Monday, 24 September 1956

"Your beard looks like birds could nest in it," Reggie said, trying to inject humour into his tone, though it rang false.

Harold smiled faintly, remaining seated by the fireplace in the trophy room. He seemed a hundred times better, though his eyes were still sunken, his face gaunt. "You sent me a doctor, not a barber, Reggie."

"And thank God I did," Reggie said, heartfelt. He went to the sideboard and poured two healthy measures of scotch, hoping to get some colour back into Harold's face.

"Not God. Thank you," Harold corrected quietly.

Reggie handed Harold one glass, keeping the other for himself. Rather than sitting, he leaned against the mantle beside Harold's chair, needing to be close, to reassure himself that Harold would be all right. "You've certainly figured out an effective way of getting out of a scolding."

Harold's brows twitched up as he sipped his scotch. "A scolding? And here I thought we'd finished that business after the army, Major."

Reggie snorted, his stern demeanour fading. "Harold... Look, Harold, Phillip found one of your... one of those masks you brought back from somewhere. He scared poor Marie half to death."

"That boy's trouble. You're raising him right," Harold approved, looking evasively away. He took another drink and scratched at his ragged beard.

With a sigh, Reggie set his glass on the mantle and crouched down in front of Harold, putting a hand on his arm. "Look, Harold," he said gently, trying to meet Harold's eyes. "I'm not your father, and this is still your house, but you're my best friend, and I care about you."

Harold's gaze met his for only a second before he closed his eyes. Under his beard, his jaw tightened, and his free hand clenched into a fist. He gulped down the rest of his scotch and set the glass aside, exhaling long and hard before he said, "Reggie —"

"Please," Reggie interrupted softly. "Come back to me, Harold. All this... all this nonsense of yours... it's scaring me. I want my best friend back."

Harold's brow furrowed deeply. He swallowed, arm trembling under Reggie's hand. He forced a shaky smile, and when his eyes opened, they were glassy. He covered Reggie's hand with his own. "I don't deserve you."

"Probably not, but you're stuck with me all the same," Reggie teased gently. "Please, whatever this fascination of yours is, you've got to stop. It's scared the children, but it's hurting you, and I can't watch you do this to yourself."

Harold took a deep breath and nodded, patting Reggie's hand. "All right," he said quietly.

"All right?"

With another weak smile, Harold promised, "No more. I'll get rid of everything."

Reggie sighed, relieved, and nodded. "Thank you, Harold. Thank you."

"In fact, if you'll help me pack it all away, I'll bring it with me when I go to London later this week."

Surprised, Reggie looked up at Harold, whose expression had gone distant and thoughtful. "London?"

"There are some antiquities dealers who'd be very interested — it's all authentic, you know," he said with a chuckle. "And I need to see my solicitor."

"Your solicitor?" Reggie asked as he rose.

Harold gave his hand one quick squeeze before he let go. "Just some paperwork to sort out. Nothing to worry about, I promise."

Reggie smiled and picked up Harold's empty glass. He turned to refill it, saying, "I trust you."

Quietly, Harold said, "And I, you, Reggie. With my life."

Tuesday, 30 October 2012

"Is he family?"

"He shouldn't be in there."

"The police want to talk to him."

Sherlock was aware of all the meaningless, self-important voices outside the door, but he disregarded them all, just as he disregarded Mycroft's smooth, calming tones as he assured the hospital staff, the authorities, and the press that Sherlock's presence in the hospital room was not up for discussion.

All that mattered was the soft hiss of oxygen and the hum of monitoring machines and the sound of John's breathing. Sherlock sat beside the bed, resting one arm on the thin mattress, his knee pressed painfully against the railing he'd lowered so he could gently hold John's good right hand between both of his.

His world had narrowed to this small, hateful white room and the unconscious man in the bed. His mind had gone still, all of his thoughts focused entirely on the pulse under his fingertips, strong and slow. If he closed his eyes for more than a few moments, he remembered that pulse hammering, racing to spill John's life over the wet grass, saturating the inadequate makeshift bandage of Sherlock's scarf, so he kept his eyes open, memorizing John's face. In sleep, he looked young, free of stress. His lips were dry, the line of his face subtly changed by the nasal cannula that supplied him with cool oxygen.

The door opened. Sherlock looked over long enough to register that the intruder was Mycroft, not a doctor who would try to send him away. He'd already nearly been arrested for assault once in this hospital.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said gravely. "You need rest. You're doing him a disservice by mistreating yourself like this."

"Get me coffee," Sherlock said, turning back to watch John. Had his breathing changed, or was it an autonomic response to Mycroft's presence? "I'm not leaving him."

"John would never allow you to stay in this condition," Mycroft tried. "A few hours —"

Sherlock glared at him for three seconds — three seconds of not watching John, which was all he could take. He turned back, trying to push thoughts of Mycroft out of his mind.

He'd come too close to losing John. The doctors had used words like 'impossible' and 'million to one odds', but all Sherlock cared about was that it was too close. He had no idea who'd shot John, and right now, he couldn't be arsed to care. There would be time for revenge later, when John was healthy and at his side. For now, he needed to know that John was alive far more than he needed the shooter to be dead. Painfully dead.

"I've spoken with the directors of the assisted living facility," Mycroft continued. "I've convinced them to look at this as an opportunity to appreciate the heroism of their drivers, rather than filing a lawsuit against you for your threats."

"I wasn't going to wait for an ambulance," Sherlock snapped at Mycroft. Then he looked back at John and spoke more gently, conscious of his need for rest. "There wasn't time to waste."

"I'm certain you saved his life." Mycroft walked to the other side of the bed. "But you do need to rest, Sherlock. There's nothing more you can do here."

"Coffee," Sherlock told him, resolutely staying right where he was.

Twice that morning, John stirred but didn't rouse or open his eyes. Sherlock left only when he had no choice, only for a few minutes at time, and Mycroft sent in a steady stream of assistants and orderlies with coffee and pastries to tempt Sherlock into eating.

So when John finally did open his eyes, Sherlock was right there, watching him. "Don't talk," he said at once, sitting forward, heart leaping as John's gaze met his. He was wide-eyed and disoriented. He licked his lips and twitched the hand that Sherlock was holding, but didn't try to pull away. When he swallowed, his whole body went tense.

Sherlock rose from the low, uncomfortable visitor's chair. He kept hold of John's right hand and said, "Don't move. You're in hospital. You were shot."

John closed his eyes, frowning. His lips clearly shaped words that came out as a croaking, rasping sound.

Sherlock's laugh held a desperate edge. "Swearing qualifies as talking," he said, freeing one hand to touch John's face. The frown lines seemed to smooth under his touch, and John took a gentler, deep breath. With his thumb, Sherlock traced the line of John's eyebrow, the thin skin of his temple, and brushed his fingers into John's hair.

When John's eyes opened again, Sherlock offered, "Do you want me to get your doctor? He's not entirely incompetent. Mycroft brought someone down from the London Trauma Centre."

John's dry lips curved up in a smile. He shook his head and held Sherlock's hand tightly for a moment, silently saying, You.

The relief Sherlock felt was entirely out of proportion to that one brief word. He sat back down, pulled the chair up against the bed, and leaned in close. He knew there were things he should say, but that had never been his place in their relationship. Those were John's words, not his, even if they were his feelings and not John's. For twenty-eight hours, he'd been trying to think of what to say, but he'd come up blank.

John's hand tightened around Sherlock's, and he realized his eyes had fallen closed. "What? Do you need something?" he asked, thinking of the army of toadies Mycroft had brought with him to Sussex.

You, John said, his dark blue eyes stern. Sleep.

Sherlock thought about lying, but only for a moment. John needed his strength to recover, not to argue. So instead, he said, "I'm not leaving."

John gave him a disappointed look, though he didn't let go of Sherlock's hand.

Grateful, Sherlock leaned down, gently touching his forehead to John's, listening to the sound of his breathing and feeling the warmth of his skin. John freed his hand from Sherlock's grasp and rested it at the back of his neck, holding him lightly in place.

Sherlock closed his eyes, relaxing under that touch. John understood. He wouldn't try and make Sherlock leave.

Careful not to hurt John, Sherlock sat back down and leaned against the side of the bed, resting his head against his forearm. John moved his hand away from Sherlock's neck, sliding his fingers into Sherlock's tangled hair. Sherlock looked up at him without moving.

Sleep, John said silently, petting him.

Sherlock wanted to tell him not to let anyone disturb them, but the relief that John was all right had sapped the last of the energy that had kept him on his feet. He closed his eyes, shifted so his head leaned against John's hip, and allowed himself to sleep.

The soft click of the door opening brought John out of his comfortable doze. His pain was a distant, hazy thing, floating off somewhere beyond the drugs that kept it at bay, and Sherlock was not just there with him but curled up against the side of the bed like a particularly cuddly Great Dane, head resting on John's thigh, long arms splayed around him across his hips and under the small of his back. John's right hand rested in Sherlock's hair, and every time he tried to move it away, Sherlock muttered in sleepy protest.

John grinned when he recognised Molly. Instinctively, he tried to say, "Hello," but it came out as a harsh rasp over the shards of glass that had replaced his vocal cords.

"Oh, don't talk," she said worriedly as she got two steps into the room. Then she froze, her pretty eyes going wide as she spotted Sherlock.

Right, I was shot again, John thought as the memory slipped through the narcotic haze. He felt the warm rush of his heart speeding up at the impossible consideration that he'd been shot by a ghost.

Desperate for something normal — something real and grounding and very much not a murderous, lovesick ghost — John beckoned Molly over to the side of the bed and tried to lift his left hand, but it wasn't responding. His heart gave another thump of alarm. He looked down at his hand, telling himself to move his fingers, but nothing happened.

"Don't worry about that," Molly said at once, touching the back of his left hand. He felt the warm press of her fingers and gave a shaky, relieved exhale. "Did anyone tell you what happened?"

No, he silently said, giving her his best pleading, lost-puppy-dog look. She was a doctor, even if all of her patients were usually already dead; she'd understand the need for real, accurate information and not the glossed-over crap usually fed to patients.

Her smile became sly, and she lowered her voice, gently taking his left hand between both of hers. After casting one more surprised glance at the sleeping Sherlock, she whispered, "Well, I'm not supposed to know, but I've got a friend who let me take a peek at your files. They're calling it a miracle. Less than a millimetre from the left carotid artery. The bullet cauterised enough of the wound that you didn't bleed out, but it was a near thing."

John's breath stuttered as he realised just how close he'd come to dying — and this time was closer than last time. He could visualise the path the bullet must have taken. Christ! If he'd been out in the field, he would have died.

"I wasn't going to tell him yet," Sherlock muttered into the thin hospital blanket.

John frowned down at him, wondering how long he'd been awake and aware of John petting him. He shifted his hand away from Sherlock's hair and gave him a hard poke in the shoulder instead. He vaguely remembered Sherlock attempting emergency treatment, applying pressure to the bleeding wounds with his scarf. It was very possible that Sherlock was the only reason John was alive.

"Of course he'd want to know," Molly said in John's defence.

"Now he'll worry," Sherlock complained, lifting his head to glare at her. "Worrying interferes with recovery."

John gave him another poke and turned to Molly, hoping she'd explain.

"Understanding is important. He'll recognise the treatment —"

"Your patients are all already dead," Sherlock snapped.

This time, John smacked his shoulder, and Sherlock gave him a betrayed look that hadn't fooled John for years. He tried to speak, but the twinge of pain in his throat silenced him. Instead, he motioned to Sherlock and put a hand up to his ear in the universally-understood gesture for 'give me a phone right this instant'.

Smirking, Sherlock sat back from the bed, spine snapping and cracking loudly. He patted his pockets and found his mobile in the outside pocket of his jacket, where he never kept it, making John wonder if he'd had someone else going through his clothes while John had been unconscious. The thought roused a jealous side to John that he hadn't ever recognised in himself.

One-handed, he snatched the mobile out of Sherlock's grasp and set it on the bed. He'd become fairly fast at texting over the last few years, but it was still awkward to do with the mobile balanced on his leg, plastic case slipping on the blanket as he typed with his off-hand.

left arm how long til full use rtrn

He showed the text to Molly, pulling the phone out of reach when Sherlock grabbed for it.

"It shouldn't be too long," she answered as Sherlock finally got the phone and read the text. "You'll make a complete recovery." Then she leaned in and added, "I understand they're flying in a neurological specialist from Barrow in Phoenix."

Panic spiked through John. He needed a specialist? The effects of the trauma were obvious, controllable. He'd treated GSW to the neck, and he wasn't a specialist by any means.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said, dropping the mobile to take hold of John's right hand. His fingers went to John's pulse, but he held on even after the few seconds it probably took for him to get a read of John's condition. "He's called in favors from half the planet, I think."

"Just to be certain, I'm sure," Molly added soothingly. "Nothing to worry about."

If Mycroft was involved, there was everything to be worried about — most of all, the inevitable interrogation into who the hell shot him. He closed his eyes, pushing through the narcotics to reconstruct everything he remembered and try to find some logical explanation. Being Sherlock's brother meant that Mycroft automatically expected to deal with unusual circumstances, but never anything... paranormal.

Finally, he decided his best bet was to fake amnesia. He didn't have a clear memory of anything after the shot. All he had to do was delete a few seconds before then. For years, he'd been hiding his feelings from Sherlock and his more astute older brother. Hiding an extra five minutes of memory shouldn't be that difficult.

So he took the phone back, quickly typed, and showed the text to Molly and then Sherlock:

molly thx sh get shooter

Molly smiled and said, "You're welcome."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Not yet," he said, his tone dangerously low. He reached out and deliberately took hold of John's right hand, making him drop the phone again. "I need you healthy first. That's what matters."

John knew it was practicality rather than sentiment that motivated Sherlock — though perhaps not entirely. He was still holding John's hand, no longer even pretending to have the excuse of taking his pulse, and John had a hazy memory of thinking Sherlock had almost kissed him.

Morphine, he finally decided, closing his eyes. He knew Molly had taken time out of a very busy schedule, between work and the baby and having a husband who was out of town half the time, but his body was screaming for him to rest.

Sherlock's fingers rubbed a small, soothing circle against the back of John's right hand. He was talking to Molly now, without that sharp, sarcastic edge, and his familiar baritone was enough to ease the last of his worries. Sherlock would keep him safe from ghosts and Mycroft and God help the doctor who thought to throw Sherlock out. John's last memory was smiling wryly at the thought of Sherlock getting himself arrested for assaulting a doctor.

John allowed Sherlock to stay. John wanted Sherlock to stay.

Even though Sherlock knew he should be paying attention to the specialists and nurses who crowded around John's bed, his mind had stalled on the message John had typed:

i want sherlock 2 stay

Appalling grammar aside, Sherlock kept the unsent text message to brandish at any hospital official who so much as looked his way. When the doctors were there, Sherlock tried not to read too much meaning into the words. He told himself that John probably wanted someone present who could actually speak, someone uninhibited enough to send everyone away if they became too overbearing or annoying.

But when they were all gone, when they were finally left to themselves, inevitably John reached out to Sherlock with his right hand. Every time, Sherlock gave him the mobile, which he dropped onto the blankets so he could take hold of Sherlock's hand and not let go, even when he fell into a doze.

Towards evening, John let go long enough to pick up the mobile and type out a request for tea. Sherlock read the mobile, took John's hand again, and shouted, "Mycroft!"

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock, though he couldn't hide his amused grin.

After a single knock, one of Mycroft's minions came into the room. Early thirties, former SAS, gun in a shoulder holster, right-hand draw. Mycroft was taking the shooter threat seriously.

"Get tea," Sherlock ordered. When John squeezed his fingers tightly, he added, "Please."

The agent hesitated for a moment, glancing from Sherlock to John and back, before he nodded. "I'll send one of the nurses to get some," he offered, leaving before Sherlock could tell him to hurry.

As soon as the door closed, Sherlock turned back to John, studying his face. He looked better now, though he'd been shot (through the neck... high chance of fatality... so much blood) just thirty-six hours before. His colouring had improved, and his eyes no longer looked sunken and dark. Only the massive bandage taped over his throat to protect the site of his surgery from infection showed that anything was wrong with him at all.

"You can't leave me," Sherlock said, moving to the edge of his chair. John's brows twitched together in the start of a frown. "I had to live without you once. I won't do it again."

John's eyes closed for a moment. Sherlock had no idea if it was in exasperation or sympathy. He hadn't even intended to speak, but he realised that speaking now was brilliant. John had no choice but to listen to him now, without interrupting. With his right hand trapped in Sherlock's and his left still temporarily paralysed, he'd have no chance to send Sherlock away until he'd heard everything Sherlock had to say.

"I know you're not gay. I know we're not a couple — even though you haven't told anyone that. Not for years, actually." John's hand went tight around Sherlock's, giving Sherlock a perfect excuse to look down at their joined hands. "What we have — this, between us — it's something we both want. Something we both need." He took a deep breath and glanced at the door, suddenly hoping Mycroft's minion took his time finding a nurse to fetch tea.

Then he looked back down, ignoring the insistent way that john's fingers tapped at his hand, trying to get his attention. "You don't date anymore, but I don't think it's because you don't want to. There's no reason that we couldn't. We very nearly already do. And with you, I wouldn't —" He shook his head. "I would want to try. We already have a... a better relationship than anyone else out there."

John was trying to pull free now, and he finally bent his thumb and forefinger enough to pinch hard at the sensitive webbing between Sherlock's fingers. The instant Sherlock's hand relaxed, John yanked his hand back and scrabbled for the phone, exhaling little huffs of frustration.

"John — we should at least try," Sherlock said, trying to get hold of the mobile without hurting John or tangling up in his IV or monitoring lines. "It makes sense. I care about you. I'd kill everyone in London to keep you safe. I'd —"

John smacked the back of his hand against Sherlock's arm, nearly dropping the mobile. Sherlock shut up and tried to grab the phone, only to have John glare and silently, fiercely mouth Sherlock! Then he started to type, just a few brief stabs at the buttons, before he turned the mobile to face Sherlock.

yes you idiot

Sherlock stared at the screen, processing what he read for all of five seconds before he demanded, "'Yes, you idiot'? That's it? Yes? I'm trying to tell you that I love you, and all you can do is say 'yes' and call me — me! — an idiot?"

A rough, coughing sound made Sherlock look from the screen to John, who was silently laughing, blue eyes bright. He dropped the phone and reached for Sherlock not for his hand but for his hair. Strong fingers twisted and tugged hard. Caught by surprise, Sherlock came up off the chair, bracing against the side of the bed as John pulled him close.

Their first kiss was brief, John's chapped lips rough against Sherlock's. The hiss of the nasal cannula was lost under the Sherlock's pulse, loud in his ears. The instant their lips touched, John's hand relaxed, sliding to cup the back of Sherlock's skull, holding him gently close.

When John pressed back into the pillows, allowing an inch of air between their lips, Sherlock opened his eyes, though he couldn't recall closing them. John's expression had gone wary and uncertain, flicking over Sherlock's face as though trying to read his thoughts.

Then, as if comforted by whatever he saw, John smiled, and silently said, Love you, too.