Seriefila: all my love to you :) Next chapter coming soon, just need to finish a scene or two.
(in case you want to comment in more interactive way, the same thing is being posted on archiveofourown, where the commenting system is a bit more forum-like)
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There was a voice in his head, telling him to stay with them - them who? - and that he was going to be fine - what was wrong with him? There were hands holding his, strong, stocky, warm hands checking his pulse and slowly opening and closing his fists for some reason. There were slim, slightly cooler hands that sometimes held him, too, touching his wrist and very slowly stretching his fingers.
The voice sometimes changed. He preferred vastly when it was a tenor - the tenor that sounded like a spoon dipped into a jar of honey, like cold water being poured into a cup, like crispiness of a freshly toasted slice of bread. Like a woollen blanket all around him.
The alto that sometimes replaced it brought the memory of swish of leather, of a tapping of a high heel on a concrete floor, of a silk stocking snapping in strong fingers. Alto didn't encourage him, but berated.
Voices were playing 'good cop bad cop' with him, obviously.
He really wanted the tenor to come back. It had been much too long. Alto was again cutting him into shreds with its reproachful tones. He must have done something very wrong for the voice to be that angry at him.
The tenor was back. It was telling him to be brave, to come back, to take another breath, to move his fingers - there was a hand pressing on them, but he had no strength to push against it. The tenor wasn't surprised, but it still insisted. It told him that he had to try and that there were people waiting for him. Then a warm hand touched his cheek. A rough pad of the thumb traced his cheekbone, then his upper lip.
He found it a bit disquieting that the tenor was there and was telling him all these sweet things. He felt he deserved punishment, like the alto said. There was something he did, something terrible, but he couldn't remember what it was.
#
People were talking on the corridor. He tried focusing on the source of sounds and stretching a bit at the same time. The way his hands were tied over...
Wait a minute.
Beeps. Someone breathing.
His hands were free, and down, and covered by some kind of coolant.
Experimentally, he tried moving his fingers. They hurt.
Everything hurt, more or less. From his eyes, which seemed to be swollen and hot, to his toes. He tested the toes, and the did seem to be moving. Fortunately.
"Sherlock? I've notified the nurses that you were waking, one had just left to inform the doctors."
Woman's voice. The alto. Hand holding his fingers. He tested the fingers again, tapping each against her wrist separately.
"Ok, can you talk? 'Yes' for a yes, two taps for a no."
He tried, swallowing a bit, his throat dry and inflamed.
He tapped twice.
"Hurts? Or you just can't talk? One for hurt, two for can't speak."
He tapped once.
"Problems breathing?"
He tested and although his ribs smarted and it seemed as if he was unable to fill his lungs to full capacity, still, he could breathe almost comfortably.
Two taps.
"Do you want me to tell you where you are?"
One tap.
"We are in a military base, on the border between Croatia and Italy. We've been... transported from Dobrota by the British military. An... operative had liberated us from the Palazzo where we were held, and took us out of town. We are waiting for your results now, and he..."
The door opened somewhere, with a resounding crack, and he felt her jolt.
"Not acceptable! They took the samples the moment we landed, how the fuck could they have gone missing?"
That voice.
"But, major..."
"I. Don't. Care. Search for them. Or you can try sending a team to that house and retrieving a sample of the drug itself. Oh, wait. You can't. Because some abysmal idiot ordered the house to be stormed by even bigger idiots and fucking managed to have the whole thing burnt to fucking ground!"
It had to be John. The amount of sheer vulgarity, combined with that special only-John-Watson way of holding his breath and expelling it when enraged. The little pauses between sentences when the fury switched into a higher gear.
"Now, either you find out who managed to bugger the simple task of properly storing the fucking samples and get them to find the lost ones, or you go back to that benighted town and dig some new ones up yourself from the ruins, and pray they would help us in any way to judge his condition!"
"Yes, sir."
It couldn't be John. The way he spoke, the way the others were addressing him. It all screamed of wrongness. It had to be John, but it couldn't. John was in London. John was sitting in his chair, with his tea and stupid TV shows or mindnumbing car chase movies. John was milk, and biscuits, and jumpers and the smell of laundry detergent.
This place stank of disinfectant, with undertone of blood, pain, fear and unpalatable food.
He couldn't accept the reality in which John was not at home. John wasn't supposed to be in danger. John wasn't supposed to be in the army ever again. John had already done all and more than was asked of him. John had sacrificed his health for others. This time it was supposed to be the other way round. It was supposed to be him for John.
"He carried you out" Irene said in a momentary lull, as the voices at the end of the corridor were reduced to very angry muttering. "He first made sure I could walk abd I helped him get you and then he carried you on his own shoulders and drove us out to the heli."
Carried him? John?
Shoulders?
Suddenly the voices in the corridor changed their tone.
"...you are here. Perfect. I will be leaving with the next transport."
"But, the treatment, major?"
Mycroft. No. I want John.
John can't leave.
"The doctors here can continue it, and then you can move him to the facility in Zurich. They have great results dealing with... This kind of crap. Here, we've been keeping him doped up to make sure he doesn't seize, but who knows what that shit was cut with and what kind of prolonger damage it might have done to him. And someone managed to bugger sample storage, you can probably use your power to light fire under a few seats, because right now we have no idea what the ingredients really were - unless you have collected samples of their goods from before. If he managed not to develop direct psychological link to that specific substance, replacing it with less toxic ones will obviously help with alleviating the direct dependence, once he is fully up - like we are doing right now with morphine. And from there it's again the same old road. You know that just as well as I do, Holmes. You also know that I may be a surgeon and a GP, but I've never been good at treating addictions. Including my own. So don't try to make me responsible for treating someone else's. Especially not in this situation. Not with a patient who can't trust me, rather obviously. No. No discussion, you can read the records. I am barely awake and I really wish to finally sleep in my own bed today. You can inform Miss Adler that should she wish to have my company on the flight to England, I will be leaving in three hours. It's not like he would want me to be here anyway. I know perfectly well I can't be trusted with life-changing secrets, unlike people he really feels close to. I'm not going to bother him anymore. You can tell him as much."
"John..." he heard his brother cry out, but he could envision the tight posture and the mutinous set of John's shoulders as he marched away down some unknown corridor, so fast that he left a long-legged Holmes man behind, unable to catch up.
He tightened his hold on her fingers.
"I can't stay, Sherlock" she squeezed back. "The local authorities accept my temporary... presence, as I'm held on the military base, but they will soon demand my removal to the local prison. If I go to London, MI6 will take me in and..." he felt her move and he guessed she shrugged. "At least some comforts are guaranteed. I prefer my prison guards to at least speak proper Queen's English. And the locals make really lousy tea."
He licked his lips and made an effort.
"John."
She squeezed his fingers again.
"He won't talk to you now, Sherlock. I'm afraid you... you might have actually broken him. Physically, he's better than I've ever seen him - live or on surveillance - but inside... If you weren't so sick, I'd have slapped you again for doing this to your sweet doctor, you know? He had spent the last three weeks sitting with you - unless I kicked him out so that he showered and changed. Talked himself hoarse, too. He oversaw all thirteen of your surgeries in the first week. I've heard him say a lot since, and you, Sherlock Holmes, are in for a good trashing, once you're up to it."
He knew. Tiniest of nods used up his all energy.
He broke John. He knew, obviously, that his "death" would affect John, but somehow, hearing Irene of all people talking to him, scolding him, made it much more real, brought it into light. He broke John, plain and simple. John was here, and John had saved them - her words were an involuntary confirmation of his guesses. But John didn't want to stay - wouldn't stay, was going to leave the minute he could. And Mycroft showing up gave John all the justification he needed. John was handing him over to his true family, to the person that John felt Sherlock trusted. And it was all his own fault.
Well, Mycroft's too.
Brother, you have the worst timing in the world. Couldn't you have waited one day more?
"I will stay with you until the plane is ready to leave. I'm afraid that going with him is the only guarantee that I will actually receive a proper, honest treatment. Your brother will make sure you survive this shit, but I need Watson to make sure they don't stick me in the Tower, or extradite me to some unpleasant place."
"Go" he whispered finally, seeing the truth of her fears.
"No, I'm fine now, here. John will be back to fetch me before he leaves, I'm sure."
"He will, Miss Adler."
He felt her tense.
Piss off, Mycroft.
"Please leave us for a moment, Miss Adler. I need to speak to my brother alone."
He held her hand tighter.
"He doesn't want me to leave."
Mycroft sighed and moved a chair closer to the bed.
"How are you, brother?"
"He can't speak. His throat hurts too much."
"Ah. A perfect occasion then. Brother, as soon as the doctors are sure of your continued progress, you will be transported to a secure facility in Switzerland. I know it's rather cliche, but they do have a great program of mental and physical rehabilitation, and they don't enforce the idea of group sessions being applicable to everyone. Also, they do not preach twelve step or other programs you had so openly scorned over the years. You see the benefit of that approach, I suppose. You will have to spend some time here, still, but once you are properly stabilised and able to survive flight, they will airlift you to Zurich and your treatment will be continued there. I hope you will not make the life of everyone there harder than necessary. I will have your things sent from Baker Street as soon as Anthea can tear herself away from the current mini-crisis in the City. I suppose having your books and violin may help alleviate some boredom that is to be expected in a place like that."
He forced his lips to curl up in a grimace.
"Eyes" he whispered hoarsely. "Can't see."
They were silent, for just a moment. He could imagine them, Irene sitting - probably in some kind of military getup, since her own things had been part of the trap set for him - and Mycroft standing, playing with his umbrella, and both of them exchanging a quick glance.
A chair was moved and his brother sat down, rather heavily.
"They were sticking needles in them" Irene said finally. "You have swelling everywhere around your lids, and inflammation in the vicinity of the optic nerves. The doctors are pumping you full of various kinds of antibiotics, and counting on the fact that the nerves themselves seem undamaged. Once they get the swelling under control, you should be able to see again. It's been long, I know, but you've had some setbacks in that time, and saving your life took precedence over..."
"Needles?" he swallowed with revulsion. Needles close to his brain, not so good. Needles were fine in veins, in arms, basically, everywhere possible, but never around his brain. He would agree to an occasional shot of analgesic in case of a more intensive dental work, but that already seemed way too close to his centre of operations. Needles - maybe dirty, maybe covered with the product they were selling - stuck in his eyes, that seemed like the stuff of nightmares.
"You are on three different IVs of highly potent antibiotics, each of rather wide spectrum, and also one antiviral. Just in case, brother dear, until they make sure the needles were only simply filthy. The test results are fine, for the time being, but the incubation time..."
He swallowed, his inflamed throat an agony of dryness. Irene's hand left his and he felt a straw touching his bruised lips. The water was cool, but thankfully not icy cold.
"John?"
Again, the silence. The same silence of looks being exchanged and Irene and Mycroft sharing something without him being able to observe. The most hateful type of silence he could think of.
"Doctor Watson has deemed his job to be done once he saw me. I must admit, I'm not perfectly sure he should have, but on the other hand, I do understand his reticence. He had been very accommodating and had handled your rescue in an incredibly efficient fashion. The subsequent explosion in the house had, unfortunately, brought the case into the public view, but we've managed to cover it, in cooperation with the local government, as a case of a drug preparation incident. Criminals eliminating themselves, as it were."
"Sherlock, John wants to go back to London and continue his normal work" Irene again, touching his hand. "He did seem willing to talk to you after the helicopter ride, but I'm afraid that was only as long as you were... I've texted him a moment ago that you're awake and he just texted me back to go and collect my things, because he's heading to the airstrip in an hour."
And he hadn't visited. Which meant, most probably, John Watson wanted nothing to do with Sherlock Holmes, ever. It meant that John Watson didn't even want to look at him if there was a risk he might answer.
"'rene" he grasped her hand and pulled her closer. "Tell. Him" he breathed deeply and focused. "Everything."
"You want me to tell John everything? Everything you told me in Zagreb?"
One tap.
Again, the bloody silence.
"Please, tell him as much as you deem necessary, Miss Adler" he heard his brother sigh and his chair scraped the floor again. "Anything that will make him more... give him better understanding of the situation."
Irene's thumb was making a slight, calming circle in the middle of his palm.
"I will" she said, and paused. Again! "I will tell doctor Watson - major Watson - everything that I know. I will tell him everything, related to the problem on hand, that Sherlock told me. I will not try to manipulate him by giving him partial, skewed data."
One tap.
"And I'm not doing it because you asked" he felt her turning to him, again. "I'm doing it because I owe John Watson that much. I owe him honesty. What he does with that information is up to him, completely."
He wanted to correct her. He wanted to feel that she was wrong, saying these things. He wanted to rant in self-righteousness and to tell her that her human feelings were petty and insignificant. He wanted to deride her need to honour John's sacrifice. He wanted to point out that she lived for manipulation, she strove to control everyone around her, to move the pieces as she wished, so why would she be allowed to change the rules?
She wasn't changing the rules, however. It was the game that had changed. The game of Sherlock-and-John apparently required some re-writing of the rule book, and Irene had appointed herself as the editor of that correction.
One tap.
Let John hear what Irene wanted to tell him. Let John see and understand what led to the moment on the roof, and the moments on the pavement, and to the terrifying, ugly, desperate phone call.
"I think I should leave you two alone for a moment, Sherlock. Your brother is sitting on this abysmally uncomfortable chair and looking at me with reproach. He is wearing an absolutely dashing grey-silver three piece with a matching stone-grey tie, he has his favourite umbrella, of course, his shoe is absolutely spotless - probably got here from the airport by a rented car and a driver. He also weighs about two hundred and... three pounds, but you'll have to calculate the gain yourself. The cast on his right leg seems rather uncomfortable. I'll nip over to my room and collect the things dear Maria had procured for me and say my goodbyes. I will be back before we fly, darling. See you later, Mr Holmes."
"Goodbye, Miss Adler. Major Watson will take good care of you."
"I'm sure he will."
#
They sat in silence for a few minutes until Mycroft shifted in his seat.
"Cast?" Sherlock managed to wheeze out.
"I broke my right leg two weeks ago."
He frowned.
"Koto'?"
"Of course, in Kotor. There was a sudden temperature drop and I lost my balance getting in the car. It's not very complicated, but terribly inconvenient. That's why, upon arriving back home, I've arranged for another solution of your predicament. Which is how you came to be here."
He sighed.
"I'm sorry we couldn't get to you earlier, but we followed your footsteps to Serbia first. Only when you dropped off the radar the agents hurried up and found the trail leading to Montenegro. Someone hadn't included local small-scale idiots in their calculations."
Sherlock managed to groan.
"Fortunately your... John's skillset perfectly matched the situation. He has been on the base for two days and then in the nearby towns for three, gathering information. I thought it would be at least a week more, so I must admit I was slightly surprised to receive his signal that the mission was moving forward so quickly."
Mycroft really sounded pensive. Very much unlike him.
Sherlock honestly hated his loss of sight. Hearing didn't compensate, considering he had no knowledge of the room - size, object placement - and he couldn't supplement it with touch.
They sat in silence some more.
"Mor...ine?" he breathed finally.
"High doses. Lowered slightly at the moment, trying to see what will start to respond with pain first, in case there is something wrong they didn't manage to identify under all the other things that are obviously wrong. Remember, this is military hospital. Solutions to some problems are... crude. They also used it to dampen your body's response to withdrawal from that substance you've been dosed with."
"S'us?"
"Your overall status... Apart from the eyes, of course, you have lacerations on most of your body - most did not require stitches, but you are glued together with a tonne of butterfly bandaids, so you do look a bit like a primary school art project. These people had shaved off your hair, which was in a way fortunate - you have several head wounds and went through at least one concussion unassisted in your time there. As it is, the hospital didn't have to spend additional time shaving you here. Obviously, needle marks everywhere they could get to a vein, which made finding a spot for an IV port a challenge. You won't loose any of your toes. Your fingers were broken, and had to be rebroken and set again, so you will still require some physio before you'll be able to touch your violin. They had been kept exercised to ensure blood flow. The knees and ankle joints were dislocated and then pushed into place by someone less than professional, so this will require some work, too. Cuts on various muscles, needed stitches and will require rebuilding your muscle mass. You will get a bit more attention now, once the cut on your jawline heals - it will leave a faint scar, I'm afraid. You lost one of your incisors, which is unfortunate but not a challenge. I've booked you a visit with a recommended specialist in four months time. Hopefully it will be enough to get you mobile, reasonably healthy and in London."
"'rene?"
"Starved" Mycroft said simply. "And she will never wear a deep neckline again. It was a miracle she could even stand up when John found her. The doctors had to rehydrate her and apply wide-spectrum antibiotics to manage the skin infections and... other infections, I'm afraid. Obviously, she's on antivirals, too. John... John will take care of her, I expect. He made it a personal challenge to ensure her comfort once she is turned over to my people. I promised him unlimited access to her, so he will be able to see that she is being properly taken care of."
Someone walked by the door, pushing a heavy cart. The door wobbled slightly - he heard the lock click open and the hinges groan. Voices of the rickety hospital washed over them.
Patients crying.
Doctors arguing.
Nurses complaining.
Orderlies running.
"...to tell him? Hm? What? Irene, I understand your position..."
"No you don't."
"And you don't understand mine. What do you expect me to do? Go in there, hold him and tell him I forgive him? I can't forgive, Irene. I'm not built for... for this! I can't even look at him right now!"
"John, please. He needs you to..."
"I needed him. I needed him not to be dead. Two years ago. Two fucking bloody years ago. Now? Now I can't... I can't go in there. I don't have anything... Nothing. He took away everything I had, you know? I had nothing when I met him. I didn't even have a fucking life. I was a zombie, waiting for the apocalypse to happen. Then I got him, and Lord, it was glorious. I lived, I heard music, I saw colours, dammit."
"Tell him that."
"Irene, I, I can barely breathe when I consider being in the same room as him. I can't think, I can't move. I can't look at him without seeing a pool of blood on concrete. These last weeks? It was pure torture, but at least I knew I was doing something useful. Now I can't. No more. I can't look at him. Do you know I can't actually go near Bart's entrance now? I threw up on the sidewalk the last time I tried. This is what he did to me. He stripped me naked of all that made my life an actual life. I depended on him, I built everything back on the foundation that was Sherlock bloody Holmes, and he took away that foundation and everything crashed. Do you want me to tell him that? Or maybe you'd rather hear me tell him of all the times when Mycroft waded in and picked me up from a drunk tank, or a hospital? When I didn't have anyone else to call and had to put his brother as my emergency contact? Or the time when I couldn't go back to Baker Street so I rented a bedsit in my old building, but I could only afford one almost as nasty as what I used to have before him? Irene, are you sure any of this will help any of us?"
He heard her make a noise, but it was muffled, and followed by something like patting of a soft surface.
"Come on, blow your nose, woman. We are expected on the tarmac. The airplane is ready and can leave the moment we are there."
Mycroft took a long, whistling breath.
"Little brother... I can explain."
"No" he whispered and swallowed. "No. S'fine."
It wasn't. But there was not much he could do about it.
If John truly felt that way, there was only one appropriate thing to do.
