I.
Date? I don't know. It's dark and the traffic is too damn slow!
III.
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Oh my God. Oh, Sherlock!
II.
Sherlock was shot? By whom? Magnussen is not harmful. Not in that way. He wouldn't have shot Sherlock. The report said Magnussen did not see his intruder. Of course he did. He's just waiting for the right price. I'll have to have a word with him about that.
Maybe Sherlock was right. Maybe it is time that we took him down. If he hurt my brother, then I will destroy him without mercy. I will fire bomb his house and burn Appledore to the ground. But first. Sherlock. How is Sherlock doing?
IV.
"My brother. How is he?"
"He's being rolled into the operating room now, sir."
Make sure that he is in the room with the observation theatre. I will be there in five minutes."
"Yes sir. I am telling them now."
II.
The traffic! I should have taken a helicopter. Should I call for one now? No, it wouldn't be faster at this point. If I cut across that alley, I would only have to walk about three blocks to reach the hospital. Should I get out? It's what Sherlock would do, but sadly I am nowhere as fit as my brother was... is. We're moving. Another red light. It's only one block away.
IV.
"Let me out here. I'll walk."
Mycroft climbs out of the car. He clutches his coat closed against the chill wind. Cars rush by. Horns blare, and tires splash water as Mycroft strides rapidly down the sidewalk. There are people all around him. He observes them even though he does not wish to.
III.
Carpenter, late for work. Child wanting the candy in the store window. His mother, eager to get home. She is a school teacher who writes porn in her spare time. A woman, unhappy due to a failed love affair, food bag clutched in her hand containing icecream. A young man looking at her legs. She will never notice him, will never believe that others find her attractive.
II.
The pathos of the common man. How can Sherlock stand to watch it day in and day out?
Sherlock!
IV.
Mycroft walks into the emergency room moments before the car pulls up. He pulls his phone out.
"Where?"
"I'll meet you at the door, sir."
The assistant shows him to the entrance of the observation room The door is plain and white. There is a sliding sign beside it which says: Operation in progress, No admittance.
He has no problem passing signs labeled 'no admittance'. In fact, such signs have attracted him from a young age. He has always cherished the power to pass by signs that would hold back others, but here, on the threshold, he hesitates.
II.
What if... No. best go in and find out.
IV.
He turns the handle.
The room is wide and dark. Light spills in through the glass revealing a flurry of people around an operating table. There is someone in the room with him, standing beside the glass. John. Of course he would be here.
Mycroft moves forward to stand beside him. John doesn't even spare him a glance as he focuses his attention on the drama below. Despite the high angle, Sherlock is completely obscured by the heads of the doctors and nurses working on him. Sounds filter in through the speakers, voices agitated and a bit fatigued.
The doctor stands straight and steps back. The others follow his example, and Mycroft finally sees Sherlock. He is lying bare-chested on the table. He looks so vulnerable and naked. There is a small hole in the center of his chest.
"I'm going to call it," the surgeon says. "Time?"
The nurse turns to look at the clock and everything stops.
II.
Sherlock is dead.
I.
...
III.
...
IV.
...
II.
"It's beating!"
II.
Who was that? John? What is happening?
IV.
"It's beating! His heart is beating," John says rushing over to the intercom. He punches the button and yells into it, "He's alive! Look at the display. His heart!"
They all turn back to the body, flurry starting again. Mycroft notices that his mouth is open, so he closes it, frowning nervously as he clutches the handle of his umbrella much too tightly.
He waits, watching until it is clear that Sherlock is safe, that Sherlock will probably recover. He lets out the breath that he has been holding for all of this time and then steps back, turns and walk out through the door.
He waves away Anthea who is sitting outside waiting and walks down the hall toward the cafeteria. He purchases a coffee and sits at a small table seeing nothing as he tries to calm himself.
All of his channels seem to be off line. He hasn't felt this way since he was a boy. He had forgotten what it was like to look at the world sequentially, seeing only one thing at a time instead of many. Now he watches his hands wrapped around a cheap paper cup. The warmth seeps through his fingers. His thoughts are as slow as tectonic plates. In his mind's eye, he sees a boy with curly black hair climbing the high branches of a tree. The bright light of summer sun shines through the fluttering leaves which glow in lighter and darker shades of green.
Sherlock was always so free-spirited and so careless.
Sherlock stepped on a thin branch which broke. He dropped, twigs snapping, refusing to hold his weight. Then his slide is stopped by a limb. He clutched it with his fingers as Mycroft ran toward him. His fingers slipped, and he fell onto Mycroft who caught him, falling to the ground under his weight, a knee jabbed painfully into his abdomen. He rolled on his side. Sherlock sat on the grass beside him.
Mycroft sucked in a breath. "Sherlock, do be more careful. You could have broken something."
Sherlock shrugged. "Good thing you like to eat so much. If you were as thin as mummy, you wouldn't have been so soft to land on."
"A 'thank you' wouldn't go amiss," he said clutching at his belly. Sherlock rose to his feet and dusted the twigs and bits of grass from his knees. He grinned and then began to run toward the house.
"Thank you!" Sherlock yelled over his shoulder, "For having seconds on that cake last week."
Mycroft watched him retreat and wondered how often he would be there to catch him.
He had promised himself that he would always be there, but he hadn't been there today, and Sherlock had almost died.
.
Someone sat down in the chair across from him.
"Hello Mycroft,"
"John."
"Sherlock is stable now. They removed the bullet, and he's been placed in a recovery room."
Mycroft nodded not trusting his voice yet.
"The wound was clean, and the bullet missed the heart entirely. He should make a full recovery."
Mycroft looked up. Relief was in all of John's features. This conveyed Sherlock's state much more than words did. Mycroft breathed out.
"What happened?" Mycroft asked.
"He was shot."
"By whom?"
"I don't know. Someone had broken into Magnussen's office. He went ahead of me. I was looking after Janine, and then I heard a thump. I rushed up the stairs and saw Sherlock on the floor. Magnussen had obviously been knocked out. He was searching for his glasses when I came in. I asked him who did it, but he said that he didn't know."
"Sherlock saw who shot him?"
"Likely, yes."
"Did Magnussen shoot him?"
"I don't think so. There was no gun in the room when I arrived, and I was there moments after he had been shot."
"John, I don't think that I have ever said this to you before, but I am comforted... that is to say, it means a great deal to me that you were at his side. My brother is ... a difficult man, and he attracts danger like a magnet. It gives me great comfort to know that he has you as a friend."
John looked up at him, his lips twitching into a brief smile. His eyes were soft. Mycroft could see the fine worry lines around them, or perhaps they were smile lines. John was prone to both emotions.
John climbed to his feet and placed his hand on Mycroft's shoulder and suddenly he understood his fascination with John.
John was everything that Mycroft had wished to be to Sherlock: Loyal, dependable, a confidant, always there to catch him when he was in trouble. Mycroft had failed to be that person because he wasn't a trusting man. He wasn't a compassionate man. Try as he might, he would never be, could never be as good a friend to Sherlock as John Watson was.
He took a moment to marvel at this man who had left his best friend's bedside simply to comfort him in his grief.
John had been there when Mycroft hadn't. He had saved Sherlock with his hands and his skill. He had done what had been needed to keep Sherlock alive, and he would guard him from threat while he was here in the hospital. The person who had shot Sherlock was still at large. Whoever it was, they would live to regret that action.
"Someone tried to kill my brother. He may try again."
"Whoever it is, they won't get past my inspection," John said.
"Nor mine," Mycroft replied narrowing his eyes. Mycroft was not skilled at comforting people, but he was excellent at intimidating them. "I think that it is time that I called on Charles Augustus Magnussen."