Disclaimer: Sherlock, along with its characters, locations, etc. are the property of BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own them, though I definitely wouldn't mind being on a first name basis with Benedict Cumberbatch.
….
Freak
Chapter 2
….
Sherlock felt like he had been waiting for an eternity to hear how John's surgery had went. After he had explained to the nurse that John was his best friend, and he absolutely must hear any news that they could give him (and, after he called Mycroft and had his older brother explain, none too gently, exactly what would happen if the nurses didn't inform Sherlock of everything that was happening), the nurse explained that the bullet had missed John's heart, but had perforated his lung. Blood had been steadily pouring into one of John's lungs the entire time that he had been lying on the sidewalk. They also explained that John had experienced a minor concussion when his head had hit the pavement, though that wasn't something they were worried about.
So, Sherlock sat in the waiting room of St. Bart's for hours, hoping that his best friend would pull through and everything would be alright again.
And, when he saw a surgeon come out of the operating room, covered in blood and looking grim, Sherlock almost fainted. The doctor explained to him that the had mended the bullet holes in John's lung (the bullet went all the way through him, causing wounds on his front and back), but he was still in critical condition. John had lost a lot of blood and hadn't been retaining enough oxygen while they were waiting for an ambulance.
So now, it was a waiting game. Waiting to see if John would ever wake up.
….
Once the nurses had settled John into his room (a private one, once again thanks to Mycroft), Sherlock kept watch over his friend in a silent vigil for hours. He had found one of those hospital chairs that are padded but still incredibly uncomfortable, and had pulled it up next to John's bed to wait. He sat in the chair, leaning forward with his elbows on the edge of the bed, fingers steepled in front of his mouth. He only moved once, to go to the bathroom, before he returned to the exact same position as before.
A few visitors had come and gone. Molly, who had been told of the situation by Lestrade, had come to visit the room on her way home from work. Lestrade had come back, checking on John and Sherlock and informing the latter that they had caught the shooter and he was in custody. Mrs. Hudson had called repeatedly, after Sherlock had sent her a brief text and asked her to look after Rosie for a couple of days. Sherlock had only answered his landlady once, informing her that John was out of surgery but in critical condition, and informing her that she should not visit because Rosie should not see her father like this.
Finally, as Sherlock's silent watch hit the 36-hour mark, Mycroft, of all people, strolled into the hospital room, the tip of his umbrella making a clicking sound as it hit the floor.
"Little brother." Mycroft said as he walked in, by way of greeting.
"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock's voice was hoarse from not using it for so many hours.
"I was just coming to check on the good doctor, and you of course. Detective Inspector Lestrade called me. He said that you had a panic attack at the scene of the shooting, and he had to calm you down and regulate your breathing. He said you cried." Mycroft exclaimed, coming to stand next to where Sherlock was sitting.
"Is there a question somewhere in there?" Sherlock muttered.
"No, I'm just informing you of what I know. I heard that the man who shot Dr. Watson was arrested."
Sherlock stayed silent, refusing to waste his breath responding to any more of Mycroft's statements. He expected Mycroft to make fun of him for crying and leave.
Therefore, he was shocked when Mycroft grabbed the other uncomfortable hospital chair in the room and pulled it up next to Sherlock, sitting down with a sigh.
"Are you alright, Sherlock?" he asked quietly.
Sherlock turned toward his older brother to assess exactly what had prompted such a question out of the British Government.
"Why do you care?" Sherlock snapped.
"You know that I'm always here for you, Sherlock. Never doubt that I care about you." Mycroft replied with a sigh.
Sherlock scoffed, and returned to looking over John's unconscious form, once again expecting Mycroft to leave.
Instead, Mycroft sat back in the chair and simply sat in silence with his hurting little brother.
….
After about an hour of Mycroft sitting with Sherlock, something unexpected happened: Phillip Anderson walked into the room.
"Oh good, you're here, Sherlock. Now I don't have to try to read John's stupid medical chart to update Lestrade about his condition, you can just tell me. Though honestly, I expected you to be off trying to find a new lacky, since this one is defective. Freak."
Mycroft usually didn't get involved in trivial matters, such as people calling his brother names, but he saw Sherlock flinch, visibly flinch, when Anderson insulted him. And that was something he wouldn't stand for.
Mycroft abruptly stood from his chair, idly twirling his umbrella in his hand, and walked menacingly toward Anderson.
"And who might you be, exactly?" he asked, a dark look on his face.
"None of your business! Who're you?" Anderson spat.
"Oh, no, no, that's not how this works. Tell me who you are. Now." Mycroft snapped.
"Um, Anderson, Phillip Anderson. I work forensics for D.I. Lestrade. I was just dropping some samples off to Molly Hooper, Lestrade asked me to check on John for him." Anderson babbled.
"And who told you it was acceptable to insult Sherlock Holmes, Anderson?" Mycroft asked, advancing on the shorter man.
"Excuse me? Sherlock's a freak, everyone insults him!" Anderson snapped, in a stupid attempt to appear unafraid.
"Do they? I know of at least five people who mildly enjoy Sherlock's company, and rarely insult him." Mycroft replied darkly.
"Well they don't know anything! Sherlock thinks he's so smart, but he's just a bloody psychopath who gets off on murder!" Anderson practically yelled. Mycroft glanced over toward Sherlock, seeing that he was still sitting with his back to them, staring at John. "He doesn't care about anyone but himself!"
"Anderson, I advise you to refrain from speaking aloud, or you will negatively impact the intelligence of every person in this hospital." Mycroft retorted.
Anderson spluttered. "What are you implying!" he yelled.
"I'm implying, you moronic goldfish, that you're a complete and utter idiot. If I ever hear of you insulting, or even speaking about, my brother again, I assure you that you will no longer be employed at New Scotland Yard. You may not even find yourself as a citizen of England anymore." Mycroft growled.
"Your brother…wait, was that a threat?!" Anderson stammered.
"Yes, it was. And you would do well to remember it. Now I suggest you look frightened and scuttle." Mycroft replied with a glare.
Anderson gapped at Mycroft for a moment before hurrying out of the room. Mycroft softly closed the door behind him before moving to sit back down next to Sherlock.
"How long has he been calling you 'freak?'" Mycroft asked calmly.
Sherlock gave a dry laugh, refusing to turn and look at his brother. "He and Donovan have been calling me that since Lestrade started asking for my help."
"Well, I think he will refrain from insulting you for a while now." Mycroft replied.
Sherlock continued to stare at John until Mycroft thought he would never say anything else.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Sherlock looked over toward his brother with an odd look in his eyes.
"Thank you, Mycroft." He muttered.
"I'll always be there for you, brother mine."
….
A/N: I couldn't help giving having Mycroft say his own version of "Anderson, don't talk out loud, you'll lower the IQ of the whole street!" I hope you liked this chapter!
