Downtime
Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.
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Present
"Oh, back in London, we are? How was dangling from a cable car?"
Mycroft could hear Sherlock rolling his eyes behind his back, the younger man had just entered Mycroft's large office, although Mycroft didn't turn around, had just seen him enter out of the corner of his eyes. He was busy sorting documents at another table.
"I heard your mission went well, fooled vonBork and took two of his closest associates out of business. I assume he'll miss them dearly. Cover remained intact?"
Sherlock had stayed in the dark near the door but now stepped forward and into the light.
He started writing something on a small notepad and held it up for his brother to see.
Mycroft deliberately looked the other way, he was angry at his sibling.
"So where do you plan to continue? Lull vonBork in a false sense of security immediately or wait to let him realise how dire he is in need of your help?"
Mycroft waited for an answer, still didn't turn around, until an impatient grunt made him hesitate for a moment.
He moved over to a small side table and poured a small amount of brandy into a glass, well aware his brother would refuse if he offered.
"It was quite successful, your little plot… except the minor inconvenience of being grounded by some considerate hospital staff that tried to help you with your short… intermission."
He held up a glass without looking around.
Sherlock made 'no/headshake' sound.
"Oh, you still know how to make noises, that's reassuring. I was starting to wonder if your vocal chords might have taken damage."
Sherlock now stamped his foot angrily to get attention but Mycroft ignored him. Sherlock had done the same to him in the past weeks, had not bothered to keep him in the loop.
"I must say it is really refreshing to be able to speak more than three words without being rudely interrupted by the great Sherlock Holmes."
Something shattered into pieces behind him and he was sure Sherlock had just dropped a water glass that had been on a side table close to the door.
"I see, managing to be rude without a voice. Stop being so childish."
Now he turned around.
He had expected that Sherlock had a black eye or something, but what he saw made him wince and regret his teasing words from a few moments ago. He had been well aware Sherlock had been beaten, but that he refused to even try to speak was too ridiculous not to tease him.
One half of Sherlock's face was still covered in yellow-green bruises, otherwise it was quite pale, exhaustion was clearly visible and Mycroft wondered if he had eaten at all since the incident.
The older Holmes absolutely trusted his sibling to ignore his body's need simply because of the undignified way it has to happen after this kind of injury.
Sherlock held up the pad, it said 'not sorry'.
"I was well aware, even without you saying so."
He took a sip from his glass.
"I am surprised you haven't already tried to remove that impairment yourself."
'Tried,' Sherlock wrote on the pad.
Mycroft winced.
It was time Sherlock stopped being his self and did what was good for his body, no matter how undignified it was.
Mycroft picked up a tablet computer, then stepped closer and lowered his voice. He understood why his brother behaved like this, he'd probably do the same.
"You can use this, there's special software that allows you to type things fast and show them in large letters. Should make things easier."
He held the thing out and after a long moment of hesitation Sherlock took it.
"I hope you'll understand that - now that you are here - it would be the right thing to get some rest, allow your body to adjust and take care of ingesting proper nourishment. Have you eaten anything else than coffee, milkshakes and soft drinks?"
Sherlock once more rolled his eyes.
"I take that as a 'no'. Please, Sherlock, get some rest, the upcoming mission will need full concentration, you can't afford to get out there again not fully healed. If your concentration is not at the peak of your power this might kill you, and you know how that will upset Mummy."
Resigned, Sherlock plopped into one of the luxurious armchairs.
"… and John."
Sherlock flinched and Mycroft knew he shouldn't have said that. But he needed proof… and this was a reaction. In the beginning, Sherlock had rigorously denied that John would really suffer from his demise, but in the past months it seemed a slow understanding had started to set in.
Sherlock looked not only physically beaten, now he was even lost for anything else, verbal or not.
"Come on, let's get you to your room, get some sleep."
Mycroft gestured towards the door.
Sherlock needed a moment to understand he was pointing at the room they had furnished for him as soon as it was clear Sherlock would fake his death; they had brought some things and clothes over no one would miss.
With effort, Sherlock worked himself up again and without looking back he shuffled out of the room.
Mycroft looked after him, rubbing his hand over his mouth.
He had no idea how to handle this.
John would be able to do it, just by being John. Sherlock would follow his advice - at least partially - just because it was John who was asking… and partially because John would kick his behind until Sherlock did it. But John was out of the picture.
Mycroft was painfully aware he wouldn't succeed with any of the two.
He briefly considered asking their mother to take care of Sherlock, but then abandoned the idea, Sherlock would be furious the more people he loved saw him in this pitiful state.
Well, at least no one would see or know the reason he wouldn't talk unless he decided to show them. As soon as the bruises were healed he'd look perfectly normal… besides from his pale and slightly gaunt features. He had visibly lost weight and the bones of his skull were definitely more prominent than usual, eyebrows and cheeks and chin. Even the three-day-beard wasn't covering that up properly, although it worked fine as a disguise. Mycroft had completely forgotten how Sherlock looked unshaven, since he never ever wore a stubble unless he was too sick to shave.
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One week earlier.
"Sir, we found him, the transmitter works fine, but an ambulance and police reached him first, they must have been alerted by an early jogger."
"Great," Mycroft mumbled into his secure line phone. It was 4.37 in the morning.
"He is transported to the nearest hospital, we are monitoring the radio traffic, he's unconscious and in a bad state but nothing life threatening, if treated soon," the agent on the other side explained.
"Where did you find him?"
"Golden Gate Park, small side path near the Botanical Garden."
"What was he doing there?"
"Sir?"
"Right, you don't know because you lost him."
"Sorry, Sir."
"Follow him, but don't blow his cover unless his life is in immediate danger."
"Last time I was there people were quite relaxed and colourful, blend in, loose the English accent, use public transportation. Be a tourist."
"Already did, Sir."
Anthea hid a laugh beside him.
Mycroft hung up and gave her an unnerved glance, well aware she had tried to make Sherlock take a colourful Hawaiian shirt to make him blend in as a tourist, as well. But Sherlock had refused and taken four pairs of slightly out of fashion suits, stating he wanted to impersonate a representative of a large British publishing company.
Anthea had created the necessary paperwork, a Facebook profile and other online paths that could be tracked easily for him, he was travelling under the name Altamont.
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"Don't move, you'll get hurt."
The foreign voice did nothing to easy Sherlock's distress when he regained consciousness.
The fact that several hands were on him and that the last thing he remembered was being trying to hand over faked secret information to vonBorg's henchmen when another party interfered and started beating the three of them - including himself - into a pulp gave him an unpleasant adrenaline rush.
Was this a robbery?
Or where they here to kill them for the allegedly important information?
He couldn't see, the light was so bright he had to close his eyes again, although he tried to open them all that he gained was a stuttering blinking.
He tried to feel for the pen drive in his pocket but his hand was interfered with and held tight.
He sat up and started to fight them off before his mind had caught up with the situation and before his eyes were really able to see.
"Hold him down."
Voices started to yell in alarm around him.
The reverberation made him realise he was in a room, which was different than before, they had been outside.
Where had they brought him?
"Sir, you need to calm down, you might have a broken jaw and hurt yourself further."
Another voice, near to his ear, "It's alright, you're in hospital, relax, you're gonna be fine. We'll take good care of you."
The information took three seconds to sink in, in which he had fought his way off the gurney and opened his eyes.
About seven people in emergency paper gowns were around him, all wearing a more or less distressed expression on their faces, surprised he had just shoved them away and maybe also because he was able to stand.
Adrenaline was a wonderful thing.
But the bright light pierced his eyes with intense pain, the pain in his jaw and chest registered and immediately after that hit him full force.
The next moment his knees gave in.
Someone lurched forward and caught him.
The pain was so intense he barely noticed.
It stunned him momentarily while they lifted him back onto a soft surface.
"Morphine," someone ordered.
"No," Sherlock moaned, a wave of panic renewed his willingness to fight them again.
"No," he repeated.
"Are you allergic, honey?"
He tried to nod but the pain it caused made his eyes tear up.
He moaned a conformation.
"Okay, calm down, it's all right," a warm and gentle female voice was close to his ear and a hand was on his shoulder, pressing down with care.
He blinked at her, repulsed by the faked empathy she displayed, or maybe it was professional care?
Divorced, almost fifty, two grown children, suffered severe illness recently, recovered.
Maybe genuine worry, then? Knowing how bad he felt?
Pressure on his hand and then the pain receded, almost instantaneously.
That was fast.
But the haze of opiates was missing.
He briefly closed his eyes with relief.
.
The next thing he knew someone was prying open his mouth, the touch was careful but brought another bout of pain.
He jerked his eyes open and found himself in a completely different setting.
The surroundings had changed, more sterile and obviously people were preparing surgical instruments.
"Sorry, we need to treat your jaw, it's not fully broken, but you have two fractures," a young doctor informed him, leaning into his line of sight.
"We'll give you something so you can have a little nap while we take care of everything. You also have two broken fingers and three fractured ribs. But you'll heal in no time, just let us do the work."
The constant reassurance of the same useless facts was increasingly getting on his nerves.
Where was John?
Right, he was undercover, John thought he was dead, no one was there he could rely on, he was on his own.
He missed John's capable hands, being touched by strangers was so much worse.
"What's your name?"
"Altamont."
Even moving his tongue hurt.
"Okay, can you give us your emergency contacts? Don't speak, write it down,"
He wrote down 'no contacts, no family' and handed over the sheet of paper.
"Then you need to sign the consent form, please," a young nurse held out a clipboard. "And there's the information about the procedure, you also need to read it and sign it."
What? Since when did one need to do such things? Why was it all so complicated?
Oh, probably John had done all those things in the past.
He missed John, he was only gone for a few months and the fact that John was not with him on this journey was already an obstacle, as was the distracting sensation of loneliness.
No, it wasn't really loneliness.
It wasn't his problem that he was alone - he had been alone most of his adult life - it was the fact that John was absent.
He missed 221b and John taking care of all day things... and of his minor injuries.
Strangers were inconvenient, not understanding a thing, communicating annoyingly slow.
"Sir, do you understand what I'm saying?"
He heard her, but it was all a bit much to take in.
Especially John's absence.
A moment later it registered that they wanted to put him under.
There was no way he'd allow them to.
Hastily he scribbled down 'local anaesthetic only!"
It was borderline unreadable.
"Sorry, Sir, but it is standard procedure. This will take time and be painful, I can't…"
It was all Sherlock needed to hear.
He couldn't stay here, surely the facture would heal on its own as long as he was careful - he had had fractured bones before, since nothing was really broken he'd go back to his motel and rest there, maybe organise some painkillers somewhere, shouldn't be that hard with his contacts to vonBork, he was probably already informed there had been an assault.
When he rose, he saw he was no longer in his shirt and dress trousers but in a hospital gown.
"Oh, for god's sake!" he hissed through his teeth and once more his jaw and then his ribs started to protest.
He clenched his jaw from the pain and it was the worst he could do because the pain it caused robbed him momentarily of orientation.
He was held once more and once more people were yelling. They must have been prepared after he first tried to get up.
"Put him under, now! He's too much out of it to understand the paperwork anyway. Get going, people."
Now, that was reason to panic!
But Sherlock barely had time to struggle because people held him in place he felt pressure on the IV port.
Then, like a switch, he was out.
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A/N:
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