Title: Responsibility
Summary: A dangerous case leaves Holmes badly wounded. Mycroft and Watson talk about him by his bedside.
Spoilers: For the first and second films. Please take note!

Friendship is always a sweet responsibility ~ Kahlil Gibran

Sherlock lay unconscious, as he had for the last two days. Bullet hole in his shoulder, left arm broken, ribs fractured, bruises and cuts hidden underneath stitches and bandages. John entered the room which he was beginning to grow sick of seeing, having spent so much time in it. So much time wallowing in the guilt of being absent while his friend was in danger. So much time feeling angry at Holmes for failing to remember to bring his revolver with him.

Instead, it had been Clarky who'd brought Sherlock to hospital. According to the tearful and distressed reports from the young lady he had saved the life of, Holmes had found her and her kidnapper at a critical point- Holmes had no choice but to intervene immediately. He had ordered her to run, twice, but she had been too frightened, too in shock. She'd stayed where she was and Holmes had been forced to jump in front of her and take a bullet to the shoulder to protect her. Presumably a rush of adrenaline saved him then, as he fought the kidnapper, and the girl finally ran.

She didn't know what happened after that, but it would seem Holmes had miraculously made his way to the steps of 221B Baker Street before passing out, into the waiting hands of Clarky. What Clarky had been doing there, Watson still wasn't sure, but he felt deep down, irrationally, that it should have been him instead. Ideally, he should have been there to shoot the man who'd done this before he could have laid a finger on Holmes. If only Holmes had brought his gun...

He saw Sherlock's brother, sitting in his place by Sherlock's bedside, and pulled up a second chair.

"You mustn't blame yourself Doctor, Sherlock's actions are his own responsibility." Mycroft said, without looking at him. Instead he was staring at his younger brother, his expression a mask.

"I know that." Watson said, wishing it hadn't sounded quite so abrupt.

"Besides, he will be quite all right given time."

John sighed, his medical knowledge coming to the forefront of his mind.

"We don't know that for sure. Bullet wounds are... difficult."

"Of course...an expert in more ways than one on that subject, I believe." Mycroft said grimly. "I suppose this brings back memories of Maiwand... must have been a difficult recovery for a man who once played rugby for Blackheath."

"You can see all that? Holmes is right, you are even more observant than he is..." John said in wonder.

Mycroft smiled. "Some of it yes, but not all. I took the liberty of having you thoroughly background checked when you moved in with my brother."

"You did what?"

"I apologise for the liberty doctor, but at the same time you can't seriously expect me to allow a complete stranger to move in with my younger sibling. Capable though he is, he has many enemies who would wish him harm."

John hesitated. He would at one time have considered Mycroft completely paranoid for thinking this way, but these days he knew Sherlock did indeed have a talent for attracting the attention of the most dangerous and devious of enemies. Besides, it took some weight off his shoulders to know there was someone else who would watch out for Holmes, besides himself. And, if he would once have chafed at the invasion of privacy, spending time with Sherlock had taught him that as far as the Holmes family was concerned, he might as well give it up as a lost cause.

He sighed. Mycroft continued.

"As it happened you turned out to be my brother's greatest ally."

John clenched his hand into a fist, continuing to stare at the pale, bruised, face of his friend.

"Not in this case." he said tensely.

"Please doctor, do not do my brother a disservice."

Mycroft caught John's look of confusion, and went on.

"I am his older brother, so I believe I understand what it means to wish to protect him, but he is not a child, Doctor. He may be 6 years your junior, but he is every bit as capable as you are, if not more so. There are times when he might need assistance, but he does not need to be babysat."

John turned back to look at his friend as he processed what Mycroft had just said. He hadn't realised that he was 6 years older than Sherlock...though it made sense. When they had moved in to Baker Street, John had been both to university and to war, but Sherlock had probably just left university. He had never been able to procure even a year of birth from Holmes, let alone a birth date. He could believe it, though. Right now he felt not just older, but old.

He realised that he resented Mycroft's comments. The problem was that he wasn't there enough, not that he was there too much.

"Are you saying that you had nothing to do with Clark being there?" he questioned, astutely.

There was a self-conscious hesitation. "I had an idea that Friday would be such a time he would be in need of assistance."

John sat up straight in annoyance. "I know full well that he's capable. I've bet my money on him enough times to know that. But it doesn't matter how good you are at martial arts and boxing if your opponent has a gun. And anyway..." John shook his head and looked away.

"Anyway, what, doctor?"

He swallowed. "Anyway I can't help but feel...despite everything... there's a certain vulnerability about him."

Something in Mycroft's eyes shifted. John hadn't expected Mycroft to understand - yet he clearly understood completely. John looked back at Sherlock, knowing that behind the closed eyelids were eyes which guilelessly betrayed his feelings, no matter how expressionless the rest of his face was.

Holmes was far from naive: he had seen the most macabre side of life, had lived through danger and trauma, explosions, torture, and the tragedy that was the death of Irene Adler, the only woman he'd ever loved. Even the culmination of his battle with Moriarty, propelling himself and the psychopath in question over the Reichenbach Falls... none of that took the spark of life away from him. Nor did his skill or courage. None of it seemed to harden that vulnerability in him - that made his opponents under-estimate him. That made him not Moriarty.

Mycroft, staring back at his sibling, said nothing for so long that John thought he wasn't going to. But eventually he spoke.

"He wouldn't thank you for saying that. But...yes."

It was strangely absurd. Holmes could beat Watson in a physical fight as easily as he could beat him in chess. There was truly nobody he'd rather have on his side than Sherlock Holmes, in almost any kind of fight. But his emotions, in their careless, simple honesty, were almost childlike. His highs were energetic and dramatic, his lows were self-destructive and introverted. He felt things strongly, and it was always just below the surface no matter how much he tried to hide it.

Watson admired him for his brilliance, but far more so for the humanity he couldn't mask, the driven compassion he pretended didn't motivate him on cases, and the shamelessness with which he pulled Watson in to his world. But that same humanity was somehow fragile. It needed protecting. His best friend's job was chasing danger, and if John wanted to keep him alive as long as possible, he needed to be there, every time. It was quite a responsibility. The funny thing was, John didn't seem to resent it at all.