St. Barts. Now. She needs you. -MH
Sherlock had gotten that next nearly 20 minutes ago. He still couldn't get up off the couch he had been sitting on since the hospital had called earlier that morning. His phone buzzed.
Sherlock, she needs you. Now for God's sake get down here. -MH
He couldn't. He couldn't stand to see her. It was his fault that she was like this. His fault that there was a bullet festering in her side. He had dragged her into all of this. It was all him. His phone buzzed again.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Now come or be dragged, it makes no difference. -MH
He sighed and heaved himself up off the couch. He stalked off up the stairs to John's room, barging in without knocking. He looked up from the book he had been reading, startled by the sudden appearance of the man.
"Sherlock, what?"
"We're going. Get your coat." he walked off, and John nearly fell out of bed, scrambling to get ready. When he actually made it down the stairs Sherlock was waiting for him. "God John, is it really so hard to get out of bed and put on a coat?" He swept past the shocked man, down the stairs, and out the door, John hurrying to keep up with him as they made their way through the cold streets of London at night.
Sherlock swept through the doors to the ER, ignoring the protests of the nurse on duty, and the sounds of John explaining. He walked past the doors of people he didn't care about until he came to the door of the one person he did. His phone buzzed.
Stop waiting in the doorway, I can see you. -MH
He walked into the room, the sounds of machines beeping filling his ears. Mycroft sat in a chair off to the left, watching him. He looked down at the body in the bed, a huge wave of a feeling he hadn't felt in a long long time washed over him. Guilt.
The girl looked to be almost 15, with black hair that fell down past her shoulders in subtle waves. She was pale, with defined cheekbones. Her eyes were closed, but when they were open she had ice blue piercing eyes. He took in the cuts down her arms, the few on her face, and the gauze wrapped around her right arm, hiding a large gash.
"It's not your fault, Sherlock." Mycroft whispered from his chair. When his brother didn't answer he sighed and stood up, brushed off his flawless pants and walked to the door. "Remember that." He left, leaving Sherlock alone.
He sank into the chair on her right, taking her hand. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." he told the sleeping girl. "I never should have left you. I didn't mean to, I didn't think. I was worried, I needed to get back to John and Mrs. Hudson. You said you could take care of it, but I shouldn't have believed you! I'm so sorry Ari, so sorry." His voice broke, and he put his head into his hands. "Please forgive me Ari. Oh God, it's all my fault."
"I forgive you." a voice whispered. Sherlock's head snapped up to look the girl in the eye. "I don't blame you Sherlock, I told you to go. But if you want forgiveness you have it. He would have died if you hadn't gone."
"But you almost died." he whispered back.
"But I didn't" she countered. "And if you keep this up I am going to have to ask you to leave. I can't have another brother who's a sentimental idiot." she told him, grinning, and sounding more like herself.
"Of course not, that's why you have Mycroft ." he told her, smiling slightly.
"Exactly." She pulled him into a hug, and buried her head into his shoulder. "I'm glad you came." she whispered, closing her eyes. "I needed you." A tear slid down her cheek and Sherlock held her while she quietly wept.
Mycroft stood outside the door, watching his younger siblings with a small smile on his face.
"I don't think I've ever seen him show emotion before." said John from beside him, having returned from a coffee run.
"It's Aria. She has always been able to see through people, even more so than we can. He doesn't have to hide his emotions because there is no point. Ari will find it, no matter how hard you try to hide. It made keeping secrets from her very hard."
"I can imagine." said John, shuddering while thinking about growing up with three people like Sherlock.
"But he loves her." said Mycroft quietly, more talking to himself than to John. "We both do."