John Watson didn't forget Sherlock Holmes over the next few weeks. He doubted he could ever erase the memory of the curious, stubborn, brilliant little boy, but he quickly pushed it away. Tony's girlfriend came away from her car accident with permanent brain damage. When the hospital agreed to give Tony as much time off as he needed, John stepped forward to pick up his shifts. The army doctor ended up sleeping on a cot at the hospital so he could be present at all times. He played peek-a-boo with epileptic babies by day and walked the halls with crying cancer patients by night. As the weeks blurred together, John even forgot to eat. He just didn't have the time to devote to thinking about any kid who wasn't present in the hospital.

"Dr. Watson! Dr. Watson, you're needed in trauma."

John passed a hand over his face and resisted the urge to growl what now? Of course something would interrupt his breakfast—or was it lunch? Somehow he managed to nod at the nurse instead of snapping at him. "What room?"

"221. Suspected broken bones, but nobody can get close enough to the kid to check him over. He keeps hissing. Says he only wants 'his John' to check him over like last time. Since you're the only doctor named John here, we figured he had to mean you."

Instantly, John bit back the excuse he'd been formulating. "Sherlock!"

"Yeah, that's the kid's name, Sherlock Holmes. Bit of a weird one—"

"Yes, thank you," John called over his shoulder as he jogged to the stairs. Taking them two at a time was faster than waiting for the ancient lift to rattle down to the first floor. The second floor was chaos, but years of military training helped John to swerve around obstacles without slowing his pace. Just like last time, he could hear a voice from 221 all the way down the hall: "Come on, little man, we won't hurt you! Let us check your arm!" John rolled his eyes. Don't those idiots know how to handle Sherlock Holmes?

At first, John felt like laughing at the scene that greeted him inside room 221: a nurse hovered anxiously at the foot of the bed while a two-year-old hissed at her from the head of it. Then John got a glimpse of the way Sherlock's right arm dangled lifelessly from his tiny form. His heart skipped a beat. "Sherlock."

Immediately, the little boy stopped hissing. When he looked up to see John pushing his way past the nurse, his eyes lit up. "John!" Sherlock launched towards the army doctor and then fell back on the pillows with a cry of pain when his distended arm hit the mattress. How the kid managed not to scream, John had no idea. Even he'd shed an accidental tear or two when his shoulder was dislocated in Afghanistan, and he was a soldier. Somehow, though, while Sherlock whimpered slightly, his pale eyes remained stubbornly dry.

John winced. "Careful with your arm, Sherlock! Can I sit on the bed?"

Sherlock scowled. "Obviously."

John sighed. "Will you bite me if I do?"

Sherlock considered this before shaking his head slowly. When John sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, Sherlock added quickly, "Don't touch me!"

"All right! I won't touch you." John struggled to think of a way to coax Sherlock closer. He needed things explained to him last time, but damn if he has enough time for that now. His arm's got to be out of socket, maybe broken, too. It needs to be popped back into socket and x-rayed, then set so the bones can grow back together properly—oh.

"Sherlock," John said slowly, "what do you know about bones?"

Instantly, Sherlock brightened. "You have lots of them inside of you, and you have to drink milk to keep them strong. When you die, your skin falls off and you turn into a skeleton, which is made of bones! I like bones."

A grin tugged at the edge of John's mouth. Fantastic. "I thought you might like them. Would you like to learn more about them?"

Sherlock nodded eagerly. "Yes, John! Tell me!"

"Okay. All right. Well…this," John reached out and tapped Sherlock's head, "is your cranium. It protects your brain from damage. When you're born, it's in several parts, but by now they've fused together."

Sherlock stretched out one chubby fist to rap John's head sharply. "Cr-ain-ium."

John touched a finger to Sherlock's tiny jaw. "Mandible."

With a smile, Sherlock slapped his left hand against John's cheek. "Mandible."

"Clavicle."

"Clavicle," Sherlock repeated, running his left hand's fingers over John's shoulder.

By then, the tiny boy was nearly on John's lap. The doctor gritted his teeth and reached carefully for Sherlock's mangled right arm. "Humerus—"

Sherlock inhaled sharply and scrambled away from John. Before he could make his escape, John caught him around the waist and trapped him on his lap. "All right. All right. It's fine, Sherlock. Does your humerus hurt?"

The toddler bit his lip and nodded. "And the rest of my arm hurts, too!"

"Radius and ulna," John murmured. "All right. Sherlock, I think your arm's out of socket. Your bones might also be broken, but I can't tell for sure unless I do an x-ray. Until I do an x-ray of your arm, I won't be able to fix it. Will you let me x-ray your arm? I'll let you look at the pictures when I'm done with them."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "I can look at my bones?"

"Sure. We have to get the x-ray first."

"All right."

Behind John, the nurse sighed with relief. "Good. Come here, sweetheart. I need to give you some pain medicine."

"John can do it—"

"No, Sherlock, let the nurse do it."

To John's surprise, Sherlock relented with a sigh. "Fine, but you have to stay here."

"Sure. I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock."

Once the nurse had convinced Sherlock to take two tiny pills, she reached out her arms towards him. "Let me carry you down to radiology, baby—"

"No!" Sherlock shrieked. "I want John! I want John to do it! I want John!"

John barely caught the boy when he launched himself into the doctor's arms. Sherlock yelped when his damaged arm slammed into John's side. Quickly, John pulled Sherlock's unbroken side closer to him. "Okay, okay, Sherlock. I'll carry you. I've got you. I'm not leaving."

As John stood up with him, Sherlock buried his face in John's shoulder. John wasn't sure if he could classify the gesture as affectionate or even fearful, since Sherlock seemed intent on sniffing him for reasons unknown to anyone but the little genius himself. Still, there was something strangely comforting about the way Sherlock's dark curls brushed against John's cheek while he carried the boy down to radiology.

Enough pain medicine pumped through Sherlock's veins by the time he lay underneath the x-ray machine that he hardly questioned the procedure. His pale eyes followed the movement of the machine curiously for a while. Then, when John lifted him up again, his eyelids fluttered shut. "All done? Look at x-rays?" he mumbled.

"I'm going to," John murmured. "I have to put you back in your bed first, though. I can't carry you and look at your x-rays properly."

As they approached room 221 again, Sherlock made a protesting noise and clung to John's neck with his good arm. "I want to see them. You said I could see, John!"

"Only after I'm done with them. Come on, Sherlock, let go—"

"Listen to your doctor, Sherlock. Let go of John!"

John startled badly at the sound of Mycroft's voice. Sherlock's older brother leaned against his closed umbrella at the foot of Sherlock's hospital bed. When Sherlock twisted around to scowl at him, Mycroft pointed the brolly at the smaller boy. "Behave yourself, Sherlock. You don't want to hurt your arm more."

"My humerus," Sherlock snapped. "Right, John?"

"Yes, your humerus. I'm going to look at pictures of your humerus once you let go of me." Before Sherlock could protest again, John pried his miniscule fingers away from his shirt collar and laid the toddler on the bed. When Sherlock hissed at him in reply, John shook his head. "Don't hiss at me. You know I'm right. I'll be back as soon as possible. Try to sleep a bit, all right? You'll feel better once you do."

"I'll take care of you while your John's gone," Mycroft said earnestly. Sherlock's scowl deepened, but he scooted up the bed to make room for Mycroft, who sat down far too primly for a seven-year-old boy. The older boy saluted John with his umbrella. "I'll watch over him, Dr. Watson. Go do your job."

John wasn't accustomed to taking orders from pudgy primary school children, but he found himself saluting easily in return. "Behave yourself," he told Sherlock sternly. Then he jogged up to radiology and turned on the light behind the x-ray images. "All right. What do we have here?"

Sherlock's shoulder didn't appear to be dislocated. Thank God for that. He's cranky enough as it is. I don't want to imagine trying to pop Sherlock's arm back into socket right now.

John's relief faded when he turned his attention to Sherlock's bones. The humerus had been snapped in half; while the ulna had escaped this fate, hairline fractures criss-crossed it and the radius in more places than John cared to count. Rage built in John beneath his incredulousness. Sherlock should be screaming, crying, in shock! Jesus Christ, it's like he's used to this kind of injury.

Like he's used to it…

"What do you have there, John?"

John nodded brusquely at the figure in the doorway. "Sarah. It's a two-year-old's x-rays. Sherlock Holmes. He came in a few weeks ago with a concussion and a crack in his forehead—apparently he fell down the stairs. No one's bothered explaining to me why his arm's been snapped this time, but I think I can guess."

The radiologist moved closer with a frown. "What are you thinking?"

John clenched and relaxed his fists once, twice, three times. I will not shout. I will not throw things. I am a soldier. I can remain calm. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded too light, too conversational, but John couldn't be bothered to care. "Did you know that in Afghanistan, some of the insurgents don't kill their captives? They have a little game they like to play with them instead. See, they work out which arm is the captive's good arm. Then…" John reached for Sarah's arm. Gently, he mimed tugging it out of socket and then snapping it again and again. "It never gets the chance to heal properly, see? Great punishment. Really damn smart on their part."

"This isn't Afghanistan, John."

A muscle in John's jaw jumped. "Oh, I hadn't noticed."

"I know you haven't been back for long—"

"You're my psychiatrist now? Nice to know."

"John." John could almost hear Sarah grinding her teeth. She took a deep breath before speaking. "It's not like you to jump to conclusions. Stop and think for a minute, all right? Are you listening to me? Stop and think about what you're saying. You've only just looked at these x-rays. I know you're concerned about your patient, so do the right thing and think about what else these breaks could be."

With a groan, John pinched the bridge of his nose. It wasn't like him to jump to conclusions, it really wasn't, but right now this didn't feel like much of a leap. "You look at the x-rays, Sarah. You look at them, and then you look at Sherlock, and then you tell me how you think a two-year-old boy managed to snap his arm like that."

For a long few minutes, Sarah studied the x-rays. John tried to, but now that he'd brought up the memory, his mind kept carrying him back to the desert. The achingly hot sun beat down on the sand while he pinned a trembling American soldier and popped his arm back into socket as best he could. The man retched before he dragged himself to his knees, forcing out a tale of broken arms and beatings and the bone-deep guilt that came of not knowing what happened to the rest of his team.

Sarah's sharp inhale startled John back to the present. "What?"

"You know we can't technically assume anything until you check his arm for bruising."

John nodded. "I'll do that while I'm setting it."

"Do you think it was his mum or his dad?"

"I don't know. Last time he was here, Sherlock said something about 'upsetting Mummy,' but with how clean that break is…" John's face twisted. "I've seen his mother. She's terrifying, looks like the fucking Queen…" John's gaze darkened more. "…but I can't see her being strong enough to break Sherlock's arm like that. It would take someone with more muscle."

"Have you met with either of his parents today?"

John shook his head. "It's just like last time. His mum didn't show up until it was time for Sherlock to be released from the hospital. She sent his seven-year-old brother to keep an eye on him instead."

Sarah frowned. "Well, I'll call their mother in and see if there's a father on the records. You go take care of that little boy."

"Right."

As John turned to leave, Sarah caught him by the shoulder. "Remember, calm down. You don't want Sherlock to sense that you're upset."

"Calm down?" When Sarah fixed him with a stern look, John took a deep breath. "Right. Calm. Calm is good. I have to stay calm for Sherlock."

"There you go."

In the hallway, Sarah and John went opposite directions; John followed the other doctor with his eyes until she reached the nurses' station and knocked on the glass partition. Outside of room 221, John paused. Though he didn't know what Sherlock's father looked like, he imagined a dark figure looming over a shaking, terrified Sherlock. Maybe Sherlock had upset his mother—by being too curious and breaking something valuable or setting one of her furs on fire or driving his older brother to distraction—but he was just a child! He was just a little kid! His curious nature wasn't a curse. It was a gift! Sherlock was brilliant!

Now, John was nothing like Sherlock. He'd never been the very top of any of his classes, although he'd come close in medical school and was one of the best fighters in his unit in Afghanistan. He wasn't nearly as fantastic as little Sherlock was. John's dad hadn't been the best man, either, not when he'd been drinking, but the most he'd done was take a belt to John. He'd never broken his bones or—or thrown him down the stairs!—because that had to be why Sherlock had been so wary of explaining his fall last time. He'd been pushed. His parents had pushed him down the stairs.

He's just a fucking kid!

Okay, Watson, deep breath. Suck it up, Lieutenant. You're not helping the kid like this. Hold that anger in, and do your job.

When John opened the door to Sherlock's room, both Holmes boys looked up quickly. Mycroft stopped talking to Sherlock abruptly. His keen gaze met John's worriedly. "Well?"

The fear in Mycroft's voice put John off-balance. Without meaning to, John studied older boy for any sign of unusual injuries before he spoke. "Your brother has a broken bone and a few fractures."

"Where?" Sherlock demanded from his seat on Mycroft's lap. "Which one is broken?"

For once, John didn't smile at the little boy's enthusiasm. "Your right humerus. Your right radius and ulna are fractured in multiple places."

Sherlock smiled triumphantly. "Knew it. It hurts a lot."

John quickly noted Sherlock's slurred words. The pain medicine must really have kicked in. Just to be sure, he asked Sherlock, "Does it hurt more than it did before the nurse gave you medicine?" When Sherlock shook his head negatively, John added, "Less?"

Sherlock nodded. "Still hurts, though. I'm tired, John."

"Good. That's good. Once I've set your arm, you can sleep for as long as you'd like."

"Set it?"

"Yeah, in plaster, so it'll heal properly. You have to take off your shirt first, though. Otherwise I can't get the cast on your arm."

"All of it? Take all of it off?"

"Either that, or…" John eyed Sherlock's fine silk button-down enviously before admitting, "I could cut off one sleeve."

Mycroft's eyes darkened. "Just one sleeve, please," he instructed. "Sherlock will be in too much pain otherwise."

"You'd better hold him still, then." Once Mycroft restrained Sherlock, John crouched in front of him and pulled out his pocketknife. Sherlock gasped appreciatively at the sight of the blade. Thankfully, he refrained from squirming while John stripped away the cloth around his injured arm.

As the sleeve fell away, John's grip on the knife tightened. Bruises like fingerprints marred Sherlock's porcelain arm in the perfect places to validate John's theory: darker welts on the upper arm, where someone with hands bigger than John's had grabbed and then snapped, and lighter marks on the lower arm, where Sherlock's attacker had found a less firm grip. John swallowed tightly but couldn't repress a curse. "Oh, Sherlock."

Sherlock's brow knitted. "John?"

"He's all right," Mycroft assured his befuddled brother. "He's just…"

"…just glad you got to the hospital when you did," John finished for him. He forced a smile. "I'll be able to fix this right up. Now," he said as he reached for the plaster, "would you like me to explain this to you, or…?"

Sherlock barely nodded. His eyelids slowly slid shut. Then he let out a tiny sigh. Mycroft made a surprised sound when his younger brother's head fell back against his chest. "He fell asleep! I've never seen him fall asleep like that before."

John scowled. "I doubt he'll sleep for long. There's only so much pain medicine can do. You might not want to hold him while I do this, Mycroft."

The boy's eyes widened with concern. "Will it injure him more if I do?"

"No, but Sherlock might injure you. He could kick or bite. I'm sure he'll flail around a bit. This isn't going to be fun for him, that's for sure."

"Oh. In that case, I'll keep holding him, thank you." Mycroft smiled slightly at John's curious look. "Sherlock is my younger brother. I worry about him constantly. I would prefer to stay close to him if that's all right with you, Doctor."

"Of course it is. You're a good big brother for doing that, Mycroft." As Mycroft flushed at the unexpected praise, John muttered, "Harry wouldn't have done it, that's for sure."

Mycroft's jaw dropped. "Your older brother wouldn't have stayed with you when you were injured?" Before John could correct him—dammit, Harriet, you make my life so difficult sometimes!—the boy continued, as if reciting from a book, "It is my duty to stay with Sherlock! He is my younger brother, likely the only one I will ever have, and therefore it is my responsibility to watch over him at all times."

"What about your mum and dad? Shouldn't they be watching over both of you?"

Instantly, Mycroft's expression froze. His gaze slipped away from John's, but not before the doctor caught the panic in the boy's eyes. "They have…more important things to worry about."

"More important than your brother? More important than you?" John laid the first of the cast on Sherlock's broken arm. The boy's yelp distracted John from finishing his thought. What could be more important than taking care of your kids?

Especially Sherlock.

Even Mycroft.

After Sherlock's arm was bound, the little boy sank into an uneasy sleep with Mycroft's umbrella spread over his head. The umbrella's owner stood a silent vigil at the foot of Sherlock's bed. John watched them both for as long as he could. He'd already ignored his pager twice. When it once again beeped insistently, he sighed. "I have to check on another patient. I'll be back as soon as that's through. I promise."

"Don't promise," Mycroft said quietly. "Don't promise something if you can't keep your promise. It isn't kind."

"I won't. I'll be back."

Mycroft studied John out of the corner of his eye. John pretended not to notice and turned to leave. Before he could reach the door, though, a chubby hand slipped into his. Mycroft pulled away with a blush as soon as John faced him again. John raised an eyebrow at him. "What?"

For once, Mycroft seemed lost for words. "I, um." He cleared his throat. "Thank you for being so patient with my brother. I know he can be…obnoxious."

"Sure he can be. So can everyone else. It's all right. He's a brilliant kid. So are you, you know." John snorted at Mycroft's stunned expression. "Yeah, you're both amazing. Quite…spectacular. I think you might be two of the most intelligent people I've ever met."

Mycroft's stammered thank-you disappeared as a disapproving voice sounded from the doorway. "You obviously haven't kept the best company, then, Doctor."

John's spine stiffened. He turned slowly to hide his unease. The man in the shadows was tall and imposing. His hands are huge. Bloody hell. He stifled the reflex to reach for a non-existent gun. Illegal, shooting people here, even if he did have his rifle. Bit unfortunate, that. Unconsciously, John squared his shoulders before he looked up into the giant man's icy gaze. "Excuse me, Mr. Holmes?"

"Very good, Dr. Watson. You did get through medical school on your own merit, then. You're quite short for military training, though. Is that what you bribed your way into, or has the RAMC lowered their standards?" While John coloured, Mr. Holmes looked over his head. "Hello, Mycroft. Thank you for watching your brother. I will handle everything from here. You may go down to the cafeteria now."

Instantly, Mycroft flinched. "I'm not hungry," he whispered to the floor.

"Really? How uncharacteristic. And how is your little brother? Sherlock, are you really asleep?" When the toddler didn't reply, Mr. Holmes cocked his head.

"Intriguing. So it takes stress combined with pain medicine stronger than paracetamol to get you to sleep properly. I should keep that in mind for future reference."

"No. You should stay away from him," John growled.

Mr. Holmes' mouth quirked in amusement. "Sherlock is my son. I will do with him as I wish."

"No, you won't!" When Mr. Holmes stepped closer to the hospital bed, John placed himself between Sherlock's father and Sherlock's prone form. Adrenaline forced his hands into tight fists. "I'd leave now if I were you."

Mr. Holmes' eyebrows crept upward. "Oh? What will you do to me if I don't?"

"John's a soldier," Mycroft said suddenly from his spot in the corner. "He's killed people, Father. He's dangerous! Don't test him."

"Dangerous? This man?"

"Oh, God, yes," John snarled. "I am dangerous to bastards who hurt little kids. Now get out of this room."

Mr. Holmes sniffed. "Is that a threat?"

John's gaze wandered around the room for a moment before he stood up even straighter, his back a rigid line. "Yes, sir, it is a threat. I'm glad you're intelligent enough to have noticed. Good deduction."

"I could have you arrested for that, you know, threatening a government official and all."

John shrugged slightly. "Doesn't bother me."

"Why not? Enlighten me, Second Lieutenant. An arrest could get you discharged."

"Yeah, well, some things are worth that risk." John shot a look at Sherlock, slumbering on in the hospital bed, and Mycroft, staring at the two men with his mouth hanging open. When he turned back to Mr. Holmes, his voiced cracked through the room. "An arrest could get you locked up. Good riddance."

"And why would I be arrested?"

John let a wild grin spread over his face. He didn't trust his voice not to squeak, so instead he silently tilted his head in the direction of the doorway, where Dr. Sarah Sawyer and a sturdy-looking DS from Scotland Yard waited with handcuffs for Mr. Holmes.

Author's notes:

This story is not really Britpicked. I'm about as American as they come (Midwest, baby!), but I've tried my best to keep this story on its side of the pond. Tell me if I've messed anything up too badly, and I'll fix it. I'm also not a doctor or a soldier. I've never been to Afghanistan. All I know of these occupations and that place comes from the Internet and my friends who are U.S. Marines. If I'm inaccurate in these areas, tell me what to fix and how to fix it, and I will.

Ages: I know that, in canon, Mycroft is seven years older than Sherlock. However, for this story, I thought he ought to be a bit younger. Most nine-year-old boys I know wouldn't trust John as willingly as I need Mycroft to trust John. Some seven-year-olds might. Sherlock is two. Mycroft is seven. John is in his twenties. I'll tell you more about everyone's ages as it's needed.

Oh, by the way, HI! I'm Icey, or Kirsti if you prefer. Nice to meet all of you. There are so many of you! I'm surprised. I'm just writing this because the plot won't leave me alone, and neither will the lovely teacrumpetsandjam (find her on tumblr. She's brilliant). Thank you for reading!