Sherlock waited, his hands raised, Mycrofts' men on the floor, hands behind their heads. The captor walked through an ocean of guns, his own one still pressed at the girl's temple. No exit. No chance. Nothing. The detective simulated scenario after scenario, rushing through his head, but none ended well. Not here. Not with this constellation. Not with those tokens on the board. Eight feet close, Sherlock sighed and shook his head. "You scare her. She's crying."

The girl's shoulders slightly went up and down.

Sherlock crouched down and reached out for the her. "There's no need to put the gun against her head. You are close enough to shoot both of us any time you want."

The captor hesitated, wanted to answer, but when Phoebe sobbed and cried even louder, he harshly pushed her towards the detective, pointing his gun at her back. "Don't do anything stupid."

Sherlock grabbed her tiny hands and pulled her into what at first seemed to be a hug. But then he nodded, turned her around and pressed her on the ground, covering her with his own body. "Stay down", he whispered. The captor looked at his hostages, irritated and confused, glanced at the troop still sitting on the ground, hands behind their heads, and snorted in surprise and disbelieve, as a shot echoed through the hall. Within the blink of an eye, his body thudded on the ground, his gun slithered over the floor, accompanied by another thud. And then, silence fell.

Seconds transformed into minutes, minutes into hours, hours into eternity.

A wave of nausea descended upon Sherlock. His skin itched insomuch that he wanted to scratch it with his finger nails, pressure grew in his head, mashing his brain, noise ringing in his ears, but his limbs so leaden that he just couldn't move. He closed his eyes, saw John, slowly turning the corner, his face, all red and swollen, a bloody hand holding a gun, calmly aiming at the captor. Saw John silently nodding. Saw the girl running towards him, away from the captor. Saw John, nodding again, leaving cover, a smile on his face.

Heard two thuds.

"Mr. Holmes?"

Someone grabbed his shoulder, pulled him upwards. Sherlock blinked and looked at the man. Fraiser, had worked for Mycroft for more than twenty years, married, two children, a son in law, three grandchildren. Fraiser eyed him up, searching for injuries. "Are you alright, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock nodded, swallowed.

Freddy Donovan passed by, a small Asian, very focused, talking to his radio. "Holmes, Watson and a civilian saved. Need a stretcher, Watson injured. Need body bags."

Injured.

This year's understatement.

Sherlock ditched Fraiser and ran to John who was lying on the ground, eyes closed, breathing heavily, unsteady. He knelt down, staring at his friend, cataloguing his injuries. In the corner of his eye, he saw the girl kneeling down next to him, carefully taking John's right hand, squeezing it softly. "You did well", Sherlock complimented her and gently put two fingers on John's neck to take his pulse. Racing and weak, as expected. Luckily, it wouldn't take long for the medical staff to arrive. "Crying by command. Not bad, not at all", he added, feeling urged to talk to her. Kids never were his strong suit. They were so … unpredictable.

"Thank you", she quietly replied, not looking at him, but John.

"You are welcome."

"Is he … is he dying?"

Sherlock glanced at her. The tears which now ran down her cheeks were different. She didn't whine, didn't cry aloud, just cried silently, pursing her lips, holding John's hand. He must have made hell of an impression on her. "No, he's not. He's not the kind of guy who heroically saves the day and then dies."

"What kind of guy is he then?"

"The down-to-earth sort of guy. Practical."

The girl sniveled, but smiled. And Sherlock – returned the smile.

Sudden noises, voices, people running towards them, ended their warm and understanding silence.

John's eyelids flickered and Sherlock laid his hand on his friend's shoulder, keeping him on the ground. "Easy, John. Don't make things worse."

"John? What the hell", a female doctor shouted, browsing over John's tortured body. She grabbed a soft collar and carefully put it around John's neck. "Sir, you need to step back", another doctor said and nudged Sherlock aside. He watched them lifting John on the stretcher, exchanging orders, instructions, insights. Then, they shoved the stretcher with John on it towards the doors and it went quiet again.

"Phoebe Kincaid? Come with me. Your mother is worried sick", a tall, but somehow uneven man said.

The girl looked up at Sherlock and he nodded. "Go. It's fine."

The tall man took Phoebe's hand and they walked along the corridor. Sherlock headed the other direction and entered the dissecting room which was – putting it mildly – a mess. Mycrofts' men were already bagging the corpses. Dark blood clustered to a puddle, an abandoned injection needle at center. Aside, two flasks stood on the ground. Sherlock crouched down, read the labels and softly shook his head. The silent, good doctor had planned to blow up this room. At least parts of it. Deep waters …

The room was crowded, but quiet, when Mycroft entered. He saw Mary sitting close to John's bed, holding his right hand, watching his chest raise and lower with every breath of air; a little girl sat next to her, a big teddy bear on her lap. It was a quite cheep one from the gift shop downstairs. One of his men had bought it for her while she told Fraiser what she knew about the events.

Lestrade, who had been present when the girl was questioned, stood in one of the corners, his eyes tired, his face pale. The DI was rumored to sleep in his office for at least two weeks. Perhaps, he finally left his still cheating wife. But mainly, he seemed candidly worried about Dr. Watson.

Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson stood next to DI Lestrade, Sherlock leaning against the wall, his landlady sitting in a chair, a cup of tea in her hands. Most of the tea was still in the cup, not steaming any more. She must have been sitting here for quite a while, to worried or nervous to find confidence in drinking a decent cup of tea.

"Well, how is my dear husband?", Mycroft finally asked, his voice lowered, staring at his brother. He was surprised to see Sherlock briefly smile, but masked his amazement. Instead, he took a closer look at the girl. Fraiser was right, there were some similarities. The dark hair, the pale complexion, here eyes. It was easy to believe them to be related. But John Watson being his beloved husband? He wondered, how Sherlock managed to make this seem plausible.

"He's been stabbed, shot at and beaten. Besides that, he's fine", Mary answered, her eyes fixed on John. "Sherlock promised there would be no more surprising visitors tonight."

Mycroft nodded deliberately. "It has been taken care of. Guards are watching this door and are patrolling outside the clinic. But I'm afraid, the doctors insist on everyone inside this room leaving immediately – except the patient who needs to rest." He glanced at the girl. "Your mother is waiting for you, young lady."

Phoebe nodded, stood up and placed the teddy on the bedside cabinet. Then, she turned around and walked to the door, but stopped in front of Mycroft. She cocked her head, curiously looking at him, and asked: "If I become a spy, are you okay with me using Lucinda Serena Holmes as my spy name?"

Mycroft couldn't stop his lips from turning into a smile. "It would be an honor." He watched Phoebe smiling and leaving the room. "If everyone else would be so kind and follow the young lady's example."

Mary kissed John, squeezed his hand for one last time and stood up. She joined Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, who offered them a ride back home. The door shut close and silence filled the room once again.

"Is he going to die?", Sherlock asked, while he slowly paced to John's bed and sat down.

The question surprised Mycroft as well as the exhausted look on his brother's face. It had been a rough day, though, but usually, Sherlock seemed to absorb the energy of the events that happened around him – the faster and riskier they were, a fortiori spirited his brother was. Something seemed to bother his younger brother. Mycroft stepped to the foot of the bed and uncurled his tie. "We are all born to die, aren't we?"

"I'm not interested in philosophy, Mycroft", Sherlock sharply countered. "Did the doctors tell you that he is going to die?"

"Why do you care? You've never bin interested in other peoples' opinions. Trust your own mind, you keep saying."

"Mycroft", Sherlock began, but his voice faded.

Mycroft watched his younger brother carefully. Sherlock always trusted his mind, his senses. The answer was obvious, so why did he seem to be unsure, even scared of what he saw? "You doubt your own deductions."

"I'm simply not a doctor."

"That never ever stopped you before. Why don't you just admit that he's influencing you. That even the great Sherlock Holmes can be scared when a friend's life is at risk."

"Because such a statement wouldn't change anything about whether John is going to die tonight or not." Sherlock closed his eyes. "So can you just for once in my life not behave like a lesson teaching mother, but like my caring brother and tell me what the doctors said?"

Mycroft sighed and looked at John, the face a colorful composition of shades of green, blue and violet. Most of his body was covered by a white blanket which made him look fragile and weak, what was disconcerting and confusing. Whenever Mycroft had seen Sherlock and John together, John was the one who appeared to be robust and unshakeable. He always worried about his little brother, but never even thought about what could happen to John. Perhaps, he just didn't want to think about it, because he couldn't carry the burden of feeling responsible for another person in his life. Perhaps, when this unusual partnership started, he thought Sherlock would get bored of John and drop him sooner or later. But no, there he was, injured and defenseless, and forced Sherlock into the role of a supporting, helping friend.

Mycroft straightened up, folding his arms behind his back. "He's going to walk over this planet with only eleven pairs of ribs, they had to remove a shattered pair – but he's going to walk."

"Are they sure about this?"

"Yes, they are. Unfortunately, they are not sure about his left hand and if he will be able to perform as a doctor. But I guess, with your return from the dead, him working as a doctor is decrepit anyway, isn't it."

"I wouldn't take that for granted."

Mycroft cocked his head and frowned. "Still trouble in Baker Paradise?"

"We didn't have any time to talk about it. He passed out after he had shot Grayston. And I'm afraid, waking him up right now won't do any good."

"Go home and get some sleep. And eat something. I heard there's actually food in the fridge since you left."

"He never liked the head in the fridge." Sherlock glanced at John and nodded. "Just a couple of more minutes."

Mycroft went to the door, laid his fingers on the door knob and said: "I'll ask the nurse for a pillow and a blanket." Then he left the room and closed the door.

Hi there! Thanks for reading, following, reviewing! And thanks for "barain" and "crane", don't know what I was thinking. Perhaps that I always wanted to drive a crane. )