Sorry for the delay in posting, the next few chapters will most likely take a bit longer. This story was complete before I posted the first chapter, but during the editing process it got expanded quite a bit and now my original ending needs some serious make over to fit the rest of the story. Sincere Apologies!
Thanks and credit as always to my beta MrsNoggin.
Warning: mention of torture and severe injury
Budapest, 14 October 2012
János watched Mycroft through a small window in the door. He respected his colleague's wish for privacy, but the spy in him needed more information. So he stayed and observed, astonished at the level of familiarity that surrounded the two men in the room. When he saw the injured man fall back asleep, he softly knocked on the door and waited for Mycroft to wave him in. Again, he was surprised to see the softness of his features, before the cool and neutral mask slid back down. Deciding to take the risk, János spoke up on his suspicion, conscious to keep his voice low.
"He's your brother, isn't he?"
That earned him a surprised glance from Mycroft. The usual sharp and scrutinizing look was back on his face. János cringed apologetically.
"I just noticed the resemblance. And you are more worried than I have ever seen you. Your secret is safe with me, don't worry. Who is the other one?"
For a second János though he had gone too far. He could have sworn the temperature in the room dropped several degrees and the silence from the British Official was deafening. He was about to crumble under the hostile and icy stare, when, to János' utter astonishment, Mycroft gave him a short nod and answered the question.
"His name is John Watson. He is my brother's flatmate and his best friend. Sherlock went missing about four weeks ago. I sent John after him, and by the looks of it, I sent him to his doom."
Mycroft sat down heavily, the weight of the world seemingly on his shoulders. János felt sorry for the older man. Losing agents was bad enough; he could not imagine what it must feel like to lose friends or family. This was exactly why it was so important to keep emotions out of their daily business, once you start feeling attached to those serving under you, all objectivity goes out the window. He excused himself and left the other man to his silent vigil.
János left the clinic shortly after, leaving several of his men behind as protection for Mycroft and his agents. Mycroft settled himself next to his brother's bed into a chair and watched over his younger sibling's sleep. Something he had not done in a long time.
Budapest, 15 October 2012
Evening had come and gone and it was now the early hours of Monday morning. Refusing to leave his brothers side, Mycroft typed away on his mobile with growing frustration. He hated to text, but he did not want to wake up his brother. God knew, Sherlock deserved the rest!
Doctor Slavic had given him an update about John shortly after Sherlock had fallen asleep. He was out of surgery and stable for the moment, but his condition remained critical. They had admitted him to the intensive care unit and he was being monitored by a team of specialists. Mycroft had contacted his own doctors in London, and they were currently preparing to take over John and Sherlock's care as soon as possible, closely coordinating with their Hungarian colleagues. Organising the transport was Mycroft's top priority and the cause for his furious typing. He wished Anthea were here with him, she would gladly take over! On the other hand, he needed her in London to keep tabs on other current business.
During a short break in his typing, he noticed that Sherlock had grown more and more restless in his sleep. Recognising the early signs of nightmares, Mycroft tried to wake his brother, but was unsuccessful. Instead, Sherlock started to mutter in his dreams and his movements grew more agitated.
Mycroft cursed. This was not the first time he witnessed his younger brother having nightmares. This needed to be handled carefully. A disoriented and confused Sherlock was a formidable fighter, as several nurses and doctors had had the unfortunate opportunity to experience in the past. Mycroft knew that he needed to let Sherlock find his bearings on his own terms.
In his sleep, Sherlock's mind flipped through his most recent memories like a picture book, snapshots of pain and humiliation that somehow resisted deletion. He tried to stop the agonising slide show, but he found himself trapped in his own brilliant mind.
They dragged in a large wooden box and forced him to lay down on it on his belly. The rough edges of the wood cut into his chest and stomach as they stretched out his arms and legs and fixed them to metal rings in the floor. The ropes binding his wrists and ankles were tight and gave him very little wiggling room. He realised that he would not be able to support any of his weight with his limbs and that this position was extremely uncomfortable, even after being in it for just a few minutes. Retreating into his mind palace, he tried to shut out the growing pain in his shoulders, hips and knees. They left him alone like this for several agonising hours. When they came back, he was harshly pushed off the box his arms and legs remained bound together, but were freed from the holding rings in the floor. He curled up helplessly, his muscles and joint barely obeying his commands. They threw a bottle of water in his general direction and left.
This time it was three of his minders walking inside. As always, they did not talk as they grabbed him roughly and pushed him into a kneeling position. Sherlock fought with all his strength, but the three were more than a match for him and, with a few targeted blows against his face and stomach, he was subdued. Two held him tight while the third attached handcuffs around his wrists, and then to his ankles. Only when he tried to move and immediately lost his balance did he realise that his right hand was cuffed to his left leg and vice versa. He collapsed against the man next to him who pushed him back upright. The moment that Sherlock was able to hold his weight upright the three left and closed the door, leaving him alone and helpless in the dark. He experimentally tugged on his restrains, but movement was almost impossible without losing balance, and he was not too keen on ending up lying on his side.
His shoulders where still aching from his prolonged stay on the box and this new forced posture did nothing to ease the pain. Sherlock tried to gauge how long he had been here, but it was impossible to keep track of time without a watch, or daylight, or anything resembling a schedule. They gave him water and food in irregular intervals, sometimes he was parched and sometimes he still had some water and food remaining.
The scenes started to meld together in his mind, more torture, more pain. He desperately tried to escape but there was no way out. Then suddenly, John was there. A beacon of light in the darkness. But things were not right. Jake was there too and they were fighting and...
"John! NO... " Sherlock woke up with a shout. Completely disoriented, he struggled against the strong arms that held him firmly in place. He grew even more desperate as he realised that he was too weak to fight them off. "No, leave him ... Go away..."
"Sherlock! Calm down." That voice, firm and yet soothing. He knew that voice. Not John, but also friendly, most of the time... Mycroft! Where did he come from? He eased his struggle against the arms that held him down, but did not relax completely; nor did he open his eyes. He had yet to regain his bearings.
"Think, brother. Deduce it. It's all there." Mycroft's voice encouraged him.
He was lying on a soft surface, but the sheets felt rough against his skin. Low thread count. A warm cover. That was new, but it felt wrong. Not home. Not at Mycroft's, but also not in the basement any more. Moving up along his body he felt a faint ache in his left side, and a not-so-faint headache. Courtesy of his fight with Jake, no doubt. Pictures of the fight sprang to mind and he started to tense up again.
'No, Jake is dead. It is over.' He forced his mind back into reality and continued his deductions on his surroundings. Something tingled on his chest and in his nose. There was resistance and pain in his hand when he moved it. He took a deep breath and was assaulted by the smell of antiseptics and bleach. A very specific mix that he could easily identify, given his extensive study of all kind of chemicals. And Mycroft was here. Breathing out deeply, he relaxed into the soft cushions. He knew exactly where he was now, only how he got here was still a bit fuzzy.
"Mycroft? How did I end up in a hospital in Budapest?" His voice sounded a bit off, and his throat hurt when he spoke. Furrowing his eyebrows, he turned his head and opened his eyes. As expected, his brother sat next to him in a white hospital chair. "And where's John?" He rasped as more memories of the past few hours washed over him.
"John is safe. They have him in a separate room so you aren't disturbed." Sherlock noticed the miniscule hesitation. Not exactly a lie, but also not the whole truth. He made a mental note to come back to this later. "Nice touch with Budapest. The bleach?" Mycroft changed the subject purposefully. Interesting. Sherlock added it to his growing list of things that were not quite right.
"Obviously. Only used in former Soviet countries, but the antiseptic is a brand only available in EU countries, so that narrows it down. I knew I was held in Hungary, and with our injuries you would transfer us to the largest and best hospital available, so Budapest."
"I am glad to hear that you did not hit your head too hard!"
Sherlock took some time to observe his new environment, taking stock of all the medical equipment that surrounded his bed. Other than the annoying oxygen prongs on his face and the multiple IV ports in both his hands he was content to find no indication for a serious injury that required prolonged medical treatment. Satisfied for the moment, he turned back to his brother.
"You got us out?"
"After receiving your rather alarming message, yes. Appalling spelling by the way."
"Don't try and be humorous, Mycroft, there is no need to lighten the mood, I'm fine."
That earned him a sigh and a dramatic eye roll from Mycroft. Sherlock was pleased.
"You have been asleep for almost twelve hours in case you want to know. You have a mild concussion, a deep stab wound just below your rib cage that punctured a lung and you've lost a significant amount of blood. You are also dehydrated and malnourished, on a saline drip, IV antibiotics and have received two protein shakes through a nasal probe. This would be why your throat feels so rough." Mycroft's voice sounded oddly shaky.
The opportunity was too good to be passed up. "Is that sentiment I hear?"
"Oh for god's sake, Sherlock, you almost died in that basement! After having been missing for over a month! When I sent John after you, I didn't know if he would find you dead or alive."
Sherlock did not flinch at his brother's sharp tone and decided to ignore the worry that laced his brother's words. He was annoyed that Mycroft had meddled in his affairs – again! – and that John had been hurt in the progress. He also needed answers and if he could irritate Mycroft in the progress, even better.
"Why John? You could have sent anyone, why use John? I told you explicitly to keep him safe!"
Mycroft broke eye contact and started to pace the room, the umbrella accentuating every single step.
"I didn't send him, he figured out that you were alive on his own. I couldn't have stopped him even if I wanted to!"
Now it was Sherlock's turn for a dramatic eye roll. "Keep your manipulations for lesser people Mycroft, we both know that you fed John the breadcrumbs that led to his discovery. I covered my traces well after my tragic demise; John would never have been able to figure it out on his own. Only you could find the clues and feed them to him. So, coming back to my original question, why?"
Sherlock watched with satisfaction as his brother whirled around at the unexpected accusation.
"You are underestimating your friend, John did figure out most of it on his own. He barely needed my help. You taught him well." Mycroft was actually praising John. That alone was enough to alert Sherlock instantly. "And you know why. He was the only one I could trust with your life. The only person in the world who cares enough about you to risk his own life."
Sherlock knew that his brother was right, but he was upset that John had been deliberately placed in danger. Especially as the whole point of his mission was to keep his friends safe! So he kept lashing out, ignoring the alarm bells in his mind, his voice intentionally hurtful.
"You didn't know about his SRR involvement, did you? Or that he and Jake Moriarty had history together."
"These facts have unfortunately been overlooked during the routine checks. Trust me, it will not happen again."
The cool mask of Mycroft finally brought Sherlock to boil over. "John almost died because of your mistake! You and your pathetic minions missed crucial information, which could have cost both of our lives! You had only one job to do, Mycroft, and even that one you messed up. That is exactly why I had to go solo to destroy Moriarty's empire; you and your so called intelligence specialists are not to be trusted! Now, stop your games and tell me where John is, I want to see him."
Seemingly unfazed by his brother's outburst, Mycroft replied calmly. "You can't see him right now. He's in intensive care. "
"Mycroft?" There was an odd expression on his Mycroft's face and Sherlock did not like it. He was hiding something. The alarm in his head was now at maximum level, trying to alert him to something important, something he had missed. "What are you not telling me? How bad is it?"
Instead of an answer, Mycroft looked down and broke eye contact with Sherlock. That gesture, more than any words, scared him deeply. Infuriating as his brother might be, he was no coward. If he hesitated to tell him, then that meant bad news and that alone sent shivers down his spine. Finally he spoke.
"Bad, Sherlock. It's very, very bad."
Mycroft told him the diagnosis, in all its excruciating details. His head was spinning wildly as he calculated the odds of John's survival, and saw them shrinking with each new detail that Mycroft revealed. Although his memories of the final moments of their fight with Jake were sketchy, he did remember the horrific head injury. But they had been rescued! They had survived everything that Jake threw at them; surely John would not leave him now? Not now that they were finally safe? He looked up at his brother who was still avoiding eye contact and felt his anger take over.
"Get out, Mycroft!" He snarled.
"Sherlock..." His brother flinched under his words.
"OUT! This is your fault! John could be sitting safely at home, but you had to involve him in this. If he dies, his blood is on your hands. Now. Leave. Me. Alone!
AN: There is quite a bit of medical stuff in the chapters to come. Unfortunately, my knowledge of this topic is sketchy and internet research gets you only so far... So if there are any readers with medical knowledge that are willing to help me get the facts straight, feel free to PM me!