Three Weddings Part 1

Chapter 21

A/N: Dear all, thank you for your kind wishes, and yes, the holiday was great. The only thing I can say about the weather is that we had lots of it! But then that's Scotland for you. If you are interested you can find pictures of the beach where I set the last chapter of 'A Case of Resurrection' on my tumblr account at evenlode dot tumblr dot com (as soon as I get them off the camera, that is!).

Well, back to work, then, and John is patching our brothers up after their differences have been settled…

John had never been to Mycroft's flat. Once they left the private lift, he realised that the word 'flat' was something of a misnomer. It was a penthouse palace. He gawped.

'Shut your mouth, John, its unsightly,' Sherlock hissed at him. He was weaving a little.

'I need to examine you both and clean you up,' John said. He looked at the luxurious white shag pile. 'Preferably somewhere where it doesn't matter if you bleed.'

'Bathroom then,' Mycroft said, and led the way.

It was vast, with a huge white tub big enough for about four people, and an equally spacious shower enclosure. John brought in a chair and bid Mycroft sit. His medical bag had been brought from Baker Street by some minion, which meant he had the materials to mop up the mess and examine the elder Holmes's battered nose.

'This is going to need surgery, you do realise that?' he told Mycroft, when he had wiped the worst of the blood away.

'I suspected so.'

'You could have a whole new design,' Sherlock said, leaning on the doorframe. 'Something regal. Hawkish, perhaps.'

'Shut up, Sherlock.' John got up close to look, touching Mycroft's cheekbone and eye socket carefully. He flinched. 'I think you may need plates in here. It looks like a fracture to the orbital bone.'

'Will I be able to fly at the end of the week?'

'Going somewhere?'

'Taking Greg to Antigua. He says I need a holiday.'

'Very nice. But you'll probably have to put that off. I know a good man at Barts if you want me to arrange an appointment.'

'Thank you, but I already have a consultant.'

'Oh. Oh, good. Right then.' John packed Mycroft's nostrils to support the broken structure. 'Take off the t-shirt, I need to see those ribs.'

Mycroft struggled. It was clear from the off that he had some serious damage under there. John helped him with the blood-soaked garment. What he found underneath shocked even him.

Mycroft was black and blue. And quite a few shades of purple.

'What the fuck happened?'

'A small fight on some stairs.'

'Stairs?'

'Concrete ones.'

'Jesus! Did you get this looked at?'

Mycroft shrugged and seriously regretted it. John wasn't surprised at his grimace. 'You need an x-ray, but I'd say you've broken at least four ribs, possibly more. Trouble expanding your lungs? Pain?'

'A little.'

'Don't be noble, Mycroft, I'm a doctor.'

'Alright then, yes.'

John took out his stethoscope and listened to Mycroft's broad chest. It didn't sound good.

'You definitely aren't going to Antigua on Friday,' he said, and made a few more gentle explorations to check for ruptured internal organs, but everything seemed sound. 'Well, you're lucky. There's extensive bruising along with the broken ribs. I would seriously counsel against flying, given the thrombosis risk, but you've got away with it - this time. You need to take at least a week off to rest those ribs, though, and get an x-ray. Right?'

Mycroft huffed, but nodded. 'Greg won't be pleased.'

'I should think he'd be a damn sight more worried about having you well than about not going to Antigua just yet.'

Mycroft looked at his watch, ignoring John. 'Breakfast should be arriving shortly,' he said, and got up rather stiffly.

'Right. Sherlock?' John motioned to his love to sit down.

'I'll leave you to patch him up,' Mycroft said, and slid out. 'Help yourself to a shower if you want one.'

Sherlock sat down for his turn in the doctor's chair.

'Lops, eh?' John began to clean down his lover's face.

Sherlock sighed. 'I suppose I am being too hopeful to expect you to forget you heard that?'

'Yep.'

'It's his pet name for me. I had speech difficulties as a small child. I couldn't say my own name properly. Lops was the best I could manage for nearly a year. It stuck.'

John salted that little morsel of medical history away quietly. He knew speech problems were common amongst children on the autistic spectrum, and he had long ago concluded that Sherlock had some form of the condition.

'I promise I won't call you Lops,' he smiled, dabbing at the cut above Sherlock's eye and making him hiss. 'I'm going to need to stitch this.'

He prepared his materials and equipment. Luckily, he carried around pretty much everything he needed in disposable or pre-packed form. Sherlock wasn't bothered – he'd had quite a few stitches in his time, and he sat there patiently, trusting his little doctor to make the necessary mends efficiently.

'You understand that was necessary,' he said after a while.

'No, Sherlock, I don't. I don't see that it's necessary to beat your brother to a virtually unrecognisable pulp just because you have your differences.' John tied off the first stitch neatly. 'Violence is not the answer.'

'Do you have the first idea how ridiculous that sounds coming out of the mouth of a former army officer?'

'War only happens when diplomatic avenues have been exhausted.'

'If you think that, you are more naïve than I ever gave you credit for.'

'Christ, I thought me and Harry were dysfunctional, but at least we talk to one another, even if it is at the tops of our voices!'

'John, you know I love you, but my relationship with Mycroft is not one that can be explained in normal terms.'

John tied off the last stitch and cut the thread. Then he laid down his tools and lent back against the sink, and crossed his arms.

'You know what Mycroft's been doing in his spare time these last months, Sherlock? Hmm? And yes, he does have spare time. At least he made some for this. Greg told me. He tracked down every one of the 28 men who abused you at school. Every last one. He checked each one of them out. He only had a few names to start with, but he made all the links in the end. And then he paid each one a visit. Greg told me they would hear a noise in the night, and come downstairs and find Mycroft and two of his goons sitting in their lounge in the dark. He told them he knew all about what they'd done. The ones who were not living saintly lives he turned over to whatever authorities were involved, the police, the tax men, the social services. The ones that were, he put the fear of God into them. Explained how he would be watching them in future. For the rest of their lives. One tiny wrong move and that would be it. He would ruin them. He didn't just finish Lasky and Nicholls, he did them all. Every last one, Sherlock. Even after you were dead. Why don't you just think about that while you have your shower.'

Tomorrow, breakfast and making plans to clear up Sherlock's mess…