"John. John, wake up."
John's eyes flew open. He squinted as bright light flooded his vision. His brain seemed to be pounding against his skull, and his stomach was turning unpleasantly.
Eventually, his eyes adjusted to the light, and his vision came into focus enough for him to see Mycroft Holmes standing in front of him.
"How are you feeling?"
John shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. His brain felt foggy, like he was trying to surface from a deep, deep sleep. "W-where…where 'm I?" he slurred, looking around him.
Mycroft sat down in a plush armchair near his bed. "St. Bartholomew's Hospital. You took a nasty blow to the head when you hit the side of the roof. Mild concussion…you'll probably have quite a headache for a few hours."
The army doctor closed his eyes as everything came rushing back to him.
Mycroft continued. "I found the…information you acquired in your pocket, by the way…you were quite right, John, there was more than enough information on there to incriminate the man. However, that won't be a problem now," he stated firmly.
John struggled to sit up in the hospital bed. "James Moriarty is dead."
Mycroft winced at the hoarseness of John's voice. "Yes, he is. I wasn't on hand when it happened, but Gregory assures me that the body that fell from the roof was most definitely Moriarty's, and that he was most certainly killed by the fall. In fact, I believe the body is currently residing in the hospital morgue, under the watchful eye of our own Miss Molly Hooper."
John grinned weakly. "I bet she's thrilled to be reacquainted with her old boyfriend."
Mycroft gave him a small smile. "Quite."
Silence filled the room for several minutes. Finally, John spoke. "Okay, out with it, Mycroft."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Out with what?"
John sighed. "You know what I'm asking about. You knew from the very moment you stepped into this room the question that first popped into my mind."
Mycroft nodded coolly. "You're very perceptive, Dr. Watson."
The army doctor rolled his eyes and snorted. "Please. I live with a Holmes."
"Really? And just by observing Sherlock, you think you know how both our minds work?"
John frowned. "Mycroft. I need to know. How is he?"
Mycroft hesitated. "He's not well, John." He looked down and began to twirl his umbrella handle between his fingers. "Physically, he is recovering as best he can. But psychologically…he's damaged, and he's hurting. There's only so much the doctors can do."
John leaned forward and put his head in his hands. "Oh, God."
Nothing was said for several minutes. John felt consumed with guilt. Why hadn't he gotten there faster, figured out a quicker way in? He was a horrible friend.
"John." Mycroft's voice was soft.
"He wants to see you."
John's breath caught in his throat. "He…he does?"
"Yes. As soon as you feel up to it."
John leaned back into his pillows with a thump. Sherlock wanted to see him? After all the mistakes John made, all the times he didn't see clear signs of where the detective was and how to rescue him?
He had to see him.
Immediately.
"I'm up to it right now!" John said, trying to mask his feelings of guilt, and he swung his legs out of the bed. He immediately regretted it, however, as a wave of pain crashed through his buzzing head. However, John was no stranger to pain, and there was no way anyone in the world could keep him from seeing his best friend.
"John, be careful. You've barely recovered from your own injuries…" Mycroft said, a worried tone to his voice.
"I'm fine!" he hissed, ignoring the dull ache in his leg. Psychosomatic, he told himself. It's just psychosomatic…ignore it.
Mycroft looked like he was about to protest, but the look John gave him was enough to quell any words that came to mind. He rose from the armchair and, walking ahead of John, opened the door for him. John, true to form, shoved him out of the way. "Bugger off, Mycroft. I can open doors myself, thanks."
Mycroft smiled to himself. "Room 221, John. Make sure he's awake before you go in."
John grinned crookedly at him. "221. How appropriate," he said dryly, continuing down the hallway. He stopped, however, when he noticed that Mycroft wasn't following.
John frowned. "Aren't you coming?"
Mycroft shook his head regretfully. "No."
John sighed and rolled his eyes. "Okay, this stupid feud has gone on long enough. I swear, sometimes I really wonder…"
"John…" Mycroft trailed off. Something in his voice made John pause. Did Mycroft look…upset? "I can't come with you. Sherlock…Moriarty did something to him."
John snorted to cover up his worry. "Well, in case you hadn't noticed, Moriarty did lots of 'somethings' to him."
Mycroft shook his head sadly. "I am well aware of that, John, but the point is…"
"What? What's the point, Mycroft?" John asked, feeling quite frustrated. "Because I'm really not seeing it."
If John didn't know better, he would have sworn those gleaming points of light were tears in Mycroft's eyes.
"He doesn't recognize me, John."
And in that moment, John felt his heart crack just a tiny bit more.
"W-what do you mean, he doesn't recognize you?"
Mycroft couldn't look John in the eye. "Perhaps I should rephrase." The knuckles of his hand were completely white, gripping the umbrella handle with such force John was surprised it didn't shatter. "He recognizes me. But, somehow, at some point in time, Moriarty warped his mind. In his mind, I am an enemy. I am someone he fears, someone he hates more than anything."
John's mouth formed a perfect O. "Oh my God. Mycroft, how…how could he do that?"
Mycroft shook his head sadly. "It's the same trick he used with that little girl during the ambassador case. Moriarty used an old video of me and his own powers of human persuasion to create a fictional idea of me in Sherlock's tortured mind." A small tear fell from his eyelash, but he brushed it away as quickly as he could. "The first time I saw him again…when we rescued him from that basement…he hit me, John."
John looked at Mycroft's face. Sure enough, there was a small, purplish bruise around his eye. "God, Mycroft, I…I'm so sorry. Do…do you think he'll ever recover?"
Mycroft laughed hollowly. "Oh, the doctors say he has a full chance at recovery. But then, I'm a very powerful man who can put them out of a job at a moment's notice if they displease me. Therefore, I highly doubt they were giving me an honest opinion."
John nodded gently. "I'll find out for you. Do you think…" he trailed off, unable to say what he was thinking.
Mycroft searched into John's face for the question the army doctor wouldn't voice. "No, John, you'll be fine. I'm sure he'll recognize you." He looked down at his umbrella. "Sherlock has too many good memories of you for Moriarty to destroy you in his mind. But me…as you know, Sherlock and I have never gotten along very well. It wouldn't have been too hard for Moriarty to convince him that I…was not a friend."
John gave him a sympathetic glance. "I'm sorry. I'll…I'll see if I can get through to him."
Mycroft nodded, a strange look on his face. It was only later that John realized it was the look of someone trying desperately not to cry. It had seemed strange, John later realized, because that kind of look was not one he had ever seen on the elder Holmes's face before. And one that he never wanted to see again.