"Tisk, tisk, Sherlock. What have you gotten yourself into?" Sherlock shuttered as a cough rattled his aching chest. He tried to sit up, stopped by a firm hand on his right shoulder.
"Now, I might think that the pain rising would cause you is just punishment for being so sloppy as to get yourself shot—twice—in the abdomen but I am your brother and I do care more for your wellbeing than for my personal judicial scalings of you, so stay down." Sherlock groaned as the memories of what must have been days before began to file themselves away in his mind.
"You're lucky, you know. Those thugs left you for dead. If they had been more careful and checked you over you probably wouldn't be here right now. The kids that found you, just outside of Edinburgh, if you recall, had quite a fright at the look of you. The doctors could not determine at exactly what point in the process of bleeding out you turned onto your back and began shoving your shirt into your bullet wounds but they're calling that a stroke of genius. Apparently, had you not done that, you would have expired in that scrap yard hours before that group of hooligans stumbled upon your unconscious, blood soaked body."
"Mycroft—"
"Yes, dear brother?"
"Mycroft, shut up," Sherlock intoned weakly.
"As you wish, Sherlock, but listen to me first. You are extremely unlikely to get so lucky again. I know you love him but the kind of reckless behaviour you indulged in has consequences. The next time, one of those consequences may very well be your death. Don't let there be a next time, Sherlock." As his brother stood to leave Sherlock's pale hand shot out for him, barely catching Mycroft's sleeve between his thumb and forefinger.
"Is he dead, Mycroft?"
"Sherlock, I do not think that you are in any kind of condition to—"
"Did you see his lifeless body yourself, Mycroft?" Sherlock breathed harshly. The older Holmes brother sighed.
"Yes and quite a number you did on him, too. I doubt Mr. Moran's own mother would have been able to recognise him, let alone a bunch of hired men." With that Mycroft departed, sealing the hospital door softly behind him. Sherlock's eyes began to burn. He felt hot tears slip down the sides of his head to settle along the underside of his jaw and on his earlobes, leaving cool, itchy trails in their wakes. That was it. He was done. He could go home—just as soon as the bullet holes in his body had healed enough. There was no reason to scare John with those after everything else.
The emotional onslaught Sherlock felt in response to thinking of John was not uncommon to him at this point but the crying was new. He wondered, now that he allowed himself to, how John would react when he returned to 221B. Mycroft's reports on John had been sparse although Sherlock knew his brother was following John's every move. It was better if he didn't tell Sherlock. Sherlock couldn't deduce many things about John if the relevant facts were withheld but he had always been a very accurate guesser when it came down to it. In any case, he would know firsthand just how John was very soon. Sherlock let that happy thought lull him into heavy sleep.
