I am so so sorry. I got writer's block... I kept writing and rewriting this chapter, unable to feel satisfied about it. So I beg your forgiveness for the long wait.

Also, warning: epic bromance ahead.

Pressure Points

Chapter Nine: Obviously

oOOOo

When Sherlock finally regained consciousness fully it was dark, and he couldn't move. He had woken earlier, tried to fight to stay awake, even called for help a few times, but all the - were those helicopters? - noises above him probably drowned it out. And since it was now clearly night, he didn't attempt the same again, but just lay still and catalogued what had happened and what his injuries were.

He had a broken leg, definitely, what felt like burns on his chest, side and arms, and possibly had sustained a severe concussion from the impact of the building collapsing on him. Also, his ears were ringing and sounds were muffled, though he hoped that would be temporary. Still, he had been amazingly lucky. Being in a doorway had helped. He supposed, though logic was difficult due to his blurry mind, that it was like what they said about earthquakes and seeking some safety beneath a doorframe.

Finally, he managed to extricate his arms and push away a long piece of what felt to be a girder, which had been pinning him down. He shifted, trying to decide how deeply he was buried. And oh, that hurt. He exhaled shakily, wincing. He wanted to move, to get out, to find John. But every minute movement seemed to cause agony. Tedious.

That was when he felt a bulge in his pocket. He mentally shook himself. Of all the uncomfortable things he could be focused on - his burns, his ruined fingers, the fact that he had nearly died in a massive explosion - why this? He slowly worked his hand toward his side, each inch of movement sending searing, white-hot pain shooting through his nerves and making him wince. Finally, he worked the object out and into his hand, where he squinted at it, wondering if what he was seeing in the dim light was what he believed it was.

Mycroft's mobile phone.

Sherlock knitted his eyebrows together, trying desperately to fight off the dizziness and obvious signs of a concussion to concentrate. But the pain was worse than the worst of migraines, and all he could remember was his brother saying something about their mother.

But even then, Sherlock had not been thinking clearly, judgement clouded by his fear for both Mycroft and John. So apparently, Mycroft had slipped the phone into his pocket when he wasn't looking. How his brother had known he would need it, Sherlock wasn't sure, but then again, it was Mycroft, his brilliant older brother.

"Come on," Sherlock half-whimpered, trying to force his hands to operate the thing. He pressed the numbers slowly, fighting to keep his probably-dying body conscious.

The other end only rang two and a half times before it was answered, but by then Sherlock felt himself growing so much weaker, so much faster.

"Sherlock?" He had to strain his ears to hear, as they were still ringing and dulled, half-deaf, but he could still make out the shocked voice.

"Myc, help me," he implored. "I'm still alive, but please... I need your help."

"Alright, I'll send someone to you," Mycroft was instantly in business mode. "Stay on the phone with me, Sher, can you do that?"

"It hurts," Sherlock forced out, sounding pathetically vulnerable. He hoped Mycroft wouldn't tease him about that later. But who was he kidding? He'd probably never let Sherlock hear the end of it. "Please, Mycroft. I can't get out."

"It will be fine, just hold on. Just listen to me, don't hang up. Stay awake, Sher."

"Moran? Milverton?" Sherlock asked, vision blurring. It felt like he was spinning. Not good. Stupid concussion. "Where are they?"

"We'll find them," Mycroft replied. "I have people out looking. Including some of your, ah, assets."

The homeless network. Trust Mycroft to be resourceful like that. "Thank you."

"Sherlock? I need you to stay awake, alright?"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered. "This is all my fault."

"Quiet now, Sherlock, it will be fine."

Sherlock didn't remember much of the next few minutes, only the sound of his brother's voice, speaking soothingly. Later he would remember only that the rescue vehicles arrived at the wreckage in a record four minutes, during which Sherlock had tried his best to climb to the surface of the rubble, still clinging to the mobile. Before he got close, however, he felt himself passing out, and had the wisdom to keep the phone gripped in his hand tightly, so the rescuers could follow the sound of Mycroft, still talking to him.

Darkness enfolded him, but he clung to the thought that Mycroft was coming, and that probably meant John was as well.

John.

oOOOo

A pinprick of white light was the first thing he was aware of next. He blinked rapidly, and the light solidified into the full moon, far far above him. He was outside then, out of the rubble. So where was John? Where was Mycroft? Were they alright? He had worked so hard to save them; they had to be safe, somewhere near. Where were they? He slowly sat up, despite his injuries, to look around for either of them.

And moments later, as if he'd read Sherlock's mind, Mycroft was there, his hands gentle on Sherlock's arms.

"Oh, little brother, what have you gotten yourself into?" he murmured. Sherlock leaned forward, relief flooding through him as he rested his head against Mycroft's chest.

"You found me," he whispered, for once forsaking his emotionless mask and seeking comfort from his big brother.

"Of course I did, Sher," Mycroft said, his voice shaking, a rare occasion in itself. "Let's get you to the hospital."

Sherlock dimly realized he was on a stretcher, and Mycroft lowered him back down, keeping a firm yet tender hand on Sherlock at all times. Strange, unfamiliar faces swam before him, paramedics talking quietly. But Sherlock just let Mycroft speak, for once giving in to the other's constant concern and letting him take care of Sherlock, just as Mummy had once asked.

"Where's John?" he croaked as they climbed into the ambulance. "Is he alright?"

Mycroft surveyed him critically. "He is physically fine. But Sherlock, he thinks you're ..."

Sherlock let his eyelids flutter shut. "Tell him. I need to see him..."

"It can wait, can't it? John needs to rest, as do you," Mycroft sounded nearly as tired as Sherlock felt, but that didn't stop Sherlock from being his usual stubborn self.

"I don't care. Call him. I can sleep when I'm dead."

He heard Mycroft exhale shakily, and it was almost a laugh. "You very nearly were. So please sleep now. You'll see John soon."

Sherlock felt Mycroft's hand cover his, and he saw the wisdom in the idea. Dangerous with a probable concussion, yes, but at the same time, his wounds needed time to heal, and what better way to pass the time until he saw John again than sleeping? So Sherlock gave in and drifted off while Mycroft watched over him.

John, Sherlock thought in the last instant of consciousness. John.

oOOOo

Sherlock hated hospitals. Stupid, dull, utterly clean places. Too many white, sterile things. And also, no John. Where was he anyway? It was morning now, judging by the light streaming through the window of his room. What day it was, or how long he had been there unconscious, Sherlock wasn't certain. But surely that was enough time for John to have gotten sufficient rest... Unless John had been injured by the explosion. Oh God, and if that was true, it was Sherlock's fault...

Then a voice outside his room jolted him. A relieved smile spread across his face before he could stop it. Thank goodness his hearing had returned to its former glory.

"Yeah, I'm John Watson, could you please tell me where Sherlock Holmes' room is?"

"I'm sorry, sir, only relatives are permitted to-"

"I'm his flatmate, please, you've got to make an exception!"

"I... I'm sorry, I-"

The phone at the desk rang, and Sherlock listened as John paced. The receptionist answered, then her voice quickly grew more and more flustered. Sherlock smirked; good old Mycroft.

"Yes, sir, I understand... Yes, Mr. Holmes... Absolutely, sir... Sorry for the misunderstanding... Thank you."

A click as the phone was hung up. He could hear that the receptionist needed to trim her nails; she was never going to get into medical school with claws like that.

"You can see him, Mr. Watson, he's in the room just there across the hall."

Doctor Watson, you daft girl. He's a doctor.

Footsteps, anxious breaths. John.

"Oh my God, Sherlock!" He raced to the bedside, eyes full of concern as he dropped into the plastic chair next to the bed. "Are you alright? I've been trying to get in here to visit you for hours! Mycroft wouldn't let me in until today, kept insisting you needed to rest..."

John looked terrible, as if he hadn't slept in years. Slept on Lestrade's sofa last night, second night in a row apparently, so he must have wanted to avoid telling Mrs. Hudson what had happened. Tea for breakfast, but who knew the last time he had eaten anything? He needed a shave as well, and hadn't bothered to comb his hair this morning. Of course, none of that told Sherlock what he really needed to know.

"Are you?" Sherlock replied, voice hoarse.

"Do I look alright?" John replied, huffing. "I thought you were dead, Sherlock!"

He sniffed, looking somewhat distraught, though Sherlock wasn't sure that was the right word. Emotions. He had never really mastered recognizing them, even when they were exhibited in his best friend.

"I feel fine, though that is undoubtedly the drugs they are pumping into me," Sherlock gestured feebly toward the IV next to his bed.

John nodded slowly, but neither said anything further. After a few moments of silence, he gave Sherlock a quick once-over, eyes lingering on his chest's bandage-covered burns. Seeing John about to open his mouth, the injured detective began to speak.

"A few second degree burns, three broken ribs which scraped the left lung, four cracked ribs, a grade 2 concussion, a broken leg. Some momentary hearing loss, but it's mostly gone now," he explained calmly. "They did minor surgery last night to try to reset the broken ribs to keep them away from the lung, so I'm forbidden from exerting myself," he scowled. "And I remember my name and where I live, et cetera, so the concussion is improving. They reset the broken leg and dealt with the burns. I should be out of here in ten days, hopefully."

He knew he needed to be thorough in his report, since John was a doctor and wouldn't rest until he knew the full extent of Sherlock's wounds. And if Sherlock omitted something, John would find a way to learn of it anyway, so he may as well be honest. In response, John nodded, then picked up Sherlock's chart at the end of his bed and scanned it. Apparently finding it in accordance with Sherlock's story, he replaced it and sighed. Sherlock watched, worried at how tired and upset John looked.

"How long have I been here?"

John raised his eyebrows. "Thought you would have deduced that by now. Three days."

Sherlock nodded. It would explain his hearing having returned; sufficient time had passed for it to heal. They were both silent again, neither really looking at each other, neither really knowing what to say.

"What about your fingers?" John asked quietly after a few minutes, looking down at Sherlock's mangled appendages. "What did those monsters do to you?"

"Sulfuric acid," Sherlock replied, grimacing at the memory. "Rather barbaric interrogation method, and not even an effective one."

John winced in sympathy. Sherlock pursed his lips. He already missed playing the violin... "So they didn't actually capture you?" he asked, to change the subject.

"No," the doctor shook his head. "Moran must have been recording us in the factory with Moriarty and distorted it so it sounded like I was being tortured. I don't know. But I'm fine."

Sherlock nodded. "Good."

"You gave up Mycroft for me," John stated, raising an eyebrow. "Why?"

Sherlock swallowed. The memory of John calling him a freak came back to him unbidden. Would John believe him now? "I wanted to protect you..."

Sherlock glanced away, pressing his lips together. "I'm sorry, John."

John's hand found his, squeezing it gently. "Hey, it's okay, you don't have to apologize for that."

"No, not for that, and not even for getting blown up," Sherlock corrected quietly, still not looking at him. "For before..."

John frowned uncomprehendingly. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock met his eyes again finally. "You're my best friend. I'm ... I'm sorry you thought I didn't care about you..."

This time, it was John who looked away, blinking. Sherlock waited, unsure of what to say next.

"You're not a cold-hearted bastard," John whispered. "And you're absolutely not a freak. And I'm so sorry, for everything I said. I wasn't thinking clearly. I was mad and when you didn't talk to me, I just lashed out. I didn't mean any of it. Will you forgive me?"

My dear John. Sherlock smirked at him, a rather foreign surge of fondness - though it was becoming in less and less foreign with each passing day - flowing through him. "Obviously."

I know Moran and Milverton weren't in this chapter, but I wanted to focus on Sherlock and John ('cause they're my brotp ;D). Also, I hope no one is too OOC. Please review :)