"Doctor! Doctor!" Mrs. Hudson rarely ever crosses the line into panic, or hysteria. She's a calm, level headed woman, always has been- so when he hears that tone in her voice, he's instantly alert. He pushes upright with his stick, from his chair-no small effort- and limps to the stairs, hesitating to battle down them-for all of half a minute.
Because the second his eyes land on Alfie, dripping wet and huddled in a blanket Mrs. Hudson has draped over him, and just behind him an equally sopping Mycroft, who cradles a bundle in his arms clutched to his chest. A Sherlock sized bundle.
Oh, no.
Please, no.
He's down the stairs faster then he ever thought he could have managed them, actually skipping the last four, and at Mycroft's side.
"Mrs Hudson, are you feeling up to-"
"I'll get these two taken care of." Mrs. Hudson's eyes haven't left the tiny, huddled lump that is Sherlock. He's pale, but with two bright spots of color in his cheeks, shivering all over, so violently it shakes Mycroft, too, wheezing with harsh, racking coughs every so often seizing him. He's so still- too still, more then any child should ever be and even more so an active, inquisitive child like Sherlock.
"Mycroft. Sweetheart, you must let him go. Let go of Sherlock, now, Doctor Watson has him." The woman reaches out to place a hand on Mycroft's neck, and the teen jumps so violently he nearly falls. He blinks, once, twice, and simply clutches his brother more tightly. "Please," He whispers, and Watson's heart shatters.
"I'll help him. You're both going to be fine." He murmurs. "But you have to give him here, Mycroft. You have to trust me."
Mycroft doesn't move, hardly even breaths. His gray eyes, normally so stunning, are nearly black. He's even more wet then John was, and his own breath is rasping painfully; he's not nearly as bad off as his brother, but the cold has taken it's toll on him, too. He shakes his head no, almost imperecptiably, and glances back over his shoulder. Alfie moves to go to him, but Mrs. Hudson grabs him back and clutches him to her. John doesn't move.
"Mycroft. You know you can trust me. You've done an incredible job keeping him safe, but you need help, now, and that's what I want to do. Let me help."
Mycroft blinks, as if in a daze, then suddenly reels. His knees give out entirely, and John dives forward, his own leg and shoulder singing out in protest, and snags Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson catches Mycroft, ignoring Alfie's frightened cry, and it speaks to how exhausted and frightened he is when he lets her pull him under her arm.
"I'm sorry," The teen is whispering, "I'm sorry, I thought-I was- he's-I'm sorry-" His voice fails on a harsh cough of his own, and he tries to stand upright but can't quiet get there; his legs give out again.
"No, Mycroft." John gathers Sherlock closer. "Don't apologize. You've done more then anyone should ever expect of you. You did what you thought you must. There's no apology needed."
"Come on, boy." Mrs. Hudson says, gently brushing his hair out of his face. "Boys, I should say. Let's stay out of Doctor Watson's way and get you two warm. Plus, I'm sure your Grandmother is worried sick, Alfred."
Mycroft murmurs something indecipherable, and she simply rubs his back calmly. "It's alright, now. All alright, my boy-"
That's the last of it John hears. He manages the stairs-though more slowly, to his disgust, with his arms full and no added support for his game leg- and gets Sherlock to his own room. Desperately he strips the soaked cloths off the boy, and drys him, then puts him in dry, warm clothing, under the covers on his own bed. Dangerously high fever- first thing to do is bring it down.
And so he begins the struggle to save the boy's life.
"Mycroft? Lad? Awake?"
"I couldn't sleep."
"Good. Well, not good, precisely, but-I could use you in here."
"Is he alright? Did something-"
"Easy, easy, he's on his way back up the slope. But he's not resting easily and I have the odd feeling-"
"He needs me."
"Exactly."
"Alfie says the two men that came in the other day- he says you attacked them. Easy, little brother, it's alright now. Here, move over-Sherlock, move-"
"Careful with that arm-and yes. I did. Who are they, Mycroft?"
"....No one. It's nothing-"
"If it was no one, they wouldn't have been after you. Mycroft, do not lie to me."
"I'll explain it to you when he's well. I promise."
"Mycroft-"
"I promise."
"....at least get some rest, then. I can't have you getting sicker on my hands, too."
"I know it's unpleasant, Sherlock. Hush now." Hands stroking a cool rag across a burning forehead. "It'll be done soon, lad. You're almost through it." A soft, whimpering murmur, and Mycroft stroking his younger brother's forehead.
"I thought you said he was getting better."
"He is. Sherlock was a very sick young man, and you know it. The fever isn't dangerously high anymore, we just have to keep it down, and the shoulder looks good. You're both lucky it's healing well."
"His cough is gone, any rate."
"See? And his breathing's evened out. He'll be perfectly fine. But it won't happen overnight."
A soft whimper yet again, a gentle plea- "M'crof'-" And instantly, soft hands rubbing along his back and shoulders.
"Here. Right here."
"M'croft-"
"Right here, Sherlock, hush now."
"Can't-Myke-"
"Doctor?"
"It's alright, Mycroft, he's just dreaming."
"I know he's d-"
"Mycroft! N', don'-le' m' 'lone-"
"Sherlock, no one's hurting you. It's just John, boy, settle down now."
Arms twining around him, rocking gently, pinning flailing limbs to his sides. "Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Pay attention. Listen. Listen to me. Pay attention to me."
"I can'-I-"
"Mycroft-"
"I've got him. Sherlock. Stop it, that's enough. Enough of it. I'm right here, I've got you-"
"Can' find-"
"Right here. Feel. Listen. I've got you. I'm here. You're safe. Come on, baby brother. Focus. You can hear me."
More hands, stroking the hot, fevered forehead. One big hand landing, tentatively at first, then more firmly, on the older brother's back. Rubbing up and down in hard, firm strokes.
"Mycroft?"
"See? There you are. Hello."
"Wha'?....I don'....can't think."
"You never do, anyway."
Soft chuckle.
"Mycroft."
"It's true enough, isn't it?"
"Sherlock, can you recognize me?"
"....'Tson."
"Close enough. Welcome back."
"I was somewhere?"
Another laugh. Arms gropping, finding Mycroft's sleeves. A low, tired noise, nuzzling into his shirt. Arms hugging him close, a face pressed into the mass of his dark hair.
"Yes, brother. But we're home now."
"I don't know what you think you're going to do with 'em."
"I'm not just going to trust the system to take care of them, Lestrade. I know the system. So do you, better even then me. Besides, it failed them once."
"We found the mother, Watson."
".....and?"
"And, she wants nothing to do with them. Won't consider putting herself and them into protective custody, won't even speak at a trial. Woman's half out of her head with grief. I don't think she was ever firmly situated there to start with."
"All the more reason-"
"You've gone and fallen in love with the little beggars. Stop lying about it and making excuses."
"Lestrade-"
"I'm not about to be the one to tell you you can't take them. I'm sure the mother'd give up custody faster then any of us would like to admit, and that's a sad fact. I'm just wondering if you've thought it all through."
"Absolutely not."
Snort of laughter.
"Then I was right. You have gone and fallen in love with them. How's the little one doing?"
"Sherlock? Bouncing out of bed like a spring and getting into everything he can find. He very nearly blew up the kitchen yesterday."
"....How d'you-no, nevermind. I'm not sure I want to know."
"He's brilliant. They both are. They could out think most adults I know. Observant, too. To the point of it being frightening. Sometimes I wonder how they know half the things they know. And if they don't know something and can't find it out in a book, they make it a mission to put it to practical tests."
"So that's how a kitchen almost blows up."
"The short version, yes. I want to keep them, Lestrade."
"And I'm sure they want to stay. It's just- it's not going to be easy."
"Nothing worth it ever is."