Chapter 4- Bad News
"Good Morning, sweetheart." came a soft voice from directly above him as Mycroft opened his eyes.
Mycroft grinned smugly: the fact that he had tamed the bulldog of Scotland Yard and had him completely in his power meant more to him than the thousands that worked under him. Lestrade was kind and attentive (to Mycroft at least), but he Mycroft knew that it was not his gentle nature that had earnt him his reputation in London-and indeed; all of England. Then again the only other people the politician had contact with were a sociopathic detective and an army doctor with a kick for violence. Still, Greg was the sweetheart.
"What are you doing up so early?" He replied through a yawn, trying to hide his smile.
He failed. Greg smiled back enthusiastically and leant down from his spot, perched on the edge of the bed, placed an arm either side of Mycroft's head and kissed him on his still slightly parted mouth. He was already dressed in his black shirt, top two buttons undone- showing nowhere near enough of that beautiful chest. His hair was tidy, shoes on, and grey coat in his hand. Mycroft's smile instantly dropped.
"You're leaving early again?" He said quietly, firmly focussing his eyes downward on the circles he was drawing across Greg's arm with his fingertips so as to hide his disappointment.
"Yes, I have to. The attacks in Kabul have caused a lot of friction. Press are all around the Yard." He stopped, and looked thoughtful for a second. "Surely this is more your area?" He added, looking down at Mycroft questioningly.
"Yes, well, I have some private inquisitions to make. And I'll need to be close by to 221B" He said, putting it delicately- for Greg's sake.
"What? Mycroft, I have to go, what do you mean?" the DI said, climbing to his feet and swinging on the coat- but still looking down at his fiancée. His expression was confused, and perhaps a little impatient. The stress was getting to him.
"Greg, sweetie. Sit down." Mycroft instructed, trying to make his direction gentle, but instead it left his lips as an harsh order.
Greg just stared at him. "What? What is it?" He didn't sit down, just froze and searched Mycroft's eyes for some kind of answer. Mycroft had never been careful when delivering bad news. He just came out with things, regardless of the feelings of the people around him: "Greg, your mum died." "Greg, I told your boss you didn't want that promotion" "Greg, someone shot Anderson- but he survived." On this occasion, however, he knew he had to tread around the issue very carefully, it was so close to heart- for all of them.
"The bus, in Kabul, the first one…" He stopped momentarily to gather breath and then spurted out:
"John was on that bus."
Lestrade shook his head-slowly at first, and then more vigorously.
"No, no. No. NO DAMMIT MYCROFT." Lestrade paced up and down the bedroom as tears began to form in his eyes. His fists were clenched tightly. Fingernails cutting into his hands so sharply they began to bleed. Mycroft didn't understand why Lestrade thought that would help, but given he understood very little of the inner workings of his non-Holmes friends, he got up swiftly and embraced Greg- stopping him in his path. Greg always did the same when something upset Mycroft- so it seemed appropriate.
He held onto his fiancée pinning both arms to his side and pressing his bare chest onto Greg's. His extra five centimetres height allowed him to inhibit Greg's movements quite easily, even given Lestrade's strength. Or was Greg letting himself be held?
"Have they found…" Greg's voice was muffled and trailed off and hysterical sobs overtook his breathing.
"29 dead, four severely injured." He said, matter-of-factly. "It's expected to be 31 dead by tonight."
"And, John…is he?" Greg said, slowly, pushing away from the embrace to collect himself. Mycroft looked straight into his eyes and held onto both of Greg's wrists. It was difficult to say…
"I…don't know."
Greg's sobs had died down into gentle sniffles, which still pained Mycroft to see. He didn't deserve a man like this- with such emotional depth and strength of character. In an overwhelming burst of desire, he leant down and caught Greg's bottom lip between his- hoping it would count as comfort.
Greg seemed to appreciate the sentiment behind the kiss, and thrust himself into it with such vigour that Mycroft had to take a couple of steps back. He knew the kiss was out of frustration- not love- but still, it was…lovely.
"Stay home…you need time off." Mycroft mumbled against Greg's lips.
Greg simply nodded and let Mycroft push him onto the bed with a soft thump.
Sherlock had known long before he'd gotten the official news. No. That was wrong. You have to wait for facts. Data. DATA.
His mind had been running in circles. He was feeling something odd. And he didn't understand. It was like something in him had changed. How could that be? Nothing had physically happened to him. But he had this odd pain in his chest. He couldn't shift it, and painkillers weren't working. He hated taking them, but the ache was so powerful now that he couldn't even move properly.
He had felt something. A twinge, before opening the door to Mycroft- a visit wasn't unusual- but somehow the pain in his chest stung in anticipation of what he just knew would be bad news. How could he have known? It was physically impossible.
He reached across the sofa and picked up his revolver which was lying conveniently on the coffee table. He shot at the wall three times-in quick succession-before relapsing into his former position; huddled into a ball on the sofa. The smell of gunpowder in the air was oddly comforting.
It smelt of
"Mrs. Hudson!" He yelled down the stairs. "We need milk."
The door opened and closed and Sherlock could no longer fight back his tears. They washed over him- devouring his soul in all-consuming waves.
John wished he could get up. He hated being the patient, especially when it was his junior staff tending to him.
Life had changed so quickly, he hadn't even had a moment to think back- to reflect. He'd lost his only friend over here. Every time he thought of Helena the lump in his throat doubled in size and he had to clench his eyes to hold back tears. In a strange way- he had loved Helena. God knows he still did.
And now he was lonelier than he could ever remember being. And the ache Sherlock had left in his chest felt more powerful than it ever had. The broken ribs didn't help that, though. The entire left side of his body was shattered. As he'd imagined, the damage to his shoulder was irreparable- he would have a hideous scar forever. He delicately ran his hand over the red-stained bandage which was covering the rugged landscape the shrapnel had left behind. Sherlock hated him scarred, and what had been a small bullet wound was now torn open revealing the tender flesh beneath.
"You shouldn't touch it, you know" came an unfamiliar voice from the bed next to him "it'll get infected."
The voice was almost sneering: as if mocking him.
"Thank you; I'm a doctor, actually." John mumbled, turning away from the man.
He was young, blonde, and not unlike John in stature-but much taller. It was hard to say how tall exactly, but judging by how much of his body was spilling over the sides of the small hospital bed, he must have been at least Mycroft's height. His shirt was pulled down from his shoulders and tied around his waist to allow one of the other doctors to place his arm in a sling. John had to actively prevent him eyes from wandering back to that broad, sun-roasted chest: an expanse of muscle stretched over a terrifyingly imposing bone structure -with collar and hip bones redolent of Sherlock's, but without the emaciated dips in the skin between them which Sherlock so beautifully held. He did not so much as wince as the paramedic pushed his elbow back into its socket violently. He just continued to stare at John, unwavered, swaying mildly as he was jolted around by paramedics and surgeons.
"I know who you are, Captain Watson". The sneering again.
"Sebastian: Marine. It's a pleasure" He said, grinning broadly as he stretched the healthy- but filthy arm across the other injured arm to John's bed. John took it sheepishly.
"I'm the other survivor…lucky us." He mused, beaming from ear to ear. "We should get, close?"
"What are you playing at?" John muttered through gritted teeth. "What do you want?"
"Our boyfriends are acquainted." Sebastian said casually, dropping his hand back onto the bed. "Sherlock would be disappointed if he knew you'd forgotten my name." The tone was far too familiar. And the name. The young marine was right; Sherlock would be disappointed. He racked his brains but couldn't place the name. John stared at him, trying desperately to remember. But his brain was still fuzzy from the blow. What was that damned name?
"Oh, I'm sorry" Sebastian said, mockingly-throwing a look around the room "Didn't want all your little friends here to know you're bent as fuck?"
John turned away again, and tried desperately to reflect the words from him and not let them sink in fully.
Sebastian roared with laughter and then added "Oh wait! They're all dead!"
Without a second thought now; John leapt from his bed and thrust his good arm into Sebastian's neck. Faces inches apart- Sebastian gripped John's shoulder with his huge, muscular hand and pressed his fingers into the raw flesh, fresh blood seeping through the already drenched bandage, and the grit from Sebastian's fingernails digging into the tender flesh forcefully.
The vicious burn sent searing into the muscle of his left shoulder and flowing through his arm and consequently his broken ribcage-forced John to fall from the bed and land, crashing into the floor in agony. The pounding in his ears now drowning out Sebastian's laughter- he heard nothing but his own blood pumping in his temples.
Before John could pull himself to his feet he was being thrust into a fresh hospital bed and wheeled round the corner.
"Jim sends his love!" Sebastian sung after him.
Moran, John muttered. That was the name. Moriarty's sniper. But it was too late now- he had disappeared into another room.
The building was deserted when Mycroft finally arrived- well into the afternoon. He felt bad leaving Greg alone, but the enquiries were important. Moreover- Greg was fast asleep. He was tired out. Mycroft smiled, but then retracted it instantly. It was wrong to smile. He did not struggle with his emotions the way Sherlock did, and whilst neither Greg nor Sherlock could be happy right now, Mycroft found it easy to be both happy and sad simultaneously. Greg's theory had always been that he didn't have the same depth of emotion as Sherlock did, making his easier to control. That said, Sherlock hadn't always been so temperamental. Always more eccentric- but had a hold over his head as well as his body. Now, it seemed he had lost his hard-trained control over both. Not that it was a bad thing, watching John and Sherlock change one another was deeply fascinating and he was a little jealous that he and Lestrade were still so far apart in emotion.
The office was still open, however, and Mycroft made his way straight into the reprographic room. He placed the letter into the fax machine and tapped out the number that was all too familiar too him.
Not long to wait now.
In twelve hours they would receive more news. News that would turn everything around, or crush Sherlock: forever.
Though Mycroft had originally planned to wait it out at the office- he thought it best to go and see Sherlock to prepare him, and look after him.
Sherlock's past made Mycroft more than a little anxious of how he would take the news.
The walk to Baker Street was bitter cold and the wind nipped at the end of Mycroft's angular nose. A light rain drizzled down on him, and dammit. He'd forgotten his umbrella. He picked up his pace in order to get out of the cold and wet as soon as possible, and found himself jogging into the biting wind, and when he finally reached Baker Street, pressing himself to the door and ringing the buzzer repeatedly.
There was no reply.
Thinking that maybe Sherlock was asleep, Mycroft rung Mrs. Hudson's buzzer too, just in case.
Mrs. Hudson opened the door. She was as gloomy and miserable as the rest of them. She said nothing: just pushed the door all the way back and walked back into her apartment. Quickly Mycroft deduced, judging by the state of her shoes-wet on both top and bottom, so must have been out during the rain which started about 40 minutes ago- she had left the house for some reason. But could not have gone far- her clothes were only damp on the shoulders and knees, indicating a short walk, and not particularly fast- as her thighs would then also be wet. Moreover the rain hadn't reached through to her socks yet- probably the corner shop. He opened the door to 221B easily, and saw the milk on the counter. Untouched. She had just left it. Sherlock didn't answer her knocks- probably.
An odd feeling accumulated in the base of Mycroft's stomach- as if his body knew something his head did not yet know.
Sherlock's eyes were open, but unmoving. He was sat up against a wall, head dropped slightly forward. A belt was still tightly fastened around his arm, which was dotted in red finger prints and a bloodied needle lay on the floor beside him. His pallor was alarming, and his bone structure was now so clearly visible looked skeletal, and frankly, terrifying. Mycroft was frozen, just for a second. Trapped in shock by the unearthly, disturbing beauty his younger brother possessed.
He regained his movement suddenly and violently. He tugged the belt from Sherlock's arm and the needle mark spurted a fresh brighter red blood as the trapped blood flowed into his wrist and hand.
In one swift motion Mycroft lifted Sherlock over his shoulder and threw him onto the couch- panicked.
"Mrs. Hudson- ambulance!" Mycroft belted down the stairs as he paced the length of the sofa on which he'd thrown Sherlock.
Then, dropping to his knees, he gripped the collar of Sherlock's open shirt and buried his head into the deadly still detective's cold chest.
"More bad news." He muttered, as all energy drained from him.