had failed. "No, Mary…".
There it was. But the victory was a bitter one. Sherlock's blood pressure had again spiked and he seemed distressed. This time, a nurse popped into the room without delay.
"Mr. Holmes, I'll have to ask you to leave for now. I've called the doctor and we'll be evaluating your brother's medications and clearing his catheters. That should make him more comfortable," she said.
"I understand. I will be back tomorrow, my security detail will remain in place for the night." Mycroft walked to the door, then turned back. The nurse looked at him impatiently, but he just couldn't leave without a word for Sherlock's suffering.
"Goodnight, William," he said softly. The edges of a smile, albeit a grim one, touched his lips. "Sweet dreams." Mycroft left the room, the rhythm of the medical devices fading behind him.
~Fin~