I placed my non-dominant hand on Sherlock's bare shoulder to still his movement. I tried to keep my tone soothing, yet firm, "Stop pulling away."

Though he faced away from me, I somehow knew he was rolling his eyes. "John would never have taken this long to stitch me up and I feel the suture pulling through!"

"That, Sherlock Holmes, is not my fault! You are the one that refused the local anaesthetic, you idiot," I reminded him, rolling my own eyes. "Besides your friend is not here, nor does he even know you are alive at this point."

"Just leave it alone. It will heal eventually," he frowned at me over his shoulder.

I laughed softly, being too much of a professional to take his grumbling personally. "Sherlock, you are the one complaining that this particular lash mark keeps getting blood on the sheets. It is much deeper than the others and I think it is going to keep opening every time you move. If you let me finish stitching it up, it will heal much faster and you won't have to worry about ruining your clothing," I said, trying to appeal to his sense of logic.

He sighed, "Oh, all right. Get on with it," and I knew he wouldn't pursue the matter anymore.

Tying the last stitch in place, I dabbed antibiotic cream onto the length of the wound and stepped back to admire my work. When I did, I bumped into a solid form and recognized the fragrance of Mycroft's aftershave in the air. Had he been there long? "Oh, sorry. I didn't know you had come in."

Mycroft smiled, stepping back."My apologies. I didn't mean to alarm you. I just came to check on my brother's well-being. That is a rather neat suture line despite your patient's unwillingness to sit still, Nurse Craig."

I held in a snicker as Sherlock turned stiffly and glared at his brother. "Piss off, Mycroft."

"Good to see you, too, brother dear." Mycroft flashed him a brief, somewhat exaggerated smile. "Ready to go?"

Sherlock winced as he bent over to retrieve the worn hoodie from the bed. I had offered him pain medicine just this morning, but he had declined, scoffing at the effectiveness of over-the-counter meds. "And, Mycroft will disapprove if I take something stronger," he had waved me off.

"Sherlock, Mycroft has given me full authority regarding your care. You are concussed, have bruised ribs, multiple contusions and lacerations from the bottom of your feet to the top of your head, including the lash marks on your back; the worst of which I just stitched up without a local. We did rule out fractures of your fingers, but they are quite severely sprained. And, you have abrasions around both wrists from the ropes you were bound with. I doubt there is anywhere you aren't hurting. If Mycroft wants to give you hell for taking a narcotic, then I will be glad to give him hell right back because if someone needs or deserves it, it is you" I had almost shouted.

Sherlock had given me a small smile, but declined just the same, citing the need to think, something the stronger medications made difficult, he said.

"Save me the sentiment, Mycroft. I just want to return to London and get on with this business of coming back to life," Sherlock said, carefully pulling himself up to his full height.

"Well then," Mycroft nodded, sweeping an arm towards the door, "your car is outside. I have a barber and a more suitable change of clothing awaiting your arrival at the Diogenes Club. Unless you are enjoying this grunge phase you seem to be going through."

Sherlock smirked, "Whatever it takes to annoy you, Mycroft." He limped out the door, not looking back.

Mycroft let out a sigh and rubbed at his temple with his fingertips.

"Do you always get on so well?" I asked as I gathered up my rucksack from the chair. The driver had already taken my other bag and stowed it in the boot.

"He's always been insufferable." Mycroft huffed, squaring his shoulders. "Mummy and Daddy were too indulgent. Anyway, I will meet up with you later this evening to settle my debt, Serena."

"You aren't coming with us?" I tried not to sound disappointed. It would be interesting to watch these two men interact further. I wondered how different they were from normal siblings, not having had any of my own with which to compare the relationship.

"No, I think you will find it a much more pleasant ride without me present. I also have some business to conduct here before returning to London."

I said goodbye and followed Sherlock to the car, sliding in beside him. Thank goodness our transportation was luxurious, because I could not imagine Sherlock having to fold himself up to fit in anything smaller. As it was, he winced every time we rode over a bump or made a turn. After about five minutes, I took a bottle of water and a small case out of my bag. "It's Paracetamol and Ibuprofen," I said, flipping open the case with my thumb and holding both items out to him. "Take two of each. It's two hours to London and you are already uncomfortable. I know you don't think they will be of much help, but they will take the edge off enough that you may be able to sleep."

Much to my surprise, he pulled out the dose I had indicated, then handed the case back to me with a nod of thanks. He swallowed the white pearls down with the water and hesitated before finishing off the remainder of the fluid. He had come to me severely dehydrated. I had given him several litres of fluid intravenously, but it was obvious the fluid deficit still persisted to some degree. "Thank you, Nurse Craig. You have been quite helpful." He gave me a sad smile, and I suspected he was thinking of the upcoming reunion with his friends.

I had never met Sherlock Holmes until thirty-six hours ago. The file Mycroft had shown me in the car hadn't given the operative's name, but when I had taken one look at the man lying on the bed I had had no doubts as to whom my patient was. His face had been plastered across every newspaper, tabloid and TV screen one horrible day two years ago. I was still a little in awe of being in his presence, but I liked him. We had developed an easy rapport that belied the brevity of our acquaintance. "You're welcome. And please, call me Serena. You and Mycroft insist on being so formal. But, I am just a simple woman. Nothing special."

"My brother has hired you three," Sherlock brow wrinkled as he studied me, "no, four times now. You are anything but simple. He values your skill as a nurse, Serena. And, I suspect he would list you as one of his rare, true friends."

I couldn't help but laugh. I had worked for the government long enough to have heard the rumours of who really held the power and it wasn't the Prime Minister. Sherlock must have been concussed worse than I originally suspected if he thought I was someone of importance to the most important man in Britain. "Sherlock, I think you overestimate our time spent together and our relationship. Mycroft has hired me four times in almost as many years. I will admit that after he had briefed me about my duties each time we had chatted a bit, mostly about books and music, but that had been the extent of our socialization. I am his employee and nothing else. There are more interesting fish in the sea than me."

"Goldfish," Sherlock said absently, staring off in the distance.

"What?"

"Nothing," he waved the comment away, bringing his steepled fingers to his lips. "Never mind me. I am going to my mind palace. Please refrain from speaking to me for the rest of the trip."

I didn't know what a 'mind palace' was, but seeing he wasn't going to be talking anymore, I shrugged and pulled out my book, picking up where I left off.

Upon our arrival in London, the driver let Sherlock out at a rather posh looking building and then returned me to my home. I headed for the shower and looked forward to getting out of the scrubs I had been wearing for more than forty-eight hours. The warm water felt glorious as I washed away sweat, betadine and Sherlock's blood.

After a quick bite to eat, I stretched out on the bed and must have fallen into a deep sleep immediately. The doorbell woke me up several hours later. It had grown dark while I slept and I staggered to the door, cutting on lights as I went. "Oh Mycroft, come in."

"I trust you slept well," he stepped inside, hanging his greatcoat on the tree by the door.

"I did," I said, trying to stifle a yawn and gesturing to the sitting room chairs. "But now I can't seem to wake up. I didn't sleep but an hour or two last night. Sherlock woke me up having a nightmare and I couldn't go back to sleep. I was afraid he might hurt himself."

"Or possibly yourself?" Mycroft looked me in the eye.

"It's always a possibility with PTSD patients. I don't think it would have gotten to that point, though. He appears to be coping fairly well and he was able to extract himself from the dream fairly quick without my assistance."

"He does have a way with coping, although sometimes his methods are quite unorthodox." Mycroft leant back in the chair and crossed his legs.

"Yes, I noticed. Mycroft, he jumped off a building and faked his death. May I ask why?"

"It's a long convoluted story, but the abbreviated version is that he thought it necessary, to save his friends' lives." Mycroft tugged at his waistcoat, as if he was uncomfortable, not with his clothing or the conversation but maybe with the sentiment involved.

"Oh, I see. Now that I've met him I can't see him pretending to commit suicide just because he was disgraced. He doesn't seem the type to care what others think of him. Or at least what the general population thinks."

"No." Mycroft agreed. "He has little regard for such matters."

"He does value your opinion, though," I smiled.

Mycroft scoffed at the idea. "I sincerely doubt that. He thinks I am a rubbish big brother."

I reached over and placed my hand over his. "I think you have been a wonderful brother. I'm going to make us some tea. I'll be right back." I got up and strode to the kitchen before he could answer. They fought. I had noticed that in the short time I had known Sherlock. But I also saw how much they enjoyed the bantering and Mycroft certainly cared for his brother's well-being.

Mycroft did not pursue the subject any further once I came back from the kitchen, tea tray in hand. I poured my guest a cup and sat cross-legged on the sofa with my own. "Have a scone, please. I made them the morning before you came to collect me. And don't give me that diet excuse. One scone and clotted cream isn't going to hurt you. You and your brother both are thin as a rail."

Mycroft obliged me and partook of not only one, but two treats. Finishing the last of his tea, he pulled a cheque from his pocket and handed it to me. "For your services."

"Thank you, Mycroft. You know you can call me anytime." I glanced down at the paper and almost choked. "Wait, Mycroft. You've made a mistake."

He smiled smugly, "I don't make mistakes."

"Yes, you have," I waved the cheque between us. "This is too much. This is more than a month's pay for me. The government has always paid well, but this is ridiculous."

"Serena dear, you weren't working for the government. You were working for me and I paid you for your worth. Nothing but the best for my brother. Now, if you will excuse me, I also find myself in need of sleep." Mycroft arose from his seat and moved to retrieve his coat. In an uncharacteristically shy manner, he pulled out a paper-wrapped item and presented it to me. "You mentioned in the car that you were a fan of Poe. I came upon this in an antique bookshop in America some time ago. It is an early twentieth-century edition in surprisingly good condition."

I took the parcel and carefully slipped the book out of its wrapper. It was Poe's Tales of Mystery and Imagination, and it was in excellent condition, smelling of leather and… well... that smell that old, well cared for books have. I cradled it to my chest and stood up on my toes to place a kiss on his cheek. I swear he blushed.

He left me still hugging the tome tightly. Of all the gifts Mycroft could have given me in appreciation, this was the best.

I didn't expect to hear from him so soon, but just a few days later that I got a text from him: I made a mistake, I should have invited you to see Les Miserables with me. Your presence here might ease my suffering. MH

I stared at the text for quite some time, not sure what to make of it.