Disclaimer : I DO NOT OWN SHERLOCK! D:
When Mr. Mycroft Holmes had told his assistant to keep better tabs, and up the security on his little brother, he never assumed it'd be his brother himself doing the hurting. The fall. The plummet. All of it. So quickly, Mycroft knew, Sherlock must have fallen through the air. How quickly, Mycroft knew, Sherlock had seen the end.
But no. Not every end is the final of a series. Sometimes it only opens a new chapter. That is what he was hoping on. Hope. What an odd suggestion. Hope could either keep you up on your feet, or destroy you.
Like the hope you have after your only little brother in the world, jumps off of a hospital building, and you think somewhere locked away in your head is the way to save him from certain death.
Mycroft took the first cab to the hospital, and he grabbed every note he had with him on the way. He sat in the back, not uttering a word. Not complaining about the wacky root the cabby took, and not arguing over how he should've had a private car. Not this time though. This was personal.
He did not run into the hospital. No. No such public display of concern would be held for him, as his footsteps clicked down the hallway to the Emergency Room.
He pushed the door open, shut it softly. The doctors and nurses, gathered around a bloody figure on a bed in there, didn't even notice his entrance. Only then did he let his eyes get watery though no tears fled.
He walked forward and tapped a nearby Doctor on the shoulder. He leaned forward and whispered in his ear harsh, quick words. The Doctor looked up with wide eyes, bowed slightly and ushered every human being out of that room. The peculiar thing about it was, all the patrons had there hands held in the air as if somebody were to shoot at them.
Mycrofts footsteps quickened until he reached the bed in the center of his room, and his words caught in this throat. Laying there, lathered in blood, bruises and dirt, was his little brother. Obviously past half dead, if not dead already.
"Dear god Sherlock, what have you done to yourself?" Mycroft whispered, slightly chocked up. But no. Composure and the force of his intellect. That is what would save them both. Mycroft from the grief of selling out his little brother, and Sherlock from death's clutching hands.
He reached out and pressed his fingers to Sherlocks throat, to the pulse point. Nothing. Not even a brief 'Thrum'
Words sifted through his brain. Too late. Not soon enough. Damn Cabby. Dumbass Sherlock. Should've never said those things. But those were quickly pressed aside.
He placed his notes on the table and grabbed a defibrillator. He reached, with his other hand, and tore off Sherlocks coat, scarf and shirt so that his chest was bare. He then pressed the defibrillator down on his brothers chest, and screamed, "Clear!" For old times sake.
Shocks, though not visible, ran up through Sherlocks body and into his heart. Jolting it. As if to say, "Get the hell into line and start beating again!"
Mycroft looked up at a monitor and shook his head when it remained flatlined. He pressed the defibrillators back down onto Sherlocks chest and his body thumped in the air once.
For a moment nothing happened, and Mycroft was moments away from shocking him again.
But then. Out, on the screen, a small jump in the flatline came up. Then another several seconds later. Then another, this time sooner. Soon the lines jumped up in a steady pace as his brother started to return to life.
Mycroft grabbed an oxygen mask off of the wall and put it over Sherlocks mouth, and started to pump air into the before dead lungs. Trying to get them back onto track also.
Mycroft took deep breaths, and then a phone went off in the corner. It had a sharp shrilling noise and Mycroft decided to ignore it the first time.
Ignore it the second time it went off.
Ignore it the third.
But on the Fourth time it went off, it was too much and Mycroft reached over with his free hand, still timing each breath he forced into Sherlocks lungs, and picked up the reciever.
"Mycroft Holmes speaking." He said, casually, if not a bit tired.
"MYCROFT! This is Miss Molly Hooper, I work in the morgue and-"
"Please. No small talk. I haven't the time for this." He said and started to pull the phone away.
"Why in the world do all you Holmes think I fail at small talk! WAIT! No. It's about Sherlock. Is he there with you? Let me in. I've got the stuff he ordered. Oh I bet he's just jabbering it up a storm about how he made me go get it and bring it to THIS room of all the rooms." Molly jabbered on, while Mycroft listened and stared perplexed.
He slowly reached over and unlocked the door, and let her in.
She stood there frozen for a moment. In her hands was a bag you put dead bodies in, white gloves, a cellphone, and a lot of gauze.
"Your going to suffocate him if you keep doing that." She whispered, bluntly, as she watched the oxygen mask.
Mycroft looked down and let it go slowly, and stared as Sherlocks chest rose and fell with strangled breaths on it's own.
Molly leaned against the wall and pressed his hand to her chest. "He just.. He just... said he needed a favor and that... I counted... Oh god I counted..." She whispered, her eyes glassy.
If you could've seen inside the elder Holmes mind, then you would have seen gears working. Fixing through the problem, and going through the equations.
"He wants to be dead." He blurted out.
Molly gasped and stared at him, "NO! I mean no of course not! Don't let him die!" She said and tears ran down her cheeks.
Mycroft sighed, slightly irritated, "Fake dead Morgan. Not really dead." He grumbled out, and grabbed the gloves, pulling them on.
"My names Molly." She said, still half out of it.
"Right. Megan. Come here." He said and motioned her forward.
"Molly." She mumbled and handed him the gauze. He cleaned the wounds slowly with a cloth the nurse had been using, and then started to wrap up Sherlock'swounds. Not the best healthcare in the world, but it'd keep him from bleeding to death, or getting an infection.
He then reached out and grabbed the body bag. In a matter of moments, Sherlock was inside, with a small opening in the zipper at the top to let air in.
He turned to Molly and wheeled the bed over to her, his eyes hard and cold. "You take him down to the Morgue. You put him in the room where nobody will look. Make sure he stays warm, do you understand?" He said, not breathing once as he said it so quickly.
Molly stared at him for a few moments, then nodded, "I'm not.. I'm not a doctor. I can't care for him like this."
Mycroft chuckled, totally out of the blue, "Good thing I went to medical school then, yes?" He said and walked up to her, grabbing the phone in her hand and entering his number, "You call me after exactly five minutes of bring him down there." He said and handed it back to her.
Five minutes. He could get medical gear together in five minutes if he needed. He was Mycroft Holmes. He could get into locked databases, where they experiment on animals. He could get into anywhere he wanted, and dammit if he wanted medical gear then he would get it.
Molly Hooper stared down at the body bag, but nodded and wheeled it out. The last thing she heard, as she went to do what she was told was the voice calling out to her from behind, "Sherlock Holmes is dead Molly. This never happened."
With Molly gone, Mycroft turned on his heel to walk out. He straightened the tie of his suit, and when he finally got home that night after spending many hours keeping watch over his little brother in a morgue, he would allow himself a small smile.
OKAY! :D I know this is quick and rushed. But, I just had to write it and I don't have the patience right now to make it into something longer. I hoped the characters weren't too OOC, I think I did well on Mycroft, though Molly might have been a bit. Before I get a whole bunch of reviews about the medical things being wrong. I am not a Doctor lol xD I don't know how that works. I am SOOO going off the show 'House' at the moment lol. So please enjoy, Review and tell me how I did :D Sorry for any grammar or spelling mistakes!
~Kes :D
