Apparently disclaimers are not needed and are a waste of time but nevertheless the characters are in public domain although the current canon belongs to Messrs Moffat and Gatiss. Apologies that this has taken a while. Warning for bad language.
Everyone listening? Sitting comfortably? Good, then I'll begin... Mycroft and Angst are occupying the same sentence. This cannot be good, can it?
Touch and Go.
It was Mycroft who was the first to John's side. He stood close to the distraught man, stroking his back and petting his hair and murmuring soothingly. "It's alright, John," he said. "You did your best, I'm sure of it. There was simply nothing more anyone could have done. Come, come, it's not your fault..."
Sherlock gazed at the pair, surprise warring with jealousy. It should be me comforting my fiance, he thought, sourly, although he was reminded sharply of a side to Mycroft he hadn't seen since his childhood. Mycroft had been able to make the night terrors go away, to comfort him and make him feel less scared of life and everything in it. It had been years since he had felt that, prompting another jealousy to rear its head. He wanted to be the one receiving comfort from his brother.
Now was not the time. Sherlock rejected his own selfishness and silently berated himself for it. He wasn't a child anymore, and John needed the comfort right now. John was the one who gave him comfort when he needed it, whenever he asked for it. Sherlock knew he now needed to return the favour, although God only knew how John would live with himself after this. Sherlock regretted not dissuading John from going through with his demand to be the surgeon in charge. All the signs were there that things had gone badly wrong.
"Come along, John," Mycroft was saying. "You'll be alright. I know you did your best, I don't blame you..." John's expression changed, and a look of realisation mingled with horror crossed his features. He hiccupped and pulled away, shaking his head. He waved a hand to stop Mycroft, holding a finger up to stem the verbal flow while he mastered himself with some difficulty.
"No, no," he said, his voice unsteady. "He isn't..." John swallowed and coughed and cleared his throat, desperate to communicate. "Damn it, Greg is alive. He's out of theatre...he's in the ICU..." John's voice gave out and he struggled to take a breath.
"John...?" Sherlock was nonplussed. Why the upset if Greg is alright? Had he, for once, mis-deduced the situation? What could possibly have...? Oh, of course, he thought, How did I miss that?
"I'm sorry. So sorry," John was saying. "Oh, God, what you both must have thought." Aided by Mycroft on one side and Sherlock on the other, John struggled to his feet. He accepted the pristine handkerchief Mycroft offered him and blew his nose. "It was the... the whole situation. I forgot how intense it can get, it was...I was—," he shuddered, a whole-body tremble, "—back there. Sorry, so sorry." Sherlock stepped close and rubbed his shoulder.
"It's fine, it's all fine, John," Sherlock reached out then and wrapped himself around the smaller form of his lover. "Just relax. You're not back there, you're not in Afghanistan any more, you're here, with us. You did well, John, very well." John allowed himself to relax into the warm embrace for a moment, drawing strength from his fiance. Then he firmed his jaw and squared his shoulders, hugging Sherlock back briefly before disengaging himself with a tired smile, attempting to pull himself together.
"Greg pulled through, but barely," he explained. "He's been taken to the postoperative ICU. He was stable when they took him down there but the next forty eight hours will be critical. He'll need constant monitoring until he wakes and he will be reassessed then. He's a fighter. He flatlined on us twice but we managed to bring him back so I have hope." John tensed, fighting his emotions again. He won, just. He felt Sherlock's fingers on his shoulder tighten gently in sympathy and John met his fiance's gaze with a grateful smile. "It was never going to be easy," he admitted, "but I've honestly seen and operated on a lot worse. The location of the injury made it difficult, but I had a good team in there. Chin up, Mycroft. He has a good chance."
"Honesty, John," Mycroft said seriously. "I would appreciate it if you didn't try to make it more palatable. Just tell me honestly. Will he be alright?"
John sighed. "I can't give you any assurances, Mycroft. He has a long way to go yet. Greg has to avoid infections from the blade, secondary infections like pneumonia, and he has to recover from the surgery. We've given him antitetanus and antibiotics, he's already immunized for Hep C, and we'll test his blood for pathogens, but every hour he's with us, the odds improve." The risk of HIV wasn't broached, nor were any of the other myriad infections that Greg might have been open to with such an attack. Survival seemed to preclude such worries.
"I'd like to see him."
"You can, but briefly. He'll be out of it until this evening at the earliest anyway, possibly tomorrow. I've asked them to page me the moment he wakes. Then you can expect him to be in the ICU until he's fit enough to be moved onto a ward."
"I want a private room for him," Mycroft said. "I'll pay..."
"You'll need to speak to patient liaison then. The nurses can arrange that. Greg might be transferred to a high dependency unit first though. That will depend on a number of factors; how long he takes to come round, how long he takes to come off the ventilator, what condition he's in when he does... But it's early stages yet. Let's take it a day at a time."
"Dr Watson?" Two men had emerged from the door behind John, both of them similarly dressed in scrubs. Bemused, John turned to greet them and cocked his head on one side quizzically. "Bennett, Director of Trauma Care," the older one said, reaching to grab John's hand. He started to pump it, clapping him on the shoulder. John winced but gritted his teeth; there was no way the man could know he had been shot in that one. "You know Anderson already, he was on your team." Sherlock barely suppressed a snort on hearing the unfortunate man's name. "We didn't get much time for introductions. I wasn't on the team but I had the privilege of watching from the gallery. We'd just like to say, thank you. That was...both educational and inspiring. You're ex-RAMC? You must have done some good work on the front line."
"I tried my best. We all did," John replied carefully, allowing Anderson to take his turn at shaking his hand. "It was an excellent team."
"Well, we were all very impressed," Bennett was saying. "Your involvement was a little unorthodox but I must say, you vindicated my decision to allow it. I admit I had a certain curiosity as to why Mr. Holmes was so insistent on your involvement, but having witnessed your actions in theatre, I can appreciate why." Sherlock detected nothing but sincerity in Bennett's tone. The man was pushing sixty, senior surgeon, respected in his field, unlikely to hand out platitudes.
"You did an amazing job," Anderson said sincerely. "It was a privilege to work with you, Doctor Watson. Honestly."
"Look, John. I may call you John?" Bennett asked and John nodded agreement as the man's manner changed to conspiratorial, comradely. "If you were ever to think about coming back to the fold, as it were, we'd be proud to have you here. I could put in a word, the right ear, you know? I'm sure you catch my drift."
"I'm flattered, Mr Bennett," John replied. "I don't think that will happen now though. This was a favour to a friend."
"A bloody good favour, if ever I saw one. I hope he's appreciative." Bennett smiled. "Well, remember what I said, John..." John nodded and they shook hands again. "I never make empty offers. Call me."
John watched him go, Anderson trotting along in his wake. "Wow," John said. "The Director of Trauma Surgery at Bart's just offered me a job? Did you have anything to do with that?" He accused Mycroft. To his credit, the man looked a little embarrassed but shook his head.
"Certainly not, John. Whatever accolades you have earned, you have done so without my help, apart from the obvious. I did get you onto the team in the first place but beyond that, it was down to you and you alone. Now, let us go and see Gregory. Please?"
0o0o0o0
Mycroft never pleads, John thought as he lead the way. He had it bad for Greg, that much was obvious. Greg was still deeply unconscious when they arrived and John allowed them a very brief visit to his bedside. "He'll be out for a while yet," he explained. "Don't be worried by all the equipment. Most of it is simply monitoring his bodily functions for us. The ventilator is breathing with him, not for him. It pumps air in and allows the patient's chest to deflate naturally. A damaged lung means reduced oxygen intake so we're playing safe." He proceeded to talk them through the function of each line and wire, pointing out the electrocardiogram measuring Greg's heart rate, the endotracheal tube down his throat connected to the respirator, the IV line delivering fluids to keep him hydrated. "He has a line into the artery in his arm monitoring blood pressure and oxygen levels. The chest tube is still in place to make sure any fluid is drawn off to relieve pressure on his damaged lung."
"His eyes are taped shut." It was an observation, although the question hung in the air unasked.
"He's unconscious, and eyes can slide open involuntarily. If that happens, there's a danger that his eyes could dry out. The nurses put drops in to keep the eyes moist, then they tape them shut to gently help the lids to stay closed. It's just a preventative measure to minimize discomfort, that's all. Nothing to worry about."
"What if... is there a chance he won't…won't wake up?" Mycroft was staring fixedly at Greg's inert body.
"Once the drugs wear off, he'll wake when he's good and ready," John assured him. "As well as the antibiotics he's been given a blood transfusion and he's on fluids to keep him hydrated and replace lost volume. He isn't in any physical distress or the monitors would show it. He'll wake when he wants to. He flatlined twice but frankly I doubt his brain was starved of oxygen for long enough to cause serious damage, so that just leaves the trauma to his body. Have faith, Mycroft."
"In what, John?" Mycroft's voice was bleak.
"In me, Mycroft." John said softly. "I'm his doctor."
"Oh, I have faith in your abilities, John. It's Gregory I don't trust. Everything I've ever loved has left me. I have no reason to suppose that Gregory won't do the same." Shock rendered John speechless for a moment. He looked at Sherlock but his fiance didn't meet John's glance. He was gazing intently at his brother, an odd look in his eyes. "I would like to stay here with him. Would that be permitted?"
"It wouldn't be a good idea. He's vulnerable to infection at the moment. It would be best if we all went home, sat this one out and waited for the hospital to page me when he wakes. I don't know about you, but I definitely need some shut-eye or I'm going to collapse." John laid a hand on Mycroft's arm. "Come on, I know you care about him, but you need rest too. Come home with us, you can borrow my bed for a few hours. I'll give you something to help you sleep." He looked over at Sherlock willing him not to raise an objection, and was relieved when he said nothing. It was Mycroft who shook his head in protest.
"No, John, I wouldn't presume to intrude. I should be at work..."
"Bollocks." Both brothers looked startled at the vehemence of John's earthy retort. "First off, Mycroft, you are not intruding. Secondly, you need rest or you'll be no good to Greg when he does wake up. All you'll do is fret about him and God knows, you shouldn't be alone right now. I'm a doctor, and it would be going against everything I believe in to abandon you now. Do not try to lie to me and tell me you're fine because you are clearly not. There is nothing you can do here, so come on, don't be a Pratt and for once in your life, please let us help you." For a moment Mycroft seemed to wrestle with himself, the outward facade of rigid armor plate very much in place but warring with a vulnerability John had never seen him display before. Then he seemed to capitulate and nodded.
"Very well, under the circumstances. I'll text Anthea. She can cancel my appointments, I can blame it on a family emergency."
"Good," said John before Sherlock could say anything or Mycroft could change his mind. "Come on then. I need to find my clothes and get out of these scrubs. Go call a cab."
0o0o0o0
Half an hour later, Mycroft stood in the doorway of John's bedroom looking lost. "I've nothing to wear in bed..."
"It won't kill you to sleep naked for once, will it?" John smiled to take the sting out of the words. "Nothing I own would fit you. Besides, it's only for a few hours." Mycroft watched John pulling drawers open and frowned.
"John, if you have nothing to fit me, what are you looking for?"
"Looking for clean sheets. I was going to make the bed..."
Mycroft sighed. "That won't be necessary. I'll be alright. It's only a few hours after all."
"Oh, okay. Well, get ready and get into bed, I'll be back in a few." He left the man to his own devices.
0o0o0o0
"Your brother is too calm," he said to Sherlock in their room.
"My brother is always calm, at least on the outside. 'Keep Calm and Call Mycroft'," he chuckled. "This is kind of you, John. My dear brother is not having an easy time at the moment. He can't influence what happens with this situation. Mycroft hates such a loss of control."
"I wonder who that reminds me of?" John smiled fondly. "Be back in a mo, I'm just going to make sure he takes these." He held up a pill bottle. Sherlock nodded and climbed into bed with a sigh.
"Good luck with that..." he muttered, eyes closing wearily.
0o0o0o0
"Mycroft? You decent?" John pushed open the door slightly and waited.
"Yes, John. I'm as decent as I'll ever be. You may come in." Mycroft was in bed, propped on the pillows. He looked tired and diminished.
"How are you holding up?"
"Not well, I admit." Mycroft did not look directly at him but rather regarded the bedclothes with an interested expression and fussed over the wrinkles, smoothing them out.
"You'd rather not talk about it." It was a statement of fact, rather than a question. Mycroft gave a little shake of the head. "Here then, I want you to take two of these." Mycroft obediently took the pills.
"Take two of these and call me in the morning, doctor?" He suggested, mouth quirking into a very small smile. John grinned.
"Something like that, yeah." He handed over a glass of water and watched as Mycroft swallowed the pills without even asking what they were.
"You're a doctor, John," he said when John pointed it out. "You would only give me something with an appropriate purpose. In this instance, probably a strong sedative. You know that I am worried about Gregory. You also know that I probably won't sleep well as a consequence. Therefore you have most likely come to the conclusion that the best option is sedation. Contrary to popular belief, I do trust you. My brother trusts you and so does Gregory. After all, Gregory's life was quite literally in your hands and you did not let him down. I think it goes without saying that you have not betrayed my trust in you yet." John smiled, reaching to check the man's pulse out of habit. It was steady and strong.
"Thanks for that," he said gratefully. "But Sherlock didn't exactly trust me... when he... you know."
"John, that was for your sake and it is past and gone. If you had known, you would have been at risk, it was quite that simple. Sherlock trusts you with something far more important than his life, in any case. He trusts you with his heart." For a moment the two men locked gazes, then John nodded once and Mycroft smiled a smile that for once reached his eyes.
"Well, those pills will at least let you get some decent rest," John said. "I could give you something stronger but..." he hesitated. "See how you go. If you find they don't work for you, then you know where we are. If things get too much, then come and find us, you got that?" Mycroft nodded.
"Thank you, John. I appreciate what you're trying to do." John nodded and gave him a reassuring smile.
"You..um...you need me to stay?"
"No, John. Thank you. You've done more than enough."
"Rest easy, Mycroft."
"You too, John." Mycroft knew he would. The covers smelled faintly but reassuringly of John's male musk. They were warm and the bed was comfortable. In moments, the minor government official was fast asleep.
0o0o0o0
Greg woke fighting the tube down his throat and the machine breathing for him. Alarms went off and suddenly there were hands wrestling him to stillness and gentle but insistent voices making reassuring noises as they dealt with him. The voices finally got through to him, telling him to relax and let them help. They removed the tubing carefully and replaced it with a cannula beneath his nose but he coughed anyway, couldn't help himself, pain stabbing through him hard enough to take his breath away. They asked him to rate the pain out of ten.
"Fifteen," he replied huskily, eliciting a chuckle from the nurses. His throat was dry and sore. Moments later, the pain medication they gave him kicked in and brought things to a manageable level. They proceeded to check him over thoroughly, explaining where he was, instructing him to lie still, telling him not to worry, he would be fine, they would look after him.
"I've paged Doctor Watson," one of the nurses said to the other as they were checking the monitors and writing up his chart.
"Doctor Wa'son?" Greg slurred. His voice wouldn't obey him but his curiosity was piqued. "D'you mean John?" He was puzzled. When had John started to work for Bart's?
"Don't know his first name, dear. He was the one who operated on you," the nurse explained patiently. "He asked to be paged the moment you woke so I expect he'll be here soon. You get some rest."
They left him with a call button under his hand and withdrew to their station where they could monitor him from a distance. John had operated on him? It felt like some surreal dream. John could do that? Greg knew he had been in the RAMC, but he also knew him as a quiet, mild-mannered GP, not a surgeon. Although the quiet ones are the dangerous ones, after all, he mused. He could attest to that where John Watson was concerned.
Greg knew there was steel beneath John's mildness. The man carried a gun sanctioned by the Home Office for personal use, self-defense only, but he remembered seeing him shoot the man who stabbed Greg through the heart. There was a pragmatic streak in John. Greg was certain that the man would never shoot anyone in cold blood, but give him the heat of the moment and John Watson was all soldier.
He wondered if Sally was okay and thought to ask but he decided to wait while John arrived. He wondered who would turn up with him. Damn it, had they even told Mycroft? He dimly remembered Sherlock saying he would text him but he wasn't sure if that hadn't been a dream.
0o0o0o0
Somebody was shaking him awake. John was staring down at him, smiling. "It's okay, it's only me. Sorry to disturb you, Mycroft. The hospital called to tell me that Greg's awake. Get dressed and we'll see you downstairs."
Relief washed through Mycroft Holmes as he lay in John's bed, relief so great it left him trembling. He mastered the almost overwhelming feelings with difficulty. It was frightening how much he already cared for the Detective Inspector despite having known him a relatively short time. I should slam the door on this now, Mycroft thought, whilst I still have the opportunity. I shouldn't leave myself open for what appears to be simple infatuation. But is that all it is? Mycroft was having increasing difficulty thinking of Gregory Lestrade in terms of simple infatuation.
He rolled over to look at the time. It was nearly 3 pm. They had left him to sleep for most of the day. That was unheard of. Those tablets must have been powerful, whatever they were. He rose and dressed, hurriedly. A yawn caught him as he opened the bedroom door and he paused, ruffled. Yawning was undignified and something he refrained from doing if he could avoid it. Straightening his tie, he tried to bring down the mask he habitually wore—that of iron-clad resolve—so by the time he reached the landing and joined John and Sherlock who were pulling their coats on and descending the stairs to street level, the Ice Man just about had his facade in place again.
0o0o0o0
"You don't fool me, Brother Dear," Sherlock murmured conspiratorially as they walked down the corridor in Bart's, heading for the post-operative ICU. John had walked ahead of them and was out of earshot. Mycroft shot his little brother a dark look.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean you don't fool me. That Ice Man mask you adopt is a fake. You care rather more for Greg than you'd have us believe. You've quite fallen for our handsome detective, haven't you?"
"What if I have?" He was aware he sounded childish but frankly he couldn't care less right there and then. Sherlock seemed to be looking for a chink in his armour and he wasn't about to let him find it.
"Admit it, Mycroft. You've let him get under your skin," Sherlock murmured softly. Mycroft opened his mouth to reply, and then shut it with a snap and sighed heavily.
"I think we should save this conversation for another time," he said testily, tapping his umbrella on the floor in impatience.
"Mycroft, don't try to be a martyr."
"I have no idea what you mean…"
"Of course you don't. You're too busy being noble and brave."
"What would you know about it? Relationships are not exactly your forte, after all."
"I'm learning. I'm a quick learner too. Ask John."
"Your point being?"
"Tell him how you feel and let him make his own mind up. You owe him that much. Anything else is just abandonment no matter the terms you couch it in. You abandoned me once. Please don't make the same mistake twice." Sherlock fixed his brother with a look that spoke volumes. Mycroft stared back stubbornly. "If I were in your position," Sherlock added, "which I thank God that I'm not, I would probably take the time to think things through just as you have been doing. I would probably take the time to consider the impact such a relationship might have both on my work and my status, but if I've learned one thing from John, it is that life isn't a rehearsal. What is really important to you, Mycroft, that stuffy job of yours, or your happiness?"
"Survival is more important right now. Caring is not an advantage…Whether I care about him or not won't save him, and if he dies..."
"What are you two doing?" John had retraced his steps to them both. He sounded exasperated. "Will you come on? I need to examine my patient and time is of the essence! They paged me ages ago, they're waiting on my arrival. I can do without you two facing off in public and blocking a hospital corridor. Just once, I hoped you could pack it in and tolerate each other. Now get a grip and get a move on." He set off again, expecting to be obeyed.
"Come on, brother dear, the good doctor thinks we're arguing again," Mycroft said, mask in place once more.
"Mycroft…"
"Later, Sherlock. The only thing I know right now is that I've opened a can of worms and things can only get worse."
0o0o0o0
Consciousness was overrated, Greg thought, coming up through the morass of anesthetic and pain with great difficulty. There was an annoying bright light in his eyes, muffled voices, the sharp smell of disinfectant. God, it was a struggle to open his eyes. Someone was talking to him but he couldn't make out the words. He wanted darkness, peace and quiet, and all he was getting was this sensory overload. It was too much. His throat was sore, he felt nauseous and thick headed.
John saw the signs and grabbed a disposable bowl from beneath the bed, shoving it under Greg's nose before he threw up over the covers. The patient retched and groaned with the resulting pain. Sherlock and Mycroft, who were sitting primly across the other side of the room on what looked like more of those uncomfortable orange chairs, both flinched. John reached for the call button and pressed for attention.
"Help me with this, would you?" he said when a nurse poked her head around the door and together they managed to make Greg comfortable again. At a murmured request from John, the nurse fetched a syringe and fitted it into the port on the IV, emptying the fluid into the line carefully. "Anti-emetic," John explained. "It's probably the morphine. Some patients react badly to it. We'll manage it for you, Greg, don't worry." He satisfied himself there was no damage from Greg's sudden move and stroked his fingers across the man's hand. "How are you feeling now?"
"Crap. I was stabbed, you know... Didn't anyone tell you?" John grinned.
"Yeah, somebody said something to the effect. You obviously didn't dodge very well..."
"Yeah, well..." Greg took a breath. "Getting older. Nearly fifty you know, not a spring chicken any more. How are you?"
"Fine, actually. We went home and got some rest. Took Mycroft with us."
"Wait a minute, he actually went home with you?"
"Yes, and what's more, he actually got some sleep too. I had to drug him, but needs must."
"Never," Greg smiled, amused gaze falling on the elder Holmes. "Good to see you, Mycroft."
"You too, Gregory." Mycroft's voice sounded strained.
"Hey, come here," Greg beckoned. Mycroft stood up and changed places with John, the better to get closer to Greg. "I'll be fine," Greg tried to reassure him. "Might take a while but I'll recover. Don't look so worried."
"Worried doesn't begin to describe it, Gregory. You nearly died." For a fraction of a second Mycroft's facade slipped and his eyes looked both vulnerable and anxious. Greg's expression softened and he tried to reach up, but groaned softly at the pull on the muscles. Mycroft looked at the offered hand for a second before reaching to take hold, squeezing gently. John pulled a chair over for him and he sat, facing Greg, as close as was allowable in the tight space.
"We'll give you a minute. Sherlock, I need coffee, come on..." John grabbed his arm and all but twisted it behind his back. Sherlock took the non-too-subtle hint and allowed himself to be bundled out of the room. "Don't worry. If you need anything call the nurse, she'll page me."
0o0o0o0
The next few hours were frustrating for Mycroft as Greg slid in and out of sleep, the remains of the anaesthetic periodically overwhelming him. John occasionally popped back to check on them, advising Mycroft that this would be pretty much it for a while. Mycroft stubbornly refused to leave and waited, willing Gregory to wake up enough to listen. John finally told him he and Sherlock would head on home for a while and come back later, when there would be a better chance of Greg being compos mentis enough to converse with them.
When Greg finally opened his eyes later that evening, feeling a lot less woozy, it was to see Mycroft still there beside the bed, gazing at him with something akin to...anger? It flickered behind the blue eyes, warring with...something else...Greg couldn't put his finger on it. "Mycroft, I'm sorry." He yawned. "Can't keep my eyes open..."
"Not your fault." Mycroft sounded testy. "You can't help it. It's the anaesthetic."
"You know...I had…no wish to scare you. But this is my job." He took a breath and let it out. His chest twinged. "It isn't the first time I've landed in hospital...and it might not be the last."
"You do know what happened?"
"I know I was stabbed..."
"You faced off a serial killer with no back-up, Gregory. You tried to talk someone down who could not be reasoned with—"
"I didn't know that though. You wouldn't not try to talk someone down from jumping off a roof...because you didn't think he could be reasoned with, would you?"
"I've never been in that position..."
"You have to try!" Greg gasped in a breath before continuing, ignoring how out of breath he was getting. "You don't know exactly what's going to happen. If you think for a moment I wasn't going to try—"
"That isn't the point!" Mycroft interrupted sharply.
"—then you don't know me very well!"
"The point is that you put yourself in harm's way. You could have been killed. As I understand it, you didn't wait for help, you threw yourself right in there."
"Why are you so angry with me?" Greg frowned, trying to bring his breathing under control.
"John shot the man who tried to kill you, you know that?" Mycroft told him, adroitly ignoring the question. "He insisted I get him on the team to work on you. He operated on you and I have no doubt saved your life. The director of the hospital's surgical team was so impressed he offered John a job."
"Bloody hell, John did that for me?"
"Yes, he did. He loves you, Gregory. They both do. That much is plain. You have a home with them, a place in both their hearts. You could all three of you live in polyamorous harmony for as long as you wish. I think... that's where you ought to be..."
"Mycroft? What do you mean by that? I thought..."
"Well, you thought wrong. Gregory, we both have dangerous professions. This isn't a good idea..."
"What isn't? Us? Mycroft..."
"No, please, listen to me, Gregory. This is important. You're in danger now, because of me. I'm vulnerable because of you..." Mycroft felt the dull ache in his heart and knew he couldn't let it interfere. "All the time we are together, we're under threat. Someone could use you to get to me. I can't allow that to happen. You've already come close to... to..."
"Death, Mycroft," Greg said firmly. "I came close to dying. Doesn't frighten me, you know. I don't actually fancy dying just yet but…" he took another breath. Damn it, he hated that this left him gasping. "It doesn't...scare me. You can say it...out loud."
"Twice, Gregory. You flatlined twice on the operating table and each time, John brought you back. Your blood pressure dropped dangerously low and each time, John managed to stabilize your condition. He is nothing short of a miracle worker. I'm not half the man he is..." Mycroft's voice failed him. "If you died, I would be less than I am now. That scares me terribly. I am vulnerable... you make me vulnerable. I'm not sure I can cope with that."
"And how do you think...I feel?" Greg asked bluntly. He tried to suppress a cough as his voice rasped in his throat. "You have such a fucking high position…you are the bloody British Government sometimes. Christ, I feel…vulnerable just by being with you. What the hell could I possibly have—," he took another breath "—that an elegant bastard like Mycroft Holmes would find interesting? What am I? I'm ordinary—," he dragged in another breath, aware that it was getting more difficult "—I'm an adopted, middle class kid with an average education. Just a bit of rough...a stupid copper, plebeian, clumsy. No!" He held up a hand to forestall Mycroft's interruption and dragged in another breath. That one hurt. "Christ, I like the wrong music, I have the wrong taste in clothes... I wasn't educated in Harrow or Eton or anywhere worthwhile... I can't talk posh and make small talk to ambassadors and pass the time with politicians every damn day… I go in front of press conferences to answer searching questions...about whether there's a serial killer on the loose... I stand in front of my boss to justify my department's budget, I manage a team of detectives and I try to solve crimes. What could you possibly find attractive in me?" Mycroft was struck dumb by Greg's gasping tirade. "It's obvious you don't trust me...to make my own decisions so...no, this probably isn't going to go anywhere so just...go on, get out, go! Leave me alone..."
Mycroft stepped back against the onslaught of Greg's distress. He was acutely aware that his emotions were getting the better of him, that he wanted to take the words back, to unsay them, but he knew that could never be. He turned to leave. Gregory was having difficulty breathing. He was looking grey.
"Oh God, no..." Pain had lanced through Greg's chest and he grimaced with it, distress in his eyes.
"What's the matter, Gregory?"
"Fetch John... please..."
Mycroft called for the nurse who took one look at her patient and picked up the phone, paging John as fast as she could. Then she asked brusquely what had happened. Mycroft told her Greg was upset—distraught was a more accurate term—as she went about fixing a breathing mask over his face. She went on to check his blood pressure (elevated) and temperature (also elevated) and asked him some more questions. Mycroft was sidelined and stood back out of the way. Moments later John suddenly rushed into the room with Sherlock behind him.
"We were on our way up when I got the message. What's happened?" John listened as the nurse filled him in on Greg's condition and Sherlock made a beeline for his brother and took his arm, a searching look on his face. "I think you two had better leave. Go get yourself coffee," John suggested. "Sherlock, take your brother out of here."
0o0o0o0
The tea from the hospital café was marginally better than the rubbish from the machine, Mycroft found himself thinking. He was sitting across from Sherlock who was staring at his tea as if it was going to climb out of the cup on its own and possibly attack him for not drinking it. Neither man said a word. The café was noisy, hot and busy and nobody paid them any heed whatever. That was fine with both of them.
"What will you do if he dies?" Mycroft flinched at the baldly stated question.
"John said…"
"I know what John said. There's a chance he won't make it, Mycroft. We both know that and I… I have no idea what I'll do if he doesn't. Without him… I'll not be offered any more cases, we both know that much. Without cases…" He left the statement hanging.
"Do you care about what it will do to John if Gregory dies?" Mycroft said accusingly. "Stop thinking about yourself for a moment and consider him. He is the one who undertook to save Gregory. If he dies, then John will blame himself. Wrongly, but the good doctor is nothing if not honorable."
Sherlock frowned, a fleeting vulnerable look replaced the normally aloof expression. "I know, but I also know what will happen to me, Mycroft. I was a mess before Lestrade met me. I know what I was like before I knew him and I'm facing that again if I lose him. I know what it will do to John if that happens…"
"Then we both have to hope that the worst will not happen, dear brother. Besides, you do have John. I, on the other hand, have no one. Think yourself lucky."
0o0o0o0
"It's as I feared. He has pneumonia." John said, when he found them both in the café. "It's a common complication with chest wounds."
"What's the prognosis, John?" Mycroft asked.
"As of this moment, he's holding his own but if he doesn't show any improvement by tonight, then it's not going to be good." John sighed and sat down. "Trouble is, he's fighting such a lot already. We've adjusted his medication, changed the antibiotics he's on. Now all we can do is wait and see. Again."
"You love him. You're in love with him, aren't you?" Sherlock fixed his brother with a stare.
"Yes, God help me. I am. Are you happy now?" Sherlock was startled at the vehemence of the quiet admission. His brother seemed defeated. "I rather think that I've rendered myself vulnerable, Sherlock. I have fallen in love and I am laid bare. If he dies, I will grieve and move on, eventually, but the damage is done. If he lives, then the consequences could be even more far reaching. They can get to me through him, he is no longer safe and I've done this to him. I am no longer safe. I am compromised and it's all my own fault."
"Mycroft, don't be an utter moron," Sherlock said bluntly.
"I am not, as you put it, an utter moron. I am merely stating fact!" Mycroft snapped. "Assuming he survives this, Gregory is now caught in the middle. My enemies could hurt him badly, and that would hurt me too. I would have to abandon him in the name of National Security if that happened, and he doesn't deserve that!"
"Mycroft, you'll only be a moron if you run away from this," Mycroft was surprised that it was John who had spoken so gently. "I was so alone, for so long. I owe your brother so much. But we're together now and even if either of us ends up in Greg's position in the future, although I hope to God we don't, then we'll have had each other and admitted how we feel and enjoyed life together for as long as we could." John reached to grasp Sherlock's hand. "You cannot tell me that such a thing is better denied. Would you really, honestly deny yourself the right to be happy because you've been hurt before? Or could be again? That's life, Mycroft. Rough with smooth, bad with good, better or worse, you know? After…" John looked at Sherlock and frowned, pained. "Let's just say, it was a hiatus I would rather forget. I thought he was dead. What really hurt wasn't that he didn't trust me. It was that I never understood how much I felt about him until I lost him. Then all I could do was regret not admitting it to him while he was alive. I didn't even admit it when he returned. I thought I would lose him. Then, when I did finally tell him how I felt, he admitted he felt the same. It was... wow… that felt…I can't describe it. Wonderful. Amazing. Now, we're going to be married. We'll forget all those wasted years and throw ourselves into the future."
"I appreciate what you're saying, John. But I am not you. I would cease to function if I allowed myself the liberty of which you speak. Love is a vulnerability the enormity of which is only now making itself manifest in my mind. Gregory is better off without me. Better I abandon him now and save us both pain."
"Just like you abandoned me before," Sherlock said. "You know how to do that, don't you, brother dear? No wonder we've spent so long being enemies. You abandoned me for University and I couldn't understand it. You were my brother, you were supposed to protect me…"
"Sherlock… I couldn't take you with me. You know why. Besides, I didn't understand you. I loved you, but I didn't really understand you. Your mind took you away from me. It took you where I couldn't follow. We abandoned each other, Sherlock, each in our own way." Sherlock was quiet for a moment, digesting the admission.
"You were my brother, not my parent," he said at last. "I know now that you couldn't take me with you. Although at the time I didn't understand why not. To me, you were the closest thing I had to a parent. Mummy was mourning our father, and she didn't realise what was happening with me."
"I was?" Mycroft said faintly. "But Mummy wouldn't have..."
"Oh, I don't blame mummy either, oddly enough. She was just not equipped to deal with me on top of father's death. I know that I was difficult, damaged, disruptive. I hated school and everybody in it and they hated me because I was more clever than they were. I just wanted to hide and not come out until I was old enough to tell them to go fuck themselves." Shock stilled Mycroft's tongue. He had never heard Sherlock say so much about himself, about them. "I stopped hating you long ago, you know, I just never knew how to tell you. Our emotional anorexia always got in the way. I don't bear you any ill will. Hell's bells, we used to love each other, Mycroft. What happened to us?"
"Our father happened. We had to become men before our time. It took me a long time before I realised I didn't have to impress him or even seek his approval but such is the power a parent has over a child. He demanded things of me, of us, that we were powerless to give." Mycroft looked bitter. "When he died I felt only relief."
"We are starved for emotional nourishment, you and I," Sherlock said. "Caring might not be an advantage but it's bloody well essential if we want to do more than merely exist. I never knew how important it was until I met John. Not caring might stop you feeling the pain of loss and the bitterness of betrayal, the heartbreak and the loneliness, but it also denies us the other side of the coin. When I jumped off that rooftop, it was as if I had really died. I might as well have done, the pain of separation that it caused me. He was alive, yes, but what was the point if I couldn't have him, couldn't be with him? What was the damn point, Mycroft? I needed him, and I had to let him go in order to let him live. I couldn't live without him and I couldn't live with him. I never realized I loved him until I nearly lost him and I realized I had never truly told him how I felt and I had to watch him almost die inside every day because of what I'd done. Never tell me that caring is not an advantage. The trouble with that is that not caring is the biggest disadvantage I ever had. I couldn't think straight, I couldn't concentrate. I've come alive with John; my mind is sharper, my life brighter, my vision clearer. I've done some of my best work since my return and I have more to come, better work to come, at his side, with his ring on my finger." There was a pause when Sherlock finished. John was looking at him with something akin to awe. He met John's gaze with a questioning one of his own.
"I wish I could share that view," Mycroft murmured. "However, I fear it is too late for me. I don't know how to love someone, not properly."
"Pish! You are perfectly capable of loving someone and doing so deeply," Sherlock retorted. "Greg is a good man, and he is perfect for you. He'll stop you getting too above yourself, you'll fetch him out of his shell."
"He has a shell?"
"Yes, he does. I'm surprised you haven't noticed. He's very closed with most people, he doesn't let them see the real person behind the Detective Inspector. If you see it, which I know you have, you can be assured that he trusts you. Don't betray him, Mycroft. At least, tell him so before it's too late."
In the silence that followed, the sound of John's pager made them all jump. John glanced at it and muttered a curse. "Oh fuck…no…" He was up and running before either of the Holmes brothers had the chance to move.
Cliffhanger again? Of course. I'm evil. I'm a fanfic writer, of course I love angst. Sorry, this was a particularly long chapter which took some time to write and juggle with real life. I wanted to get it to a particular place. Reviews as always are welcome.
