Soooo, here's chapter 43! Sorry for the long wait and the shortness, but I didn't know how to write this chapter and then got caught by Supernatural. I blame Supernatural.

Thanks soooo much to ReaderMagnifique for being a wonderful reader and reviewer, I hope you like this chapter...

Thank you to everyone else reading this story, it means a lot. Maybe a little review?

Now, Enjoy!

They keep her sedated for a day to control the swelling and check the scans for brain damage.

Brain damage. Mycroft can't stop himself hating these two words, they taste foul on his tongue, even though he rationally knows that they are just letters and don't care whether he hates them or not.

Brain damage. Highly unlikely, there's nothing on the scans, but they'll have to wait for her to wake up, the doctors said. Sherlock had done well, the CPR had saved her life, even if he had cracked two of her ribs. Cracked, not broken. Mycroft feels he has never been so relieved.

It's curious, he muses, how this girl, showing socio-pathic and psychopathic tendencies, being the daughter of one of the most dangerous criminals of the world, had wormed her way into their lives.

Sherlock and he don't do sentiment. Caring is not an advantage, he tries telling himself, but he knows it's too late now. He knew since the ambulance took off, Sherlock with them, Mycroft staying home to take care of Daunt.

Leaving home ten minutes after the ambulance showed Sherlock exactly what he felt, that he felt at all, but he couldn't stop himself.

He feels stupid now, and god, it is annoying. Not being able to concentrate, feeling numb – it had helped for five of the ten minutes, until reality crashed in. Kiara was being transported to the hospital, her heart not beating – or did it?

Mycroft remembers the pictures flashing in front of his face, Kiara who was looking at him, scared, shying away from him since they came home from the hospital, well, even before that. Kiara, sleeping outside his room, trying to make him feel better. Kiara's open, empty eyes looking at him.

He can see Kiara's point now. The logic behind her plan of shooting Sherlock was unflappable, even though it might have been better to go to Mycroft to it. On the other hand, she tried to keep them all safe, and everything considered, her age, her mental state, the things on risk, she had done surprisingly well.

He remembers the regret, that hateful feeling breaking through his shell, almost like the worry for Sherlock, on the ride to the hospital only hours ago. The feeling of shame, of guilt, that Kiara died because he had been blinded by emotions. Because, had he forgiven her for it, had she slept in his room, Daunt wouldn't have got her, would he? Wouldn't have had the chance to kill her.

She is breathing steadily now, if a little roughly. Her throat is not really swollen, Daunt did it efficiently, just interrupting the blood flow from the brain back to the heart so she didn't get enough oxygen.

When he thinks back, he can see why he felt that way, why he had been so against Kiara. But, and even though it's sentiment, he embraces it just this once, he thinks Kiara dying has snapped him out of it. He, who feels himself above all emotion, couldn't help the shuddering, relieved sigh when he heard Kiara was alive minutes after he entered the hospital. Didn't care that it was sentiment which forced him to sit down shakily on a chair.

The thought that Kiara might have died and not waken up without him, Mycroft, apologising, seems horrible and he is happy he is able to escape that.

Mycroft looks down at her sleeping face and can't stop the self-hate he usually keeps hidden away in far corner of his mind from rising up. Now, only shortly after her death and being sedated, she looks more peaceful than the weeks before.

The first thing I notice is the pain in my chest. Quickly after it come a sore throat, a very fuzzy head and the feeling of rough cotton against my skin. My eyes won't budge, won't open to the light, so I ignore the quiet beeping and let myself be pulled down into nothingness again.

The next time I'm not really awake. It's rather that I'm alert, I'm conscious of a dark muddled haze surrounding me, and I can hear a low rumbling, followed by a slightly higher rumble. Voices? I don't know, so I just stay still, keep floating, listening to the noise which is strangely calming to me.

The third time I become alert I fight. I try to claw the floaty dust around me away, rip the darkness, use all my force of will to open my eyes.

Everything is blurry. Waiting for a few minutes to regain strength, I open my other eye as well and look at the whiteness over me. It looks like it's a bit away, about two metres, and slowly it gets clearer. The ceiling is plain white, not even a crack, and looks very new. I trace the corners with my gaze, finding a childish interest in it, until I notice the breathing next to me.

It takes a lot to simply turn my head, more than it should, more than it used to, but I succeed and see Mycroft. His suit has creases, his hair is not as pristine as it usually is, and he has his face in his hands. He looks tired, exhausted, and I feel concern rising up.

"My?" I try to say, but it comes out as a barely audible whisper. My throat is dry.

He looks up, almost unbelievingly, directly at me. It's been a long time since he did that, without any disdain.

"Kiara, you're awake!" He says, and sighs once. How sleep-deprived is he to speak so nicely to me? To sound so relieved?

I can feel my eyelids flutter and I fall back into oblivion.