Thank you for your reviews! Sorry for the lack of action I promise it will speed up bare with me
CHAPTER 3. Apologies and DATA
"Let me see him!" Sherlock had burst through the theater's doors, the doctors and nurses already starting the prepping process for surgery paused briefly.
A male nurse failed at holding and redirecting the tall dark haired detective, the thin man pushed past him into the employee only restricted area.
"Who the hell are you?" one of the doctors growled. Sherlock didn't give him a second glance his mind started taking in every detail of the man immediately upon scanning the room. He was mid thirties; happily married, judging by the frown lines on his face and the set of his jaw he was a man of determination, his steady hands moving deftly inspecting the wounds no doubt categorizing what needed attention immediately.
"John?" Sherlock took a position at his friend's side, putting his cool hand in his injured friends, receiving a squeeze in turn, in response to hearing his name.
Then almost a whisper, "Sherlock? What are you doing in Afghanistan?"
"John" Sherlock frowned "I 'm not in Afghanistan. Question is what are you doing in Afghanistan?" then John gave a slight smile was it relief, before his eye lids, fluttered shut and what ever strength in the good doctor now deflated, spilling out slowly and suddenly, like that red balloon mummy had given Sherlock from the carnival.
A young Sherlock had wanted to see what made it float, so he untied the end and it shrank in on itself. Except John was a person, not a balloon, his arms where limp over the side of the operating table. Someone was pulling Sherlock out, they had a firm grasp on his arm. He turned slightly in a daze to see Lestrade's own stern but pale face.
"Let them work Sherlock, or God help me I'll hand cuff you to a bench." Not a threat, that was the 'Push me and I'll bloody do it' tone of voice.
After the long hours of surgery an exhausted man in a crisp lab coat, pompous bastard had changed from his bloodied scrubs. Sherlock scowled, deducing that the Doctor's vanity only delayed the news of John's condition. Much needed data, something to start from, no actions could be set into motion until Sherlock knew what was his friend's condition was. And then from there he'd plan the proper course of action, several darker than others depending on John's health. Yes, his attacker would pay and dearly.
"We pulled the bullets out," the middle aged doctor turned to DI Lestrade, "Gave the bullets as evidence to a Sergeant Donovan. "
"That's all well and good but what of John?" Sherlock, impatient as always.
"Mr. Watson-" the doctor began but three voices rang out to correct him
"DOCTOR, Watson."
"Er-right. Doctor Watson, he's in critical condition, his heart stopped twice but we've got him hooked up to a monitor. He's lost a considerable amount of blood-the bullet in his chest just missed his heart, also a miracle he was shot on the opposite side of an old injury, or the scaring and loss of mobility would be more permanent and pronounced than his former injury let on. No major damage to his femur again had the man been any closer and perhaps a better shot-well it would be a different story all together. He is on heavy pain killers to keep him comfortable-"
"Yes, but there is something else?" Sherlock could read this mans expression, his set jaw line, he didn't like the odds, he wasn't one to lose a patient without a fight and something heavy was weighing on his mind. Something definitely not good. Why must he hold it in, why couldn't that be the first thing from this Doctor's mouth, not false hope and the nonsense of good news of what might have beens. Sherlock needed to know what was going on now. More data, pure unemotional facts, no words like miracle and luck-facts.
"He's lost a considerable amount of blood, and though we are running antibiotics through him his fever hasn't responded. It could all be too much of a strain for one mans heart.-" Sherlock snorted in disgust.
"Is this the best surgeon you could come up with brother?" The younger Holmes turned to his older brother rollng his eyes, " Obviously an idiot. A scholarship education how disappointing-" the doctor started to ask how the other man knew he'd gone through school on a scholarship, how the hell could he know, but the curt demand cut through any questions. "Where is he? I want to see him".
"This way sir." One of the trauma nurses offered.
"Lestrade! I want data! I'll be back." Sherlock threw over his shoulder and the exhausted DI staid behind not wishing to see the doctor just yet, not like that. The DI could wait till the man was feeling up to company. He agreed with Sherlock, god help him, probably the only time he ever would. John's heart could never be questioned. He had a strong heart, and a stubborn streak. He'd never allow himself to be taken out by a high fever, and a couple bullet holes. No, he was indeed made of sterner stuff, he'd come around and when he did the DI hoped to have answers for him. For now he needed to make a call to the forensics lab.
"Sherlock, I said to give him room." Mycroft sighed moving to place a hand on his younger brother's shoulder.
"Where the hell were your goons?" Sherlock pulled his shoulder away from his brother's attempted touch, "Mycroft, sentiment doesn't suit you. " he growled, not meeting his older brother's eyes. "Why didn't they see this coming, intervene? What good is it to have government watchdogs if they're just going to fall asleep on the bloody job! Incompetent-"
"Brother I know your angry, please gather your wits and compose yourself. This grieving fishwife act doesn't suit you. " mimicking Sherlock's tone on the last words, the rest of his voice he kept even, clutching his umbrella he sighed heavily, was it exhaustion? Mycroft wondered at the weary feeling spilling into his bones, weary or worry? "Listen Sherlock, after you-" he looked at the bed where the doctor was hooked to machines, machines and tubes aiding in keeping the good Doctor alive, he continued watching the monitor with a steady beating heart rate.
"After your hiatus I did exactly what you asked in regards to John. My men kept a watchful eye on all three of them, the doctor, the DI and your landlady. John noticed our presence right away, no doubt picking up on some of your deductive habits. After a week he sent me several-" he halted censoring the details "well, let's just say he wasn't very pleased. After all it was my fault that Moriarty was able to back you into that position. Still I had my men be a little more covert, Lestraude and Mrs. Hudson of course never took notice. Before your return and reemergence into the world of the living, John of course being the man of sentiment he is, apologized to me straight away. I don't even think he'd really been angry at me for a while. Maybe at first yes, a week or so. " Mycroft frowned, this had thrown him and not many could catch the great mind of Mycroft Holmes government servant, and genius off guard.
"Of course he did." Sherlock snorted, he'd moved to a chair near the bed perching, his hands in his dark curls, head against his knees.
"Well, when you returned, he asked me then if I could respect his privacy seeing how all threats had been neutralized. He made a request that I found myself taking into consideration."
"He asked you to stop following him? And you listened?" Sherlock knew exactly this is what his brother was about to confess, confirmed now by the look of culpability on Mycroft's usually stoic face. "You never-in all the damn years I've known you-" Sherlock couldn't speak his voice his great mind couldn't hold a coherent thought. He returned his focus on the pale figure lying unconscious under the scratchy gray hospital blanket.
Too much to process, first Johns hands scarred knuckles from the many scuffles with criminals, moving up his toned arms, other small marks from experiments that exploded, small burns, a scar from a bullets ricochet a few months back. Sherlock pulled his perceptive eyes away, avoiding going any further, knowing that the tubes leading up John's arms and the wires connected to his bandaged chest, were all clues to a critical condition, critical, as in life threatening, as in could result in death. It was easier to not look any further, to keep his eyes from the doctor's colorless face.
"A compromise dear brother. Of course I gave your friend a promise that my men would not bother him, I assured him that my men would not be so much as two blocks from him, we'd leave him alone as requested."
"A play on words." Sherlock bit out. "How like you dear brother."
"Well, although there was no threat to the doctor, still being associated with you and your work made him vulnerable to a degree. So tonight, my men were two blocks down, they'd known when he left the hospital and that's where they realized something went wrong. You see the Doctor unlike you brother is a man of habit and routine. He takes the same route home every time, depending on received requests from an annoying flatmate of course, he'll stop at a corner store, then continue at the same steady pace, home. But tonight-"
Mycroft looked back at his younger brother. "Tonight when he didn't pass the first check point they radioed it in, this my brother is how we found him so quickly. Who knows how long the blasted police would have taken to find him." Mycroft wondered why his voice came out so defensive, surely he wasn't upset, just annoyed at his brothers lack of respect and his unfounded criticisms.
" So have a care dear brother with throwing your accusations around. I see now that it was indeed a mistake to approve such an appeal. Not one I should be making again any time soon. So I suggest we leave the worrying and wasted energy on this ineffectual response of sentiment and emotion, to everyone else. And we , brother mine, find the culprit."
"Oh, I intend on finding him." Sherlock growled leaping to his feet from the chair, nearly knocking it back. "Why are you even here?" he snapped, Mycroft was right, and he hated when his brother was right, so Sherlock didn't wait for an answer instead he moved to the bedside, leaning over his friend he whispered
"John, I know you can hear me. You can always hear me. Even when you pretend to be in your room sleeping and I need a pen. So hear this, because I am never one to make false promises." He took a deep breath, why was his throat suddenly dry, his temples throbbing?
Sherlock forced the lump in his throat down, and continued " Its alright John, you'll be alright. Just breathe, just keep breathing-your not alone." With no second glance back Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective made his quick exit. Forgetting Mycroft's presence all together, he had a DI to find, and a lab to utilize.
The older Holmes, waited for his brothers retreating footsteps before he moved closer to the Doctor's still form, a collapsed lung, good thing the shooter was a bad aim, but rage did that to a man.
Rage and an unsteady hand, one to the chest exiting through his shoulder, the recoil causing his aim for the last shots to be off target, one more lodged close to the spine, too close for comfort, one to his left side just perfect enough to nick a lung causing blood and fluid to stagger his breathing, and a fourth having hit him high on the thigh, but through pure surgical proficiency they'd pulled the bullets from the John's body, no other major organs hit, again chance. Mycroft had stopped betting on divine intervention since he graduated primary school. Still, in such times as these-no he refused to give in to his own emotions. He locked it away, pushed it down.
He'd been sure the best doctors were on site within minutes of receiving the call from his men. The least he could do, why the hell had he succumbed to that request in the first place, how could this ordinary man make him feel this guilt. Always guilt. Even when he'd come barging into the Diogenes club seeing the state of John Watson after the fall, his accusatory glare, and angry words. A similar unfamiliar emotion had flooded Mycroft, made him wish to explain himself. And Mycroft Holmes did not take kindly to having to explain anything.
That time John had requested a meeting, by way of text,and though Mycroft loathed texting, and despite his apprehension he agreed to see John.
Stilling himself for an outburst or even violence, but instead he received something entirely different, instead of that angry John Watson, he came face to face with a broken one, one who had thinned considerably, noticeable age lines and dark circles under his eyes. When he spoke, Mycroft had felt uncomfortable with John's apology, it was rare and open and so- so very sincere. Just like the man lying there, under all the tubes and wires, and a crisp white sheet, now he just looked vulnerable, small, nothing like the fighting man that took a defensive position next to the unpredictable Sherlock.
"John-" he didn't understand a lack of words for what he needed to say, nor the obligation to say them. I m sorry felt inappropriate here, because somehow he knew that Doctor Watson would feel uncomfortable with any apology for a seemingly unforeseen predicament. Mycroft's mind wondered back to a past conversation.
"I just wanted to apologize Mycroft. You've been nothing but a good friend to me and I know despite your methods the reasons behind your actions have always been in the best interest of your brother. Out of concern, sincere concern, I was angry before, I hope you will forgive my harsh words. I did not mean it. I was upset. I know now that you've lost more than me. He was my friend but your brother. I'm here if you need to talk. Not that I'd be much good. Mates?" he'd offered his hand then and how could anyone not take it.
That was the past and this was now.
And He couldn't say anything to finish whatever he'd started to, instead he turned without a second glance striding out of the hospital room his mobile to his ear, he needed data.