After a few minutes, Mycroft was brought downstairs on a stretcher, proceeded by Sherlock, then Anthea. Mycroft looked small, not intimidating, merely the man that he was.
Under all the scars, he was still the same man, a rock, a constant. Even the horrors that he had endured could not change him, or so it seemed to the outside world. Internally, he was, of course, disturbed, haunted by his memories. Those memories, in spite of how hard he tried to delete them, often popped up at a mention of a word, a phrase, and for a time, he was in that room again, bleeding and broken. After a while, they faded, but they did not disappear. They were never entirely forgotten. He tried to pretend otherwise, and kept up his cool facade, under which an explosion was waiting to burst forth. Most of the world believed that he was truly fine, and left him alone at a time when he truly needed a sympathetic ear, an equal who understood. Sherlock.
Sherlock was inconvenienced by his injuries. He had to use a wheelchair for a time, only using crutches for the agonising journey up the stairs to his room, which he attempted too early, as John predicted he would, falling down the stairs, and catching himself, reopening his shoulder wound. Upon Sherlock's request, John stitched him up in the kitchen, as opposed to taking him to hospital.
The second that he was sufficiently recovered, he visited his brother in hospital- the same one that he had been confined to, which now had a superb nursing staff. Sherlock visited as often as John would let him, arguing with Mycroft while in John's presence, but being the supporting, loving brother that he truly was when they were alone. He wasn't sappy, merely gave Mycroft someone to listen to who could truly understand him.
John tried his best not to get in the way. He did all he could to ensure that Sherlock would recover quickly, even assigning Sarah to Sherlock-watch duty when he couldn't be around. Sarah approved, even agreeing to take a different shift in order to do so. Let it suffice to say that the padded handcuffs were used (and picked) quite frequently. Mrs. Hudson tried to check in on Sherlock every so often, as well, providing Sherlock with much-needed tea and his laptop when either trapped in his bedroom by his devious flatmate or his flatmate's equally devious fiancee, and on days when his wounds pained him.
Anthea was shaken by the experience, but it also strengthened her. She steeled herself further, preparing for even worse eventualities, knowing that if she had survived the most recent ordeal, then she was perfectly capable of enduring the stress that she knew would be placed upon her now that Mycroft's brother had that new companion, and was ready.
Time slowed for Sherlock. He became very bored, and when he believed he was ready, he asked John about physical therapy, and after a few months of hard work, he was able to leap and bound as he had before.
Mycroft fattened up a bit, and although rather sickly for a time, recovered fully, enjoying his posh life with a post in the British government, and being generally pleased with himself.
As always, however, it could not last forever.
A/N 2: Back from camp. I am so sorry that I forgot to post this before I left. This is, as you may have guessed, the final chapter of Dial 999. I thank you all for your feedback, if you provided any, and will see you very soon- that's a promise.
This story is ridiculous, fantastical, what have you. This is VERY true. Please note that this was made on request (doesn't have an account yet, just a sadist), and that any strangeness is due to this fact.
Lastly, as always, if something is getting on your nerves, just tell me. I am considering writing an alternate version of this story, because this one isn't that great, and I think I can do better. That's more of a "someday" sort of thing, and I'm going off to write something else for now, but if you want a fanfic written, PM me. Please don't put it in a review because PM's are more easily accessible, and I will notice them more (I do read your reviews, but I usually only read them once). It doesn't mean that I will write it this instant, but if you never tell me, it's unlikely that I'll write what you want.
Have a nice day!