Here we are again. A new angsty chapter at closer to the end. Hope you'll enjoy.
Warning: Mentions of drug use, near death experience, angst.
Backdoor unlocked, the message read and John clutched his phone with white knuckles and a sweaty palm. Seven minutes had passed as the taxi drove in on the parking lot outside the tall building and he saw Greg's car parked in the shadow by the wall. He tossed a couple of quid at the driver before running out the door, forgetting to close it and continued round the corner. Many bushes and deep ditched was slowing his path, failing his balance and he slipped and flailed on the many ice patches when he finally saw the door. His vision turned into a dark tunnel with only his destination in sight and all the nosies of cars and the cold succumbed beneath the need to get in there, to find his boy.
It was unlocked, just as Greg had told him and he grasped his weapon in his pocket, caressed the safety and went inside with his head full of something that resembled hope But he didn't make it far until the white shine of the snow lightened the pale face and grey hair of his friend. John just stared for what seemed like minutes, saw the blood was staining his beige raincoat and in his arms the most precious thing rested, trapped in a broken and tainted vessel swaddled in something that once had been a blanket. The boy was shaking violently, breaths wheezing in his tight throat and John fell in some sort of trance as he reached out his arms.
The weight of the boy had never felt so comfortable in his arms but yet so heavy. His knees buckled and he stumbled down to the cold floor and just stared at the familiar face underneath all the blood and filth. Teeth was shattering, his whole body trembling in cold, shock or maybe both and John found himself without knowledge how to take care of this. His military nerves had left him the moment he saw his son and he couldn't find it again. Even his medical knowledge escaped his head, he could just not be Hamish's doctor right now, it didn't work. He needed to be his father.
"Hamish." he quaked and brushed his dark hair from his forehead, felt the tears tickle down his own face and how his body began to tremble as everything overwhelmed him. "Please Hamish, look at me." Greg's words was passing right by him as he continued to take care his little son, patting his cheek, playing with his hair and rubbing his chest. "C'mon love. Wake up. Please." Tears was fogging his eyes and he made an effort to wipe them with his shoulder while still observing the boy. Blood was still streaming from his nose and he pulled his scarf off his neck to stop it. He wiped his nose and rocked his gently in his arms, held him so close he was about to melt together with him and he prayed that he could take over the pain he was feeling. A small child like this didn't deserve to go through this kinds of physical wounds, it wasn't human and John cursed under his breath. He knew what was hiding under the swaddled blanket, he just didn't want to see it yet. A broken arm left untreated this long could bring more problems than just a snapped bone.
Then he swallowed the worst of his fears and unfolded the wet cloth. The rash forced a whimper passed his lips and he sobbed by the sight of the blue and purple swell that was the size of a thigh.
"Oh god." he whimpered and bundled up his face as tears continued to fall and fear found its way back up. "Oh Hamish..." He cradled his head and pressed a long, shaking kiss to his forehead and tried to smother the sounds escaping him. "It's gonna be alright." he murmured, more to himself than to his unconscious son. "It's gonna be fine."
Then out of nowhere paramedics and officers crowded the small corridor and Greg urged the delusional doctor on his feet. He heard himself yell and fume as someone tried to take Hamish from him but he couldn't remember the words and the younger woman backed away with her grey eyes firmly locked on him.
"Sir! I need you to cooperate with us or your son will be the one to suffer from it." she said strictly and just like pressing a button John was back amongst them. His clouded vision and tunnel left and he noticed himself standing in the sunlight with Hamish cradled tightly to his chest. Cold was creeping in fast, reminding him of the weather that brought nothing but bad things to the already ruined body.
"I'm a doctor." he hissed and gnashed his teeth as he started to understand that he might not be able to travel in the ambulance with them. "You're not taking him without me." The woman's shoulders sunk several inches in relief as he heard those words and a deep sigh was uttered.
"Of course." she said as she tilted her head and put a hand on his shoulder. "He needs you more than anyone right now."
John nearly cried by those word and huffed gladly. Maybe he wouldn't be able to treat him but at least he was allowed to be there and hold his little hand during the process of their care. That was all he needed right now. For gods sake, he had just been handed the boy there was no way he was letting him out of sight now. The woman led him to the ambulance with her hand steady on his shoulder and John didn't break sight with his son. For each second he made sure that his chest was rising and falling, that his lips didn't turn blue and that blood didn't began to flood once more from his nose.
With heavy steps he climbed into the back of the ambulance and carefully placed him on the stretcher. After that he knew the drill and he didn't know how to prepare himself. He placed himself behind Hamish's head, kept two firm hands around his temples and massaged him gently as the two paramedics prepared him before they took off. They discarded the blanked and put it in the bin and John saw the deformed body before him. The hand was swapped with rubbing alcohol before they punctured him with needles and hung an IV in the roof. Then they brought out the scissors and John didn't know if he should sit down for this. The blades cut into his second favourite shirt with the print of Einstein and they uncovered his chest. John whimpered but manage to keep balance on wobbling knees. He was black and blue, no wonder he was wheezing with all those broken ribs, he even got a bruise former as the heel of a boot on his hip and John couldn't do much more than just stare.
His son was ruined and he lowered his gaze to Hamish's face, stared at him blindly and in confusion of how he was still alive. When Hamish had called he told them about his status. Broken arm and some ribs. Therefore all these other bruises was caused because of one small reason.
A bloody phone.
He was hooked up to a pulse-ox machine and John was frightened about the vitals. One of them was too high, the other too low and felt how his knowledge slowly crept back into his mind. Then out of nowhere Hamish let out a loud whimper and arched his neck as he tried to breath again. John panicked and leaned over him to get contact as the paramedic pressed a mask over his nose and mouth.
"It's okay." the father comforted calmly and rubbed his thumbs over his temples. "Deep breaths, love. You can do this."
"What's his name?" the woman asked and emptied a syringe into the IV.
"Hamish." John answered quickly and saw how his arms began to flail. He was shaking violently on the stretcher and the pure oxygen did't do much for him. His father had never been so scared. The woman leaned over the boy and rubbed the only clear area on his chest, tried to calm him.
"C'mon little Hamish." she pleaded just as the ambulance took off. "You're scaring daddy. Give us a good breath."
Like a bombardment of shrapnel information spread through John brain and he placed firm hand under Hamish's neck and forced him to stretch it, his other slid under his back and between his shoulder blades and pressed up. To his relief Hamish took a huge breath in the mask and let it out with a loud, weak whine that would scar John for life. Hamish had never in his life made such an awful sound and his limbs started to cramp. Small grunts and moans escaped him as he trashed on the stretcher with a force out of this world and the woman placed two firm hands on his shoulders to keep him down. Then out of nowhere a loud shrieking beeping sounded and little Hamish went still on the table. Not a movement, not a twitch, nothing that could bring them a sign that he was still alive.
Which he wasn't.
John stared at the pulse-ox machine with blank eyes, not ready to believe what was going on and then he was pushed away from his son. He did not argue. How much he even wanted to push the paramedic out of the way and resuscitate him by himself he knew that he would never be allowed or even in his right mind to do so. Then everything turn into a big blur of colours. The two paramedics swayed back and forth in the moving vehicle, getting ready for resuscitation and they stripped the boy to his underwear and more bruises and cuts was being revealed, even a broken ankle and all John could think about in this moment was the question if those wounds would ever be healed or if Hamish would go under ground with them.
The woman and man were shouting, drying all the water of the boy and then pressed the two paddles to his chest. The small body made a massive jolt on the stretcher and the line on the machine took a jump and a dive unto a flat line again. John didn't know where to keep his hands. He wasn't allowed to touch his son, he couldn't hold his hand, not caress his hair or kiss his face. Right now he could only watch as he started to slip into the permanent exit of death and he clasped a hand over his mouth to choke himself from all the whimpers and sobs.
They pumped his lungs with oxygen and decided to shock him a second time. Yet again he jolted and arms and legs smacked the stretcher with a meaty sound. Thats when John closed his eyes. This was something he didn't want to witness. All he could do now was listen, pray, god knows what to keep himself sane in all this mess. If Hamish left him just as he had him back John didn't know what to do? All they'd done had been for nothing.
What would become of him and Sherlock if Hamish left them? Would they continue their lives on Baker Street? Would they keep his toys and things upstairs or get rid of it as quick as possible? Or would Sherlock and John even be able to look at each other without being haunted by the horrible memory of their son's death, leading them to their separation and end of their love?
"There we go! Good boy!"
He looked up from the palm of his hand and heard how the regular beeps had started again. There was a pulse, and Hamish continued to take deep breaths in the mask again. He lived and John felt how everything just collapsed around him in relief for a moment. Legs gave up under him and he grasped the sides of the stretcher tightly as he let out the breath he never realised he'd held. Hamish was breathing, his heart beating and crying.
Crying?
"Hamish?" he cried and placed a warm hand on his trembling shoulder. "Hamish, can you hear me?" The swollen eyelids slowly fluttered open and revealed his blue-green eyes, one bloodshot and nearly hidden underneath the bruise and the other red-rimmed and unfocused. A mix between a laugh and a sob fell over the doctor's lips and he leaned over him while caressing his forehead, trying to make contact. "Hamish? Are you with us?"
The mask was covering half his face and his deep breath fogged the translucent plastic as he tried to form words. John listened closely and wiped the tears that traveled down the boys temples to his ears. The small voice was hardly reaching him and he closed his eyes and strengthened his senses to hear what he was trying to tell him.
"... birds..." he croaked and gave a weak whimper
"What's that?" John asked him and let his cheek caress his sons cheek with warmth.
"Why.. are there... so many birds?" he asked and blinked in confusion as he gave the ambulance a short glance before closing his eyes again. "They're loud." It was the painkillers and the delusion of fever talking, but John had never been so glad to hear something coming out of his son. Those words was nearly poetic as they explained Hamish's first reaction to the loud beeping from the pulse-ox machine.
"They'll stop soon." John promised and pressed kiss to his forehead while crying freely and squeezing his left hand. "I promise."
The tea was brewing in its pot and Sherlock detested the smell of Earl Grey even if he was met by it morning after morning living with John. Tea would just be stalling the actual killing, he didn't understand why politeness could be so important when a man was standing trial for his death. He just wanted it over with, then wipe up the blood that might have been spilled and leave the body for the morticians to collect. The conversation Mycroft wanted them to share seemed unimportant, dull and tedious.
He watched Mycroft from his armchair, monotonically smattering his fingers to the side of his cheek while his brother did housework. An unusual sight, Mycroft had nearly never lifted a finger in his presence and even less made tea for himself or someone else. It seemed improbable that the british government could do something else than just snoop around.
Holmes the older balanced the tray like one of the butlers he had hired in the palace and strutted like the high class snob he was to the sitting room and put it down without a single rattle on the side table. The tea was steaming and misted the mirror over the mantlepiece while the brother sat down in John's chair. Sherlock pursed his lips. This sight wasn't as friendly as his husband.
"He never entered your secret chambers I presume?" Sherlock groaned and lowered his hand and grasped the armrest tightly.
"He did." Mycroft answered softly and crossed one leg over the other while rubbing his thumb back and forth over his fingertips. "At the moment he might believe that his plans are going exactly after his expectations but the sight of me here might just put him off balance."
The detective frowned and turned his his cheek while observing him sharply. He did not understand what Mycroft tried to explain how much he even wanted to. And he was not planning to ask, his deduction-skills would not be under the impression of being lessened. But Mycroft snickered where he sat, gave his umbrella a spin as he knew he had his brother confused.
"You might just say I pulled a Sherlock on him. Or maybe a Moriarty depending on whose side you're on. Kill the Iceman and who will be there to keep the little brother cold?"
The curls fell over his forehead as he tilted his head and watched his brother under thick lashes. A small, very small, ounce of proud nested in his guts as he started to realise that his older brother had done something very familiar to what he'd done ten years ago. Mycroft had sometime during the past six hours faked his own death and Sherlock was stuck with only one question that he could not utter. But Mycroft knew it already.
"I'll tell you how if you tell me first." he smiled and quirked one of his fiery eyebrows. Sherlock chuckled darkly and braided his fingers together over his thighs.
"Good try." he laughed.
"Then we both'll keep our secrets." Mycroft smiled and sighed loudly. "You jumped. I was poisoned. Now we both the plot, but not the ending. Satisfied?"
"Very." Sherlock snickered and killed his smile. There was now something else he wanted to know and he just managed to open his mouth before Mycroft had the answer.
"Don't you worry little brother." he said with his dragging voice. "Leave it all to me and I'll make sure he wont come back again." The detective answered him with a short nod and then they both suffered in silence for what seemed like minutes.
Slowly and gut retching Sherlock came back to the thought of his son. He's sight slipped into the beautiful but boring oblivion and he ended in the trance of deep thinking. The unknowing was horrid.. Thirty minutes had passed since John left and there had still not been a sound of his whereabout or his wellbeing. It was hard to deduce something when there was nothing to deduce on. Unnoticeably his legs started swaying, kicking the air as he travelled deeper and deeper into his scattered mind and question he never thought he would question himself was born.
What would Baker Street become without Hamish?
He didn't let his mind traveller further than that since things like such would bring him nothing but pain and fright, something he didn't need at the moment and he lifted his head and looked straight at his brother who was taking his deep calming breath.
"I blame you, you know." he murmured and Mycroft blinked once and directed his blue eyes at him.
"I know." he said as it was no bigger news to him. "But you know how we are. We rarely know when we bring hurt to others, do we?"
"That's not the point." Sherlock growled under his breath and started to pull some of the leathery flakes of the armrests that suddenly bothered him. "Showing him your secrets, putting him at risk when you know his my son. You know how my head worked in his age. Stupidity is what I would call it." Mycroft sighed loudly and nibbled his bottom lip with his sharp teeth, continued to spin his umbrella in silence and tapped his foot at the floor.
"There isn't much more I can do than apologise at the moment, Sherlock." he said. "How great our minds might be, neither you or me can predict the future of our mistakes."
"I don't do mistakes." Sherlock snorted angrily and broke their staring contest. He regretted the words the moment he spoke them, there were many things Mycroft could say to prove him wrong they both knew that. But the room remained silent and Sherlock closed his eyes hard to listen to the beautiful sound on nothing.
He had done a fair deal of mistakes. They both had. Sherlock could make a long list of things he wished he'd never done and an even longer one of things Mycroft had done.
"Making mistakes his human, Sherlock. And not even you can put yourself above than category. I am not proud of putting Hamish in danger or traumatising John." He took a deep breath and his red hair burned in the bright light the snow tossed upon them. "Neither I'm I proud of the things I've done to you during the years. But I am trying to put things right."
Sherlock smothered the hitch in his breath and felt his cheeks get hot. It was a long time since his brother had spoken such words to him and the detective had to take a moment just in case he'd imagined it. They had never really spoken like this since before Mycroft left home and to Sherlock's surprise it felt good. He'd missed this. Just he and his brother completely understanding each other once more and Holmes the older taking care of Holmes the younger. He felt like that thirteen-year-old once more only more understanding of his brothers actions.
The last time the two brothers had talked on a personal level was when their father died. It was a sad story that contained so much more than just the loss of a parent and Sherlock fidgeted by the memory. He was twenty-five and none of them really morned their passed father but they were going to attend to his funeral for their mother's sake. Mycroft had knocked upon his door early that saturday morning, dressed in black and carrying a package of Sherlock's clothing. As no one opened the door to the filthy flat Mycroft let himself in, found Sherlock sitting on the floor in the room without furnitures untangling a rubber band around his arm that had a fresh wound from a syringe and Holmes the older had dropped the suit to the floor.
Sherlock didn't remember much of the conversation his brother tried to have while he was tripping in the beautiful haze but it'd been ages since Mycroft had talked so long and emotionally to him. But Sherlock, the cock he was back then, had only laughed, swayed in the fog and he could swear he'd seen Mycroft cry before he left him there. The day after he woke up with a terrible ache in the back and a copper with silvery grey hair standing over him, kicking him in the chin and a nice meal put up in front of him and with one promise. For every week he stayed clean a new case would be there for him to solve.
Sherlock knew it was all Mycroft behind that deal but it sounded... interesting. It wasn't for nothing that Sherlock had slipped into the detective-work, Mycroft just didn't figure that he was going to stay there. And to all their surprises, he stayed clean. Everything to be a part of the mysteries and to prove people wrong by working on their cases. Mycroft might be a git but he wasn't stupid. And that was also how he met Greg. The man who'd recently lost his daughter and was one the edge wit his wife and who needed something to keep his mind off things found the young Sherlock as something that came with relief, something he could help and something he actually could cure. They seemed perfect for each other, helping one an other out of the deep ditch they'd landed in and Mycroft watched from a distance how his brother climbed up the stairs to a healthy living with a man which he payed by giving his wife the best psychological treatment after his loss.
But now they sat here. Life built to something worth living for that at the moments seemed to be slipping out of their hands and Sherlock swallowed continuously when his phone suddenly vibrated in his pocket. He fished it out and opened the new message.
Hamish on the way to the hospital with John. Updates when I know more. GL
Sherlock let out a deep breath, felt all the tensions release his stomach and chest and he clasped the phone to his heart. He was safe.
"They found Hamish." he murmured and he heard his brother sigh and close his eyes for a second.
"Good." he whispered under his breath. Sherlock cleared his throat and blinked blindly at him.
"I'm sorry I didn't make it to dad's funeral." he murmured and fought his gaze that tried to break. "And for... everything I did those years."
"Don't." Mycroft said quickly and shook his head, his smile thin but calming and Sherlock was infected by it. They both knew how much talking about those sorts of things did to the detective's head and Sherlock didn't have to speak his forgiveness to let Mycroft know it was there. He already knew.
So, leave a review and tell me what you think. I hope I haven't left you too heart broken. I love all of my readers and I'm sorry for the pain I've caused you.
I might do a small side-fic about the first meeting between Sherlock and Greg after his drug use in front of Mycroft. I there is an interest of course. Just let me know.