"Arrrr! Avast, maties! Pwesent awms!" Three-year-old Sherlock jumped from the garden wall directly into a mud puddle, followed closely by Mycroft, wielding a wooden sword.
"You'll never escape from me, Captain Sherlock!"
The brothers came together with their swords, ending with Sherlock hefting his beneath Mycroft's arm.
"Uggggg! You got me, you smarmy sea-dog!" Mycroft fell to the ground dramatically.
BEEP.
"That's wight. You'll never catch me!"
BEEP.
"Mycwoft? Aw you dead yet? Mycwoft?" Sherlock approached him lying on the ground cautiously before Mycroft leapt up and tackled Sherlock, holding him to the ground and tickling him furiously.
BEEP.
"Mycwoft, what's that noise?" said Sherlock, still giggling underneath his brother, black curls flying everywhere.
BEEP.
"That's your heart rate monitor, Sherlock."
Sherlock stared at him, confused. "You're in hospital-you got shot-remember?"
Sherlock stood up and backed away from him, wooden sword still in hand.
"Why am I hewe?"
Ten-year-old Mycroft stood and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "You're dreaming. This is a metaphor for how we've fought all these years, but now you forgive me."
BEEP.
"It's time to wake up now, Sherlock."
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
Sherlock's eyes crept open slowly, unable to take the harshness of the fluorescent lighting above. Everything hurt. His entire body felt stiff and unmovable, like he had just been hit by a truck. Once he was able to see properly, he scanned the area.
John was perched in a chair next to his bed, watching the telly on mute. Molly was asleep on the small loveseat near the window, wrapped in a standard, hospital-issue blanket, her hair in tangles around her face. He lay propped up on pillows in bed, a plethora of wires and tubing seeming to issue from every area of his body, including one that seemed to be in a rather personal position. He tried to sit up farther, but was met with an immediate dizzy sensation, accompanied by very threatening nausea.
John turned at the sound of movement and immediately hopped up, placing a hand on Sherlock's chest and forcing him back down onto the pillows.
"Not so fast, you need to stay lying down," he reached to the bedside table and poured a small amount of water into a cup, placed a straw in it and head it up to Sherlock's mouth, encouraging him to drink.
"Just small sips, you might feel a little nauseous with all the drugs running through you."
Sherlock took a quick drag on the straw and found the water to help cut through his drowsiness-feeling a bit more alert.
"What-" he croaked, finding his throat raw and sore.
"Sh, don't try to talk yet. You've been out for three days. Gonna be a little drowsy."
Sherlock pulled down his sheet, attempting to get a look at what felt like layers upon layers of bandages on his abdomen.
"I was right. Bullet went straight up, nicked your lung. Didn't hit anything else along the way. Surgery was very simple-I observed. Textbook. You lost a lot of blood though. Mycroft insisted on donating. Passed out as soon as he saw the needle. But no worries, you're AB Positive-can take from anyone."
John pulled his sleeve up to reveal a bandage around the crook of his arm. "Mycroft decided he would be better suited to deal with the paper trail revolving around your much-anticipated return to detective work. Turns out I didn't turn the camera off. The entire country saw the whole thing. You're a hero again."
Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to take a deep breath despite the nagging pinch in his chest, which he supposed was a drainage tube from surgery. When he opened his eyes he turned his head achingly to face Molly on the sofa, hoping John understood his question without his needing to speak.
"She's fine. Just bumps and bruises. She's been here for the last three days. Refuses to leave. Mrs. Hudson brought her some clean clothes but she refuses to leave your side. I think you have a lot of explaining to do on that front, you know."
Sherlock smiled slightly, turning back to face John. He swallowed before asking his next question, leaving it to one word. "Moriarty?" he croaked, weakly.
"He's dead, Sherlock. Really dead. I saw in on his autopsy. Wanted to be positive. Even he can't fake that. And yes, I checked for rubber balls beneath his arms."
Sherlock looked down guiltily. "John, I'm sor-"
"Don't. I know why you did it. I understand."
They continued to look at each other until both averted their gaze, slightly embarrassed. Suddenly there was movement coming from the sofa-Molly was stirring.
"Look, are you hungry? Why don't I find a nurse and see if we can get some food into you?" he left before waiting for an answer. Sherlock knew he was giving he and Molly a private moment, but Sherlock feigned ignorance, appreciative of the gesture.
"Hey," Sherlock said loudly as he could. Molly turned quickly at the sound of his voice. Her face immediately lit up at the sight of him awake, though it couldn't hide the obvious state of appearance-exhausted.
"Hey, you! How do you feel? Do you need more pain meds?" She was at Sherlock's side now, tentatively grasping his hand. Sherlock gave it a faint squeeze in an attempt to reassure her.
"I think I'm ok-considering. What exactly happened?"
"Well, Scotland Yard was flooded with phone calls after the broadcast hit, so the police arrived shortly after you were-you know. Lestrade was the first on the scene. He called for backup and paramedics, took them about five minutes to get you to Bart's."
Sherlock nodded. "Are you all right?"
"Oh, yeah. My jaw wasn't fractured, just bruised." She stared at him, tears threatening to roll down her cheeks any minute.
"You know that's not what I meant," said Sherlock.
The floodgates opened. Tears began to stream down Molly's cheeks in earnest. "I thought you were dead! All I could think about was that I just got you and now I lost you and Jim was dead right next to me and it was all his fault and I was so scared Sherlock! I was so scared!"
Sherlock's eyes grew wide at Molly's sudden onslaught of emotion as he ignored the pinching in his arms to reach up and pull her head to his so he could kiss her forehead. "It's ok. It's fine now. I'm fine."
To his surprise, she yanked away and swatted his hand away.
"It is not fine! You almost died! Don't you ever do that to me again!"
Sherlock stared at her, unsure what to say. To his own surprise, a smile began to creep onto his face.
"Sherlock, it's not funny! It's-" Molly hiccupped through her tears, a smile trying to force its way through onto her face as well.
Sherlock began to laugh at her, wincing slightly at the pain it caused in his chest. "You're a nutter."
Molly gave up and began to laugh as well. "I know." She playfully hit him again in the shoulder, leaning over subtly to hit the round button beside him, issuing a dose of pain medication.
"Hey, now. Be gentle. I've been shot, woman." Sherlock grinned at her, a flood of drowsy relief hitting his veins through the IV.
Molly smiled wickedly. "I don't think I'll ever be gentle with you again, Mr. Holmes." She leaned down and kissed him deeply right before he sank into a blissful, drug-induced sleep.
"Someone is really going to have to explain to me what the hell happened while he was gone," said John's voice from the doorway. He looked utterly bewildered. Molly took one of the sandwiches out of his hands and sat herself on the edge of Sherlock's bed, chuckling to herself.