There were times when John worried that the surgery might get fed up with him and fire him for the amount of work he missed, but he suspected that Mycroft may have subtly exerted some influence in that regard. And, he supposed, an explosion that had injured his brother-in-law was a valid reason to miss part of one day and very likely the next.
Most of his energy was taken up worrying about Sherlock, however.
He'd been working all night with a frenetic energy that John usually associated with an adrenaline high that was about to crash. He'd seen it before, had gone through it himself – a post-catastrophe buzz made up of residual panic and the utter relief that things were all right, that he had survived, that everyone he knew was alive. He'd been watching Sherlock in this state for hours and it was making him tense. He could feel the muscles in his shoulders knotting, the scar tissue in his old wound protesting. That, along with the exertion of moving rubble earlier in the day, was going to make for a painful tomorrow.
John had managed to get Sherlock to shower and put some antibiotic ointment on the scratches on his arms, but that was it. Nothing else he tried on the detective worked, no admonishments to eat, no questions about whether he'd like a cup of tea, not even his attempts to stand in front of Sherlock and block him from prowling the flat. Sherlock would simply shorten his pace or move around John if possible. John could see the gleam in Sherlock's eyes that meant he had no interest in anything not immediately relating to the case.
John hated to admit to himself that this stung, just a little.
After a week of awkward silences, strained conversations and the hollow sensation that he was alone even when Sherlock was in bed next to him, John felt he should have welcomed this frenzied energy that was so familiar, so Sherlock-on-a-case. But he wanted some peace, a respite from the tension that wasn't just a different kind of tension.
It worried him, too, because it had a sharper edge than usual – Sherlock was never as good with the cases that involved a personal element. He'd seen that for the first time just over seven years ago, when he'd shown up at The Pool at midnight with Semtex strapped to his chest. Seeing that terrified dismay on Sherlock's face had been jarring, nearly stopping his heart without Jim Moriarty's help.
John was seeing that same shock now but it was transmuted into manic frustration rather than frozen horror. Sherlock had been working like a madman all evening, poring over the files that belonged to the other six committee members. He'd appropriated John's laptop so that the doctor had no means of assisting until Sherlock dumped a pile of files in front of him and told him to summarize the information about the committee members' families and the aides that they kept in their confidence. John had done so without comment but had worked slowly enough to keep an eye on his frantic husband.
Sherlock hadn't even stopped to talk to Anthea when she'd called, tossing his phone to John with an angry scowl. He relayed the news that Mycroft was out of recovery and doing as well as could be expected. He didn't miss the flash of relief behind the grey eyes but Sherlock just glared at the phone in John's hand, pointing one long index finger impatiently.
"Tell her to have him transferred to Princess Grace as soon as he's stabilized."
John repeated the information then rung off, returning to his work. Sherlock was muttering to himself about one of the other committee members. John couldn't catch his words, but watched as Sherlock flipped quickly through a file before moving across the living room to stand in front of the fact sheets, a pen flicking between his right index and middle fingers. The motion was agitated but he cut it off abruptly by raising the pen to his mouth and pressing the end against his lips.
John tried not to notice that he was holding the pen like a cigarette.
As if reading John's mind, Sherlock turned abruptly and went into the bathroom, coming back with two patches plastered to his right forearm. He went back to staring at the facts sheets and John got the sense that Sherlock was deliberately avoiding his eyes in that moment.
He jumped when Sherlock's phone rang again. His husband didn't moved.
"Want me to answer that?" John asked.
Sherlock only grunted, which John took as an affirmative. With a sigh, he picked the phone up off the coffee table and put it on speaker.
"Hello, Anthea," he said and Sherlock spun fast, eyes focusing on the phone with frightening precision. John saw the sudden tightness in his jaw and the minute loss of colour and felt the apprehension mirrored as a weight in his stomach.
"Is Sherlock there?"
"Yes, I'm here," Sherlock snapped. "What is it?"
"Information on William McKinney," she replied and John let out a slow sigh, sinking back against the couch cushions. Part of him kept expecting the worst, even though Mycroft's condition had been good for someone who had survived a bomb blast and the surgeries he'd required were expected and relatively minor.
"He's come out of surgery as well and just went into recovery. His surgeon expects he'll be in the ICU overnight. Then to a private room when he's ready."
"No, have him moved to Princess Grace as well," Sherlock ordered. "Keep them together and make sure the police and the MPs are sent with their ambulance transports and are stationed outside their rooms at all times. No one goes into those rooms without at least one MP escorting them, either. I want the same treatment for McKinney in recovery and in the ICU. In fact, two MPs at all times until he's transferred. Vet every single doctor, nurse, and orderly who might come into contact with either of them."
"It's already being done. I'll put through the paperwork for the hospital transfer."
"Call me when either of them are moved," Sherlock said.
"I will."
He nodded abruptly and turned away, apparently satisfied. John sighed quietly and rubbed a hand through his hair.
"Thanks, Anthea," he said.
"Good night, John," she replied with more warmth in her voice than he'd ever heard. He'd never actually heard so many words come out of her mouth – and in such a focused tone, too. He was used to the short distracted sentences that were her trademark. But tonight, if she was glued to her mobile, it was to arrange security and keep Sherlock updated, not to text or whatever it was she was forever doing otherwise.
He rung off and put the phone back on the coffee table and felt his head nod toward his chest. John dragged it back up and heard Sherlock click his tongue disapprovingly.
"Bed," his husband said without turning around.
"What?" John asked.
"Bed, John, go to bed. You're of no use to me if you're falling asleep over your work. I can manage without you."
John stared at the back of Sherlock's head. For a moment, he was tempted to stand and run his fingers through those dark curls but then the thought of getting up seemed too exhausting.
Sherlock turned abruptly and took one stride toward the couch. He bent down in a fluid motion and slung John's right arm over his shoulder before straightening and effectively pulling John up with him. John staggered slightly at the sudden change in position then found his feet. Sherlock gave him a cool look and led him to the bedroom, letting John slump to seated and crouched down, pulling John's shoes off smoothly.
"In," Sherlock said crisply.
"But you need my help," John protested.
"Your help, yes," Sherlock agreed. "Falling asleep and cracking your head on the table is not very helpful. I'll be fine."
"But you– and Mycroft– "
"Mycroft isn't in immediate danger anymore; Anthea will see to it that he's well guarded, and I imagine Angela will be in London shortly, if she hasn't arrived already. If Anthea misses anything, Angela will ensure it's done. And I'll be fine if you allow me to continue working to determine who tried to kill my brother."
John thought about protesting again but it came out as only a sigh as his eyes drifted shut. He managed to shuffle himself up onto the bed fully and lie down on his back. Sherlock pulled the blankets gently out from under him and then covered him lightly. John opened his eyes blearily and watched Sherlock watching him, still and silent for a moment before leaning down, pressing his lips gently to John's forehead, straightening again and leaving the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
Sometime after three in the morning, John drifted awake again, biting his lip to repress a groan. The muscles in his back, shoulders, and arms were already complaining, limiting his movements as he pushed himself up to sitting. He grimaced and rolled his shoulders, which made him wince hard, then listened.
There was no sound in the rest of the flat so he swung himself out of bed as quickly as his stiff body would allow and padded back into the living room. The lights were still on, both laptops were still open on the desk in low-power mode, their screens blank, all of the files and maps were still spread out everywhere.
And Sherlock was asleep on the floor, leaning against the couch, his head slumped against his right arm, which was bent enough that his fingers had curled into his dark hair.
If John thought he was feeling sore, Sherlock was going to feel so much worse if he kept sleeping like that – although he'd probably deny and ignore it.
John clicked off the lamps, keeping an eye on Sherlock to make sure the sudden absence of light didn't wake him. When the flat was bathed in darkness, he sat down on the couch, leaned forward, and wrapped his arms carefully around Sherlock's torso under his shoulders.
"Come on," he said softly.
"Hmnmhmm," Sherlock murmured in reply, his head dropping back away from his arm, his face turned toward the ceiling, his neck extended.
"I know," John whispered. "Come on."
He tugged and lifted lightly and managed to manoeuvre his sleeping husband up and onto the couch on top of him without waking Sherlock. The detective sighed and shifted and John repressed a wince – Sherlock was flopped almost entirely on top of him. John managed to adjust their positions so that he was more comfortable and worked his left arm between the back of the couch and Sherlock's body so he could rest it on Sherlock's back. He'd probably still lose all sensation in it, but at least this way he wasn't entirely pinned.
It wouldn't help his muscles come morning, he knew, but it would ensure Sherlock got a few decent hours of sleep. John closed his eyes, turned his face slightly so that he could feel Sherlock's hair tickling his nose and cheek, and drifted back to sleep.
When he awoke again with a start, lifting his head before he was even fully awake, Sherlock was already up, showered, dressed, and back at work. He was sitting in front of his laptop with several files spread out around him and a cup of coffee in one hand.
At least he's drinking something, John thought, then blinked himself awake fully. He shifted then groaned, wishing he hadn't moved as his stiff muscles registered their protests.
"There's fresh coffee," Sherlock said without looking over. John wondered how much coffee had been consumed if he was using "fresh" as a qualifier – but he didn't seem to have the caffeine shakes and was firmly focused on his work.
"Thanks," John said. He stood slowly and half limped into the kitchen to fix himself a cup. It was sheer relief to lean against the counter and sip it slowly, feeling the heat chase away some of the aches in his muscles. Eventually he felt motivated enough to make some toast for himself. No chance of having Sherlock assume his normal breakfast duties, but John was willing to let it pass given the events of the previous day.
He sat at the kitchen table and ate in silence then tidied up his small mess before going back into the living room. Sherlock was reading something in one of the files, scrawling notes in the margins of the sheets, and reached out to snap his laptop shut when John came back in.
"Shower and dress," Sherlock instructed without looking up. "We're going to the hospital."
"Princess Grace?" John asked.
"No, St. Mary's first. I need to speak to William McKinney. He's still there."
"Why McKinney?" John asked and Sherlock raised his head finally. "I mean, not why do you need to talk to him, why him and Mycroft and not the others? What was it about both of them?"
"That's what I'm trying to find out," Sherlock replied. "Which is why we need to speak to him."
John sighed inwardly. McKinney wouldn't be in great shape but that was unlikely to stop Sherlock. It wouldn't stop the military police or the Met, either. He could tell Sherlock wouldn't be distracted from this.
He got ready as quickly as he could, forcing movement from his stiff muscles, but Sherlock was still waiting impatiently for him by the time he emerged from the bathroom. The trip to the hospital was fairly quick even in the morning traffic and, as they were arriving, Sherlock got a text message from Anthea informing them that McKinney had been moved from the ICU to a short term care ward while he awaited transfer to Princess Grace. McKinney's room wasn't difficult to find, guarded as it was by Redcaps and police constables. Sherlock consented to have his identification checked by both the guards in the corridor and the one inside the room. He endured with long-suffering impatience, rolling his eyes and exhaling noisily, ignoring the warning look John shot him.
McKinney was awake when they entered and looked worse for the wear, but probably not as bad as Mycroft looked, John suspected. His face was a patchwork of bruises and stitched cuts, as was the exposed skin on his right arm. His left arm was in a cast and his right wrist was bandaged. He had an oxygen tube running under his nose and the shallowness of his breathing told John he had at least one broken rib, probably several. Given that he was bruised and cut everywhere that was visible, the pattern undoubtedly continued under the hospital gown and the light sheet that covered his legs. He had a glassy look that John associated with a pretty serious concussion, which was no surprise.
There was a sophisticated woman in her sixties beside his bed – John put her at about a year or two younger than McKinney, but Sherlock probably could have given him an accurate count in months. She was well dressed in a sharp black suit, her grey hair pulled elegantly back from her face, but she'd been wearing the same clothes and hairstyle too long and looked like she'd been up most of the night. Her dark eyes narrowed at them suspiciously when they came in, but McKinney looked unsurprised after a moment of slow consideration.
"Mycroft's brother, right?" he asked, his voice weak and raspy but the smallest of smiles playing on his lips. John saw Sherlock stiffen slightly – he hated being relegated to that role. But he gave a tight nod.
"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson," he replied coolly.
"Yes, Mycroft's aide said to expect you sometime today. Your brother all right?"
Sherlock gave another curt nod and McKinney sighed, turning his head slightly to look at his wife again. He squeezed her hands lightly and managed another small smile.
"Get some breakfast, Mary," he said. "No sense in you feeling as bad as I look."
Mary put a hand on her husband's face, very lightly, and leaned over to kiss his forehead.
"Are you sure, darling?"
"It's just a few minutes," McKinney replied. "Take the Redcap with you."
"I'll be back soon," she promised and he raised one of her hands to his lips, kissing it lightly. "Please don't wear him out too much. He needs to rest."
Sherlock nodded and Mary left the room, her stride confident despite the obvious fatigue and the weight of the situation. The military police sergeant followed after a moment's hesitation and a glare from Sherlock, shutting the door behind him to give them some measure of privacy.
"Mister McKinney, I'm a doctor," John said. "Do you mind if I have a look at your chart?"
"Please," McKinney whispered, waving a hand, really no more then a small flex of his fingers. John crossed the room and picked up the chart from the end of the bed, eyes skimming it with professional ease.
"What's the last thing you remember before regaining consciousness here?" Sherlock asked. John glanced up from the chart, watching McKinney's face carefully. Surprisingly, the older man huffed a faint, dry laugh.
"Don't mess about, do you, young man? You and the detectives and the military police. I– was inside the building, I think. We'd just had a meeting. We– " he paused, clearing his throat then coughing weakly. Sherlock poured some water from the bottle beside the bed into a small plastic cup and held it steadily to McKinney's lips for the older man to sip. McKinney drank it slowly, then let his head drop back against his pillows with a sigh.
"I remember standing by the doors, inside. Then your brother shouting something, telling everyone to get out, I think. I didn't think about it. Just ran."
"Do you remember where you ran?"
McKinney shook his head slightly. Anthea had told them that he'd been found between two parked cars, in the opposite direction from where Mycroft had been recovered.
"How long have you known my brother?"
"Must be fifteen, sixteen years. Don't know him very well, though."
"And was it he who asked you to serve on the committee?"
"No. That came through more – official channels."
"How well do you know James Murray?"
"Not well at all," McKinney said, then gestured for more water. Sherlock gave it to him, waiting patiently as the injured man drank. "I think he and I have been on opposite sides for most issues."
"Yet you agreed to serve on a committee investigating a threat against him."
"Disagreement is the foundation of democracy, Mister Holmes," McKinney said and John heard a hint of strength in his voice when he said that. "We have every right to disagree. But this – this is uncivilized."
At this, Sherlock smiled slightly and John repressed a soft, derisive snort. While he agreed with that, he knew Mycroft sometimes saw the value in a well time assassination if it made things tidier. He often tried to ignore this knowledge; it was too frightening not to.
But Mycroft didn't support it this time. Not in this case.
McKinney closed his eyes for a moment and John kept a sharp and experienced eye on him. He was getting tired and the doctor doubted they'd have much more time.
"Do you remember anything else? Impressions, images, smells? Did anyone seem out of place or suspicious to you?" Sherlock asked.
McKinney managed another rasping chuckle.
"Young man, it was a government building. You could take your pick of suspicious looking people."
Sherlock's lips twitched again.
"Hay in a haystack," he murmured, echoing Inspector Anderson's words. John was surprised Sherlock remembered she'd said that; it seemed like the sort of thing he would have deleted.
"Your brother yelling – that's the only thing that stands out. I've never heard him raise his voice."
"No," Sherlock murmured in agreement. "He's very good at getting what he wants by pointed remarks alone."
McKinney managed another smile and his eyes fluttered. John could tell he was struggling now.
"Thank you, Mister McKinney. You should get some rest," he said. Sherlock flashed him a displeased look but didn't argue when John returned it with his best captain's glare. The MP nodded and closed his eyes, his expression relaxing into sleep almost immediately. John put the chart back on the end of the bed and followed Sherlock out of the room.
"Got what you wanted?" he asked when they were out of earshot of the Redcaps and the police.
"No. I did get what I expected, however. A hazy and inaccurate recollection of the events immediately before the blast."
"I'm surprised he even remembers that much," John said. "It's impressive – most people don't remember anything so soon."
"Do you remember being shot?" Sherlock asked bluntly.
"Yes, but it's been almost eight years. I didn't remember it very well immediately afterwards, either. He'll probably remember more later on."
"Then we'll talk to him again later on," Sherlock said, hitting the lift button impatiently. "At the moment, we're going to speak with my brother."