I have someone to thank for some things in this chapter, and a lot of this story, in fact, and that is Phoebe, who, amazingly, has stuck with me even though she has been shown rather a lot of evidence as to how strange I am.

XD

Love you, Phoebe! *hugs*

CHAPTER 35

The Royal Prince Alfred Hospital

Melbourne

VIC

Australia

The hospital room was completely bare and everything except the grey floor was white.

Sherlock, dressed as he was, stood out rather painfully, his black clothes contrasting with the white of everything around him.

He wasn't paying attention to that, though.

He was staring at the man lying in the bed, hooked up to a machine that kept his lungs breathing, another that kept his heart beating, one that stopped his kidneys failing, a tall one that delivered food, and another that removed waste.

Clinically, Dr. John Watson was dead.

Sherlock could have told everyone exactly what was wrong with John, could have said, to Mycroft, and Sally that statistically, John had needed surgery within ten minutes of being shot for a proper chance, and that there was a three per cent chance of him actually making it through now. That when the bullet hit, it shattered his sternum, and sent fragments of bone in fifty-three different directions, collapsing both lungs and lodging in his heart. He also should have mentioned that the surgeons missed at least two, judging by the angle that John's chest was rising and falling at.

He could and should have.

But he didn't.

He didn't because it didn't matter. All that mattered was that John should open his eyes, and tell him to stock the fridge or stop being an idiot. Then get irritated with him, say he needed some air and walk out. Or kiss him. Or do something that was entirely John-like.

Sherlock squeezed John's hand, which he had held for close to eight hours now, and closed his eyes, the sounds of the machines barely registering with him.

Mycroft, for the first time in a very long time, didn't know where to look. The broken doctor lying on the bed, or the broken detective holding his hand.

So he did what he did best.

He got to his feet and ignored the calls of the sergeant to his right, who looked more than surprised that he would leave his brother at this time.

He strode out of the room, leaving his umbrella where he had been sitting, for once not caring, and took the stairs down.

He walked around for a while, letting his feet take him and found himself in the garden of the hospital where much to his surprise, DI Greg Lestrade stood, looking the worse for wear.

The man was gripping the railings hard and staring at the lower level of the garden, visible through a cut in the ground, but it was obvious he was not seeing a thing.

Mycroft paused with his hand on the door handle, examining the DI.

His hair was mussed and uncombed and the dark circles under his eyes were clear even from this distance. His suit was a complete mess, and the tie hung loosely, the top two buttons undone. As he raised his eyes and locked onto the elder Holmes' the tear tracks were all too obvious in the blinding sun.

Mycroft walked in, relishing the feel of the sun, but feeling as if he couldn't enjoy it completely,

"How do you do that?" Lestrade asked, his voice cracking slightly, hoarse from disuse and crying, not surprised that he had been found here by a man who Sherlock described as the government.

"I didn't," Mycroft said, for the first time, not up to making everything look as if it was some grand scheme. Not when the DI was in this state anyway. Lestrade looked at him,

"Is John-"

"He's no better," Mycroft cut across him as he joined him at the rail, facing the door he just walked through,

'Oh," Lestrade shifted weight and glanced sidelong at Mycroft.

There was a moment's silence.

'You've let your umbrella upstairs," he finally commented and Mycroft raised an eyebrow,

"Pardon?" he asked, turning his piercing gaze onto the DI, who immediately realised that was a very strange comment to make, considering why they were in the hospital in the first place,

'Erm, sorry, I meant, well, you never go anywhere without it," he finally managed, knowing he was red as a tomato, and wishing he was somewhere else right now,

"Ah," Mycroft replied and faced forward again.

Lestrade allowed himself to sigh, knowing Mycroft would pick up on it immediately.

"I think John has to get better," he said, his words quiet in the big area and Mycroft looked at him,

"Has to get better?" Mycroft asked,

"If he doesn't we'll have to deal with Sherlock, and I don't think even you could," Lestrade shot Mycroft a sidelong glance and found, with relief, that the man was smiling,

"Yes, that's true," Mycroft said and Lestrade felt a smile of his own growing, before both their heads snapped to the door as Sally came running out, puffing,

'There you are!" she said, she cheeks red, his eyes bright, a smile so huge it was enough to break Lestrade and Mycroft out of the reverie both had fallen into.

Lestrade felt a smile spread, feeling foreign to him, after so long, "no," he said, hope flooding his senses and she nodded,

'It's a miracle," she looked between the two of them,

"The doctor usually is," Mycroft said, the corners of his lips upturned and Lestrade could have kissed the man.

They hurried up the stairs together, Sally in the lead and into John's room, and lo and behold, John's eyes were open and the doctor standing next to his bed looked as if he need a chair and a glass of water.

It didn't help that Sherlock had found his voice and was telling him everything he had done wrong, in a tone as sharp as razor blades

Lestrade walked further into the room and his eyes met John's. The smile was evident,

'Hey mate," Lestrade said, walking forwards, knowing that John couldn't talk. His eyes said it all though, "I'd hug you, but I think Sherlock called first dibs," John smiled, an effort though it was, and Lestrade's day was complete.

Mycroft hung back in the doorway, watching the scene, and decided he wasn't needed anymore. He allowed his eyes to settle on the DI, practically glowing, his hand on John's arm before deciding he really should go.

Sherlock watched his brother leave and looked back at the DI then back at his brother, before dismissing the idea as foolish and grabbing John's attention, and his hand, again.

Howell's Home

Brighton

Melbourne, VIC

Australia

Jim Moriarty paced the expensive Persian rug beneath him and Howell, stretched out on the sofa sighed,

'Sit down, Jim," he said, to be completely ignored by the villain, who continued to pace,

"It's not fair!" he finally exclaimed and Howell jumped,

"What?" he asked, irritated,

"It's' not fair. This whole thing is not fair!" Jim pouted like a child,

"I take it you're talking about Sherlock Holmes?" Howell watched as the light in Jim's eyes shifted,

"Him too," he said, "But this situation. I could have had it all and then that stupid DI comes blundering in," Moriarty growled,

"So get rid of the DI,"

"No, he's the only one who can put up with Sherlock's antics," Moriarty said, "If I get rid of him, Sherlock won't be able to access crime scenes that I put there just for him,"

Howell shook his head. He was really regretting ever getting involved with this mad man, "So what do you want to do?" he asked and the psychopath suddenly lit up,

"Exactly," he said and Howell had a great urge to punch the man,

"What?" he asked, his patience wearing thin,

"It's about what I want to do,"

"Yes. Yes it is," Moriarty sent him a dirty look,

"I will do what I want to do. I already killed John."

'Indeed," Howell pitched in dryly, knowing he was pushing his luck a bit, but was too irritated to care. Moriarty acted as if he didn't hear,

"So I'll lure Sherlock in,"

"Where?"

"Here," Moriarty locked onto Howell's eyes, "You don't mind, do you?" he asked, his voice going to that polite, civil and downright terrifying level. Howell sighed,

'Not at all," he said, forcing a smile,

"Good," Jim clapped his hands together, "So," he looked around, "where's a good place to torture someone?" and finally, he took a seat across from Howell,

"The master bedroom's always useful, Howell said, taking a sip of his Bacardi and Jim nodded,

'Excellent," he grinned, "Now all I need is Sherlock,"

"And how, exactly, do you plan on getting him?"

Moriarty smiled the smile of a man who just won the Cup, "I'll send him an invite," Howell raised his glass to the madman,

"Congratulations," he said. Moriarty reached for the bottle and poured himself a glass and raised it as Howell had,

"To Sherlock Holmes,"

The Royal Prince Alfred Hospital

Melbourne

VIC

Australia

John had fallen back under, but into a more natural sleep, and most of the life support machines had been taken away by an amazed crew.

Non-family had been ordered away, but Sherlock said he was family. When asked, he said husband, and he wasn't bothered again.

Now, several hours later, Sherlock sat in a new set of clothes he begrudgingly changed into after his brother re-appeared, and forced him into the shower, all but taking his clothes off for him, as he protested.

The irritating man in question, sat across the bed from him, looking expectantly as he looked back. Finally, he gave in, "What?" he asked and Mycroft shook his head,

"Congratulations are in order, Sherlock, and yet you've told no-one? Why's that?" Sherlock felt colour coming to his cheeks as outrage ran through his being,

"How-" he cut himself off, his grey eyes burning, "That was a private moment, Mycroft," he finally managed, his tone so sharp it could have cut Mycroft to pieces, had he been a lesser man.

His older brother rolled his eyes, "Hardly. If it wasn't for me, Sherlock, John would be dead, and you know it,"

"Shut up," Sherlock said, flicking a stray ebony curl away from his eyes, eyes that showed a battle as emotions he had buried a long time ago concerning his brother came to life again. John always did seem to have that effect on him.

"I called the ambulance, Sherlock, told them there was a shooting. I ordered a private room and private doctor to be ready for him,"

'So what?" Sherlock muttered and Mycroft shook his head again,

'You'll never learn, will you, Sherlock?" and now, Sherlock could see the anger, well-disguised underneath a façade of cool, "always running into situations blindly," Mycroft had to force himself to keep his voice down, as he locked eyes with his little brother, whom he had raised while their parents were away, which had been most of the time,

'One of these days, Sherlock, you're going to get him killed," Sherlock's hand tightened around John's at the thought as Mycroft glanced at the sleeping figure, "and then what are you going to do? Hunt down the man who killed him? Spend the rest of your life trying to make up or it? Runaway?"

Mycroft paused to let himself calm down as well as to let his idiot of a genius brother absorb his words. Why couldn't the child listen for once? He did what he did because he loved him, damn it.

Then, Sherlock got up and walked around the bed. "What are you doing, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked getting up as well and suddenly, Sherlock was hugging him. He paused for a minute, too shocked to do anything, before he returned it.

"Thank you," Sherlock said, and it was enough.

He let go and Mycroft could not have controlled the surprise on his face if he tried. His brother's eyes were sincere, and it was the most out of character thing the man had ever seen.

"Sherlock?" he asked and his reply was a small smile, as Sherlock returned to his seat,

"You can go now," Sherlock said, returning to his previous post, and Mycroft decided that perhaps that was for the better,

"Right," he said, picking up his bowler, "I'll be at the hotel if you need me," still in a bit of a daze he left the room and Sherlock watched him.

The detective turned back to John, sleeping peacefully, "He's still my archenemy," he said to John, as if the man could reply.

Was that too much fluff considering the events?

Aza

xoxo