It had been a long day for Mycroft Holmes. After a phone call with the Premier of the Republic of China, he'd had to look through various legal documents concerning the status some of England's most dangerous criminals. It was the type of thing that was routine for him.
It was not routine to receive a phone call telling him his brother had been shot.
Immediately, everything he'd been previously doing became unimportant. Immediately, he'd ordered a group of people-not the idiotic Yarders his brother always complained about-to go to the crime scene, assess it, view any available video footage, and, most importantly, to look for the shooter. Whoever it was would pay. Immediately.
Arriving at the hospital, Mycroft was met by a stunned-looking John. Gaze flickering over the ex-army doctor, he noted the blood on his sleeves; he was sending a text, expression frustrated as he typed. A text to someone whom he'd phoned repeatedly and who had not answered.
Mycroft's thoughts were interrupted when a doctor asked for the friends and family of Sherlock Holmes. He walked into the private room, John walking beside him, hating the doctor's expression, the way his hands behind his back, his posture stiff, his breath coming out in a sigh that said he was about to do something that he'd done before, but never became more pleasant.
"I'm very sorry to inform you," said the doctor, "that Sherlock has died. There was a good amount of blood loss, and by the time he arrived, he already seemed to be in shock. We tried to resuscitate him, but we were unable to do so."
John sat down heavily in the nearest chair, his eyes tearful, while Mycroft immediately refused to accept what he was hearing as truth. Lips curling into a scowl, Mycroft began to remark, "It's unacceptable-"
A young technician burst into the room them, eyes wide. "Doctor, we need you back here, now. The patient's heart started beating on its own again."
The doctor looked startled for a moment or two before shaking his head, muttering an apology, and leaving the room.
"Fucking hell," whispered John, head in his hands before sitting upright a bit more. "I want to go back there. I could help-"
"You are too close to him to be of any service medically," interjected Mycroft. "You will stay here and wait until we are notified he is out of surgery and stable, and he will be out of surgery and stable soon enough."
For once, John didn't argue.
Hours dragged by. Updates were given every now and again: Sherlock was out of surgery, and then, considered stable. Mycroft allowed John to go into his brother's room first. Somehow, he knew that Sherlock would've preferred this, despite not currently being conscious.
Mobile buzzing as John ducked out of Sherlock's room, Mycroft glanced at the phone, expression contorting into something in between rage and disdain. The shooter had been identified, and everything about her-past, pregnancy, name-had been proven to be false. She was detained currently, which was a relief, certainly. Looking up at John, he asked, "How is he?"
"Not awake, but, he's alive, so I guess that's what matters." He scratched his head, letting out a short huff of a laugh, remarking, "I've never been so glad to see anyone in a hospital bed. In a way, I'm not surprised his heart restarted like that. He's stubborn as hell."
"So he is." Mycroft paused before saying, "I'm going to visit with him. However, I ask that you stay here in the meantime. I've something to speak with you about after I see him, and I'd rather you stay at the hospital. Don't contact anyone other than your landlady or Detective Inspector Lestrade."
"I suppose there's no point in asking why, is there?" questioned John, and Mycroft merely shook his head. "Right, then." John was too weary to argue for now, and sat down. "I'll be waiting out here, then. Tell me if he wakes up."
Mycroft pocketed his mobile. "Of course." Silently, he stepped into the room.
Death was promised to everyone. Mycroft had never had illusions of anything else, and he'd never feared death in the least. Death was, just like everything else, a fact. Today, though, the elder Holmes had understood the reasoning for such fears. Today, it hadn't seemed illogical to fear something so inevitable.
The hospital room was quiet, save for the constant beeping and whirring of machines. On a the bed, Sherlock lay perfectly still, chest rising and falling slowly. He was receiving oxygen, antibiotics, and painkillers, amongst other things. His chest was covered with heavy, thick gauze, stitches hidden underneath the white material.
There was something painful about the silence. By this point, Sherlock should've made a snide remark, and Mycroft should've countered back: instead, there was nothing. When he'd finally willed himself to move forward, Mycroft sat down on the chair previously occupied by John, his movements careful. For some time, he kept quiet, simply studying his brother before he began to card his fingers through his curls the way he had done when Sherlock was younger.
"You must stop trying to help others, little brother. She certainly wasn't worth aiding, though, I imagine you thought you were doing John a favour. He cares for you, and loves you, I know; I wouldn't tell you unless it were a fact, and it is true. Of course, you must wait for him to say so, but he will in time." His voice was unusually gentle as he spoke. Licking his lips, he tore his gaze away for a few seconds before looking again at Sherlock.
When they were younger, Sherlock had adored him. He could still recall the quiet noise of Sherlock's bare feet pattering after him, laughing in delight as they played pirates or deductions; he could remember the look of hurt when Mycroft had told his younger brother that he was stupid for the first time, that he himself was the smart one, not Sherlock. When he'd gone to school, Sherlock had felt abandoned, and Mycroft had made it abundantly clear he wanted nothing to do with Sherlock. At the time, he hadn't.
"I am not one prone to displays of affection nor shall you anticipate such things, but I fear that you're unaware to what degree I care for you." Mycroft hesitated. "You should know, brother mine, that I care for you more than anything."
Quietly, Sherlock began to cough, fingers twitching slightly. Mycroft remained quiet, though continued to card his fingers through Sherlock's curls. Gradually, Sherlock began to stir, blinking open his eyes minutes later. For a few moments, Mycroft felt as if he could catch a glimpse of the innocence that Sherlock had possessed when he was young.
Sherlock's gaze wandered, eyes glassy. He stared at his brother for a few moments before seeming to recognise him. "What're y'doing here?" he mumbled dazedly.
Smiling thinly, Mycroft replied, "Just seeing that you are well."
"'course I am," said Sherlock.
Rolling his eyes and smirking, he nodded. "You always are. You needn't worry about what happened, though I doubt you remember what happened just now. Just know that things are safe, and that you had us all quite concerned."
Clumsily rubbing at his eyes, Sherlock processed Mycroft's words slowly. "Even you were worried?" he asked, tone skeptical.
Brushing the messy curls from his face, Mycroft sighed. "Even me."
Sherlock's eyelids seemed to grow heavy as he spoke, and Mycroft recalled that he'd promised to let John know if Sherlock was awake. After John had visited with Sherlock, he'd have to let him know who the shooter had been. It would be upsetting, but he would move on. Likely, John would move back into Baker Street with Sherlock once the other was released from the hospital. Strangely enough, Mycroft found himself hoping the two would hurdle over their fears and hesitations, and tell each other how they felt. He wanted little more than for his brother to be happy, and John was a good man, too. Still, there was much to be done before anything could happen.
"'croft?" asked Sherlock in a small voice as Mycroft stood, walking towards the door.
Surprised to hear Sherlock refer to him by the childhood nickname-it was strange to think now there had been a point and time where he couldn't pronounce the whole of his name, and so had used just the last syllable-Mycroft turned. "Yes, Sherlock?"
Staring at Mycroft, brows furrowed slightly as if in thought, Mycroft heard Sherlock murmur slowly, "It's good t'see you, 'croft."
Looking back at Sherlock, expression the sort that was only reserved for his brother, Mycroft gave a little smile, and turned to press a brief kiss against his brother's forehead. "It's good to see you, too, brother mine."