"There's been an explosion and Mister Holmes is missing."
For a single endless moment, John had thought the sinister, suited man meant Sherlock before realizing that "Mister Holmes" was reserved for Mycroft.
Sherlock was already there by the time John arrived. Following the sergeant who'd been sent to collect him where the car had dropped him off, the doctor was led past the military police barricade and the Met police cars with their flashing blue lights, toward the rubble and chaos that looked so familiar it jarred him. He felt dislocated in his own life for a moment, remembering so many similar scenes in Afghanistan– he could almost hear the distant whump-whump of chopper blades in the sky. John craned his neck back and saw he was not mistaken. A news or police helicopter was passing overhead.
He refocused on the scene. Surveying the wreckage, blocking out the sounds of sirens and cries with practiced habit, he found Sherlock.
His husband had either been given or appropriated a hardhat, a high visibility vest and a pair of work gloves and was already knee-deep in the debris, his face and arms smeared with dust and sweat. The fact that he was kitted out told John how bad this was – he hadn't even bothered to argue, just taken the gear and put himself to work.
John accepted the same equipment from the sergeant, as well as two pairs of safety goggles. He put on his own, then picked his way with care to where Sherlock was labouring with a small team of rescue workers. He didn't even glance up when John arrived, but scowled and tried to swat John's hands away when John attempted to put the glasses on his face.
"You need these," John said gently, keeping his voice quiet and reasonable without being condescending. He'd used this tone plenty of times on wounded soldiers in Afghanistan, men and women who were in shock. And the signs of shock on his husband were clear. Clearer still was the fact that if he tried to stop him working it would be disastrous.
Sherlock paused, consenting to let John adjust the glasses on his face, then set his jaw and resumed his efforts. John drew a deep breath and joined him, taking direction from the rescue worker who was in charge of their small group. Whenever he could, he watched Sherlock's face and hands carefully, looking for any hint of unsteadiness.
When someone brought them water, he made Sherlock drink it, using the same soothing tone when the detective began to grumble and fidget impatiently.
"You need to do this," John murmured. "Or else you won't be able to keep working."
It was enough. Sherlock drank the water then tossed the bottle aside uncaringly, returning to shifting rubble around him. John finished his water and joined him, working side-by-side with him in silence.
He didn't need Sherlock to meet his eyes to know what written in them. As angry as he had been with Mycroft this morning – and for good reason, because John suspected Mycroft had tried to give some well intentioned but cocked up advice – they were still brothers.
Sherlock couldn't afford to lose another family member, not now.
Not like this.
John prayed like he hadn't prayed since he'd been shot, hoping like hell that a man as resourceful as Mycroft Holmes had managed to get himself somehow to safety and was not lying broken and bloodied under the remnants of the building that now surrounded them.
John wasn't there, then he was. Sherlock had no idea how much time had passed – each moment existed only within the length of a breath, within the time it took to move a piece of debris, to clear one more small space.
Too late, too late, too late. He heard the words repeated as a rhythm that matched the pulse of his own heart.
He'd been too late. Anthea had been too late. He didn't know where she was now – didn't care. Dealing with some aspect of the crisis. It didn't matter. The only important thing was finding Mycroft.
Not like this, he thought. Not like this. He realized he couldn't picture Mycroft dying, not ever, not really. Not under this mess of ruined brick and stone and concrete. Not here, not today.
They wouldn't win. They would not.
There was so much noise but it seemed distant, unreal, existing so much in the background that did not matter. Sirens, voices, horns, helicopters. The sounds overlaid one another and blurred into each other, becoming a din that could be pushed away. Occasionally the voice of the woman in charge of their small team cut through this and he acknowledged her commands with a nod, never looking up. Other voices came in and out, bringing more orders, giving details of how things were progressing elsewhere.
He didn't care, not unless they found Mycroft somewhere else. He had no idea why he was working here in this spot, they had simply put him there. It seemed as good a place as any. There wasn't enough data to make an accurate judgment as to whether somewhere else would be preferable. No one knew where Mycroft was. Sherlock tried to evaluate it, but it was impossible. Had he been inside the building in the blast? Outside? If outside, where had he been standing? Had he taken cover? Had he managed to deduce what the threat had been?
No information. No data. No Mycroft.
He remembered the last time he'd talked to his brother. Not earlier that day, not the argument they'd had about John. The last time they'd spoken when they hadn't needed to say anything at all, sitting in silence in the middle of the night. Sherlock had been curled up in the darkness on the stairs leading up to his flat, Mycroft had been in Edinburgh with Angela and David. They hadn't spoken because there'd been no need. They'd shared the same loss.
John put safety glasses on him and Sherlock tried to push him away. John's voice cut through the barrier, calm and assured, familiar and warm.
"You need these," he said. His words were gentle, not pushy, not condescending. Just stating the facts. He needed the glasses. They were uncomfortable and slipped on the sweat that beaded on the bridge of his nose and on his forehead. He had to stop every so often and push them back up, losing precious seconds. Each time it made him want to snarl and snap, to take them off and pitch them away, but someone would just come with a new set.
John pressed a bottle of water into his hands and Sherlock moved to throw it aside, but John's fingers closed over his wrist and hand, keeping it there. He had one of his own, Sherlock noted, as did the other rescue workers. Someone was talking to the woman in charge, something about the temperature outside and paramedics. Irrelevant.
"You need to do this," John murmured. "Or else you won't be able to keep working."
Sherlock glowered, but John held steady, putting his own water aside to snap the cap open on Sherlock's bottle. He picked up his own again and started drinking. Sherlock looked at the clear plastic bottle with its transparent fluid, then drank it in one go before tossing the bottle aside. He resumed working. After twenty-five breaths the others started back up, too.
It was endless but he would not tire. They would set up spotlights to work through the night when it came time. They would bring food for the workers. Someone would likely try to force him to stop, to rest or even to sleep. He would not. Those things were unnecessary, extraneous.
He would stop when they found Mycroft. Not a second before.
"Sherlock," John said. Sherlock grunted and kept working, eyes focussed only on the debris in front of him. One piece at a time. Evaluating the chaotic puzzle formed by the fragments of the building, judging which piece came next, how to move the blocks so that the structure would not collapse and pin anyone who may be trapped underneath.
"Sherlock," John said again, and one of his hands wrapped around Sherlock's. Sherlock shook him off and kept going.
He felt a hand on his face and scowled, reaching up to push John away, but the grip tightened and his chin was raised and his head turned so he was no longer looking at the remnants of the building around him, but past them. Looking up the street at the shattered shell of a car and a team of paramedics easing someone onto a stretcher.
Mycroft.
Sherlock yanked off the blasted safety glasses and clambered over the rubble, moving as fast as he could. He could hear John's harsh breathing as he sought to keep up but didn't slow his own pace. He cleared the worst of the debris and started running, scrambling between two ruined vehicles, nearly tripping on a bumper that lay on the ground, just managing to right himself.
"Stay back," one of the paramedics warned but he was ignored and shouldered aside. Behind him he could hear John say something about being a doctor. Sherlock's eyes scanned his brother quickly – he was unconscious and badly bruised, bleeding from several wounds on his head, face, and hands. His normally immaculate clothing was torn and singed. His skin and hair were coated with dust. His right shoulder was at a bad angle, likely dislocated, and the crooked set of his nose and the blood on his upper lip suggested it was broken. Sherlock could not make out anything else, not with the clothing covering the rest of Mycroft's body and the relief hammering along with the pulse in his ears.
Mycroft was breathing, shallow gasps, but breathing.
"John, I don't want anything to do with the NHS," Sherlock said, ignoring the paramedics altogether.
"We have to," John replied, his voice patient and gentle. "He needs an A&E."
Sherlock managed to glance over his shoulder at John, startled to realise for the first time that John was in search-and-rescue gear, partly hidden by his hardhat and his safety goggles.
"He won't be happy," Sherlock said.
"They can transfer him to a private hospital after. But we need to go, Sherlock. You need to let them take him."
"You can ride along," one of the paramedics said. Sherlock focussed on her, then gave a curt nod.
"St. Mary's," John instructed as Sherlock stepped away, letting them manoeuvre the stretcher through the rest of the debris to their ambulance, scrambling in the back after them, tossing his hardhat aside. John climbed in behind him, and Sherlock settled on a wheel well as they paramedics secured the gurney.
"John, look at him," Sherlock ordered, waving a hand, leaning back and closing his eyes. He felt the shudder as the ambulance was put into gear and they were inching forward with agonising slowness, the sirens wailing.
"I'm a doctor, trauma surgeon," he heard John explain as he closed his eyes and leaned his head back, the vibration from the engine humming through his skull and down his neck.
John managed to get Sherlock calmed down at the hospital when they refused to let John himself take charge as Mycroft's doctor. He avoided having the nurses call security – but only just, he thought. Sherlock finally listened to him, reasserting some control with a significant amount of effort, jaw set, teeth clenched.
John was surprised the nurses hadn't just called security upon seeing them – Sherlock looked like some vision from a nightmare; his clothing and skin were smeared, his face a mask of dust that clung to his skin and mixed with his sweat, leaving circles of white skin around his eyes that made his irises look even paler and more striking. His hair was flattened on top from the hardhat but curled around his ears and cheeks and along the back of his neck, streaked with soot. He had scratches all down his arms and several small cuts dotted with dried blood. He was still wearing the high visibility vest over a dark green silk shirt that was torn here and there, utterly ruined. He towered over the nursing staff, grey eyes flashing, expression indignant as he spoke with a deep snarl, his lips curling in disdain, his tone verging on the edge of snapping.
John eventually just dragged him into a bathroom and locked the door. He cleaned Sherlock's face and hands methodically, using the repetitive motion to get the detective to refocus, and made his hair look something approaching normal. When he was done, Sherlock was still standing taut and rigid, eyes flaring, jaw locked, but at least his breathing had slowed somewhat and he looked a bit more human. John cleaned himself off hastily and led them out again, finding a small waiting area that was tucked away, making sure that Sherlock heard him tell the nurses where they were.
"I'm going to get some water and something for us to eat from the vending machines down the hall," John said, taking care to be very specific. "You need to sit down."
Sherlock stared at him as though he was speaking gibberish, then gave a curt nod, folding his long body into one of the padded plastic chairs that were bolted to the floor around the edge of the tiny room. He sank his head into his hands and John waited a moment to make sure he wasn't going to collapse, then went for food and water. The selection of snack foods was dismal but he bought two bags of crisps and two chocolate bars in addition to the bottles of water. It was a poor supper at best, but he'd be lucky if Sherlock ate anything at all.
He was right – Sherlock set the food aside immediately without opening it, but he at least drank the water all in one go, putting the empty bottle beside the disregarded junk food. John drank his water more slowly and stayed standing, moving back and forth to keep the stiffness out of his legs and back. He doubted he'd have the chance to get in a proper stretch that evening and would be feeling the effects of the physical labour come morning.
Sherlock remained seated, pressing his palms together, resting his thumbs against his nose and his index finger against his forehead. He leaned forward slightly, his elbows propped on his knees and his eyes closed. John could see his eyes flickering beneath his eyelids and wondered what he was thinking, what rapid assessments he was running through in his mind.
As John finished his water and moved to put his empty bottle next to Sherlock's on the small table, Sherlock made a noise at the back of his throat and reached out, eyes still closed. John stepped in front of him without hesitation and Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist, pressing his face into his abdomen. John laced his hands into his husband's hair, holding tightly, then dropped one hand to the back of Sherlock's neck, squeezing lightly. He felt Sherlock pushing his hands under the netted material of his high visibility vest, fisting them into the fabric of his shirt and pressing against the small of John's back.
"Tell me," Sherlock ordered, his voice muffled against John's stomach.
"It all looked fairly superficial to me. Superficial for a bomb blast. I think he figured it out, Sherlock. He was on the far side of that car from the explosion and given the injuries to his face and hands, he was lying on his stomach with his face covered. Believe me, I've seen plenty of people hit by bomb blasts; I know what someone who knows the survival tricks looks like. If it was a low yield explosion, he should be in good shape."
"And if it wasn't?"
"Then a strong possibility of internal injuries that will require surgery," John said, not mincing words.
Sherlock nodded, eyes still closed, face still buried against John. John combed his fingers through his husband's hair then leaned down, pressing his cheek against the top of Sherlock's head. Sherlock exhaled hard and John could feel the warmth of his breath through his clothes.
They stayed that way long after John started to get uncomfortable, until the doctor came in.
"Mister Holmes, Mister Watson?" she said, looking between them.
"He's Doctor Watson," Sherlock growled, turning his face but keeping himself pressed against John. She nodded and John knew he'd get a better report on Mycroft's condition from her because of Sherlock's correction.
"Your brother will be fine, Mister Holmes," she said, fixing her dark brown eyes on Sherlock. "He was lucky – his injuries are relatively mild given the circumstances but he does need minor surgery. We need to put a pin in his right clavicle and some plates in his right forearm. We'll also need to remove some cartilage from his shoulder. We've reduced the dislocation but it won't heal properly if we don't take out some of the damaged soft tissue. "
"Whatever needs to be done, please do it," Sherlock said coolly.
"What else are we looking at?" John asked.
"Multiple fractures in his right radius and ulna, several broken ribs, broken nose, a hairline fracture in his right tibia, lacerations to most of his exposed skin, a concussion, and possibly whiplash, although we won't know that until he wakes up. And extensive bruising, including some deep soft tissue haematomas. Very likely some loss of hearing, although it may be temporary, and again, we won't know until he wakes up. He was lucky."
John felt Sherlock stiffen against him but he nodded, smoothing a hand in Sherlock's hair. That was lucky. But he suspected Mycroft made his own luck.
"You're welcome to wait," the doctor said. "Although if you'd prefer to go home and clean up, you have more than enough time to do so and get back here before he wakes up."
John let Sherlock go when the detective unfurled his long body and pushed himself to his feet. He pulled out his wallet and snapped out one of his business cards, extending it to the doctor.
"Please call us when he wakes up," he replied in a cold voice. "I see no reason to wait here, not while there's work to be done. Come on, John. He expects us to stop now but I'd rather not give him the satisfaction. We're going to find him and we're going to put an end to this."