Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.
WARNING: SADNESS! Tears, aches, and feels. And some happy moments too.
Next chapter drops on Wedns./Thursday.
Read, enjoy, review!
Chapter Thirty Four
"From Ashes"
John sheltered Sherlock as the world was destroyed around them. He covered his lover as Blackwood Manor fell from the sky, in pieces clothed by white fire. John stubbornly refused to let Sherlock up, and he knew his detective was pissed, as the curses had flown once John stopped kissing him. It wasn't until the earth stilled, and the air went quiet, that John raised his head, and looked around. Mycroft was several feet away, huddled between some large rocks on the shoreline, surrounded by small fires. John and Sherlock were in the surf, their legs soaking wet. Smoke was caught up in the wind from the river, thankfully blowing away from them.
The boathouse was relatively intact, if you looked past the fact that the front of it was caved in, and burning merrily in the night. John was convinced the girls were still in there until Sherlock had forcibly taken him by his shoulders and pointed him out to the river. He saw a boat, and it was coming closer to land. He saw the girls on the boat, waving to them where they stood on the shore.
John waved back in relief, and helped Sherlock find a dry place to sit. John pulled his broken and weak detective to his chest, both of them huddling under Sherlock's coat. They hadn't spoken, just pressed their faces together, drawing strength and reassurance from the other's presence. John would randomly kiss Sherlock's face, and Sherlock bore up under the affection well, not at all perturbed by his big brother looking at them in askance.
John let Sherlock rest on his chest, his arms, supporting his detective as he fought to breathe normally. John put a gentle hand to his ribs, and felt the breaks. John adjusted his hold on Sherlock, and helped take the pressure off his chest. Sherlock had rested easier, letting John take care of him while they waited for the fires to subside. Burning debris surrounded them, making it hazardous to leave the rocky shoreline.
Mycroft ignored them, muttering something about 'lovebirds' and 'involved' under his breath. John ignored the MI6 man right back, only listening whenever Mycroft got updates from his people over the radio as they cleared the area. His men had made it out of the house in time. There was no sign of anyone else having survived the blast.
Jaime Moriarty was dead. There was no way she could have escaped the cell, and made it out of the manor. She was dead, and she had nearly taken them all with her.
The helicopter had taken off when Mycroft had alerted his people to the imminent explosion, and was circling overhead. Mycroft had picked himself up off the beach, dialed a number on his mobile, and within minutes, the entire nation descended on the burning hill.
The fire was a scene of chaos. Emergency personnel, law enforcement officers, and assorted dozens of other agencies cluttered the hillside. The river was swarming with boats, lights illuminating the hill, and the burning carcass of Blackwood Manor. It was a house that had held evil, and now the fires consumed it utterly, destroying the legacy of Blackwood and the children he tormented. Even the stone walls were burning. John could see the flames from where he was sitting, through the trees of the manor's park.
The fire was so intense that the crews couldn't get near enough to douse the flames. Whatever Moriarty had kept in the manor was refusing to go out. It was likely the remaining incendiaries were at fault for the stubbornness of the burn. Reports of people being able to see the fire as far away as London were flooding local police dispatches. Mycroft had ordered the crews back, declaring it unsafe to approach, and that containment be the priority. It was helpful that the cold autumn night was damp, and small storm system was predicted to hit within the next hour.
Mycroft had told him that the bombs in the city had stopped going off, and his people were finding them all over. The men who had been guarding them were gone, faded away in the shadows. Half of the bombs hadn't detonated, and each one had three to four guards with them. That meant a good number of Moriarty's guard was still out there. The third bomb hadn't detonated. Mycroft told him that Scotland Yard reported that DI Lestrade had stopped that one from going off. It had been on the roof of St Bart's. John had been proud to hear it, and he wondered where Greg was now. Hopefully someone had told him Donovan was alive. With any luck, he would still be at Bart's. The bomb had been cleared, and the hospital was busy accepting patients from all over the city.
John sat beside Sherlock in an ambulance, as his very hurt and cranky detective argued with the medic. The paramedic was demanding to know what drugs Sherlock had taken on his very risky rescue, and Sherlock's answer of 'I don't know' and 'It worked, does it matter?' just made the poor man even more flustered. John had no trouble seeing Sherlock take a drug he had no clue about. John sighed, and leaned back. This was going to be a great evening. The ambulance was one of many parked along the manor's long drive, and John was impatient for them to be getting to the hospital.
"Stop pestering me, man! Good God, I'm fine! And never mind the blood I keep coughing up, it's my blood, I'll cough it up if I choose!" Sherlock growled, and John finally had enough.
"Sherlock." John said to his detective. Sherlock looked at him, and John stared him down. Sherlock opened his mouth, but the expression on John's face made him snap it shut. He flopped back down on the stretcher, and took the oxygen mask from the paramedic without complaint. His eyes told another story. John smiled at his detective, knowing he'd get an earful from him at the first chance he got.
Sherlock was beyond stubborn. He had recovered some of his strength once he got carried to the ambulance, and John had no doubt that the quietly sweet and cooperative Sherlock from the riverside was a rarity. His grumpy detective would be fine, but his attitude most likely wouldn't improve until he was weeks into recovery.
"I'm going to go check on the others, stay here. I'll be riding with you to the hospital." John got a nod of confirmation from the medic. John had informed him that he was Sherlock's physician, as boyfriend status didn't mean much when it came to patient care. "I'll be right back. Behave."
Sherlock didn't answer, just crossed his arms carefully over his chest and slumped on the stretcher. John smiled, and hopped down from the back of the ambulance. He looked back a few times, just to make sure Sherlock wasn't following.
John had a bandage on his forehead, but the gash wasn't bleeding much anymore. He would see about stitches after the more grievously injured people were taken care of. He'd most likely stitch it himself. He had repaired the state of his clothing, and his shirt collar was high enough to hide the bite marks on his neck. John sucked in a deep, cleansing breath, and dispelled as best he could the sick feeling in his gut. He had stopped them. He was fine. He would be fine.
John walked to the next ambulance, and peeked around the corner of the open doors. Anthea was sitting on a stretcher, and John bit back a smile at seeing Mycroft sitting next to her. She was staring in her boss's face like he was the one who had come back from the dead, and not her. John heard her call Mycroft 'sir', and the look that came into his eyes as she did made John shift on his feet.
Oh wow. Don't know how that's going to play out. He loves her, but I know he cares about Greg too. Oh man, that's gonna be messy.
John backed away, leaving them alone. He went down to the next ambulance, and looked in. Donovan and Molly sat inside, and Molly gasped as she saw him. He jumped up inside, and sat next to her on the bench seat. Donovan was on the stretcher, holding a soft towel and an icepack to the back of her head.
"Helps with the pain." Donovan grumbled, and she tried smiling at him, but she just dropped her eyes and looked miserable. The stress of the last few days was over, and she didn't know how to act around him. John looked at her, and knew it was as good a time as any.
"Sally." She looked up at him, and he caught her gaze. "It's all okay now. All of it."
She held her breath, and didn't say anything. She nodded once. It looked like she might start crying, which he wouldn't blame her for one bit.
"Have you gotten hold of Greg yet?" John asked her.
"I used Violet's phone, but it went straight to voicemail. I guess he's too busy in the city, what with the bombs and all." Sally sniffled, and wiped at her eyes.
"Hey now, no tears. Mycroft can find him, and have him meet you at the hospital. We're all going to the same place, he'll meet us there. Don't worry, he'll be beyond happy to see you." John told her, and he reached out, and squeezed her hand reassuringly.
"How's Sherlock?" Molly asked him, her eyes showing her worry.
"His lung and ribs are a mess, but he'll be okay now. I'm dragging him back to the hospital. We'll see you both there. I should go before he drives his medic insane." John hugged Molly, and waved to Sally as he hopped down. John walked out on the drive farther, peering around Anthea's ambulance to Sherlock's. His detective was still in there, and John stifled a laugh as the poor medic took more verbal abuse from the injured man. He walked down the drive, stopping briefly at the next ambulance.
Mycroft saw him this time, and John nodded to him. Mycroft looked remarkably spiffy for a man would had just run from a house as it exploded behind them. Only Mycroft.
"Has anyone told Lestrade that Donovan is alive?" John asked Mycroft. The MI6 man's brows rose, and John took that as a no. "Someone might want to warn him, so that seeing Sally doesn't give him a heart attack."
Mycroft grimaced, and pulled out his mobile.
"I'll see you at the hospital. I have to go save Sherlock's medic." John smiled at Anthea, ignoring the look on her face as she stared at Mycroft.
"John Watson is my doctor, no one else. Leave me be." Sherlock was trying to shout, but he couldn't suck in enough air to manage the volume he normally commanded.
John walked up to the ambulance that held the love of his life, and climbed back in. Sherlock promptly shut up, and went back to glaring at the medic.
"It's alright, I've got him. We need to be going soon, please." John told the medic, who didn't bother to hide his relief.
"The roads are clearing out now, we should be out of here in a few minutes." The medic went to the front of the ambulance, leaving John alone with Sherlock.
John quickly leaned over, pulled down the oxygen mask, and planted a soft kiss on his detective's lips before sitting back down. Sherlock blinked at him, and John smirked as he readjusted the mask on his face.
"You better not be leaving without me! That'd be some kinda gratitude!" A woman called from the shadows next to the ambulance. John sat up, as he recognized the voice. It was the American woman, and she sounded in person exactly as she did on the phone. John hadn't met her yet, as she had disappeared in the shadows after bringing the boat with the girls back to shore.
A tall, slender, and very fit raven-haired woman came up to the back door of the ambulance. John found himself staring at the most beautiful eyes he'd ever seen. Aside from Sherlock's, of course. Her eyes were an unbelievable shade of purple, and from this angle, he knew it wasn't from contacts. She was young, a few years younger than Sherlock, most likely mid to late twenties. She grinned at him, and tossed a small bag up on the bench seat next to him. She leaped in after it, and sat where the medic had been.
"Hey Sexy." Violet Hunter grinned at him, and John struggled to find his tongue. It was like he was looking at a female version of Sherlock. Her skin was tanned, and her eyes were a different shade. But the similarities were there. The resemblance was in the way she moved, and her dark hair. It was in the way she held herself, and how her eyes scanned him from head to toe, missing nothing.
"Oh, Sherlock, he's cute. Too bad I'm gay. And too bad you don't share. Now that Anthea chick? Wow. Totally my type. Is she dating Mycroft too? Cuz that'll be weird with him dating Lestrade. So when are we leaving? Aren't you still injured?" Violet kept talking, randomly addressing Sherlock while looking John up and down. She kindly ignored the marks on his neck, even though she saw them. Sherlock said nothing, just watched with a smirk as John tried to adjust to her presence.
"Um, hi." It was all John could say to her. Mycroft was dating Lestrade? How long was I missing?
"Don't mind me, Sexy. I'm just gonna nap while we drive to the hospital. I'm not missing the rest of this night for anything." She promptly propped her feet up next to Sherlock's hip on the stretcher, crossed her arms over her chest, and let her head fall back. She was gently snoring almost immediately.
John looked at Sherlock, and his jaw almost hit the floor when he saw Sherlock reach out, and rub a hand on the foot nearest to him. It looked like she might've grinned, but the tiny snores continued. Sherlock pulled his hand away, and snapped John out of his surprise by reaching for his doctor. John clasped his hand tightly. The doors shut, and John heard the vehicles up and down the drive start pulling out. Hopefully the trip back to the hospital wouldn't take too long.
Detective Inspector Lestrade was dying. The bomb guard's bullet had torn through his side, just above his kidney, and out his back. He was bleeding out from massive internal injuries. It hadn't helped him that he was on the roof of a hospital when he got shot. The staff had been in the middle of evacuating, and by the time the process was called off, and appropriate staff cornered, he was almost past the point of saving. He had been in surgery now for nearly four hours, and the staff was warning that it could be hours left before he was done. If he made it that long.
Mycroft Holmes stood outside the surgery doors, as close as he could get without actually being in the room as the surgeons operated on the DI. After John had asked him to notify Lestrade about Donovan being alive, he had tried several times to call him. He had started to grow concerned after the second call went unanswered. Lestrade always answered when he called. Always.
It wasn't until they got to the hospital, and Anthea was taken into surgery herself to repair her hand, that Mycroft had learned where Lestrade was. He had been standing in the doorway of his little brother's private suite, listening to John Watson override Sherlock's complaints, and make him submit to being examined. Mycroft had been impressed, as Sherlock had pouted, but allowed the doctors to look him over. Mycroft had been about to call Lestrade again, when he heard two police officers walking by, talking about how the bomb on the roof had been disarmed. They had said it was DI Lestrade, which Mycroft knew already, who had disarmed it. It was the next part of the conversation he heard that made his heart stop. Lestrade had been shot by one of the suspects.
He didn't even remember running for the nearest nurse, demanding to know where DI Lestrade was. He didn't remember running through the hospital, to the surgery suites. He didn't remember the security guards attempting to stop him. Mycroft's people had seen him running, and followed behind him as he searched for his own detective. The operatives had cleared the way for him, and Mycroft hadn't stopped until he was right outside the doors where Greg was. He could see the surgeons working over him through the glass panes on the doors.
Mycroft couldn't handle what he was feeling. He didn't know what he was feeling. His chest felt hollow. As if his heart wasn't inside him anymore. It was in that room. His hands were cold, and he couldn't swallow without feeling the urge to be sick. He didn't feel strong enough to stand, yet he couldn't make his feet move. He didn't remember how to sit down, even if he could force himself away from that door.
Mycroft had no notion of how long he might've been standing there, watching as strangers worked to save the life of Gregory Lestrade.
"Mycroft." He twitched at the familiar voice. Of course he wouldn't stay in his room. He never did as he was told.
Mycroft voiced no objection as his little brother came up next to him. Sherlock stood so close their shoulders touched. The pressure was warm, and steady. Mycroft closed his eyes, and dropped his head. He concentrated on breathing, on the cold hospital air moving through him, in and out. It took all he had not to start crying. He would not cry. Once he started, he wouldn't stop.
Mycroft didn't object when he felt Sherlock lift an arm, and placed a hand on his shoulder. The two brothers waited together, saying nothing.
Violet Hunter snuck into Sherlock's hospital room, for the second time in forty-eight hours. This time Sherlock had a private suite, with a couch/bed thing that reminded her of a futon under the window, and actual real chairs next to the bed. And the bed was bigger too. She stopped next to the slumbering Doctor Watson, and propped her hands on her hips at the sight of the empty bed. It was well past dawn, and John was fast asleep in one of the chairs beside the bed. Sherlock was obviously not.
"John." She said, not bothering to be quiet. No response. "Sherlock's gone, John."
That got a reaction, and a fast one. John jumped up, rubbing his face. He swore at the sight of the empty bed, and glared at her.
"Whoa, Sexy. I didn't do it this time." She pulled out her mobile, and hacked the hospital security feeds. "I was at what's left of Baker Street getting you guys some clothing."
She found Sherlock in less time it took for John to look in the suite's bathroom.
"Found him, he's with Mycroft outside one of the surgeries."
"What? Who's in surgery? Anthea?" John asked, and she tossed him a bag full of slightly smoky clothing, and toiletries she'd swiped from the flat's bathroom. "And what do you mean, what's left of Baker Street?"
"Pick a question, and change while you ask." She didn't give him time to blink, just sat on Sherlock's bed, kicked off her boots, and watched the mad detective and his big brother on her mobile.
"Baker Street." John asked and she grinned as John looked at her, then at his clothes. He squinted at her, and she didn't bother hiding her mirth at his discomfort. She pointed at the bathroom, and he went to it with a slightly sheepish look on his face. He left the door slightly open as he changed. She only peeked a few times. He blushed every time he caught her, which only made her do it some more. She smirked to herself that he let her look, as he didn't close the door.
"The first bomb to explode last night was at Baker Street, the flats across from your place. Due to Mycroft's surveillance teams posted at your place, keeping it secure, the guards couldn't get close enough to it to actually blow up your flat. So they snuck as close as they could. The building across from your flat is just a pile of rubble."
"Oh dear God, Mrs. Hudson?" John poked his head out around the door, and she snickered at the sight of his bare chest. Oh Sherlock, if I went for men, I'd be all over your doctor. Sexy indeed.
"We were able to warn everyone when Death activated the bombs, and since Mycroft's team was already there, they got her out, and evacuated the buildings. If they hadn't been there, everyone there would be dead." Violet went back to cyber stalking the Holmes brothers. Neither had moved. "Mycroft's people escorted her out of town to her sister's place."
"Oh, and you'll have to replace all the windows." She heard him sigh from the bathroom.
"You know, that's the second time a Moriarty has blown up our flat." John said. He came out looking better, having washed up while he was in there. The gash at his hairline had a neat row of stitches in it, and she guessed he had done it himself while she was gone. She looked him over with approval, and caught a glimpse of the marks on his neck. She didn't pretend not to see them, and didn't do him the false courtesy of offering up some cheesy platitude about how it'll get better with time. It never got better, it just stopped sucking as often.
"Hey, let's hope there isn't a third one." She smiled at him, and patted the bed next to her. She waved the mobile at him, and she was pleased when he came over. He hesitated for only a moment, before jumping up next to her. She gave him her mobile, and his reaction at seeing the camera feed of the Holmes brothers tickled her ego.
"You really are good, aren't you?" John murmured. "Is Sherlock holding Mycroft?"
"Yup, which is why we aren't going to interrupt them. I've been waiting to see that for over ten years." Violet sighed. "Took them long enough."
"Who's in surgery?" John asked, and she tossed him a look.
"Promise you won't go tearing down there. You can walk, slowly, and with patience. If not, stay here."
"What? Oh fine. I promise." John had a suspicious look on his face. She took her mobile back, and met his eyes.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade." Violet told him. Not sparing him, just stated it plainly. "He was shot disarming the bomb on top of this hospital." She was expecting him to leap off the bed, which is why she hold a hold of his hand before he even finished processing her words. She pulled him back to the bed, and wrapped an arm over his shoulders.
"Don't, John. You running down there won't help your friend. Let Sherlock and Mycroft muddle through right now. We'll know immediately if Sherlock needs you. We can watch them both from here, and keep vigil for Lestrade too. Just let them be. Mycroft doesn't look like he can handle more people right now."
John was glaring at her, but that didn't bother her one bit. She could handle Sherlock Holmes; John Watson was easy. John tried to make her cave, he really did, but to no avail.
"You are exactly like him." John huffed out, and fell back on the bed. She sat next to him, cross legged on the very comfy bed.
"That's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me, Sexy." Violet gave him back the mobile, and she kept him company as they both watched over the Holmes brothers.
John lay on Sherlock's bed, watching the Holmes brothers on Violet's mobile. She had leaned over the side of the bed, and pulled out a small duffel bag from underneath it. She must have stashed it there sometime in the night without him noticing. She had an attitude of casual indifference to what was considered polite, and people's personal space. He peeked at her several times, and she noticed him doing it, but she didn't say anything. She just pulled out her laptop, and started tapping away at it.
John realized she was behaving like a more socialized version of Sherlock. She was younger, and he wondered if that played a part in her personality. He also had a sneaking suspicion she was a sociopath. Just like Sherlock.
"Yes, I'm nuts." She said out of the blue. Add mind reader to the list. Sherlock could do the same thing, know what you were thinking before you said it.
John jumped, and realized guiltily that he had been staring at her. She looked at him over the screen, and she grinned at his embarrassed expression.
"Sorry." John told the hacker, and he wondered if he should ask. "Are you two related? Cousins, or something?"
"Dunno. Never asked. I'm sure Sherlock did a DNA test at some point, but it never mattered all that much. Never thought it was important. It would explain why Mycroft tolerated me hanging out with Sherlock, though that could be my mad skills." She kept tapping at the keyboard, and John was fascinated. "People used to ask that all the time when I went to school here."
"Oh, did you to go to the same school? He's got a few years on you, how did you meet? But you're American, I mean that's kind of odd. Did your parents live here?"
"We went to the same university. I started during Sherlock's last year." Violet said, and she leaned back on the pillows behind her. She then picked up her feet, and John exhaled as she dropped her lower legs over his stomach. She really had no personal space issues. John just moved his arms, too distracted by this tiny piece of his detective's past to mind the girl as she used him like a body pillow. "I was fifteen, he was a year from graduating."
"Fifteen? At university already? Oh, wow. Good for you." John resisted the urge to interrogate her over Sherlock. His detective as a very young man was something John couldn't fathom. Was he worse, or better? What had he done to keep his talents under control? And just how close were Violet and his detective?
"Meh, no big deal. Hacked my way in, stuck around for the interesting stuff, and the company." She didn't see his shocked expression. "Didn't have any family, been on my own for two years by that point. I had already seen the entirety of the States, so I looked further. My mother was British, so I was curious. Picked a school here that sounded like fun, and got myself enrolled."
"What?" John was totally absorbed in what he was hearing. "Really?"
"Yup. Met Sherlock after I snuck into one of the older student's classes, just to see what it was like. He'd seen me, and then followed me back to my dorm room. I was about to beat him up for being creepy when he spouted out my entire life story in less than two minutes. I was tickled pink, after I figured out he wasn't going to turn me in to the authorities."
"He never does what you'd expect, does he?" John said, and he cast a glance at the mobile. Sherlock and Mycroft hadn't moved. John figured he give it another thirty minutes before he dragged Sherlock back to bed. John wondered if he would be able to kick Violet out of Sherlock's bed for the detective to get some rest. He wouldn't be any use to Mycroft if he made himself worse. John felt a stab of worry in his heart. Lestrade had been in surgery for a long time. Soon it would be clear they wouldn't be able to save him if it went any longer.
"Nope. And maybe if we can keep Sherlock from taking any more swan dives off of hospitals, or confronting crazy arch nemeses, we'll all have a lifetime of having him surprise us."
Sherlock was exhausted. He had been awake now for over forty eight hours. Whatever rest he had gotten while in the hospital the first time had done little to help recharge his stores of energy.
He was tired, but he would rather pass out here in the hall than leave his brother. For the last few hours Sherlock had stood here with Mycroft, neither of them speaking. Just waiting, and watching a man fight for his life. Sherlock couldn't tell how he was feeling. He was a strange mix of despair, joy, fear, anger, and frustration. Happiness, too. He was happy because of John, and Molly. He was angry because Moriarty had blown herself up, almost killing them along with her. Sherlock knew the only reason he and Mycroft were both alive was because John had gotten them out in time. He was feeling what he thought might be joy, because his brother was letting him be there for him. Sherlock hadn't attempted it since they were very young. Since the last time Mycroft shot down his attempt at brotherly love, and shut him out.
And he felt despair, because for all his vaulted abilities, his talents, skill, boundless knowledge, he was useless right now. There was nothing he could do to save the life bleeding away in that room. The only thing Sherlock could do was try and remember what brothers were supposed to do for one another. It was all guesswork. He didn't know if he was helping Mycroft, or making it worse. His brother hadn't shrugged him off, so he felt it must be okay to touch him.
Sherlock didn't know if he was supposed to be able to feel all of that at once. If normal people did. He had never thought about it before, and he struggled not to let his mind get too absorbed in himself. Even he had a feeling that analyzing his emotional response to his brother's emotional response to him might not be appropriate right now.
Sherlock was seeing a part of his brother he hadn't seen in decades. Mycroft had a heart under all of that ice, he truly did. He just never let anyone close enough to see it. He froze out the world. Mostly because to him, everyone else was a goldfish. Too stupid to interact with. Not worth the bother. But there was something about Greg Lestrade that thawed Mycroft Holmes. Thawed him enough that the prospect of Lestrade dying shattered the ice. And left a man.
"Violet, I think they're done in there." John sat up, almost spilling the hacker on the floor. "Sorry. Got to go."
"Leave my cell! And I'll stay here." Violet caught her mobile as he tossed it from the door. "Keep Sherlock's bed warm."
John was past hearing her as he ran down the hall. The elevator showed up just as he was deciding to take the stairs. He was thankful it was empty, as he didn't think anyone would understand him punching the buttons for the surgery floor. Over and over.
John shot out in to the hall, and ran towards the doors to the inner sections of the surgery suites. Mycroft's people were stationed outside, and they saw him coming, opening a door for him. He burst through, and he had to lean back on his heels to keep from running into the brothers.
Sherlock was holding Mycroft's shoulder, and John came up to his detective and his brother just as a surgeon left the room where they had been operating on Lestrade.
"Tell me." Mycroft ordered, not giving the surgeon time to even comprehend why they were in this particular hallway.
"Excuse me, who are you? Are you family? We can't have you back here, this is a restricted area." The surgeon made to walk past, and John had to grab Sherlock as Mycroft pulled away from his brother, and got in the surgeon's way.
"You will tell me what his prognosis is, or I will have you grabbed from your bed in the middle of the night, beaten bloody, and left naked in a cold dark room for the rest of your life. Tell me how he is!" Mycroft ground out behind clenched teeth, and the surgeon paled at what he saw in the taller man's expression.
"Doctor, we're family. Please. We've been waiting for news since last night." John told the surgeon, hoping to diffuse the situation. He had no trouble lying if it got Mycroft answers. The surgeon gulped, and looked back and forth between the tall man in the very expensive suit, and the other two men in the hall. He decided he didn't want to take his chances, as the curly haired fellow was looking just as deadly as the icy one.
"Severe internal bleeding and damage, massive blood loss. He took a large caliber round at almost point blank range. The bullet lacerated an artery just above his kidney, but we were able to repair most of the damage, and stop the bleed. I'm sorry to tell you that he flat lined while we were operating. We did manage to revive him, but I wouldn't hold out much hope at this point. He's lost too much blood, and the damage is major. I'm having him moved to Recovery, and we'll see if he stabilizes within the next day. No visitors until he stabilizes." The surgeon looked at them all one more time, and scurried down the hall.
"Wretched bedside manner." John heard Sherlock grumble. Mycroft was leaning against a wall, and he was so pale John feared he was going to pass out.
"Mycroft! Breathe. Just take in air, and let it out." John told the MI6 man. John figured Sherlock was steady enough for the moment, and went to the elder Holmes. John grabbed Mycroft's shoulders, and squeezed them hard. John didn't need Mycroft passing out in the cold hallway. "Snap out of it. They're going to wheel him out of there any minute. Snap out of it. You need to see him. He's alive right now, Mycroft. He's alive."
John stared Mycroft hard in the yes, willing the elder Holmes to stay upright. He saw a flash of awareness past the shock and horror deep in Mycroft's eyes. John gripped harder, and shook him once, gently. Mycroft breathed, and he blinked. John met his eyes until Mycroft nodded slightly. John backed away, ready to catch him if he was to suddenly topple over.
Just in time. There was the rattle of wheels on tiled floors, and the doors to the surgery bay opened. Greg was covered in white blankets, attached to a respirator and so many IV lines it was hard to see where each one went. The bed he was in was like a fortress, and he was surrounded by nurses and doctors as they escorted him out. It was his face that made John put a hand over his mouth to hold back a sob. He was so white. As white as the blankets covering him. His fox-grey hair was the only thing about him that wasn't pale as new snow.
"Mycroft, he's alive. Just focus on that." John murmured to the man he was now holding up. "He's alive."
The three of them stood in the hall as Gregory Lestrade was wheeled down the hall, barely clinging to life. Mycroft was unable to tear his eyes away.
Violet watched the scene in the surgery hall from her mobile, and sniffled. John was a great guy. He took care of Mycroft like he took care of Sherlock, no thought for himself.
She looked over to her laptop, and saw the vitals of Gregory Lestrade displayed on the screen. The hospital had a fully networked care system that let anyone with the right access see the real time vitals of any patient hooked into the system. Or if you were Violet Hunter, then you saw all that and more. She typed in a few lines of code, and she would know instantly if the DI got better or worse. She put the program in the background, and went back to her original task.
She was hunting down all the leaks Moriarty had put in the government systems. Especially in MOD and MI5, MI6. Her traitor couldn't have done all of the damage she was seeing in the codes. Many of the backdoors, access ports, had been there for years. Some of them looked like they had been built into the codes at origination, as if whoever designed the code knew Moriarty would one day be accessing them. Which could very well be the case. Where there was one traitor, there could be more. Once Mycroft was back in fighting form she would tell him what she found.
Violet followed John and the Holmes brothers on her mobile, so she knew when Mycroft was deposited in Anthea's room, where the very pretty MI6 operative was sleeping. John was bringing Sherlock back to his room. It was almost lunch time, and Violet crinkled her nose at the thought of hospital food.
Wonder if Sherlock would let me have his Jell-O. Do Brits have Jell-O in their hospitals? Hmmm.
She jumped off his bed, and went to the couch bed futon thing under the window. She tugged at the seat experimentally, and laughed as it folded out into a bed. She was glad. She was so tired. She had been planning at bunking at Sherlock's, but his place was a smoke infested, brick riddled, broken glass everywhere disaster. And she had no intention of getting a hotel room. She had pissed off Uncle Sam, and she was safest closest to the Holmes brothers. Uncle Sam wouldn't dare to try and send someone for her here. So she would stay near Sherlock and Mycroft until Uncle Sam found someone more interesting to chase. She had no problem ignoring John and Sherlock snuggling if they wanted. And if John didn't want to bother Sherlock's ribs, he could sleep with her. There was room. She'd behave. Maybe.
Violet went back for her stuff, and dropped it all on the floor next to the makeshift bed. She did steal a blanket, and one of his many pillows, and was fully ensconced and wrapped up as she heard Sherlock complaining in the hall.
Sherlock was loathe to admit it, but he was glad John was dragging him back to bed. He was so tired and stressed out that he was able to not deduce every person he saw in the halls. He didn't object when John half carried him, half dragged him back in to his room.
Sherlock saw Violet on the bed under the window, and easily ignored her presence. She was pretending to be asleep, so he would pretend he thought she was. John hadn't seen her, so absorbed was he in getting Sherlock back in his bed. Sherlock slowly relaxed back on the mattress, sighing in relief as he settled down. John tucked him in, and Sherlock barely registered his dear doctor hooking him back up to the morphine drip. Thankfully John kept it on low, so all it did was numb the pain, and not his mind.
John went to sit in the chair, stopping when Sherlock tried to grab his hand.
"Sleep with me." Sherlock whispered. His eyes were heavy, and he tried again to reach for John.
"Your ribs, love. I don't want to put pressure on them." John whispered to him. His hand pushed away a curl from his eyes, and Sherlock pouted when he pulled away. Sherlock needed his doctor, wanted him near. He had the foolish thought running through his head that if he went to sleep, John would disappear.
"Please." Sherlock struggled not to sleep. He heard John sigh.
Sherlock stayed awake long enough to hear John toe off his shoes, and come around to his right side. This bed was bigger than his last, and John was able to fit up on the mattress with him. John lay along his side, and very carefully snuggled with his arm and shoulder.
"This okay? Doesn't hurt?" John whispered in his ear.
Sherlock hummed quietly in approval, and the last thing he felt was John kissing his cheek.
Mary stepped through the door of 23-24 Leinster Gardens, making sure no one saw her. The streets were empty, and she was thankful. It had taken her longer than she would have liked to get here, as traffic through London was currently limited to emergency personnel and vehicles. Then she had to avoid the CCTV cameras, but that was easier than it would have been, as she remembered well the routes Jaime had taught her to avoid detection on the streets of London.
She shut the door behind her, and barricaded it with a large box she pulled from a dusty corner. She turned on the few lights in this fake house, and saw signs of recent habitation. Most likely Sherlock. He had told her to come here the night before, when she hugged him and John goodbye. It had taken some soul searching on her part whether or not she would take his advice and come.
If she tried leaving England now, she would be caught. Jaime Moriarty was beyond reach. That meant the government would need someone to blame. Which meant her. She wasn't guiltless, not by any means. But the life she carried deserved to be born in the free air, not behind prison walls.
Mary had seen the explosion from the far side of the estate the night before, and it had sent her to her knees in grief. She knew, she knew, that Jaime was dead. Mary had wept in the tall wet grass in the deep shadows beside the river, watching as the flames freed a tortured soul from her nightmare of a life.
Mary hadn't been worried about John or Sherlock. She had seen the helicopter take off about a minute before the explosion hit, which meant they knew it was coming. More than enough time for them to get out. She had stolen a car an hour or so later, and she had heard on the radio that there had been no casualties in the explosion, which mean that the government was covering up Jaime Moriarty's existence, and her death. No one died in that fire, because they would then have to acknowledge that she lived. The bombings in the city were being attributed to unknown affiliates of Lord Moran, carrying out his aborted plans. It was almost true.
Mary dropped her duffel on the faded settee in the front room, and went exploring. The concrete shell around the Underground vent was small, but had two rooms and a bathroom off of a long hall. The bathroom had a sink and a toilet, and the shower was nothing but a spout from the wall over a drain in the floor. She didn't mind, she had hidden in worse places.
She couldn't stay here forever. She was pregnant, and as long as she hadn't triggered a miscarriage with her activities the night before, she intended to stay that way. She had never wanted anything so much in her life. And living in a fake house while being hunted by the government would only work as a short term solution.
Mary collapsed on the settee, knowing she should tend her injuries and get some sleep. She was soaked from the damp morning air, and she had left her jacket behind with Jaime in the cell. Mary bit back a fresh burst of pain at the thought of the younger Moriarty dying in that cage, trapped like an animal. She shouldn't have put her in there, but at the time Mary had thought it was the safest thing for her, to prevent Mycroft from shooting as soon as he saw her. Not even Mycroft Holmes would kill a woman as she lay helpless in a cage.
Mary wondered what had triggered the blast. Most likely Jaime had woken up, and done something to set off one of the bombs in the manor. She had not shared with Mary where they were, though Mary had long ago decided they were in the crates in the ballroom. There had been many that Mary hadn't seen inside of, and the placement of some of the crates suggested they were special.
She tugged listlessly at the duffel bag, unzipping it to evaluate her supplies. She ignored the clothing and medical supplies, looking for her weapons. She pulled out her box of aliases, and the nine mil and extra clip. She pawed through the bag, wondering where the knife went that she had taken from the sniper she shot the night before. She remembered taking the clip from his nine mil, tossing the gun, and putting the knife in her jacket… Mary shot to her feet, her heart racing, pulse pounding in her ears as the realization hit.
I put the knife in the jacket. I put the jacket on Jaime. She had a knife in that cage. I could get out of that cell with a knife in no time. She could do it even faster.
Oh Jaime. Sweetheart, are you out there?
John slept with Sherlock in his hospital bed all that day, and well into evening. He had only gotten up at the insistence of Sherlock's nurses, but once they left, he got right back in that bed. He was exhausted. They all were. And he wanted nothing more than to sleep next to Sherlock, feel his heart beat in his chest, hear him breathe. Know they were both alive and together. Sherlock hadn't even stirred when lunch was brought in, and it was sitting on the tray next to the bed still. John had gone to the restroom earlier, and noticed that the gelatin was gone. He'd thrown a glance in Violet's direction, but said nothing.
John woke up as the sun disappeared below the horizon. Violet was awake as well, sitting up in bed with her back to the wall under the window. She had her laptop out and was working away at whatever it was she did. Sherlock still slept, and John carefully eased himself out of bed.
"Hey, John." Violet greeted him from her spot at the window.
"Violet." John tried to be quiet, and he walked over to the young hacker. She patted the cushions next to her, and he shrugged, crawling up next to her. John felt his brows raise up as she scooted over, and snuggled with him. Her raven hair tickled his chin as she rested her head on his shoulder. "What you doing?"
"Lots of things. Hunting hackers, looking for moles, bidding on eBay, watching Lestrade's vitals. He's still with us, by the way." Violet snuggled closer, and she roped an arm through his. She hit a key, and suddenly the screen was filled with Lestrade's vital signs. John sucked in a breath, both relieved and disturbed by what he saw. The DI wasn't any better, but he wasn't worse. Good news, for now.
John sighed, and leaned his head back. While he had been sleeping, he could not think about everything that had happened. Watching people he knew get kidnapped, hurt, thinking they were dead, getting kidnapped himself, sexually assaulted, almost dying so many times he lost count… And Mary. The assassin he had left because he loved his best friend more, was pregnant with his baby. He was going to be a father. All of this was chipping away at him. His world was all askew.
Violet was staring at him, and she snapped shut her laptop, put it on the floor, and wrapped her arms around him. John shuddered at the unexpected empathy from this near stranger, but it was what he needed. She was sweet and non-judgmental, and not burdened as deeply as he by recent events. Violet tugged him to her, and John went, wrapping his arms around her. He bit his lip, and tired not to cry. No grown man wants to weep on a girl almost young enough to be his daughter. She sat on the futon, and held him, and she seemed to know he was being stubborn, because she pressed a kiss to his temple.
"Who can the doctor save if he doesn't save himself?" She whispered. John laughed at the silliness, and that broke it for him. His laughter turned to tears. John let go, just let it all go. John sobbed out the stress, worry, guilt, fear, pain. The last month of his life easily eclipsed his discharge from the army, the loss of Sherlock to the Fall, those lonely months after. John cried quietly into the shoulder of this strange girl who reminded him so much of the man he loved. The man who was injured and hurt because John had angered the wrong woman. Because a madman years ago had taken his own life to force Sherlock to die, and the elder's death had broken the younger Moriarty beyond repair.
John cried it all out. He wept, and couldn't stop. Violet held him tight, right up until he felt the long slim fingers slide through his hair. He hadn't even heard Sherlock get out of bed. Violet let him pull away, and John fought to control his tears, not wanting to let Sherlock see him cry. Sherlock was having none of that. He sat on the other side of John, pulled his doctor to him. John went, Violet nearly pushing him, as Sherlock sat back against the wall. John didn't want to put any weight on Sherlock's ribs, but Sherlock was stubborn, and John curled up to his uninjured side.
"I love you." Sherlock whispered in his ear. "I love you, John."
John cried on his lover's bare shoulder. Violet had disappeared. John knew nothing but the strength under his hands and the lips that Sherlock pressed to his tear streaked face. Sherlock. His name, the sound of his voice, all of it a balm on the doctor's wounded soul. John had never needed, had never wanted, someone as much as he did Sherlock. Just the heat from his long form, and the way he touched him, swept all the heartache away, grief and fear falling to ash.
John's tears eased, and he rested on Sherlock's shoulder. His detective's wonderful hands were rubbing over his shoulders, his back, caressing his neck. Sherlock tipped up his chin, gorgeous eyes searching his face. His fingers wiped away the remaining tears, and John tried to smile.
"Better?" Sherlock kissed him, and John stirred enough to kiss him back.
"Much better." John brought his hand up, and deepened the kiss. He touched his tongue to Sherlock's lips, sweeping across them, encouraging them to open. Sherlock sighed, a small moan escaping from his detective as he let John in. "I love you, too."
Sherlock caught his face between his strong hands, and pulled John up on his knees. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, and he fought to breathe past the fire burning in his lungs, his heart. Every touch lit him on fire. Sparks tingled along his skin, and John struggled to remember where they were, that they couldn't indulge themselves.
John pulled back, gasping for air. "You're hurt, we shouldn't….." Sherlock pulled him back down, and kissed him so deeply John lost the ability to think.
"Violet's guarding the door from the hall. No one is getting in here." Sherlock whispered in his ear, his mouth sucking and nipping at a tender spot on his neck. "I've got a day's worth of morphine in me, I'm not good for much. Just let me touch you."
"Oh….." John gasped as Sherlock's tongue soothed the bite marks on his neck. John tried to pull away, not wanting Sherlock to touch them, but his detective was insistent. He stopped caring what was wrong with his neck, and focused instead on how Sherlock was making him feel.
"Mine." Sherlock whispered in his ear, tugging at John's hips. John straddled Sherlock's lap, and his detective went back to nuzzling his neck, tongue lapping at his skin. "You're mine, John. I love you."
Sherlock kissed his neck, sucking and nipping. His clever hands rubbed up his sides, across his stomach, his chest. John groaned, and bit at Sherlock's earlobe. His detective moaned, and scraped his teeth down the strong lines of his doctor's throat, to were the pulse beat rapidly. He sucked, and John never noticed when Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt. His long fingers raced across the muscles of John's chest, one thumb teasing over a nipple. John jumped at the unexpected touch, and Sherlock grinned.
"Sherlock….." John wanted nothing more than to keep going. To pull Sherlock down on that bed, and do things to this man that would erase every tear, pain and heartbreak from his soul. "I want you."
"You have me." Sherlock went to rip John's shirt off, and John helped him, shrugging out of his shirt, letting it fall on the floor. Sherlock's mouth traveled down his neck to his chest, licking and biting.
His detective brought his hands to John's belt, and tugged it free. He paused, as if waiting for something. John got impatient, and pulled his belt off, throwing it over his shoulder. He dimly heard it hit the tile floor. Sherlock laughed and pulled John in for an open mouthed kiss, tongues dancing, their breath panting over wet lips, hands grasping at the other.
Sherlock thrust his hips up, catching John and lifting him, and he let Sherlock flip him on his back. Sherlock came over him, his hips resting between John's legs. John held him close, wrapping his legs around Sherlock's thighs. John refused to let Sherlock stop kissing him, his hands buried in those unbelievably soft curls.
"Psst!" Came the not-so-subtle whisper from the door. "Company incoming!"
Sherlock groaned, and thrust his hips once, twice, rubbing himself on John's groin. John thrust back up, and fought to restrain himself. A large part of him said he should find a way to lock the door, and spend the night making love to his detective. But the more prudent part of him said they should stop. The fist that banged on the door twice made him groan, and pull back from Sherlock.
"Play time is over, love." John whispered across Sherlock's lips.
Sherlock rolled on his back, arms above his head. Both of them were breathing hard, John watching Sherlock pant shallow breaths. John sat up, and reached down for his shirt, tugging it back on. The door opened just a crack, and Violet peeked in. He waved at her, and she opened the door wider, sneaking back in the room, closing it shut behind her.
"I lied to the doctor, said you were helping Sherlock in the bathroom, and you two needed some privacy. He's coming back in a few minutes." Violet didn't bother hiding the grin on her face, especially when she bent over and picked John's belt up off the floor. She waved it around, and John huffed at her as he jumped up from the futon, snatching it out of her hands. She giggled, and walked past him to Sherlock.
Sherlock was still on his back, and hadn't moved much. He was very pale, and John felt the stirrings of guilt at the pain etched on his lover's face. They shouldn't have been fooling around like that.
"John, don't you dare feel bad. Sherlock, time to get up. Bathroom break, then back to bed before your other doctor decides to put you in a coma to make you behave." Violet put her hands under Sherlock's shoulders, and John helped her lift Sherlock up and on his feet. She appeared completely willing to follow Sherlock into the bathroom, but John shooed her away at the door. She just grinned at him, and flounced back to the futon under the window.
Sherlock kicked John out of the bathroom, refusing to submit his dignity by asking for help. He could manage. The morphine was wearing off, arousal and heavy petting having worked it out of his system faster. Sherlock had woken up to hear Violet comforting John, and the sight had made Sherlock get out of bed. He didn't begrudge John finding comfort from Violet, not at all. It was Sherlock who wanted to be offering it. John was his.
Sherlock opened the door, listening to Violet tease John. John bore up under it well, ignoring her jabs as he would Sherlock's. The detective observed the incongruity of having John and Violet in the same space. Two separate parts of his life, colliding.
"Violet, I need you to do something." Sherlock gasped from the bathroom door, as John hurried to his side. John helped him back to his bed, and Sherlock held out a hand to keep John from reattaching the morphine.
"Yeah, Sexy?" She came over to him, and sat at his feet on the bed.
"I'm assuming that since you've already been to Baker Street that getting around the city isn't an issue for you." Sherlock told his hacker, John's eyebrows rising in question.
"Takes me slightly longer, but I can manage just fine." Violet had that look on her face, the one she got when she was planning something mischievous. "The city is shut down due to the bombings, but I'm not hindered by it."
"Good." Sherlock leaned back on the pillows, looking for the button to raise the bed up. John read his mind, and did it for him. "Mary is where we were hiding after you helped me escape. I need you to go see if she's alright."
John looked like Sherlock had just lit the sheets on fire, he was so shocked. Sherlock smirked at him, and tugged John's hand.
"Hell, yeah." She sat up straighter, her eyes twinkling. "I'm thinking that since you're asking me, it needs to stay secret?"
"Yes. The government is after her. She must not be found." Sherlock stressed that last part, eyeing the door, watching for the unwanted doctor to return. Violet was literally rubbing her hands together in anticipation.
"Yeah no kidding. Pregnant and in prison, not a good mix." Violet jumped off the bed, and went for her bag. "She'll need supplies, meds, clothes….. it's cold as hell in there too….."
"Wait, does everyone know Mary's pregnant? How was I the last to know?" John groused, and Sherlock tried to restrain his laughter at the exasperated look on his doctor's face. "Was it really obvious or something?"
"Terribly." Violet laughed at John's face, and she ran back to him, hugging his shoulders in apology. "I only know because Sherlock told me. And the girls know because Mary told Jaime in front of them."
"Shit. Which means Mycroft will know once Anthea tells him." John ran a hand through his short hair making parts of it stick up. "I should come with you."
"Ummm…" Violet looked at Sherlock, biting her lip. "Anthea is still asleep, and Mycroft is distracted by Lestrade. Mycroft has his focus split. It would be easier if I had help. Just don't know if she wants two of us showing up."
"Go, John. I'll be fine. The two of you should be able to slip out unobserved." Sherlock let his head fall back on his pillows. "Please be careful."
Violet didn't answer, just dropped her bag on the bed next to his legs, and dug through it.
"Here. These cells are clean. Untraceable." She pulled out two mobiles, dropping one each in John and Sherlock's hands. "Not even Mycroft can find these. They are sisters; the other numbers are programmed in there. Mine is number one."
"You ready to evade your government, aid a wanted woman, and watch me be totally awesome?" Violet asked John, grinning as he gulped. "Don't worry John; I know you've done far worse with Sherlock. I'm tame compared to him. Now kiss your man goodbye. I'm aiming to misbehave."
"Christ Sherlock, what have you gotten me into?" John grumbled, but he bent over Sherlock, and kissed his detective. Sherlock held him, and John pulled back when Violet started chuckling. John grinned at them both, and for the first time in weeks, John felt a trickle of excitement that wasn't laced with grief.
"Sherlock, the cells will alert if Lestrade gets worse. Don't let Mycroft see it." Violet told him as she grabbed John's hand, eagerly pulling him out the door. She had both their jackets in hand already, her bag slung over a shoulder. "I'll text you as we go along."
Sherlock watched until Violet and John disappeared out the door. He fell back on the pillows, and he slowly reached out for the morphine drip, reattaching it. He set the drip on low, and hid the mobile under his pillow. He had some thinking to do, and he knew the way forward for them all would be tricky. Mary, John, himself, even Violet. Her determination to stay in his radius was telling; something had happened that made her want to stick around.
He had no issue with her staying, or with letting her leave with John. She had intelligence, and John was capable of protecting the both of them. He owed John the truth when he got back. Her, too.
Mary tried sleeping. The settee smelled lightly of Sherlock. This must have been where he stayed after escaping from the hospital. It had been a long, cold day, and Mary had done her best to rest. She had showered, and changed clothes. The nine mil was under her hand where it rested on the settee.
Jaime. Are you alive? Am I foolish for wishing you were? I heard your words to Sherlock. I heard every word. How did I reach you? What did I do to make you love me? Sweetheart, I don't know what I'm feeling, but the remains of my heart break every time I think you might be dead…..and that you may live.
The wind picked up outside, and Mary curled up on the settee, wrapping her arms around her knees. She would have to leave, and soon. Staying here may be the smart move to stay hidden, but not if she wanted to stay healthy. She used to be able to stay awake for days on end, with little food, limited clean water, and still be able to finish her missions with precision and efficiency. But that was nearly six years ago now; six years younger, and she had been in her prime. She hadn't been living comfortably with a regular job, easy lazy weekends. Muscle memory and deeply ingrained habits would keep her going for a long time, but she would gradually lose her edge. No one stayed young forever.
And she would not be at her best, suffering from morning sickness. And the resultant change in her body as the pregnancy continued would reduce her ability to defend herself.
One more day, Sherlock, then I have to leave.
Violet led John down the hall, past the stairs, and around a corner, heading towards the service elevator.
"Where are we going?" John asked quietly, walking beside her. She threw him a look, tilting her head towards one of Mycroft's men walking just ahead of them. He shut up, which she was thankful for.
Violet snagged his arm, and pulled him behind a large rack holding bed linens. She waited, watching as the MI6 operative disappeared into a restroom. She tugged John after her, and they ran past the public bathroom, and she kept running until the rounded another corner. The service elevator was at the end, and she wasted no time in slapping the call button.
"We get to the back service entrance, there's going to be lines of cars. Most of them are MI6 and Scotland Yard vehicles. We are going past the patrol cars, down the line to the first black town car we see. You are to look no one in the eye, avoid making any facial expressions whatsoever. Look bored, if you can manage to get that eager grin off your face." Violet told John as she paced in front of the doors, waiting on the elevator. John was grinning, the sneaking around already working its magic on him. She grinned in return, the night's festivities just beginning.
"I'm letting you in on trade secrets, John Watson. I'm not just a hacker; I'm damn good at stealing just about anything, not just information." She pulled him in the car just as the doors opened, and she started humming as the doors shut. John threw her a look, one part curiosity, the other a fun mix of fear and eagerness.
"I'm afraid to ask, but what are you humming?" John asked her, as she watched the floors light up as they headed down. "It sounds so familiar. You were humming it on the phone when you helped us with Mary and Moriarty."
"I'm surprised you don't know it, Sherlock would play it all the time." Violet winked at him, and walked out the elevator as the doors dinged open. "Man loves his Bach. Show time Dr Watson, give me your bored face."
She heard him grumbling behind her, but she ignored it, pulling out her ever trusty mobile, and pulled up an app. It was her VIN tracker, and any vehicle with networking capability was vulnerable. All she had to do was take a picture of the VIN, and she would be able to hack into the locking mechanisms, the ignition if it had auto-start. All of the town cars used by MI6 did. She had been borrowing Mycroft's rides for the last day.
She cast a look at John just before the doors, and she stopped in disgust. "That's your bored face? Crap. Alright, take out the cell I gave you and pretend you're talking to someone you hate."
John looked sheepish, and he tugged out the mobile she had given him, and she smirked as he tried to pretend he was talking on the phone. "You don't have to say anything, just pretend you're listening. This would be sad if it wasn't going to be so much fun. Ready? Out we go."
Her demeanor changed as she swept out the doors, her stance changing to one of authority, and she walked with a long limbed grace that said she had a purpose. And beware anyone who got in her way. Violet knew she was striking, and that men looked. She would use it to her advantage, but she also knew when to play it down. She heard John follow behind her, and she walked down the length of vehicles behind the hospital, heading straight for the town cars. She didn't raise her mobile, but the app was running. There were police officers and MI6 agents littering the back alley, and she would nod to any that met her eye.
Violet pretended to stumble, her hand flashing up to steady herself on the hood of the closest town car. She was subtle, but she got the VIN captured, and let the app run as she bent down next to the driver's side door, as if she were fixing her heel.
"You okay?" John asked, mobile still pressed to his ear. She fought back a laugh, and watched his face as the car she was leaning on roared to life, the door unlocking at the same time. His expression was priceless, and she stood back up, opening the door for him.
"Hop in, Doc. Let's go shopping." Violet got behind the wheel, as John tried and failed to look inconspicuous getting in the front passenger seat. "Fuck me, John. Have you ever stolen anything before?"
"Um, no." John shut his door, and he hastily threw on his seatbelt as she drove the powerful car out of the line, and down the alley. The government plates would give them the license they needed to travel through the shutdown city.
He knew he was dead. He must be, to hear her voice. She had fallen days ago. He waited, wondering why he couldn't see her. He heard her voice, as familiar to him as his own. He was surrounded by grey fog, hiding her from sight. He thought he lost her again, as she was quiet. He waited, and as time passed, the urgency to hear her again began to fade. Maybe she was waiting on him. He had to let go, find her on his own.
"His blood pressure improved there for a minute. Try again, he may have heard you." It was a voice he had never heard before, and he had no desire to find it. It wasn't her.
"Boss? It's Sally. I'm not dead. That's completely messed up, I know. Please don't leave me." She sounded so sad. Why was she sad? And what did she mean, she wasn't dead? Of course she was. He was dead, and he heard her. "Greg, please don't go."
She was crying. He heard the tears. She never cried. Why was Sally crying? He remembered her now. Stubborn, mean, his, all his. His Sally, and his friend. Partners. Where was she?
He was so tired. Maybe she was lost like him. Sally never asked for help if she was lost. He just wanted to sleep, he would find her in a little while.
"He may not be able to respond, it may be too early. We can try again later." The strange voice was speaking, and he ignored it. He was too tired.
Sally faded away. She left. He would find her soon, but he was too tired.
Nothing for the longest time, just the grey expanse of fog, of emptiness. Being dead was so easy, effortless.
He could hear, in the quiet, the sound of someone calling. Calling him. What was his name again? It must be him that voice is calling to, there was no one else here. Just him.
"Gregory." Strong voice. But sad. Why was he sad? "I don't believe you can hear me. This is foolishness. You've been heavily sedated for over twelve hours, and you've been shot, operated on, died once already. But I can't stay away anymore."
"You're dying, Gregory." That voice was closer now, so near. He tried looking for it, reaching for it. He knew that voice. "I don't recall telling you to die."
He sounds mad now. Why is he mad? I thought I was dead already. Don't be mad. Please.
"You can't hear me. But… if you could, I would…. I would tell you to stay. Here. Order you, even. Order you to stay. Listen to me, talking to you like this." He sounded sadder now. The anger was gone.
Don't be sad. Not for me. Why am I making you sad?
"If you could hear me, I would… I would tell you that I am afraid. Afraid that if you die, I stop being myself. I won't be able to function, think, move, live. You make me want to try. Try to be more than just the Iceman. More than a nameless entity with too much power."
You aren't nameless. I know your name. Mycroft. I hear you. Keep talking to me; don't leave me alone in the dark.
"Gregory. Greg." Hesitant now. Still so very sad. "You won't make it if you don't wake up. I won't make it if you don't wake up. Open your eyes, dammit!"
"Sir, please don't raise your voice. If you can't calm down, I will have to ask you to leave." That strange voice again. He didn't want to hear that voice. He wanted to hear Mycroft.
Greg tried moving through the fog. Mycroft was here somewhere. He wanted to see Mycroft. Mycroft couldn't be here, not if he was dead. Mycroft was not dead. Mycroft was alive. He would know, he would feel it, if Mycroft was gone. That meant he wasn't dead.
I'm not dead. Mycroft!
"I doubt my tone of voice will affect his current condition more than the bullet that ripped through him as he saved your life. Get out now, or I will have you exiled to Eastern Europe!" Furious now, Mycroft's voice. Cold, rigid, and furious.
There was a shuffling of feet, and whoever it was left. Mycroft was still there. Greg faltered in the grey fog. He wasn't weightless anymore. He felt something. Warmth. A gentle heat on his hand. Greg could feel Mycroft's hand, and it made his heart race. Mycroft was closer, so close.
"What must I do? Order you to stay? I can do that. I need you to wake up. I'm ordering you to wake up, Greg. Now."
I won't leave you. Never. Keep calling me. Show me the way back. I don't want to leave you.
Mycroft's voice was so close now. Right inside his head. Warm breath rushing across his ear, the cool scent of pine and whiskey. He knew them, he had spent days wrapped up in this man. He wanted him, needed him. Greg struggled out of the mist, answering that order as best he could.
"Greg, I need you, I want you. Please come back to me." Mycroft's words echoed the ones in his heart. Greg ripped himself from the fog, and reached.
Greg took a deep breath, and immediately wished he hadn't. The pain was intense. His side felt like it was on fire, molten lava dripping on him, down his side. It ate at him, chasing him, making him squirm and gasp on the uncomfortable mattress. His back was on fire too. He couldn't escape the pain. Pinpricks were everywhere, his arms itching. Greg opened his eyes, and the light above him hurt too. Tears ran from his eyes, down his temples.
"Greg? Doctor, get back in here, now! Greg, don't move, stay still." Mycroft was leaning over him, his slim hands lightly touching Greg's cheek, eyes bright with disbelief and joy. "I can't believe you woke up. Doctor, get in here, now!"
Greg didn't pay any attention to the people who swarmed over him. He ignored the doctors, the nurses, all the people asking him questions. He pushed aside the pain, and felt his heart beat in his chest at the sight of this man who had called him back. Ordered him back. He looked past the light being shone in his eyes, to Mycroft. The MI6 man was standing back, letting the medical team fuss over him.
"Mycroft…." He tried to speak, his voice weak and unsure. It hurt him, the effort it took to talk. He tried again, a nurse leaning over him, trying to hear what he was saying. He whispered his words to her, and she pulled back, a tiny smile on her face.
"What did he say?" Mycroft demanded. The nurse turned Mycroft, and she grinned.
"He said, 'Anything for you, sir.'"
The look on Mycroft's face was reward enough for all the pain and stress, the uncertainty and agony. The Iceman was gone. There was only Mycroft. Greg fought against the pain, eyes locked on the man who had called him back from oblivion. Mycroft was a man worth coming back for.