Having Sherlock ride the emotional rollercoaster is rather interesting, particularly when it flaps his normally unflappable self.

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Chapter Ten: Bonds Of Blood

My brother has the mind of a scientist or a philosopher, yet he elects to be a detective. What might we deduce about his heart?

For John, the entire scene seemed to have played out in slow motion - he saw, far too distinctly, Sherlock rushing forward, the hand reaching out in a desperate attempt to pull the gun aside -

And then, suddenly, he felt the agonising pain in his side, and time caught up. He was on the ground without knowing how he got there, both hands pressed to the wound from which blood was blossoming through both his shirt and his jacket. He could see it - dark and shining, running crimson between his fingers, leaving a trail all the way down to his wrist. Disconnected images that he recognised vaguely as memories from Afghanistan shot in a flash of sound and color through his mind. Someone cried out horribly in pain - or was that him? - and he fixed his eyes desperately on Sherlock, trying to block it all out.

"You - took your time - getting here -"

Sherlock felt his legs move automatically, bringing him over to his friend in strange jerking movements of unreality. The handgun fell from his fingers in unison with his knees hitting the floor. He was vaguely aware that his breathing had started again, though he wished it hadn't - it tore from his throat in harsh gasps.

"John - John -"

Sherlock shook his head violently, trying to clear the fog from his brain, but when he finally managed it, the scene that was revealed was grim. Already he could feel the hot blood beginning to soak through the knees of his trousers. He put one hand over John's, forcing himself to gauge the extent of the wound, but the task proved impossible with so much blood spilling out. Sherlock dragged the scarf from his neck and pressed it swiftly, tightly, against his friend's side.

"John - I'm sorry -"

John shrank away, letting out a sharp gasp at the increased pressure on the wound; he had forgotten, it seemed, what it felt like to have a bullet buried in his flesh. His head was spinning, and he knew it probably wouldn't be long before he would pass out from a combination of stress and blood loss. His entire body was trembling violently.

"Not - not like that - Sherlock - idiot - shit - " Gritting his teeth, he tried to help Sherlock press the scarf more efficiently against his side to staunch the flow of blood, but his hands wouldn't work properly, they were shaking so badly. He fell back a little, breathing hoarsely and willing himself to stay conscious for just a little longer, and yet with each moment that passed he had to fight harder not to give in.

Sherlock released his hold on the scarf for a few moments in order to snatch his phone from his pocket, and ignoring the blood, he speed-dialed Lestrade's number. At this moment it didn't matter that the Detective Inspector thought he was dead. As soon as the dial tone began, he hit the speakerphone button and dropped the device on the floor.

"Lestrade, I need an ambulance over here, now!" Sherlock shouted at the phone even as he crouched lower over John, forcing down his panic so that he could inform Lestrade of their location.

There was a very long pause on the other end. "W-what? Sherlock, is that you? What -"

"Just shut up and get over here! John's dy - " But he caught himself. "John's been hurt!"

"Never -" John blinked as Sherlock's anguished features swam in and out of focus. " - never get - on my case again - about - stating the - the obvious -" he managed to gasp out, somewhat deliriously, he thought, though a moment later he stiffened again and clenched his eyes tightly shut, as if that could make the pain vanish.

"Sherlock... what's happening... does Lestrade..."

Sherlock made a pretence of checking that his blood-soaked scarf was still in place, but his trembling hands told the truth behind that apparently calm movement. He gritted his teeth, trying to maintain a cool frame of mind - but for once it wasn't working.

"Lestrade's sending an ambulance." He managed to get the words out with relative clarity. He could see that John was now fighting desperately for every moment. Sherlock dropped his face into his bloodied hands, unable to come to terms with the fact that there was nothing, nothing he could do right now except wait. God, why was he so helpless, so useless? When he looked up again, there were actual tears streaking through the crimson stains on his skin.

On the tail end of a wave of dizziness, John opened his eyes again, only to see Sherlock with his head in his hands. "Don't - Sherlock, don't - don't do that -" Painfully, he drew in a long breath. "You're panicking - stop panicking, Sherlock - and just talk to me - just keep talking, OK?"

Sherlock forced himself to take several deep breaths. "I'm not panicking," he replied harshly, half out of instinct, and half to do as John had asked and just continue talking. "I just -" But he didn't know what to say after that. He had never been good at this - he could talk for minutes almost without breathing when he felt like it, but when it came to forcing conversation, he generally ended up failing miserably.

John leaned back again, letting out his breath in a harsh puff of air. "Keep talking," he forced out again, but already he knew that Sherlock needed more than that. "Tell me - how did you know - where - where to go?"

It took a moment for Sherlock to register the question and then respond. "I got a text," he said slowly, closing his eyes. "From - Moriarty. He - he told me where you had gone..." Even with John practically dying at his feet, Sherlock couldn't help but realise then that if his friend pulled through this, he himself would owe Moriarty an unbearable debt.

"Moriarty..." John whispered, and for a moment the word hung in the air between them, strange and ominous. "Why would he... give a damn..." It was taking too much effort now; barely realising as he did it, John flung out a hand and grabbed Sherlock's wrist, as though it were a lifeline. He felt his fingers slip slightly, covered in blood as they were, but he held on all the same.

"I mean it...Sherlock...keep talking to me...I can't..."

Sherlock put his other hand over John's, keeping the other's fingers from falling away. "I don't know," he whispered, his pulse quickening again. "John - John, listen to me -" He cast around unthinkingly for something, anything, he could say. "You're going to be alright - John -"

Sherlock Holmes is spouting clichés? John wanted to say it but speaking was almost beyond him now. He felt a strange, absurd compulsion to laugh, which was probably not a good sign. He tightened his fingers around his friend's wrist, hoping that would show he had heard, and that it would encourage him to continue talking, because that was all that was keeping John conscious right now. He bit back another sound of pain, forcing it to die in his throat.

Sherlock clenched his own hand painfully tight over John's grip on his wrist. "Damn it, John, you're not going to die like this -" His voice came out in broken fragments, the words unbidden and so stupid, but what else was he supposed to say? "I won't let you -" He stared down at his friend, shaking his head in denial of the tears beginning to run freely from his angry eyes.

Unable to prevent it any longer, John let his head fall back completely against the hard floor of the warehouse. "Keep ...talking..." He wasn't sure if he actually said the words or not. He could feel his fingers slipping now, and no matter how much he fought, he couldn't seem to get the strength back to keep them there.

"No - John, listen to me, listen to me -"

Sherlock grasped John's hand in his, putting the other on his friend's shoulder. "John - please -" He kept his eyes fixed on John's face, willing him to to remain conscious. He didn't want to think about what would happen if the other fell silent completely.

From somewhere behind him, there came the sounds of wailing sirens and a large vehicle skidding to a halt. A few moments later he heard the warehouse door bang open again.

Running footsteps and other miscellaneous noises began cluttering the air. Sherlock heard Lestrade's voice suddenly cut through to him.

"Sherlock? What the - oh, bloody hell..."

Without even looking up, Sherlock sensed Lestrade directing the ambulance medics to bring over a litter. His eyes remained focused on John, taking in the lines of pain on the other man's face, the almost invisible flutter of his eyelashes, the twitch of his lungs as he gasped in oxygen. Even as the ambulance personnel gathered around, Sherlock refused to remove his hand from his friend's shoulder.

Moments later, John's fingers relaxed completely and his blood-stained hand slipped away, with only Sherlock's grip keeping it from falling back down altogether. The breaths that came from his lips were harsh, shallow, and very faint.

Sherlock felt Lestrade pull him aside so that the litter could be lifted and borne away quickly to the ambulance. This time, he didn't try to resist - it was finally filtering through that John was better off in the medics' hands than those of his best friend. His features stony, Sherlock watched until a shake of his shoulder made him turn.

Lestrade was looking at him with an expression that was part shock, part exasperation and part downright confusion. In other words, the look he usually wore when dealing with the aftermath of something in which the world's only consulting detective had played a part. "I'm not going to ask how you're possibly alive -" he began.

"Good," Sherlock broke in. "How many cars do you have out there?" There was something not quite right in the way his eyes were looking at the other man.

"I - what?"

"Cars - how many cars?" There was no patience to be found in Sherlock's tone.

"I brought two, plus the ambulance - I usually need back-up when I'm cleaning up your messes -"

"Get one of your people to drive me to wherever Mycroft is lurking this week." Sherlock began striding away, his shoulders rigid, pausing only to retrieve his discarded handgun. Lestrade dashed after him, clearly very much off-balance.

"What - hang on, Sherlock, you can't just go -"

Sherlock suddenly rounded on the other man, his face livid. "Don't tell me what I can and can't do, Lestrade! Just get me to see Mycroft!"

Unlike his younger brother, Mycroft was actually where he was supposed to be; in other words, at his pristinely organized and polished desk, in one of his (numerous) offices. One thin hand was holding the receiver of his desk phone to his ear, while the other scribbled away busily with a silver pen on a pad of expensive-looking paper. His brow was furrowed slightly, but perhaps no more than usual, and every once in awhile he would nod, despite being the only person in the room.

Without any warning whatsoever, the rather ornate-looking door of the office burst open, so hard that it rebounded off the wall next in which it was set. Almost at the same time, an earsplitting bang echoed through the previously silent room, and the pen-holder which had been sitting on one corner of Mycroft's desk was unexpectedly pulverized by a speeding bullet.

Sherlock began walking slowly forward towards his brother, the gun levelled and held steady in both hands. His clothes and skin were still deeply stained with blood. Dark fury had twisted his normally impassive features, but he seemed to prefer not to speak quite yet.

He wanted Mycroft to remember his actions, not his words.

Mycroft had stood very quickly the second the door banged open, his eyes wide with unexpected surprise. The sight and sound of the bullet had sent the desk phone clattering from his hand, where it bounced off the wood and then fell toward the floor only to bob gently on its cord a few inches from the rug.

Shock rooted Mycroft in place as his eyes darted from the gun to his brother's face. "Sherlock!" he shouted, anger beginning to replace the surprise, "what in heaven's name do you think you're doing?" His hands were rigid as they gripped the edge of his desk.

"Some people," replied Sherlock, still pacing forward, "would call it justice, Mycroft." It was frightening how very calm his tone actually was when he spoke. "But then, that's not really your area, is it?"

Mycroft took a deep, steadying breath, seeming to regain his composure, if only slightly. "Put the gun down, Sherlock, and then perhaps you can explain why you're so determined to point it at me." The look he fixed Sherlock with was piercing, and commanding.

Under ordinary circumstances, Sherlock might have obeyed. But what had happened to John seemed to have erased what little respect he held for those in positions of authority. He returned Mycroft's imperious look without flinching, pointedly grasping the gun a little tighter.

"And what if I don't?" he asked, his voice ominously low. "What will you do then, Mycroft?"

Turning his eyes briefly to the ceiling, Mycroft let out a low sigh. "I'm still considering," he said in a voice laced with annoyance. "Now what is this about?"

The fact that Mycroft didn't seem to be scared witless, or was even remotely panicking, seemed to only enrage his younger brother. "This is about you!" shouted Sherlock. "You and Fisher and those other bloody bastards!"

Mycroft's eyebrows went up. "I'm afraid," he began carefully, "I don't really follow you -"

Sherlock's voice suddenly dropped again. "You've got one of your little schemes going again, haven't you?" he said, very quietly, his eyes staring at Mycroft along the line of the handgun. "You've got your people trying to make a deal with some criminal characters, but you don't want anyone to know about it - so you have to make sure that anyone who stumbles across it doesn't live long enough to cause a leak. Your stupid lackeys are so tense about it that they don't even bother to check who the clumsy party is."

"I won't bother to ask how you managed to stick your nose in this time, Sherlock," Mycroft replied testily, his mouth going very thin, "but I can assure you it is none of your concern." He stared down at his desk for a moment, then up again. "It's nothing you'd be interested in."

"Oh, no, of course not. Not the least bit interested."

Sherlock moved the last few steps to Mycroft's desk, the gun still held ready. "Except for one tiny little detail which you somehow managed to overlook," he added. His voice shook slightly as he finished, "The man your people decided to eliminatewas a completely innocent doctor by the name of John Watson!"

For once, Mycroft did not seem to know what to say. He stared at Sherlock, his expression moving from shock to puzzlement to worry and back again, and he couldn't seem to decide which emotion was more appropriate.

"John," he repeated, in a voice barely above a whisper. "John - no, that's not - simply not possible -"

"And I'm sure that's a great comfort to him - though in fact I doubt he's conscious enough to even absorb that thought!" Sherlock suddenly lowered the gun, and then hurled the weapon to one side. His pulse was pounding in his ears. "Your people abducted and shot him, Mycroft, and for all I know right now, he could be dead!" He spread his arms wide. "Or did you think this was my own blood?"

Mycroft's eyes followed the gun as it clattered to the floor near the far wall. "I didn't know." The words were quiet, and when he turned back to Sherlock, his expression was sincerely pained. "I swear to you, Sherlock, I had no idea - I was only told the bare facts, and otherwise I have had to remain aloof from most of the actual negotiations."

"That's not what's important, Mycroft," Sherlock snarled back. "Was I not clear? John Watson is dying at this moment because you didn't care to take an interest in the details of one of your schemes! Ignorance of the facts is not a defence!"

Mycroft's expression hardened. "What do you want from me, Sherlock?" he demanded, his voice sharp and loud now. "I hardly think threatening your brother is going to change anything here. If John is so badly injured you should be with him, don't you think?"

Sherlock glared at him, for once apparently lost for words that would express the depth of what he was feeling right now. Part of him wished he hadn't thrown away the gun, if only to have something with which to try and provoke more than a few sympathetic phrases from Mycroft. He exhaled slowly, trying to control his rapid breathing. This was why he hated dealing with his brother - Mycroft, more than almost anyone else he knew, never panicked, never lost control. And at times like this, it proved to be deeply unsatisfying to Sherlock.

He closed his eyes briefly, then flicked them open again to look at his brother. "If John dies, I'll make sure you're the first to know." Sherlock's tone was low and menacing.

"I don't believe there's anything appropriate for me to say to that," Mycroft answered quietly, lifting his chin a little and fixing Sherlock with his stare again. He hesitated, then shook his head almost imperceptibly. "I am... sorry. There is always a risk, of course, with arrangements of this nature, but I hadn't expected... well." He didn't seem inclined to go any further along that line of thought.

Mycroft's mild tone seemed to arouse Sherlock's fury again. Without thinking, without even hesitating, he struck his brother as hard as he could across the face.

"Did you expect that, Mycroft?" he breathed. Not wanting to look at at other man for a moment longer, Sherlock wheeled around and stalked away towards the door, this time not bothering to retrieve his gun.

Mycroft had not seen the blow coming; he drew in his breath sharply in surprise and raised one hand to the large, reddened mark now spreading along one side of his face. The hand was trembling slightly, and it seemed for a split second that it was with rage, and that Mycroft would begin shouting suddenly, but he didn't. Instead, he gazed after Sherlock with an almost pitying expression.

"No," he said, very quietly, "I thought you had forsworn sentiment. Clearly, I was in error."

Despite being halfway across the room, Sherlock heard his brother's soft remark. He stopped suddenly, stiffening, and looking as though he might turn around. And then it seemed to hit him all over again, breaking through his wall of anger - John - shot, bleeding, in terrible pain, maybe dying, perhaps already d -

He fought down a horrible surge of panic. Mycroft had been right about one thing - Sherlock now realised that he needed to go to John. He couldn't leave his friend alone. He half-dashed to the door, pulled it open roughly, and disappeared without another backward glance.

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