The landlady in Mrs. Hudson is not thrilled when a muck covered, dripping wet, stinking, dusty John Watson came trooping back inside followed by two small children in much the same condition.
The woman in her instantly feels her heart go out to the impossibly small child huddled in the older one's arms. And the older boy is too thin for his size, watching everyone and everything like a wounded animal, the other boy-clearly his younger brother- curled so protectively against his chest. He freezes when she appears around the corner, going stiff and still, one leg back behind the other. Prepared, she realizes with an aching sorrow, to bolt.
"It's alright." John is saying, and he subtly lifts a hand to stay her. "This is the lady I told you about, remember? Mrs. Hudson? You've got a mind like a bear trap, Mycroft. I told you about her not ten minutes ago."
The boy relaxes a fraction, looking from her to John to her again. John shrugs out of his coat.
"Mrs. Hudson, this is Mycroft and his brother, Sherlock. They've had a rough time of it the last few days, so I've told them they can stay here for a bit to catch their breath."
"Of course, Doctor." Mrs. Hudson murmurs, noting how the older brother relaxes further at the doctor's calm, level tone. She takes the hint, giving a flash of a smile.
"You two look like you could use a hot meal." She says, "and a bath."
"I've got the second one covered." Watson tells her, "But I'm sure they'd both appreciate the former."
She nods, once, and disappears into the other room.
John leads the two boys upstairs, where he settles Sherlock comfortably on the sofa with Mycroft in a chair just across from him. The younger boy instantly whines when the warmth and familiarity of his brother's hold is gone, and John tucks an afghan gently around him.
"He can stay in the guest bedroom tonight. You both can." He says, as he checks the boy's temperature and the wound. "I'll show you where everything you'll need is." He turns, crouches in front of Mycroft. Instantly the boys sort of-draws back- and John moves an inch or so, until it's established he's not crowding the aloof young man and Mycroft relaxes. It's odd, for a child of any age to have such a real area of personal space, and more so for one on the streets. Most of the children he tends to have no idea what 'personal space' even means. Yet another reason why this boy is so unusual.
"As long as you two stay here, you don't need to steal or beg," He says quietly, "and in fact, if I catch you at the former, we're going to have a problem, you and I."
Flash of spirit in those steel colored eyes. "You're not my father. You don't even know me."
"No, I'm not, and no, I don't, but until that little one is healthy again, you're in my care. If you don't like that, you're welcome to walk out that door right now; but I will not allow you to be selfish enough to take him with you."
"He needs me." Comes the bark back, the boy straightening in the chair. His eyes are fairly blazing now, and it's eerie with how calm his voice and face are, like fire smoldering under wood. "You can't-"
"I can." He retorts. "I don't like threatening you, Mycroft, but I won't let you drag him back out there until he's healthy again. So you either accept that you've got a few rules to abide by, or you leave now and I'll send him to you when he can go. I'm fairly lax when it comes to rules, and I will never strike you, or even raise my hand to you. You're old enough and have been on your own long enough to be treated like the semi-adult you are. I'm not going to force you; it's up to you. But where I will not move is on the subject of that child."
Mycroft is heaving with anger, jaw set tightly. "Fine." He spits at last, and his hands are digging into the chair so hard his knuckles are white. John releases a soft breath; with intelligence and independence also came a rebellious nature. Not surprising.
"Good." He says gently, and dares to pat Mycroft's knee. The teen looks at his hand, then lifts his gaze back to John's face. Before he can say anything else, though, there's a soft groan from the couch, and a very small voice. The tone is pleading and plaintive, filled with far too much pain for such a young boy.
"...'Yke? Where?...."
The reaction is instant. The boy moves faster then any child his size should be able to, sliding off the chair and under John's arm. He's on his knees by the couch in the same movement, stroking Sherlock's dark hair pressing their foreheads together.
"It's alright, Sherlock. I'm here. Open your eyes for me."
A soft groan, and John pushes up, waiting by the arm of the sofa as the dark lashes flutter then crack open just a slit.
"Hurts. Hurts, Myke."
"I know, little brother. You're going to be alright. Doctor Watson's temporarily adopted us. He's tended to that wound, see?"
"Doctor?..." He doesn't remember, it seems, and he stirs restlessly, head shifting on the pillow. His eyes search the room, breath sucking in sharply. "I don't-hurts."
"Alright." John says softly, remembering the fever. "Mycroft, he's feverish and confused. He's not going to remember a lot of what happened the last few days, and if you explain, he'll just forget again."
"No, he won't." Soft, no anger in the words; but there is force there. "I know my brother."
"Mycroft, he won't be able to-"
"I know my brother." Mycroft lifts his eyes, lips thinned. "Do you think this is the first time he's been sick or badly hurt?"
John blinks, then lets out a low sigh as there is a knock on the door.
"Alright," He says again, more slowly. "Mycroft, that would be your dinner. Go on and let Mrs. Hudson in."
"I'm not leaving him."
It's four feet away, John does not snarl. "I need to be with your brother right now, Mycroft, and you need rest and a good meal." He places a hand on the boy's shoulder. "You're not alone anymore." He says, very gently. "You don't have to shoulder it all, not for a while at least. Let me take some of it."
Those cool gray eyes lift, search his face for a moment. From below, Sherlock has latched on to his brother, is shaking violently; and Mycroft gently, gently, disentangles himself.
"Sherlock." He says, brushing the back of his knuckles over the seven year old's cheek. "Doctor Watson is going to take you now. Don't be frightened, we are perfectly safe here."
"'M not scared," Comes the slurred reply, but the little face is pressed into Mycroft's shoulder. "Don't get scared."
John chuckles when Mycroft smiles, and easily moves to switch places. Small hands bury themselves into John's shirt, and Mycroft rises by inches until he is loose and the doctor, instead, kneels by the couch. The boy blindly, in the way of all children, takes whatever comfort is offered, be it his brother or even a strange adult; he's sniffling, but not, John notes, crying even a little. There's something vaguely disturbing in that-a gunshot child should be crying, should be dealing with the pain in a far less adult manner then this little one.
Mycroft moves to the door and takes the proffered tray, closing the door with a foot and setting it down as quickly as possible, to return to the couch.
"No," John says, half amused. "You eat, Mycroft."
In his arms, Sherlock pulls away a bit, now blinking around at the room; his stomach lets out a loud grumble, and John chuckles. "Apparently you need to eat, too, hm?"
Sherlock's eyes find his at last, and instantly he blanches, struggling against the hold as reality returns. "Let go," He mutters, then, louder, "Let go!"
"Alright, alright, whoa, easy, easy-" John begins to settle him back onto the couch, watching in alarm as the boy begins to get himself worked up. Mycroft is off the floor in a blurr, moving to shove John aside with all the force an underfeed teenager can manage. (Which, surprisingly, is decently forceful.)
"He doesn't like to be restrained." Mycroft is saying, taking Sherlock's face gently in his hands. "Hush. Sherlock, hush. Stop that nonsense. Stop it, I said." Steel threads in his tone at the last, a sharp contrast with the gentle touch. The boy calms, blinking up at his brother, shuddering all over. "That's doctor Watson. I've told you we're safe here. He's alright. Now, stop behaving like a child. Do you think you can eat?"
The younger boy peeks around his brother, looking at John at last; more alert, more aware, but still foggy with fever and pain.
"Maybe." Comes the whispered reply. Mycroft nods, once, and stands.
"I'm going to bring the food, then. You let the doctor check you over, and behave, do you understand?"
John chuckles at the undeniably fatherly tone in the young man's voice. A big brother is a big brother, it seems, no matter the situation.
One meal later, and one bath later, John has both boys dressed in two of his own shirts while their own cloths are being cleaned. His shirt goes to Sherlock's ankles, and Mycroft's knees; and for the first time they look like the kids they are. Mycroft's shaggy black hair falls in his eyes, and his arms are around his sibling's waist, the pair curled up on the couch, talking softly.
"Room's ready for you." John says, after admiring the sight for a moment. Mycroft's gray eyes lift to him, and Sherlock half-turns, fever bright eyes still startlingly alert.
"Thank you," He rasps, but there is something wary in his eyes, and when he tries to sit up, pain creases his face and he falls back.
"Don't," John warns. "Mycroft or I will carry you there."
"I don't need to be carried!" His eyes snap open again. "I was shot in the shoulder, not the leg."
"The key words there, being 'I was shot'." Mycroft points out dryly. "I still mean to find out what you were doing to wind up that way, when you're feeling better."
Sherlock sets his jaw defiantly, looking away; his hand lifts to his wounded shoulder and he closes his eyes.
"Tired?" John asks, softly, and he shrugs, pressing his face into Mycroft's shoulder yet again, letting out a low whimpering sound.
"Still want to try walking?" Mycroft teases, hands rubbing up and down his brother's back. "Come on, Sherlock. Let's get some rest."
John extends a hand, and to his utter surprise, after a long minute, Mycroft accepts it, letting John haul him upright. He bends and scoops up his smaller brother, who grumbles tiredly.
"I'm not a invalid-I don't want-" And then a yawn, wide enough to make his eyes water, interrupts him, and John laughs softly.
"Sherlock, shut up." Mycroft mutters, but there is amusement in his tone, too. "And be grateful you're still of an age where people will pity you enough to carry you about like a lump."
"You don't pity me, you just like reminding me you're bigger."
"And older."
Another yawn is his only reply, squeaking at the end; Mycroft laughs softly and John shakes his head as the boy drops his protests to snuggle into his brother's hold, instead.
"You're going to let me stay with him, right?" Mycroft asks, suddenly. John stumbles in surprise at the question, looks down at the teen who is so tenderly cradling his exhausted, hurting brother.
"Of course." John replies, opening the bedroom door. "If he wakes up alone, it will do far more harm then good. And he trusts you where he does not- understandably-trust me."
"He trusts you." Mycroft corrects gently. "If he didn't, we wouldn't still be here."
And with that, the boy takes his brother into the spare bedroom, and gently closes the door. He doesn't lock it.
