Two chapter's within twenty-four hours! SoMEOnE HiGH fiVe ME!

This chapter is quite a bit tamer than the previous two. Nothing too distressing. But frankly I just want to hug Sherlock to keep him strong and I want to hug John for being so wonderfully supportive.

You lot need a hug as well for being so supportive. The fact that some of you have favorited me as a writer is mind-bending. Thank you so much! Hope you enjoy this next chapter. Let me know what you think. Good or bad, I'd like to know :) x

Sherlock started awake with a gasp. The floor. Why am I on the floor? He tried to move but found himself affronted with dizziness. The weight of his own body was pushing down on his lungs. It pained him to draw breath. Sherlock's mind suddenly began to spiral into a panic. Oh, God! How did I get down here? What happened?!

'Sherlock!'

Sherlock's head suddenly cleared. That was John's voice…He sounded alarmed.

Sherlock winced, arms quaking as he pushed himself up from the floor. His mind was caught momentarily as he felt silken fabric fall across his arm. Dressing gown…? When did I put that on? I had my coat on. His name was called again. He looked up. 'John?!'

John came bounding up the stairs almost crashing into the detective as they met on the landing.

'John, what is it?'

'Your brother, I came home and he was collapsed outside in the street.'

Sherlock barged past the doctor, thundering down the stairs. He leapt out of the door, still barefooted. The icy pavement immediately started to bite and snatch the heat from his feet. As John had said, his brother was laid out on the pavement, crumpled on his side, evidently unconscious. Sherlock ran forward, dropping to the politician's side. 'Mycroft? Mycroft, wake up!' His hands came to rest on either side of the politician's face, searching for a hint of acknowledgement. 'Mycroft?!' He placed a hand on his head but quickly recoiled with a sharp gasp of horror. Imprinted on his hand; warm blood. That was one of the only times the detective swore. He lent over his brother again, 'Mycroft?! Mycroft, can you hear me?'

Nothing.

Sherlock turned as he heard his flatmate's footfalls approach the door. 'John! John, I need your help. He's bleeding.'

The doctor dashed forward and with quick, methodical reflexes, scoured the man's vitals. He moved to pick up the politician but the detective stopped him, grabbing his wrist. 'Don't. You're leg.'

'I'm fine, Sherlock.'

'John, don't think I haven't noticed. Just go and get your supplies. I'll bring him up. '

'You've just come out of hospital!'

'I'll be fine! Just go!'

John rushed off into the house as Sherlock struggled to lift his brother from the floor.

As he walks into their apartment, John is already crouched on the floor with his medical bag beside him. 'Put him on the sofa.' he said sturnly.

Sherlock does as he is told, being careful with his brother's head. 'What happened?' he asked quietly, trying to prevent his upset reflecting in his voice.

'I-I don't know.' John replied. 'He was just there when I approached the flat. - Can you get me a bowl and fill it with water from the tap, please?'

Sherlock swiftly nodded, getting up and striding towards the kitchen. The doctor turned his attention onto his patient. Pulling off his jacket, John rolled up the politician's shirt sleeves. He placed a small, electronic clip on Mycroft's index finger. After a moment the device beeped and the rectangular display informed John of the politician's heart rate and oxygen saturation level. He was relieved to see both were not too far from normal. Sherlock returned with the water placing it next to his flat mate. 'Here.'

'Thank you.' He pulled a tuft of cotton wool from his paramedic's bag. 'Sherlock, where was the bleeding?'

'Head.'

'Right.' The doctor was quick to locate the exact location of the blood flow and cleaned away the excess to see the wound better.

'Is it bad?' Sherlock whispered anxiously.

'No. No, it's alright. Just a bit of a nasty cut but I wouldn't say there was any damage to the skull itself.'

At this point, Sherlock rocked back on his heels, looking towards the ceiling with an outwards breath.

'Just a bit of glue, will do it I think.' John added with a gentle smile.

Sherlock got up, scratching his hands through his hair. He walked over to the fireplace picking up his phone from where he had left it the night previous. He rapidly typed out a message before replacing the device. He then proceeded to lean against the bookcase with folder arms, head coming to rest on the wall beside him. All the energy he'd woken up with had now all but vanished. He observed his brother's strangely peaceful face. Why had he been here? Where was his PA, his team? Surely they'd been watching him…Unless he came here without telling them? But why would he do that?

The detective in his thoughts had become mesmerized by his flatmate's skilful hands. After a couple minutes the doctor sat back on his heels. 'Done.' He turned to Sherlock who gave a weak smile. 'That was quick.' came his deep baritone voice.

The doctor gave an awkward grin. 'Just practice, I guess. Just leave that to set for a few minutes.' John returned to his bag, pulling out a syringe. 'I'm going to give a stimulant to wake him up. With a knock to the head like that he'll likely have concussion. It's not good for people with concussion to stay out in case-'

'In case they fall into a coma.' the detective finished. 'I know.'

John smirked to himself, shaking his head. 'Of course you knew. You're Sherlock Holmes.'

'And I'm as clever as it gets.'

John couldn't help but feel a glow at Sherlock's reference to their adventure beneath the palace of Westminster. He had honestly thought he was going to die that night. But then he had honestly believed that when Sherlock Holmes said he didn't have any information in his mind-palace about bombs, that he was telling the truth.

Sherlock was now at his side. John turned his gaze on the detective to see him holding out an alcoholic wipe. He took it with a nod. Rubbing the side of Mycroft's pale left arm with it, he pushed the needle into his skin, injecting the compound. John gently removed the syringe and placed it on the coffee table beside him. 'Now, this should take around a minute to take effect.' He said, peeling the back off a small plaster.

Sherlock suddenly got off of the floor at considerable speed.

'He's going to be disorientated,' John called. 'So you might want to get the bucket from under the sink because he's likely going to be-'

Sherlock skidded across the floor on his knee stopping just in front of the sofa as Mycroft rolled onto his side and threw-up unto the bucket in his waiting hands. '-Sick.' John finished. 'Nice timing.'

'Thank you.' the detective panted breathlessly.

Mycroft opened his eyes with a grown.

'Thank you for that brother, dear.' Sherlock gibed.

'You're welcome.' He replied weakly. 'Making up for all the time you OD-ed.'

'Oh, look! He's better already!' Sherlock sneered.

He stood up walking into the kitchen, taking a seat on the edge of the table. 'That wasn't funny...'

'I know but I do love to- Ah!' Mycroft winced as he tried to prop himself up on his elbows. 'No, no don't try to get up.' John said pushing Mycroft's shoulder's back down onto the sofa. 'You'll only be sick again.'

'I'm fine, Doctor Watson, honestly; just a bit of a headache.'

'You need to just lie still for a couple minutes so your body can re-establish a sense of balance, and that's just a bit of an understatement. Christ, you're as bad as each other.' John said looking between the pair.

Sherlock cast his eyes away as he pretended he hadn't heard anything.

'I'll give you some Codeine to numb the pain. You're head's probably throbbing, isn't it.' Mycroft regrettably gave a small nod.

'Can you get me a glass of water, please?' There was stillness for a moment. John turned round. 'Sherlock..?'

Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion. He pointed to himself. John rolled his eyes. 'Yes you. I'm hardly going to be talking to your brother, am I?'

The detective sighed and reluctantly got off of the table. He crossed over to the sink, filling up a glass tumbler. 'Should have left him in the street for the crows to peck at.' Sherlock mumbled moodily. He skulked back into the living room. John took the glass. 'Thank you.' He turned back to Mycroft. 'Do you think you're alright to sit up?'

'Yes. I was two minutes ago.'

'If you're going to keep sassing me, I'll sedate you again.'

'No you're not!' Sherlock butted in. 'He's not staying any longer than he has to.'

'Aww, brotherly love.' John got up off of the floor to help Mycroft sit but his hands were waved away. 'I'm fine, John.'

'He can't stand help, John. It dents his pride.'

'I have to say, I am quite embarrassed.' Mycroft admitted, struggling with a tight outward breath into an upright position. 'That hasn't happened to be in quite some time-Thank you.' He accepted the glass of water being held out to him. John also handed him two pink tablets which the politician was quick to swallow. 'Yeah, what exactly did happen?' John said, packing up his equipment back into his bag.

'My brother is very susceptible to both the extravagant heat and the perishing cold and has been known, on occasion, to faint.'

Mycroft eyed his brother carefully. 'Yes. It's…most inconvenient.'

'You took quite a knock to the head, though.' John protected. 'I've patched you up but I would still recommend going to the hospital, just to ensure there is no bleeding in the brain.'

'I normally feel it coming on but it came over me quite suddenly. I didn't have time to find a seat.'

Sherlock hummed sceptically from the corner of the room. 'It is quite cold outside, today.'

Mycroft tried to conceal the deathly stare he shot his brother from the doctor but it didn't go unnoticed. He coughed awkwardly to break the silence. 'Well, plenty of water, as always. Those tablets have an anti-sickness compound in them but they will also make you drowsy so don't drive.- You're not in pain anywhere else other than your head are you?'

'No, no, I'm quite fine, Doctor Watson, thank you.'

'Quite.' Sherlock mirrored. His pale blue eyes moved from Mycroft to John to Mycroft again. He drew a sharp breath. 'John, could you give me and my brother a moment, please?' John looked awkwardly between the pair. 'Sure. I-uh-needed to take this bag back upstairs anyway he said, referencing to his paramedics pack dangling from his fingertips. He coughed nervously again and began walking towards the hallway. Sherlock watched him go, waiting for him to get a safe distance up the creaky staircase before-

'-It was him.'

Mycroft looked up. 'No, it wasn't.'

Sherlock moved off of the wall and paced towards his brother. 'It was because you immediately knew who I was talking about.'

'No,' Mycroft drooled sarcastically. 'I just know who 'him', according to you, is.'

Sherlock knelt down in front of his brother, hands clasped together. 'Why are you lying to me…?' He breathed deeply.

'I'm not. You said yourself; I'm susceptible to the weather.'

'Where's your team?'

'I went out without them.'

'Why?'

'I fancied a walk. I thought I'd pop in and see my ungrateful little brother.'

Sherlock stood up abruptly feeling the anger already beginning to bubble in his chest. 'It's two point four eight miles from your office. You didn't walk all that way; you're drove and parked your unmarked car two streets away.'

'You couldn't have worked that out.' The politician jibed.

'I could.' Sherlock replied matter of factly. 'But you're not the only one with a little surveillance team.'

'Is it an issue I wanted to walk?'

'Yes, because you're hardly going to succumb to the cold in the three and a half minutes it takes to walk from where you parked and you'd have to come into contact with "people". You never drive yourself and you don't walk!' The detective spat the last two words out, markedly furious.

'Sherlock, what happened before John returned home?

Sherlock suddenly frowned, eyebrows coming together. 'I…I don't-'

'You've been experiencing some confusion, haven't you? Still are. I could see it in your face the minute I woke up.'

Sherlock shook his head slowly. 'I don't-'

'Sherlock…?' 'John was now lingering in the door way. 'Is everything okay?'

The anxiousness represented in the detective's physicality melted away, replaced with his typical upright tension. 'Everything's fine.' He said coldly, still eyeing his brother. He turned to face the doctor. 'I'm going to get his car and I'm taking him home.'

Mycroft sighed with a roll of his eyes. John shuffled the living room. 'Sherlock, just come here for a second. You're looking a bit white.'

Sherlock stepped away from the doctor's beckoning hand. 'No. You need to stop being so paranoid and he need to go home.'

Mycroft opened his mouth to object but Sherlock was quick to snap at him.

'Home!' Sherlock snatched the set of keys from Mycroft's jacket pocket and threw the coat on back of the Doctor's armchair. 'John, I want you to check my brother for bruising anywhere else. If you find anything, text me exactly what and where. Don't let him leave.' With that, Sherlock picked up his coat and shoes and stormed down the steps to the flat below, slamming the front door behind him. John turned slowly to look at Mycroft who now had his eyes closed, the long fingers of his right hand nestled in his auburn hair.

'And I thought having a sister was bad.' He said quietly.

…

The pair drove in silence down the crowded, dreary streets of London. It was now late afternoon and every tourist, employee, college and university student now filled the pavements trying to make the most of what little free time they had. They all bore the faces of misery. It was long past the beautiful section of autumn, with coloured leaves and jumpers and fireworks and still a few days yet until it was socially acceptable to get Christmas Decorations out. Everyone therefore existed in the bleak, damp and cold.

Mycroft sat in the passenger seat, shirt sleeves still rolled up to his elbows. His head rested against the cool glass window to his left. His eyes drifted from person to person with little care although Sherlock was sure the politician was making his own little deductions. The detective was trying to keep his eyes on the road but he couldn't stop himself from glancing at his brother from the corner of his eye. 'Why do you never tell me the truth?' he muttered.

Mycroft tilted his head to look at his younger sibling. 'I do tell you the truth.' He said flatly.

Sherlock sighed. 'Look, Mycroft, you may be the smart one but I am most definitely not stupid.'

Mycroft smirked sarcastically. 'Gosh, that was almost modest of you. Almost…'

'Oh, I don't know why I bother talking to you!' Sherlock said throwing his head to the window beside him. 'You-you spend so much time butting in on my life and you-you never let me in yours.'

'I'm caring for you when I do.'

'That's what I'm doing!' Sherlock's voice was raised but was quick to lose all intensity. 'That's what I'm trying to do…'

Mycroft stared at his brother wordlessly, mouth slightly agape. 'Sherlock, I-'

'Just leave it.'

'Sherlock-'

'I said leave it!'

The pair continued the rest of the journey silently. When they finally arrived outside the politician's House in Smith Square, Mycroft got out of the car, blazer draped over his arm with a small mutter of thanks. As he slammed the car door shut, Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket and began to type. Mycroft drew to a halt before his front door and reached into his pocket. He fished his mobile out, eyes flittering over the screen.

You lied to me, My… Why didn't you tell me about your rib?

Mycroft turned wide-eyed in horror. Sherlock was now standing before him. 'How-How did you-'

'Know? How could I not? It's the same as me. Same as he always does.'

Mycroft went to protest but Sherlock stopped him. 'You may be able to fool John but you'll never fool me. When you woke up your hand immediately went to your side, not your head… Why didn't you tell him? He could have helped.'

'Because I didn't want you to know.'

'Know it was father.'

Mycroft looked shamefully at his feet. 'Sherlock, when I woke up and saw how distressed you were- I didn't want you to know it was father who hurt me because then you'd think-

'Father was in the house with me.'

Mycroft looked forlornly at his little brother. 'He stole my key… I'm sorry. I tried to...'

'I know.' Sherlock said quietly.

Mycroft anxiously clenched and unclenched his fingers. 'Do you remember what happened?'

Sherlock looked dejectedly down at the pavement not wanting to make eye contact with his brother. 'No… I-I don't think.' The detective was evidently struggling to grapple with his thoughts. '…His cologne…it's-it's on my skin.'

Mycroft grimaced. 'Did he…?'

Sherlock's chin was now at his chest. He shook his head disconsolately, trying to force back a sea of overwhelming emotions again. 'I –I don't-'

'That's okay.' Mycroft reassured softly. 'Our minds will do what is necessary to preserve us.'

The politician held out a hand. Sherlock unwillingly handed him his left arm with a grimace. Mycroft pulled up his brother's sleeve, exposing his pale flesh to the biting air. He turned it over in his palm gently, trying to ignore the healing cut on his brother's wrist. His fingertips slowly began to draw up his brother's arm. Sherlock drew a sharp breath, quickly shutting his eyes. 'My…'

'I know, Sherly.' Mycroft's finger's drifted further up his brother's forearm, dancing across his tendons. Sherlock's face twisted, as he began tracing a line up to the crook of his elbow. 'My, it's horrid, stop.'

Mycroft ignored his brother's plea, holding his wrist tightly as he tried to recoil. 'Just a couple more second's Sherly.' He began lightly drawing his nails down the side of the detective's inner arm, watching how all his hairs suddenly stood on end. Sherlock squirmed, a whimper escaping his lips. 'My-!'

Mycroft stopped, closing Sherlock's hand, bringing it to rest against his lips. He rubbed soothing circles across his brother's knuckles. 'Judging by your reflexes, I'd say he's touched you, but he didn't...'

Sherlock's head sunk into his brother's shoulder. Mycroft suddenly felt as if he was twenty three again, holding his exhausted younger after a long and ugly night. His arm rose to envelop his sibling but the politician stopped himself…Sentimentality never helped anyone. 'Is any of it coming back to you?' he said softly.

'Sides…' Sherlock mumbled into his coat. 'Stomach, shoulders, neck, back, calves, popliteus… But it's foggy.'

'That's okay.' Mycroft replied quietly. 'It's for the best.'

…

The drive to Mycroft's office, though short, seemed drawn out. The shifting of the cars, taxis' and buses blurred into one movement. All the buzzing, blurting noises of life blended into one low moaning hum. Sherlock lost all focus as he drove, nearly careering through a set of red traffic lights and drifting into the lane next to him. He couldn't tell you what the people walking along the quickly darkening bank were wearing. Or what hour the clock of Westminster had chimed. His only focus was on his thoughts. He couldn't mute them. They plagued him like a burning fever. "Fever of the brain" that's what they called madness back in the olden days, wasn't it?

He nearly missed the office and had to slam on his brakes causing the person in the car behind to swerve and shout angrily at him. Sherlock threw his arms over his head, heart leaping out of his chest. 'Christ…' He hissed. He pulled his hands down across his face.

He needs to relax. Just to sleep. A sleep without being tormented by voices in his head or memories before his eyes. He just needed to turn off. To stop. He just need to-

There was a knock at the window at his side. He pulled the hand's from his face, turning. It was "Anthea".

'Hello.' She said with a small wave.

'Sorry.' Sherlock said getting awkwardly out of the car. 'I, um… here you go. I suppose he told you what happened.'

'Yes. Fainted. That's unfortunate.'

'Unfortunate.' Sherlock mirrored absentmindedly.

'He likes Wednesday.' She smiled.

Sherlock gave a sideways smile back but his eyes did not match his lips. He turned to walk back to the main road but found himself stopping to look at the PA again. 'Listen. Can…Can you make sure he goes to a hospital. Tomorrow or, Friday-Just…. Doctor Watson-'

'Recommended a CT scan, yes.'

Sherlock nodded. Of course he did. 'Make sure he hasn't got any bad breaks or fractures either.' The detective continued in an unusually timid fashion. 'He, um… Hit the ground quite hard I think.'

'No problem.' The assistant said brightly, tapping away at her phone. Sherlock observed her for a moment. He turned to leave again but was stopped by Anthea's voice. 'And are you okay?' Sherlock turned to see the women still looking intently at her smart phone. 'Sorry?' 'You heard.'

'I-' Sherlock was taken aback. 'I'm fine.'

'You we're sitting in the car with your hands over your face for ten minutes.' The detective was surprised to hear the PA say this. He was sure it had only been a few seconds. 'I was just…thinking.'

'You Holmes men do that a lot.'

Sherlock nodded subconsciously chewing his bottom lip. 'Well, um, afternoon.'

'Good evening, Sherlock.' Anthea watched the slender detective stride away, back towards the main road with an amused, sleight of hand smile.

Once he had disappeared around the corner, the assistant put the phone to her ear, tapping her finely manicured finger against the case as she waited for the receiver to pick up. 'Mr Holmes? You're right. He's not okay.'

Aww, my poor little Sherlock. :( What did you think about Mycroft just suddenly rocking up after leaving Sherlock to fend for himself for so long? I think it's possibly suspicious. I don't know how or why yet but... hahaha What did you think? PM me or drop me a review. I'd be interested to hear any conspiracy theories you guys have going.

Have a good bonfire night! Check your bonfire's for Johns! Aha ;)