Thanks for the reviews guys. This is cross posted from LJ, full story is already up over there (username Lisson17)
Sherlock is bouncing off the walls when they arrive. Palmer House is in Mayfair, and it's big; as big as John knew it would be, but he's too tired and seeing the world through a pain-haze to appreciate the grace and grandeur. He struggles up the steps to the front door. He barely hears Sherlock's questions and statements, and then suddenly the world goes hazy, and it tilts alarmingly.
He's waiting for an impact, but it never comes. Instead, he feels warm, surprisingly strong arms wrap around him and carefully pull him close. For the moment, Sherlock is amazingly quiet, and as the world rocks as Mycroft carries him to a bedroom somewhere in the depths of the house, soft footsteps pad behind them.
The cool sheets of the bed on John's back are a blessing in disguise, and he works to control the remaining shivers out of his breathing. Both Holmes brothers stay in the room, and when John is finally relaxed enough, he opens his eyes. He searches out Sherlock straight away, because as much as he knows Mycroft wouldn't lie to him about his brother's health, seeing is something entirely different to being told.
Mycroft, of course, knows exactly what he's doing, and coughs slightly to hide his smile. Sherlock, however, frowns.
'I thought you were better.' He says, tone accusing. 'I thought you were being released from the hospital because you were better. You're not better.'
Mycroft coughs again, and John grins wryly.
'This is better, Sherlock. You should have seen me two weeks ago.'
Mycroft loses his smile, and Sherlock's frown deepens. This time, it's directed at Mycroft.
'You told me he was okay.'
The statement is flat, but John knows Sherlock well, and he can hear the concern so well hidden. So, it seems, can Mycroft.
'I told you he would be okay, Sherlock. John caught a lot more of the explosion than you did. It will take time for him to recover completely.'
The atmosphere in the room has turned decidedly cold at the mention of the explosion, and John shivers slightly. He has gone over the scenario in his head many times in the long, painful nights at the hospital, and although he has come to terms with what happened, he still feels the icy shiver that races down his spine at the mere mention of the incident that put him in hospital.
The conversation, apparently, has died, and Sherlock leaves the room. He's back barely a minute later, limping on his right leg and carrying his laptop. He settles in the chair on the far side of the room near the window without a word and starts tapping away.
John stares at him for a moment, then bites his lip and turns to Mycroft, who doesn't look surprised at all. It seems, in fact, that neither brother is going anywhere and Mycroft sits in the chair next to John's bed. It's very like the set-up at the hospital, but John finds he doesn't mind as a hand stretches out and captures his own.
Mycroft's other hand presses a small button on the wall, and he turns to John.
'Tea?'
John nods, as does Sherlock from across the room, and when a woman appears in the doorway, the button makes a little more sense.
'Tea, please Kate. And some soup for Doctor Watson.' The woman nods, and then disappears again. Mycroft turns back to John.
'Detective Inspector Lestrade will be around tomorrow.' He says, voice low.
'I've put him off seeing you in the hospital, but he's taken Sherlock's statement, and he needs one from you too.'
John tightens his fingers around Mycroft's, and feels his hand squeezed in return, but he nods rigidly.
'Of course. I had wondered why no one had been to talk to me.' His voice is flat, and he's caught up in his thoughts; he misses the look Sherlock throws his way. The detective narrows his eyes, then turns his gaze to Mycroft, and raises his eyebrows, motioning with his head towards the doctor. Mycroft narrows his eyes back at his brother in return.
'John, if you wish it, I will be there with you the entire time ' He murmurs. John looks up, pulled away from his thoughts, and he smiles slightly.
'Thank you, Mycroft.' He replies, and feels the long caress of Mycroft's thumb against his hand. Neither of them sees Sherlock roll his eyes in the background, but it doesn't matter, because the quiet is broken by the rustle of cloth, and the clink of china as Kate walks carefully in to the room and sets a fully-laden tray down on the table.
There is a swing-out table for the bed, and John doesn't even want to know where Mycroft got one of them, so instead he rolls his eyes as the bowl of soup and a perfectly prepared cup of tea are placed in front of him, as well as a colourful array of medication and a glass of water.
John eyes the tablets in disgust, before picking up the spoon and stirring the steaming coup gently; chicken, for some reason John finds it amusing that Mycroft sticks to chicken soup for the ill. John brings the spoon to his lips anyway, and he closes his eyes in bliss as flavour explodes on his tongue for the first time in weeks.
Hospital food had contained all of the nutrients that he'd needed over the past few weeks, but it really hadn't tasted of anything in particular, and the soup is heaven in comparison. He swallows the mouthful, then eagerly spoons up more. It's not long before he's full and he closes his eyes briefly in satisfaction. When he opens them, a pair of dark ones are trained on him - or rather are trained on his mouth - and John grins. Mycroft's gaze snaps up to meet John's, no hint of embarrassment on his face, but a small smile twitches his lips.
'Sherlock.'
Mycroft's voice is quiet, and his eyes never leave John's, but the detective has hearing like nothing John had ever seen, and he looks up. His expression immediately creases with disgust. With a small huff of breath, Sherlock grabs his laptop, leaps from his chair, and stalks to the door.
'I'll be back in half an hour.' He warns. 'And Mycroft…'
His voice trails off, expression uneasy with concern, and Mycroft looks away from John's face to look at his brother.
'I know.' He says softly, and with that Sherlock is gone from the room.
John raises his eyes at Mycroft, who shakes his head slightly in reply.
'Sherlock is being overly concerned.' He says in response to the question John
didn't ask. 'I, personally, don't have the energy for that kind of activity.'
His meaning is fairly clear, and a faint blush warms John's cheeks, but his thoughts quickly change as Mycroft leans forward and twists the bed-table away and looks at him, eyes intent.
'John.'
For once, the man is lost for words, and John finds himself taking the lead. With a small tug, he pulls Mycroft closer and kisses him.
There is a rush of feeling that John is sure he will never get used to at the press of Mycroft's lips against his, and he pulls in his breath sharply. It's a small sound, but one that makes Mycroft pause slightly as he assesses the cause.
Impatient, John just pulls him forward, and Mycroft doesn't protest; instead he pushes himself carefully closer, and deepens the kiss. It's gentle, and controlled, because Mycroft knows how breakable John is at the moment, but there is a hint of something desperate underneath, as he presses down on John's tongue with his own.
The desperation becomes more obvious as Mycroft's carefully crafted control slips slightly and John gasps as long fingers wind into his hair and scrape over his scalp. There is an ache in John's side, but he doesn't care and he pushes himself up, pushes himself so deeply in Mycroft's warmth that he doesn't know how he will ever be able to pull himself away.
Then those long fingers dance over the healing cut on John's head, and instantly the kiss slows and John can feel the control sliding back into place. Mycroft breaks the contact but he doesn't move away. His breath hot and fast against the doctor's mouth as he rests his forehead against John's.
'I'm sorry, John. My judgement…'
The words are spoken softly, but there is a hopelessness laced through Mycroft's voice that makes John's stomach tighten in anticipation. When he's better, John thinks, this will be incredible. He smiles, eyes flickering open and looking up at the man above him.
'It's fine. I just wish you hadn't stopped.'
The dark eyes hide nothing of the desire and hastily re-assembled self-control, and Mycroft's lips curve slightly.
'As do I.'
They stay like this for a minute or two more, pressed together, as their breathing calms and slows. Finally, Mycroft pulls away and sits back in the chair. John feels the loss of heat like a physical blow, and his distaste for their separation must show on his face, because Mycroft laughs, soft and deep.
'Patience, my dear John. We have all the time in the world.'
The words send a thrill down John's spine and his eyes narrow.
'I'm holding you to that.' He says, and Mycroft laughs again.
'Believe me, as soon as you are well again…' He lets the words trail off, and his eyes flicker across John's body. John feels himself tighten and he groans.
'Please don't do that when you won't follow through.' He says.
Mycroft just smiles, but the moment is broken when the door to the room is pushed open. Sherlock drifts in, eyes fixed firmly on the window as he makes his way across the room. Mycroft frowns.
'That was not half-an-hour.' He states. 'Do I need to teach you how to tell the time again?'
Sherlock glares at his laptop but doesn't reply, and Mycroft sighs. John flashes him a small smile, then yawns widely.
'Sorry, sorry.'
Mycroft waves away his apology.
'Sleep, John. It'll help you recover, and the sooner you recover…well, you know the rest of that sentence.'
Sherlock makes a noise of disgust from his chair by the window, but John just grins. He yawns again, then carefully shuffles himself further down the bed. Mycroft moves one of the pillows, allowing John to lie down, resting his head on the other, and as soon as he does, he feels his eyes grow heavier. They flutter shut as he feels those now-familiar fingers dance lines down his face.
'Sleep well, I'll be here when you wake.'
Mycroft sits back as John's breathing evens out, the tips of his fingers still warm from the skin on John's cheek.
He isn't one for reflection, but as he sits, he struggles to believe that they're actually here. He saw John as they pulled him from the rubble of the swimming pool, he saw the blood as it flowed from wounds from his head and his side and his legs, and he saw the convulsing body as John coughs up an endless flood of chlorinated water.
The doctors had restarted his heart twice as Mycroft had watched through the window, umbrella clasped tightly in his hand as he had dealt with the unfamiliar feeling of being helpless; torture after being in control for his whole life.
But John had fought back, and he'd stabilised, but he'd drifted into a coma, and Mycroft had had to deal with the powerlessness for another week. It had been the most awful week of his life, and looking after a bored Sherlock had certainly not helped anything.
The funny thing, Mycroft thinks as he watches John's chest rise and fall, is that he hadn't even known what he was feeling. It had taken an explosion and for John to almost lose his life before that feeling in his chest had snapped into place, and now it was there, it wasn't going anywhere.
He can feel it expanding in his chest with each breath, with every moment that passes, and he revels in it.
Mycroft doesn't know how much time passes as he sits and watches John Watson breathe, but when he looks up again, the sky is dark, and the only light in the room comes from Sherlock's laptop screen. He blinks, and grimaces slightly as his body protests at the sudden movements after hours of sitting still.
The room is quiet, the silence only punctuated by the soft breathing of John and Sherlock. Mycroft raises his eyebrows as he realises that Sherlock is sleeping, voluntarily, for the first time since the explosion, but then his eyes drift back to John.
This doctor demands such attention, such emotion, from those around him. He never thought he'd see the day when Sherlock cared this much for any other person. Even Mycroft himself hadn't earned that level of dedication and emotion. He had always been perfectly content to have his work and nothing else, and he'd had no idea when John had limped into their lives, battle scarred and broken, that his life would shift so alarmingly.
His eyes flash to John's face as the doctor shifts in his sleep, and a small sound escapes his lips, then another, and another.
'No!' The word is shouted, and John arches his back from the bed. Mycroft moves, and reaches out almost instinctually, placing his hands either side of the doctor's face.
'John.' He murmurs.
John quietens almost immediately, his face relaxing as he settles back into a dreamless sleep. Mycroft's hands drop from John's face, but he craves contact and so he links his fingers through John's as he leans back in his chair.
He sighs softly in the darkened room. It will be a long time yet before John wakes, and he can feel the long nights of uncertain sleep during the last few weeks catching up with him. He lets his eyes drift shut, taking comfort from the knowledge that John is there, and safe, and well.
When John wakes, he can tell the time from the light that slants in through the window. It's too bright to be early morning, but the angle is wrong for it to be afternoon. It's a trick he learned from his time in Afghanistan, when his watch was inevitably always full of sand and the only way they had of telling the time was by looking at the sun.
It's nice, he thinks, to wake somewhere where the walls aren't a fake, sterile white, and the room doesn't smell of illness and antiseptic. Instead, he's awoken to the soft snores of Mycroft, slumped uncomfortable in the chair beside his bed, and the quiet tapping of Sherlock as he types unbelievably quickly at his laptop.
'How are feeling today, John?'
The question is unexpected, not least because it's coming from Sherlock, and John has to blink a few times before he can answer.
'Much better, thanks.'
Sherlock looks up, away from his computer, and his eyes are bright.
'So it won't be long until we can move back home. That's good. Very good.'
John winces slightly as he shifts in the bed and it pulls at the wound in his side, but he nods all the same.
'Of course, Sherlock.'
The detective's eyes are still locked on John, and he frowns. He opens his mouth, clearly intending to question John's obvious reluctance, but a deeper voice sounds instead, and John finds himself turning quickly to look at the man in the chair next to him.
'I think John may be here a while yet, Sherlock. I believe I discussed this with you yesterday.'
Mycroft's tone is full of warning and reproach, and Sherlock's frown deepens to the point where John thinks he just looks petulant. He sighs slightly, then catches Mycroft's gaze and smiles.
Mycroft's answering smile is slow and warm, and he leans forward to press a soft kiss on John's mouth.
'Good morning.'
John sighs in to the kiss, and has to make a concerted effort to not protest when Mycroft moves away.
'Good morning,' he replies, but the protest is evident in his voice, and Mycroft laughs a little, before pressing another kiss to his lips.
'Do you have to do that whilst I'm in the room?' Sherlock grumbles from the chair by the window, and John sees Mycroft grit his teeth before replying.
'You don't have to be in here, Sherlock.'
Sherlock looks up from his laptop with a glare.
'Yes I do,' he shoots back, 'because I need John to figure this out, and because of you I haven't been able to see him until now. He was my flatmate first. You do not get to monopolise his attention!'
'I have told you, Sherlock, that I have that under control. There is no need for you to exert yourself in a fruitless investigation in a fit of petty revenge.'
Sherlock's eyes narrow in a way that John knows well. It is the look that says that someone, usually Anderson or Lestrade, has said something extraordinarily stupid.
'Petty revenge?' He spits. 'This is petty revenge? How can you, of all people, call this petty? You are going to let him get away with this!'
Mycroft is silent for a moment, and when he speaks again, his voice is soft and dangerous and his eyes don't leave John's face.
'He will not get away with this, Sherlock. I can promise you that.'
Sherlock, for once, doesn't have a response and he stares at his laptop for a long moment.
'I can't do nothing.' He murmurs in to the silence, and Mycroft closes his eyes.
'I know, Sherlock. Just… try to take it easy?'
There's another long pause, and then Sherlock nods reluctantly. Eyes downcast, he snaps his laptop shut and walks smoothly from the room, pausing only to look at John once more before pulling the door firmly shut behind him.
Neither man speaks for a long time, but for different reasons. John is caught up in the memories of that night; the terror and the pain as the debris hit him, and the sense of utter helplessness and weakness that he'd felt as he'd woken up in the clutches of a psychotic madman. For Mycroft, he is silent because he is struggling; the mere mention of Moriarty brings a horrendous, burning rage that fills him, making him want to lash out; to find that bastard and bring him to his knees.
It is only when Mycroft feels that the twisting anger in the pit of his stomach is under control that he speaks.
'I thought we might try walking a little today.' His voice is calm and controlled, and it startles John away from the memories of the explosion. He nods, his doctor-side knowing that he must keep moving through the pain.
'Sounds like a good idea.'
His smile is weak, but it's there, and Mycroft smiles back, before his face turns serious and he leans forward and John closes his eyes as there is the familiar feeling of long fingers tracing across his cheek.
'I meant it, John.' His voice is low and intense, and when John opens his eyes and looks into Mycroft's face, his expression is full of the same intensity.
'I will not let Moriarty get away with this. No one hurts you, or Sherlock, and gets away with it. He will suffer.'
The words are clear and direct, and John can see the stark honesty in Mycroft's face, and he nods slowly as he catches the fingers dancing across his skin in his hand and holds them still.
'I know.' He replies, reaching out with his other hand, and cupping Mycroft's cheek. 'I know.'
John grows stronger as each day passes. His injuries are checked daily by the best doctor Mycroft knows, and he feels the pain lessen as his movement increases.
For John, it's both a curse and a blessing. It's a blessing because he can move again, after weeks of lying in a bed unable to do anything for himself. It is akin to regaining his freedom. But it is a curse because Sherlock has finally gotten his way. They are returning to 221B and John cannot help but feel torn between his flatmate and friend, and his budding relationship with Mycroft.
Sherlock, for all his brilliance and ability to spot the tiniest detail, doesn't notice John's indecision; instead he bounces around like an over-active child, directing Mycroft's men as they carry bags to the car waiting by the door.
John watches from the window, forehead resting against the cool glass, breath turning to fog as he breathes slowly in-and-out. He can't go back to the way things were before…well, just before. He can't go back to the endlessly long sleepless nights and the cold loneliness as Sherlock bounds from a crime scene and leaves him behind.
And yet…
He remembers the thrill as Sherlock solves another case, and as another person is saved. He remembers the adrenaline; that fierce rush through his veins as he follows Sherlock into danger and as they inevitably find their way back from the edge.
But there is the problem: right there. Because everything changed with the madman; when John almost didn't come back from the edge. Before, when it had been Afghanistan, it didn't matter so much. John had had the army, and that was it. He'd had no relationship with Harry, and no wife or girlfriend or partner; no one who cared.
Now he has Harry back from deep recesses of her alcohol-fuelled mind, and he has a brilliant and wonderfully strange flatmate. He has Mycroft. Suddenly the risks just aren't as attractive anymore.
A warm hand on his elbow startles John out of his thoughts, and he looks up in to dark eyes.
'I don't have to go.' He whispers, but even to his own ears, his words sound hollow, and Mycroft shakes his head slowly.
'You do.' The words sound abrupt, and John's breath catches as he turns, already moving away and towards the door.
'Of course. I'll just get my bag.'
The hand on his elbow doesn't let go as John shifts, but he doesn't look back; afraid that Mycroft will see the devastating effect those two words have had on him.
'John.' Mycroft chides softly. 'I don't mean it like that. I am as much opposed to you leaving as you are.'
Warm fingers slide under John's chin and press up, tilting his head and forcing him to meet Mycroft's gaze.
'You can't escape from me that easily, John.' His voice is deep and smooth, and John feels the sudden tension roll from his body as he relaxes.
'I am never letting you leave my sight again.'
Before John can even begin to contemplate what that means, Mycroft dips his head and kisses him. It starts slowly, and softly, but then Mycroft is both pulling him forward until he is flush against him, and pushing him backwards until his back hits the wall and John gasps.
As John has gotten better, so the kisses have progressed from the innocent to the type that leave him gasping for more, but this is something completely different. Mycroft presses John into the wall and proceeds to kiss him until his legs feel like they can't keep him standing.
John wraps one arm around Mycroft's neck, dragging him down and deeper into the kiss, whilst his other hand clutches desperately at Mycroft's suit-jacket. They part briefly, and John drags in a lungful of air before crushing his mouth against Mycroft's again.
It's all quickly sliding out of control; their snatched gasps of air are loud and rushed, and John's finding it harder and harder to focus - to think why this could be a bad idea right now. Instead, he's pulling Mycroft harder against his body, and twisting his hips until he drags a low moan from the man against him.
It's that moan, however, that slams John back down to reason, and he pulls his mouth back from Mycroft's with a groan of regret, and reluctance weighing so heavy in his stomach that it's painful.
It's a rare thing though, John reflects as Mycroft rests his forehead against his own, eyes closed, to beat Mycroft Holmes at self-control. He huffs a laugh against the other man's lips.
'John.' Mycroft's voice is wrecked, and John just smiles slightly.
'Wrong time, wrong place. I know.'
Mycroft quirks his lips slightly, but when he opens his eyes, his expression is serious.
'I want you to stay here. Sherlock needs you to return to 221B. I will not, however, abandon you to his every whim. I will not stand by and catch minutes of your time as you bound from case to case. You are mine.'
The words are hissed against John's lips, and he can't stop the shiver of pure want that runs down his spine at the possessiveness of Mycroft's words and tone. He reaches up, perfectly intent on ignoring his self-control and pulling the other man into a kiss, but an exclamation of disgust from the doorway halts him in his tracks.
'Must you do that in public?'
The question is vaguely childish; akin to a child finding his parents kissing, and John finds the attitude annoying.
'Must you be so obtuse?' He shoots back although he immediately regrets lowering himself to Sherlock's level, and the detective glares at him from the doorway.
'The car is ready.' He announces, then turns and stalks from the doorway.
John groans, and lets his head fall back against the wall with a thud.
''Needs'. Really?'
Mycroft lets a small smile cross his lips.
'Really.'
He steps back, and pulls John away from the wall.
'Come on. We mustn't keep him waiting.'
John shakes his head, but follows as Mycroft heads out of the room and down the long corridor towards the stairs.
Please RnR guys, I do love reviews :-) Final chapter will be up tomorrow.
