Mycroft found his PA waiting at the front entrance of the hospital. She glanced up from her Blackberry as he reached the bottom of the stairs, then held the door open for him and followed him to the car.

Safely in the hyper-secure backseat, Mycroft released a shaky breath, then grimaced at this latest slip in his control.

She looked up, frowning slightly. "Sir?"

He recovered quickly. "Report."

She reached for a button on the panel dividing the passenger and driver's compartments. The concealed laser printer began to hum, and Mycroft accepted the three printed sheets as they appeared through the slot beneath it.

She nodded at the papers in his hand. "The team report that the subject is at home. They will maintain maximum surveillance until further instructed."

Mycroft nodded as he scanned the text. "Nothing on CCTV in the vicinity of Magnussen's building, or on any route between there and the current location?"

"Nothing at all, sir. The subject was acquired at the current location, not en route."

Mycroft finished reading and handed the papers to his PA, then leaned back and closed his eyes. At no point in his life had he made such an inexcusably stupid mistake. It was only appropriate that the cost should be so unacceptably high. He pressed the communication button and directed the driver to his office at the Diogenes Club. He would be closer to the hospital there than at any of his alternate sites, including his home. Twenty minutes, portal to portal.

"How is your brother doing?"

Mycroft turned to look at her. Dropping the customary 'sir' was as close to familiarity as she ever came with him, even after all this time. It was tantamount to a hug, and it expressed her concern as clearly as anything she could have done.

He cleared his throat. "His doctors are guardedly optimistic. I gather he has impressed them enormously by still being alive."

She studied him for a moment. "Are you all right?"

He considered, then opted for the truth. "No."

He had gathered Sherlock's team of doctors for a brief conference before taking John and Lestrade back to see him. He had briefly considered asking John to join him for the discussion, but decided that he was far too emotionally involved to be objective.

The medical team had been waiting for him in what appeared to be the doctors' lounge. There was no conference table, just a group of armchairs and a few sofas that looked as if they were used more for sleeping than sitting. They were all standing awkwardly, practically at attention when he'd come into the room, and it was clear the they were not accustomed to being called upon for a group report when there were patients to attend. Mycroft had smiled and thanked them for their time, then asked them all to be seated, as if this were his territory rather than theirs.

The surgeon, a middle-aged Asian man about John Watson's height, began by assuring Mycroft that his brother was stable enough to be moved to the private room he had requested. From the intonation on the word 'requested', the man was telling Mycroft that such special treatment did not meet with his approval. Mycroft merely smiled.

The smile and the control behind it vanished a moment later when the surgeon told him that Sherlock had gone into cardiopulmonary arrest before surgery could begin. After more than twenty minutes of continuous resuscitation efforts with no response, he had stood down the team, prepared to declare him dead. Mycroft had inhaled sharply at that, utterly against his will.

The surgeon had looked closely at him then. "Mr. Holmes, your brother is alive. I was told that you wanted to hear everything that had happened. If this is too upsetting..."

Of course, it was too bloody upsetting, but he had to hear it all. He assured the doctor that he was quite able to continue, and then managed to listen attentively to the rest of the narrative without embarrassing himself further.

The doctors were surprised by their patient's spontaneous recovery, and seemed concerned that Mycroft might view it as the result of a failure on their part. They took pains to assure him that, while rare, the phenomenon was reasonably well known. There had been at least 38 such events recorded over the past twenty years. There was reason to hope that Sherlock would suffer no ill effects from the extended period of asystole.

The remainder of the surgeon's narrative consisted of a litany of damage caused by the bullet and resultant blood loss, all of which Mycroft committed to memory to review later with John Watson.

Sherlock's unstable heartrate and blood pressure were a source of concern, but he would be closely monitored. The treatment plan was limited to preventing infection and further blood loss, and stabilizing his heartrate and blood pressure. There was nothing else to do but wait.

"The next twenty-four hours will tell us more. We need him to regain consciousness before we can determine the extent of any cognitive damage from oxygen deprivation, but we are optimistic." The surgeon had smiled briefly. "We will keep you informed of any developments either way."

The room had emptied rather quickly then, all except the surgeon. "Mr. Holmes, I must speak frankly. The special consideration for your brother takes away from the time available for other patients. The private room for a critical patient demands that we move equipment and personnel to monitor him. I've been told that it's for his security as well as ours."

"My brother's attacker is still at large. I have stationed security staff inside and outside the hospital, and I assure you that your staff are not in danger. The private room is a necessary part of that security." He smiled. "I appreciate your willingness to accommodate my brother's exceptional requirements."

The surgeon nodded, grudgingly. He crossed his arms and studied Mycroft for a moment. "For any other patient with similar injuries, the odds would not favor survival. Your brother has demonstrated a ferocious will to live, and that could make all the difference. I strongly recommend that you do whatever is necessary to keep that will alive. If there's someone who can do that, whether a relative or a friend, just give their name to the head nurse. I've left orders to have someone with him at all times, and that person should be whomever you think will do him the most good."

"I do have someone in mind."

The surgeon had nodded. "We will keep you apprised of any developments."

Mycroft had relayed nearly all of what the surgeon had told him to John Watson as they were walking to Sherlock's room. At the last moment, he had decided to omit the cardiac arrest because he wasn't sure he would be able to talk about it without revealing his own lack of objectivity. Leaving John to watch over Sherlock had provided Mycroft with the first sense of relief he had felt since he had heard that gunshot on the microphone.

He was satisfied that any external threat to Sherlock was neutralized by the surveillance. It was, unfortunately, akin to locking the barn door after the horses were already gone. Long gone.

The stupidity of what he had done with the Mary Morstan issue was staggering. He had not yet confirmed that she was, in fact, the shooter, but there was little doubt. The circumstantial evidence was overwhelming, and it been there all along. He had misjudged it and her catastrophically, and now his mistake could well cost him the only person in the world who mattered to him.

He had discovered her true identity and previous career in a routine vetting process during the first month of her association with John. It was part of his promise to Sherlock that he would protect John while he was away. When the results had come back, they had given him pause. The factors against her were obvious, but those in her favor were also compelling.

Keeping John Watson safe had begun to tax even Mycroft's resources by the time Mary had appeared on the scene. Eighteen months after Sherlock's 'death', John was still deeply depressed and so mired in grief that his therapist's notes were beginning to reveal her own frustration. He had moved out of Baker Street the day of the funeral, and had isolated himself from everyone and everything that could remind him of Sherlock. His therapist called it avoidance, and told him he would never recover until he faced his loss.

Mary Morstan's history was only five years deep. She had come to London to work as a nurse, and she was excellent at her job. She volunteered her time at free clinics when she wasn't working. She lived frugally and totally off the radar. She saved her money and bought a house shortly before she and John met. No path of investigation suggested that she had been sent to use John to reach Sherlock. She was simply a woman starting a new life, and she was in love with John Watson.

So he had allowed the relationship to continue without interference. John had pulled himself together, and life moved forward again. Mycroft reduced surveillance on John to the lightest level and returned his focus to the business of keeping the world on track.

His surveillance of Magnussen was routine and long-standing. When Sherlock had appeared on the face recognition system last night, Mycroft had ordered the monitoring to go live and included directional microphones to pick up what was going on. They had initially been aimed in the wrong direction to pick up the voices, but they had been redirected in time to pick up a sound that was recognizable as a silenced gunshot. Mycroft ordered an ambulance out of an abundance of caution, and it had probably saved his brother's life.

Only fair, since Mycroft's actions had resulted in the reason his brother's life needed saving.

"We're here, sir."

Mycroft opened his own door and got stiffly out of the car in front of Diogenes. He would do what research he could, but ultimately it would come down to a confrontation. He would tell Mary Watson that he knew what she had done, and demand that she prove him wrong.

His PA walked around the car to join him. Mycroft looked up at the rare, cloudless sky. The city's perpetual glow dimmed the stars, but the moon was high and full. He took a deep breath. "I want to know the moment she leaves the house and heads for the hospital."

She made a note on her Blackberry. "Done, sir." She followed him into the building.

Eight hours of mind-numbing routine interrupted by four-minutes of choreographed panic. That was how they used to describe the night shift in critical care when John was in training. Four minutes, because that was all the time you had to get oxygen to the brain before it began the swift descent into death. The resuscitations usually came no more than once per shift. More than that, especially if they weren't successful, put everyone on edge for days.

Twenty minutes ago, this Royal London team had achieved their successful resuscitation for the night, and nearly killed John in the process. While they worked to pull Sherlock back from the brink, John was forced to watch from the hall, gripping the bottom of the window frame so tightly that his fingertips were still tingling. He currently had those fingers wrapped lightly around Sherlock's right wrist. He knew that the monitor would alarm if Sherlock's heartrate took another leap into tachycardia, but he needed to feel the pulse under his fingertips, at least until his own returned to normal.

Either the staff had taken the time to call Mycroft when Sherlock crashed, or he had the room wired. John's phone had gone off while he was standing at the window literally hanging on by his fingertips. He had let the call ring out, but returned it as soon as Sherlock was stable. With both of them still shaky in the aftermath of the near miss, they had sounded like two marathon runners trying to carry on a conversation at mile 25. John had been anxious to return to Sherlock, and had promised to call Mycroft with hourly updates, just to get off the call. He now regretted it. He couldn't call from inside the room, and he did not want to leave Sherlock alone, even for a moment. Not now. Irrational fear or not, it was painfully real to his nervous system. Any time he even crossed the threshold now, the adrenaline rush made it hard to breathe.

He had finally called Mary an hour ago to let her know that Sherlock had been shot. She had wanted to come and be with him, but he asked her to stay home. He said he would call her if anything changed, but now regretted that, too. He realized that he didn't want her to be here. She would divert his focus from where it desperately needed to be. It was going to take all of his resources to help get Sherlock through this. He couldn't permit anything, not even Mary, to distract him. He knew she would understand, but he just couldn't take the time to explain it to her now.

Truthfully, there really wasn't much he could do. The monitors would alert even before John would be able to spot and analyze a problem. He wouldn't even be allowed to help, if that happened again. Just watch from the hall like he last time. Holding Sherlock's hand was for his own comfort, not Sherlock's. If he was aware of John's presence at all, it would be the sound of his voice. Patients recovering from a period of coma sometimes reported that they had heard what happened around them while they were unconscious. Relatives keeping vigil were encouraged to talk to the patient. The voice of a loved one could be a powerful stimulus. John would be pleased to comply, if he could think of something to say that wouldn't come out as either an angry accusation, or a tear-choked plea. Those were the two emotional extremes he seemed to be bouncing between.

Two years ago, he would have given anything for a chance like this. It was the cruelest fulfillment of a wish imaginable. He should have known there would be a price to pay for such a miracle, but he could never have expected it to be this high.

Yes, well be careful what you wish for. If I hadn't come back...

If he hadn't come back, John would be happily married and Sherlock would be a vague memory. That's what Sherlock seemed to think, hard as it was for John to accept.

"How can you not know how important you are to me? You said you heard my little speech at your grave. I know feelings and sentiment aren't your thing, but Christ Sherlock. Not even you could have missed what I was trying to say." The pendulum swung abruptly away from anger, and he had to pause, pressing his lips tight together and breathing hard through his nose while he got himself back under control. "You have no right to risk your life like this anymore. Maybe you didn't know before that there are people who love you, but you know it now."

But did he, really? He'd heard the words. He'd even said them in his speech. But did he really understand what they meant?

They had become masters of oblique communication, he and Sherlock. Even with the past two years of separation, the ability to deflect each other's emotions was as finely honed as it had ever been. They had come close to actually talking about it right after Sherlock came back, but only when their friendship had seemed on the brink of total destruction. Thirty days of his own bullheaded refusal to let Sherlock apologize had nearly done them in. But they had made it right again.

That had lasted until the wedding. Somewhere between that incredible best man speech, which had moved John to tears along with nearly everyone else in the room, and the moment Sherlock had told them what Mary's symptoms meant, something had changed. There had been one single moment that told John just how much.

All three of them had been surprised by Sherlock's deduction, standing there in the middle of the dancing crowd, trying not to look conspicuous. He'd looked up at Sherlock to say something smart, and Sherlock had been looking at him, his guard not just down, but obliterated. The emotion he was allowing John to see was so open and honest, and unprecedented, that John had no frame of reference on how to respond. Sherlock was deliberately showing him what he was feeling at that moment, and it had blown away everything that had gone before. Sherlock was showing him how much it was costing him to let go, but he was also showing him that it was the only thing he could do.

A moment later, Mary had pulled him away into a dance. When they came looking for Sherlock a few dances later, he had already left.

"Yeah, and the next time I see your face, it's in a crack den. You ask me to come with you on this job that's too dangerous for any sane human being, and then you run off instead of letting me help. Why do you always do that? Why do you keep everything to yourself and just feed me what you think I need to know? Why do you even bother to take me along? So I can chase after you to pick up the pieces? Well, you miscalculated this time, and I was too late." He was breathing fast, almost hyperventilating with anger. He watched the clock above Sherlock's head, forcing his breathing to slow, counting the seconds between breaths, but his control was gone.

This was his worst nightmare come to life. War had long ago lost center stage, now serving as a mere backdrop to whatever horror his subconscious devised to torture him with Sherlock being hurt or killed in front of him. He could never reach him. Sometimes he couldn't even see him, but Sherlock calling his name, in pain or in fear, would chase him into wakefulness. The dreams had started the night Sherlock came back from the dead. They had been getting worse over the past month, sometimes waking Mary too, although she pretended to be asleep.

And now they were real.

Coming downstairs when she woke from a dream, or lately from one of John's, unable to get back to sleep, the comforting tick tock of the antique clock in the living room always soothed her. It was the only bit of her old life that had come with her into the new. It needed to be wound every 31 days, and she had set a repeating alarm on her mobile phone for every third Sunday at noon. Ten days early, just to keep the works from slowing down and losing time. It was due to be wound tomorrow. She thought it would be best to just let it wind down now. It would go silent in a ten days. She wondered if she would still recognize her life in ten days.

Sherlock was still alive, and she was grateful for that. She was grateful for John's sake. Whether he would be alive in another few hours remained to be seen. John had told her when he called an hour ago that the odds were against it, but he was still fighting. Mary thought she knew why he was so determined to live. Sherlock would do anything for John, and right now that meant staying alive to protect John from her. It wasn't true, but she could hardly blame him for drawing that conclusion.

She had relived those last seconds over and over.

The look in Sherlock's eyes when she pulled the trigger was going to haunt her for the rest of her days. Hurt. Betrayal. Disbelief. The same feelings she had now.

If Sherlock died, their lives would never be the same. John would never be the same. The part of John that Sherlock had saved would die with him, and she was to blame.

There were three possible outcomes. One, Sherlock would die, and his brother would kill her. She had no doubt that Mycroft had discovered her secret early on, and it would not take him long to determine that she had been the one who shot Sherlock. Mycroft had apparently withheld what he knew about her from Sherlock as well as John. He would feel guilt now for having done so, and she would pay for it with her life.

The second possibility was that Sherlock would live, and would tell John who had shot him. John loved her, but he had loved Sherlock first. Sherlock was literally the wounded party in this, and John's sense of loyalty and justice would not allow him to forgive her. Even with a baby on the way, John was likely to side with Sherlock against her. She doubted Sherlock would allow her to be prosecuted and put in prison, for John's sake, but her life would still be over.

The third, and least likely, was that Sherlock would live and would keep her secret. Mycroft would not be so forgiving, and Magnussen would still be there waiting to take her down unless she swore her loyalty to him. Even with Sherlock's cooperation, her life would be over. Owing her loyalty to both Magnussen and Mycroft would put her in an impossible situation. As if she weren't already there.

None of the scenarios left her with John in her life. None of them left her with any options, and she had done it all to herself with a single instant of desperation. Poorly considered, fatally wrong.

From the instant she had heard Sherlock's voice tonight, she'd had only seconds to react. Never at any moment of her career had she ever been in such an impossible position. She had always planned every assignment to the smallest detail. Anticipated every possibility and developed a contingency for each, going over every aspect well in advance until her responses would require no thought. Her lightning reflexes, respected and feared by her colleagues and adversaries alike, amounted to nothing more than meticulous planning and practice.

But this had not been an assignment. This time, her own emotions drove her response. Fear of discovery. Fear of losing the love of her life. Fear for the future of her unborn child. Her finely honed instincts had acted almost without her conscious participation. Sherlock replaced Magnussen as the more immediate threat, and she had made the worst decision possible to address it.

She knew what had triggered her lethal response. Sherlock had meant to soothe her by reminding her that she was threatening to kill John's best friend. Her friend, too.

No, Mrs. Watson. You won't.

But it had the opposite effect. The mention of John had pushed her over the edge. Everything that was now good in her life was wrapped up in John. Sherlock was a threat, and she pulled the trigger.

Remorse was pointless. Running was an option, but not for much longer. When Mycroft put together that she had done this, he would have her watched until Sherlock's status was determined. If she ran, she would have to run far and fast, using the very last of her cover identities. She would be gone from here forever. John would be gone from her life forever.

Even at the risk of her own life, she could not face the possibility that she would not see him again. Even if he knew the truth and hated her for it, she would prefer that to never seeing him. It was selfish and foolish, but that seemed to be her default motivation now.

The next time the phone rang, it could mean either the end or the beginning. Until then, all she would do was wait.

End of Chapter Six