Oh my goodness guys, thank you for all the reviews! I was really surprised at all the feed back I was getting. I'm really sorry for the bizarre typos in the last chapter. For some reason, when I uploaded the document to and posted it, it just like, left out a bunch of words here and there. I'm not really sure why (I'll re-upload and fix it soon).

Anyway, I'm really glad you all seemed to enjoy that first chapter, and now, we move forward on to "post-the-great-game". As always, please be sure to leave me your thoughts and let me know if you want more! I thrive on positive feedback. Now, without further ado, onward to chapter two!

The Persistence of Memory

Chapter two: The Man with the Heart of Steel

Quiet. That was all Sherlock was aware of. The sort of earth shattering quiet that was common after a gunshot. Where had the bullet landed, Sherlock wondered. Where is John? Did Moriarty escape? All the questions in his head filled the eerie silence he felt around him, creating a horrid static of pure white noise in his mind. Why did it suddenly have to be so loud? Sherlock tried to quiet his mind and gain back the peace of eerie silence but it wasn't coming. He clenched his teeth, thinking for a moment that he was feeling them bend under the pressure, his body somewhere between excruciatingly awake and blissfully unconsciousness. His mind felt like it had been gripped tight by a vice and was now screaming in protest. He couldn't think, and at the same time, too many thoughts were spilling in. He jerked a bit, trying to shake away the thoughts and feelings plaguing every inch of his being.

"Sherlock?" a quiet and somewhat nervous voice inquired of him as his fingers twitched and his breathing became more ragged. He was kicking out of his unconscious state, but at the cost of sudden increasing awareness of pain once more. Is that John? No. That voice is familiar, but not John. Male, definitely male. Prissy, just a bit, annunciation of my name slightly irritated, but real worry in there somewhere. Why can't I place it? Ah yes...

"Mycroft," Sherlock wheezed a bit, the pieces falling into place slower than he would have initially liked. He spat the name of his brother out like it tasted foul, heard his brother sigh in response. He could guess what his brothers face looked like, so he didn't open his eyes just yet, knowing that he wasn't ready to face the sight of wherever he may be.

"Where am I? Where is John?" Sherlock immediately began to probe his brother for this vital information. Has John been hurt? Why is John not here?Mycroft didn't answer, and he became slightly perturbed by Sherlock's insistent worry for John (it really wasn't like his brother to worry about people), but Sherlock heard the tell tale tap of the end of an umbrella against the floor that gave away everything Sherlock needed to know. Consistent tapping, just light, in a steady rhythm of fourth beats. The habit was a rather revealing tell. Mycroft was nervous. Surely he didn't think that just because his eyes were closed, that Sherlock wouldn't be able to tell? Sherlock knew his brothers mannerisms well, by sight, smell, and sound. Growing up with him had seen to that.

"Rest, Sherlock. You need to rest," his brother cooed. It was mostly a sham, Sherlock could tell, attempting to cajole his rather feisty (irritating) younger sibling. He'd not been this close to losing Sherlock in quite some time and it was a painful thing to think about. He didn't like the idea losing the last of his family and didn't want to dwell on it now. Now his focus was on getting Sherlock safe and healthy and as far away from this Moriarty business as possible. This had gone on long enough. Sherlock, however, was pushing his mind into gear and observing with all senses but sight, as his eyes hurt and felt like they were glued shut with tears and mucus. His only goal was to get back on his feet and back on the case. He wanted to get Moriarty now more than ever.

As he took in what little he could, Sherlock noted the pungent smell of chlorine lingering all around him, as well as heavy antiseptic and freshly laundered linens. The chlorine smell was causing his eyes to water and nose to burn a bit, and he knew where that must have come from, his encounter at the pool, quite obviously. He felt sticky and deduced that the intense smell was clinging to him, though He hadn't remembered falling in it was clear now that he must have. He wasn't getting a straight answer from Mycroft, but The beeping rhythmically grating upon his ears and the mixed scent of clean laundry and antiseptic was a good indication of where he was, a hospital. But since it was quiet save for the beeping, likely a private room. Mycroft would have arranged it for him, knowing how much Sherlock valued peace, quiet, and privacy when he wasn't feeling well.

Despite the quiet of the room his brain wasn't shifting gears properly and it was hard to think straight, which was incredibly bothersome for the consulting detective. Sherlock finally gathered the courage necessary and opened his eyes, only to be blinded immediately by the harshness of florescent bulbs. Taking a deep breath, he tried to pull himself into a sitting position, but there was a harsh jolt of pain in his shoulder, that exploded into a rocket of white hot agony down through his whole body to his fingertips and toes. Mycroft gave a heavy sigh as he watched his little brother struggle to hold in a cry of pain, feeling the pull of paternal worry he felt toward Sherlock tug at his heart a bit. He shifted uncomfortably, rubbing a hand over his hair and down the back of his neck, squeezing his tense muscles a bit. Sherlock's jaw was tight and his back rigid with his incredible discomfort.

"You refused pain medication, oddly enough," Mycroft informed him, knowing Sherlock's mind was working at fifty percent of it's normal capacity, the pain and trauma clearly putting him in a haze. He wasn't enjoying watching Sherlock battle said haze either; it was nothing short of excruciating really. Sherlock's throat tightened and threatened to let loose a scream if he dared move his body again. He lay bonelessly against the sheets and gulped down breath after breath of much needed air until he finally calmed himself long enough to raise his demands yet again.

"Where is John?" Sherlock pried again, only to watch his brother's eyes dart away and those long pale finger's curl tighter around the handle of his brolly. Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath, holding it, causing the machines he was hooked up to to begin beeping differently. Mycroft soon realized that Sherlock's behavior was intentionally like that of a petulant child and that until Mycroft answered him, he would hold his breath. His heart rate was already changing. Mycroft let out a gruff sigh and shook his head.

"Sherlock, stop that. What would Mummy say?" Mycroft scolded, watching his brothers pale face begin to redden with lack of oxygen. Mycroft waited a moment longer before he gave in.

"We have yet to locate Doctor Watson. He was not at the pool upon my team's arrival.

All traces of Moriarty and the good doctor were gone. Just you, shot, belly up in the pool. We imagine that your shoulder was the intended target and that the force knocked you off balance and into the water. We've yet to review the security cameras but we will be searching all possible leads for your colleague."

Moriarty had made a grand escape, and Sherlock knew deep down that he'd taken John with him. He'd taken John once before, so easily right from under Sherlock's nose, what would stop him from doing it again? This time he'd made quite the show of it. Sherlock felt so much pain and guilt he was not sure his mind could take it. Mycroft knew all too well that beneath his facade of being a high functioning sociopath, was Sherlock's true feelings. He knew Sherlock fancied, maybe even loved a few times before. Always the wrong sort, in his opinion.

But John was different. John Watson was everything his dear brother Sherlock was not. He was warm, kind hearted, infinitely patient, determined, smart (in an entirely different way than either he or Sherlock themselves were), and all around a loving individual. Mycroft approved of this army doctor the moment he'd refused to spy on Sherlock for him. Finally, someone worthy of his little brother, who had enough integrity not to let Mycroft, or anyone else for that matter, bully him around. Sherlock was feeling the great loss already, as if it were a death. Mycroft could tell just by looking at him.

"I've arranged a safe house for you, away from here for the time being, and a doctor to look after you while you recover," Mycroft said gently, his voice quiet, and paternal in it's tone. Mycroft had always felt that he needed to protect his little brother, and now more than ever. He'd let this go on too far. He'd given Sherlock too much freedom, and hadn't watched closely enough. He felt no guilt, but merely, responsibility about the situation and he needed to correct it before it got worse.

"No," came Sherlock's sharp reply. He didn't want any doctor except his doctor. He didn't want to go hide in some safe house while Moriarty had John. He had to find John. The chances were slim, but still there was one. He just had to draw Moriarty out into the open... He had to at least try. "No safe houses. No relocation. I'm not diving into hiding while Moriarty has John. That's absurd. Horrid. Out of the question." Mycroft sighed heavily and tapped his brolly handle against the railing of Sherlock's bed.

"Sherlock, you can't honestly think that you'll be able to find John like this. Not with a hole in your shoulder. Let my people work on it. Until then, go into hiding where it's safe. If you die at the hands of that ridiculous criminal, John will have suffered for nothing. I know how much he thinks of you Sherlock. He would not want you to risk yourself," Mycroft protested calmly. Sherlock snorted in response, not even looking at his brother. Surely Mycroft knew better than to suggest he sit back and do nothing. His brain would rot, his muscles would atrophy; his world would screech to a halt, cease to exist.

"Stop being so melodramatic Sherlock," Mycroft snipped as he saw the subtle thoughts flitting across Sherlock's face and through his cool blue eyes. His brother may have been an enigma to most, but they just didn't see Sherlock like Mycroft saw him. They couldn't possibly have the capacity to.

"John is an idiot," Sherlock spat, his voice like venom to hide the worry that lie beneath (though Mycroft saw right through him). Moriarty said he was going to burn the heart out of him, and he'd taken away Sherlock's moral compass. John had been good for Sherlock. They'd worked well together, and Moriarty had taken that away.

Mycroft wasn't unaccustomed to his brother's stubbornness, so he would not back down now. He rose from his seat beside Sherlock's bed and leaned over him, examining his brother's wound and then his vital signs on the machines once more. Sherlock pretended to ignore him, but it was difficult when he saw his brother's face creased so subtly with worry.

"Sherlock, we will do everything in our power to find John. You need to rest… I'll be here to get you out as soon as you're well enough… Then it's off to a safe house, whether you like it or not," Mycroft stated calmly but firmly, petting his brother's hair a bit, shaking his head at the feel of how cold and clammy his brother's brow was. "For your own good."

All Sherlock could manage in response to his brother's worry was a simple, "Piss off."