Mycroft approached the light, drawn to its pulsing brilliance like a satellite caught in a gravity beam. When the effulgence surrounded him he waited, wondering what came next. Would his parents materialize to offer guidance? Would Sherlock?
He wasn't expecting what actually did happen- a sudden and violent sinking sensation, like he was in an elevator whose cable had suddenly snapped. The velocity was dizzying, and the further he dropped the more he hurt, until he was ready to beg for mercy from anyone capable of granting it.
He jerked awake, and discovered that he was lying in the bed where he was supposed to have breathed his last.
An electric blanket covered him, its muted warmth combating the chill in his limbs. As more physical sensations started filtering through his fogged brain, he detected oxygen cannulae in his nostrils and an IV drip secured to his hand. Someone or something was in the bed with him; he could feel a warm mass against his right side and a slight dip in the mattress from the extra weight. Turning his head on the pillow, Mycroft saw Gregory Lestrade sleeping beside him, one hand clasping his.
He was alive! But how?
Confusion unhinged him, despite the heavy chemical cocktail coursing through his system. A distressed sob broke through his dry lips, waking Lestrade immediately.
"Myc!" he exclaimed. Seeing the semi-hysterical expression on Mycroft's face, he carefully embraced him and drew him close. "It's okay, love. You're okay."
Mycroft tried to touch him, tried to speak, but his mouth and limbs refused to obey him. Gregory stroked his cheek.
"Don't exert yourself- you're still weak. You probably shouldn't even be awake yet. John and your office's doctors have spent the last three days getting that poison out of your system."
Mycroft's lips formed the question although no sound issued. Poison?
"Well, not literal poison, although it was just as damaging. Damn that selfish bastard." Lestrade's mouth briefly turned into a grim line. Mycroft wanted to ask what he was talking about, but weariness washed over him. When his lids began flickering, Gregory kissed his forehead. "Go back to sleep, Myc. You're going to be all right, and when you wake up, I'll still be here, and with some unbelievable news for you."
Mycroft didn't want to go under again, worried that these moments with Gregory were a dying hallucination that would end when he yielded. But he was powerless to resist. Just before he faded away, he heard Gregory snarl at someone, "He's going back to sleep. Now get away before I break your neck."
Mycroft's life during the next few days was a series of one-shots.
Hands shifting him in bed.
"… temperature almost normal…."
John and others checking the tubes running into his body.
"… regained consciousness again?"
"Not entirely."
Once he heard Gregory snap, "Don't touch him- you've done enough!"
Lestrade was clearly furious at someone. But who? And why? Mycroft's mind, beginning to rebel against the cottony numbness, tackled the puzzle during his lucid moments. He could only concentrate for seconds at a time, but gradually deduced that the person, who never spoke in his presence, smelled of chemicals and tea and thrummed with nervous energy that he could feel through the drugs and blankets. It was hauntingly familiar somehow...
He finally understood on that sunny afternoon when he woke up and, once again, detected another person lying beside him on the bed. Lighter than Gregory, judging from the minimal dip in the mattress, but taller than John or Parker: their entire length mirrored his own.
Mycroft looked over.
Sherlock stared back.