A/N: Apologies for the delay, really wanted to get this right! I am pleased with it, I hope you are too!
Chapter Sixteen: The Distance In-between.
If you asked him, Mycroft wouldn't be able to tell you what he had been doing when Sherlock had flown into the Diogenes – anxiety just glimmering behind an otherwise impassive expression – and grabbed Mycroft's arm with a muttered, "Lestrade, hospital, come." Nor could Mycroft accurately recall the time between being grabbed and ending up sitting in the backseat of the car Anthea just happened to have brought round just when it was needed.
She glanced behind with the same look of silent worry that Sherlock had before pulling away without even asking where it was she was taking them, attacking the London traffic with practised aggression.
He does remember Sherlock's hand on his back which pushed him into his seat and the gradual return to his senses as every traffic light fought against their journey to the hospital. He remembers being aware that his hands were trembling in his lap and that his eyes, for some reason, were refusing to focus on one particular thing, matching his erratic thoughts as the anaesthesia of shock began to wear away.
"What happened?" he asked eventually, his own voice loud and echoing in his ears.
Sherlock's voice was low and impassive, "There was an accident," he informed him, his eyes meeting Mycroft's unwaveringly. "On the way back from the case, we encountered a domestic. Lestrade, in his infinite wisdom, decided to interfere and, in doing so, managed to get himself shot. He took a bullet to the chest. John's with him at the hospital now. His condition's stable," Sherlock added in answer to the question that Mycroft was too afraid to ask. "He was unconscious when I left to come here, but they are certain there will be no lasting damage."
Mycroft turned his face away towards the window, doing his best to rationally process this information and breathe at the same time. It was not something that was coming very easily.
"He'll be okay," Sherlock repeated with more assertion. "Mycroft, there's no use panicking. You'll be of no use to him in a state."
'What use will I be anyway?' Mycroft felt himself nod, chewing intently on the tip of his thumb.
The ride to the hospital should've taken no more than fifteen minutes, but it seemed that fate was transpiring against them with buses remaining tenaciously in front of them, taxis misbehaving on all sides, seemingly suicidal pedestrians – London was doing absolutely nothing to sedate Mycroft's nerves.
Beside him, Sherlock was also growing restless. "You'd think, with all your hard-earned omnipotence, that you'd be able to sort out all these bloody roads..." He leaned forward to address Anthea, "We'll get out here at the next set of lights. This is ridiculous."
She glanced doubtfully at him in the rear-view mirror. "Are you sure?" she tilted her head subtly in her employer's direction with a question arch of an eyebrow.
"Well, it's certainly a more productive use of our time than sitting here being useless," Sherlock retorted, glaring.
"Right you are." Anthea glanced quickly at the traffic behind her and, in one swift manoeuvre, pulled up to the curb. "I'll drive around and find somewhere to park, then meet you there."
Sherlock gave no indication that he had heard her as he shoved open the door – ignoring the loud protest of a passing cyclist who was almost knocked from their bike – and strode around to Mycroft's side, pulling his brother out of the car.
He kept a firm grip on his arm as Mycroft staggered onto the pavement, looking hopelessly around him as Anthea pulled away and disappeared into a sea of sleek, black cars. "My umbrella...where's my umbrella?"
In a rare display of consideration, Sherlock threaded his brother's arm through his own. "I'll have to stand in for it for the time being. Hopefully I'll do an adequate job."
Mycroft had just enough time to shoot him a brief, grateful look before Sherlock tugged him along and they set off at the fastest walk they could manage without breaking into a jog – blinkered to the pedestrians having to jump out of the way as they sped down the street.
John was waiting for them in the waiting room, face haggard and lined with anxiety. He said nothing as he rose to greet the brothers, although it was obvious from the uncomfortable way his eyes flicked from one Holmes to the other that there was distasteful news on the tip of his tongue that he was more than a little reluctant to impart.
Mycroft felt his grip on Sherlock's arm tighten and his heart take an uncomfortable plummet.
"What? What is it?" Sherlock demanded for the both of them.
"I'm afraid you can't go in," said John, looking apologetically at Mycroft. "And the doctors are under no obligation to even let us see him, let alone give us any information."
Mycroft stared, finding it incredibly difficult to untangle John's words into a coherent sentence and not being particularly happy with the result when he finally managed it. "Why?"
Doctor Watson hesitated, then, in a strained voice edged with sympathy, "Caroline is with him."
If you asked him, Mycroft wouldn't be able to tell you exactly what it was he felt at this news, nor what his rationale for breaking free of his brother and marching purposefully through the swinging door and down the hall.
His head whipped left and right as he passed by each door, peering swiftly through each small window to scrutinize the room it looked into, before grinding to a halt – breathless from the exertion and unfamiliar emotions.
Fingers pressing down upon the shallow ledge of the window, Mycroft couldn't help but stare in on the scene from the other side of the glass – the familiar form of Gregory lay as though on display on an elevated hospital bed, a white sheet tucked neatly around him, arms positioned perfectly by his side. He looked like a sculpture, an unconvincing copy of the subject... Mycroft half expected the real Gregory to sidle up beside him with a light laugh and a flippant, "It doesn't look remotely like me, does it?"
What made it even less convincing, was the woman seated beside the ... body; back turned towards the door, Caroline sat hunched by her ex-husband's bedside, her hand resting on his, head bowed.
'That ought to be me,' was Mycroft instant reaction, taking himself by surprise as all the feelings that had been lurking in the back of his mind finally leapt to the front.
The proverbial bolt of lightning...
Biting his lip and raising his chin, the only thing Mycroft was sure of was that it felt right as his long fingers curled around the door-handle and pressed down with his palm.
"Excuse me? Can I help you?"
Startled, Mycroft released the handle and spun around to come face to face with the unwelcoming expression of an exceptionally short, round nurse, who informed him – on no uncertain terms – that, "You can't go in there. Family only. Are you a relative of Mr Lestrade?"
"Detective Inspector," Mycroft corrected without thinking, not quite sure why it mattered.
She raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"He is Detective Inspector Lestrade, not Mister."
"I wasn't asking about for his identity, I was asking for yours."
"I'm-" Mycroft glanced through the window once more – Caroline, obviously distracted by their voices, was now staring directly back at him.
This was not something he could do.
"I'm no one," he told the nurse. "Forgive me."
It was a struggle to keep his head up as he walked back down the hall from the direction he had come – the foreign feeling of utter rejection combined with the thought of the pitying look he would inevitably receive from Doctor Watson and the cynical one Sherlock would shoot him was close to unbearable.
"Excuse me! Excuse me!"
It took the call to be repeated before Mycroft realised that it was being directed towards him. He turned to see the slight form of Caroline Jacobs half-jogging down the linoleum towards him, looking as dishevelled as he felt. He despised how he knew her without ever having met her, although this woman – face worn with anxiety – was a far cry from well-dressed, brightly made-up figure from the photographs he had analysed six months ago.
Caroline did not introduce herself when she reached him – clearly as familiar with his identity as he was with hers – rather, she stood before him half a foot shorter and with an expression of deep scrutiny rather than the angry one Mycroft would have expected from a woman in her position.
"I just wanted to tell you," she said breathlessly, arms folded tight across her chest, "thank you for being there for Greg recently, but he is coming home with me once they release him."
It had been the news that Mycroft had been anticipating, although that made it no easier to hear.
"We're going to make another go at it," she continued, raising her chin to meet Mycroft's eyes squarely. "It's funny how almost losing something makes you realise how important it actually is to you, isn't it?" Caroline's blithe laugh made Mycroft wince internally.
He couldn't help himself, " 'Almost'?"
The amicable countenance wavered briefly. "Greg's recuperation period will give us the time we need to sort everything out between us," she said curtly, ignoring Mycroft's comment. "I want to give him the chance to fix things."
"He's conscious, then?"
"Pardon?"
Mycroft didn't even attempt to mask the bite in his tone. "I presume, Miss Jacobs, from your adamant intentions, that you conversed with Detective Inspector Lestrade and this is something you have agreed upon together?"
Caroline's eyes narrowed. "I know how to look after him. He deserves the best, Mr Holmes, and he knows that the best is to be at home, with his wife."
Mycroft's gaze fell to her left hand which was still conspicuously lacking in any sort of wedding band.
"Feelings don't just disappear," she went on defensively, as though Mycroft was arguing anything to the contrary. "Twenty years of love can't just be forgotten in six months. There is still time for us."
Any emotion within Mycroft now froze into ice. Fingers flexing by his side, he spoke coldly, "You forfeited any time you may have had when you chose to betray the man who loved you. If you were even fractionally sincere in your wish for his happiness, you would not be here now."
Blood rushed to her face. "Somebody had to be! I am his wife, it is my-"
"Why you insist upon speaking of your marriage in the present tense is really beyond me," Mycroft cut across her smoothly, getting into his stride as contempt overrode any other less practical emotion; contempt was something he was comfortable with. "It is neither healthy for you, nor your former husband, nor, in fact, anybody else, to insist upon labouring under such delusions."
"Whether it is a delusion or not," Caroline responded coolly, "the fact remains, that the hospital called me. It is also the case, no matter what you seem to think, that my say when it comes to Greg weighs significantly more than yours. Whatever there may or may not be between my husband and me, I am not the one with the biggest delusions here, Mr Holmes." She did not smile, but her tone was triumphant as she finally got to the crux of what she had called him back to say. "Regardless of anything else, the fact remains that it will be me beside him when he wakes, not you." And, with a final, "It was a pleasure to finally meet you," Caroline turned on her heel to return to Greg.
"Tea?"
A plastic cup was pressed into the hand Mycroft was not using to brace himself against the outside wall of the hospital. He accepted it gratefully and raised it, shaking, to his lips – it was vile and tasted like machines, but it was hot and wet, and surely that was all that mattered.
Mycroft felt like crying.
Regarding his brother for a moment with a deep frown, Sherlock pulled him round to the deserted side of the building and whipped out a half-finished packet of Windsor Blue, from which he took two.
"I thought you were giving up?" Mycroft asked dully as Sherlock lit up.
The other man shrugged and passed the cigarette to him before lighting his own with a mumbled, "Don't tell John."
Mycroft smiled thinly and drew hard on the filter, holding the smoke in his mouth for a fraction too long before letting it escape in a thin stream. The nicotine was good, providing just a little blessed relief from the discomfort of his mind.
The brothers stood together in companionable silence for several long drawn-out minutes, then – discarding his cigarette butt – Mycroft looked sideways at Sherlock and asked softly, almost reluctantly, "How did you know?"
Sherlock's eyes flicked to meet his, his answer a simple, "John."
Deflated, Mycroft glanced away again. "Ah."
"But," Sherlock conceded, lighting him another, "it was fairly obvious."
Mycroft accepted the cigarette with a troubled frown, not desperately keen to hear Sherlock's reasoning but knowing he was going to get it anyway.
"You've lost half a stone in the last fortnight," Sherlock pointed out, although his tone was more concerned than the familiar jibe which Mycroft had been anticipating. "It's not the same," he continued softly. Mycroft kept his gaze averted and the filter firmly between his lips. "As before, I mean. Lestrade's not like that."
A pained expression crossed the elder Holmes' face. "I know that," he muttered, attempting to sip his tea. "Rationally."
"But irrationally?"
Mycroft sighed. "Irrationally, I can't help it. I don't know how else to..." stopping abruptly, he shook his head, feeling utterly wretched. "This is why I don't do this," he muttered viciously, fist clenching around the flimsy cup in his hand. "I despise the way I am and I hate the person I become. Look at me," he held out a trembling hand for Sherlock's analysis, "this is an illogical reaction and I don't understand it. Ever since...ever since this nonsense began, the connection between my mind and body has become disjointed, and I don't know how to..." he swallowed hard, sincerely wishing he had never begun this conversation, "do it properly."
"But other people manage," Sherlock pointed out. "It's never something that has appealed to me personally, but there must be something in it. Look," he stepped around to stand before his brother who met his eyes willingly – desperate for any small comfort Sherlock was able to provide. "You've had one experience which was..." he sighed, "less than good. You cannot base everything you know on that, Mycroft. Apparently, it is something that takes practise – something you haven't had. You cannot expect to just be able to do it..." voice tapering away, Sherlock frowned – frustrated that his advice was flimsy at best, having had even less firsthand experience of 'relationships of a romantic sort' than his brother. He shrugged and finished with an earnest, "You've got to give yourself a chance."
Mycroft gave a dry chuckle, sending a cloud of smoke into the air between them. "That's precisely the advice Harry gave me."
Sherlock's expression darkened several degrees, jaw tightening. "You've seen him?"
"Briefly," Mycroft admitted. "It was...insightful."
"Oh yes?"
"Well," his tone was light, almost casual, as though they merely discussing gossip of the hour, "it confirmed everything I already knew."
Sherlock's, on the other hand, was frozen. "And that is?"
"That it is better not to put myself in that position a second time." Not wanting to see the expression on his brother's face, Mycroft pressed his lips shut around the end of his cigarette and concentrated on the smouldering ash which had almost reached his finger-tips.
"He said that?" Sherlock's disgust was almost physical. "How can you pay any attention to that man when he-"
"He didn't say anything of the sort," Mycroft snapped back, glaring at his brother. "The content of the conversation is, I believe, irrelevant. It is rather... the feelings it induced which is more to the point."
Sherlock raised a cynical eyebrow. "The 'feelings it induced' were, no doubt, the ones you expected and, therefore, the entire meeting was a self-fulfilling prophecy," he said curtly. "I will say this once and only once, but perhaps Harry is right – you need to give yourself a chance to move forward. What's done is done etcetera, you can't let something that happened two decades ago dictate your life now."
Mycroft winced and regarded the smouldering end of his cigarette before discarding it with a practised flick. "It isn't as simple as that, Sherlock. And besides," he added before Sherlock had a chance to argue, "it is of no importance now; when he awakes, Gregory will return to Caroline and that will be that."
Something twitched within him, the cup slipped from his fingers, and it was only Sherlock slipping a quick arm around his waist that kept him from falling into the puddle of lukewarm tea as Mycroft staggered sideways, head and heart too heavy to hold up alone.
"How many times do I have to tell you," he heard Sherlock murmur in his ear using the same tone of impatience usually reserved for John, "it won't be the same. Lestrade isn't like that. The likelihood of it happening twice is incredibly low, to say the least, and surely you have learnt by now that he is never anything less than sincere?"
Lacking the energy required to formulate any sort of response in his head, let alone out loud, Mycroft simply leant his head against his brother's shoulder and stood waiting for the moment to pass in the hope that the next one would be more bearable.
It was better, he decided, pressing his eyes shut, that it should end before it really began. However this felt now was nothing compared to how it would potentially be in a month, six months, a year down the line...
In a considerate silence, reserved only for the most critical of circumstances, Sherlock stood with his arm around his brother's shoulders and prepared himself to wait indefinitely something happened to make Mycroft understand what – to him – was both obvious and inevitable.
It came eventually in the form of Doctor Watson.
He appeared around the corner of the building with a frustrated, "For god sake, there you are!"
Sherlock glared at the intruder as Mycroft raised his head and attempted to support his own weight. "What?"
The glare ricocheted back at him before John directed his attention towards Mycroft, expression softening as he spoke, "Greg's awake and is wondering if you're still around."
His stomach flipped with relief and anxiety, the dryness of his mouth making it a struggle to work the question free of his lips, "Caroline?"
"Gone," said John with the very slightest of smiles. "I followed her out to come find you."
Mycroft felt Sherlock chuckle in triumph. "Hate to say it, brother..."
He didn't wait to hear it.
"You stink of smoke."
"And you look like death."
"I suppose neither of us win, then."
"I suppose so."
They shared a smile, fingers woven together for better reasons than because 'that's what one does by the bedside of a man who's been shot'. Each man's grip on the other was equal in strength and intent; the hesitation as Mycroft leant down lasting for barely a second.
They lingered there for a moment – nose to nose in silent negotiation – before, finally, closing the distance between them with a kiss.