Gabrielle
Mycroft sat by his brother's hospital bed, staring sadly at the brutalized boy who lay there. This was not Sherlock. He was so full of life, so full of energy. He should be a bundle of biting sarcasm, not bandages.
This is your fault, Sherlock had muttered in his sleep.
You did this to me.
Those words had cut Mycroft deeper than he had cared to admit. He would never put his brother in harm's way on purpose. Yes, they didn't always see eye to eye. But this?
He shook his head. How could he be held responsible for this? He wasn't there. . . He. . .
I wasn't there.
He buried his face in his hands.
"I'm so sorry, Sherlock." he whispered. "I should have seen this coming."
The younger man moaned in his sleep, his eyes twitching beneath closed lids. No matter how much pain medication they gave him, the doctors had not been able to take away the nightmares.
The past few days had been a nightmare for Mycroft as well, as he learned exactly what had happened to his brother.
Internal injuries.
Signs of sexual abuse.
Trace amounts of heroin and cocaine.
The doctors had tried to sugarcoat it, but he'd snuck in and read their reports. And these were just the tip of the iceberg.
Mycroft could not even begin to imagine what he had gone through, or who would do such a thing. His brother did not have a lot of friends. But he did not have a lot of enemies either. Certainly none who would do something like this.
He frowned, trying to suppress his rage.
"Sherlock," he said, his voice shaking. "I am going to make this right. Do you hear me? I don't have the power right now. But give me a few years. I will. I will become someone with the influence to do something about this. And then I will find the people who did this to you and make them suffer. I swear it."
Sherlock whimpered in his sleep. "Mycroft," he cried softly, "Where are you? Help me."
I will. So help me, I will.
"Mr. Holmes."
Peters' voce startled him awake, and he stretched in his hospital chair, moaning as he discovered a crick in his neck.
"Yes?"
Peters smiled sadly at him. "You really should go home, sir. We have a guard posted. Your brother will be safe."
Mycroft sighed, nodding. "Call me when he wakes up."
"I will, sir. Oh!" He fumbled in his coat pocket. "I'm sorry to give this to you now, sir, but this is for you."
Mycroft stared at the note the constable offered him. It was on office paper, the same weight and heft used at the Yard. And the flowing hand. . .
Dear Mycroft,
I am glad that your brother is safe at last, and I hope that you are well. I am extremely glad I could help you rescue him. But I have to ask that you not call me again. If you do, you will not reach me. I am being transferred. I cannot tell you where.
Please forgive me. I know the timing could not be worse.
Yours,
G
He stared at the note in shock. Gabrielle. Gabrielle was leaving.
No.
He stared at Peters. "Where is she being transferred?"
Peters frowned at him. "Sir?"
"Detective Sergeant Brown. Where?"
Peters' eyes widened in recognition. "Oh. I haven't been told. It's all top-secret."
Mycroft sighed. He knew the young man was lying to him. It was just as well, he supposed. She clearly didn't want him to know, at any rate.
"I'll be going home now. You will call me?"
"Yes, sir."
He sighed, stalking down the hallway.
He had been right after all. Caring was not an advantage. And so help him, he would never let it happen again.
Double post today! Don't get used to it. I'll try to update again on Friday. In the meantime, part one of "Gabrielle" is up if you need something more lighthearted to read after this angst-fest. -CS