Locked
"John."
'Oh, for god's sake, not now, I'm tired, give me a break, will you …' He drifted straight back into the sticky molasses of sleep, his head heavy, limbs and back aching, the mind sluggish and full of barely contained images of horror, just waiting to break through the stupor.
"John."
'Get lost, go back to your scheming and leave me alone,' John muttered in his mind. Possibly aloud, too.
"John." The voice was firm now, though not louder – commanding solely by will.
'God, you Holmses are a pest,' he thought, 'how am I gonna get rid of you?' Punch him, his mind supplied helpfully, and he tried to bark sod off! but out came an indistinguishable hmumpf, resulting in a drool.
"John." The voice was now a steely order, accompanied by a hand on his shoulder – strangely, the touch felt far too gentle to add authority to the words.
John opened his eyes. Confused, his brain failed to process anything, and he could not make sense of the image before him – white sheet, pale skin, thin tube, dark curls. Finally, it clicked. He jolted up, sending a sharp pain down his spine. He had fallen asleep in the chair, slumped onto the bed, his head next to Sherlock's shoulder. It had to be past midnight, he realised; the lights in the room had been dimmed to a soft glow and the illuminated London skyline was visible through the windows.
Sherlock, of course, had not moved; in half-darkness, with the monitors glowing in reds and greens, his face seemed even more unreal.
"John."
"Mycroft," John sighed wearily. "What do you want?" Before he looked up at Mycroft, he routinely checked on Sherlock. No change. Only then did he turn to the elder Holmes. The man was impeccably dressed in a dark suit with a blue tie that matched his icy gaze; the facial swelling was gone, and any traces of the bruises were carefully covered up. "Hang on," John suddenly blurted, "how come you walk in here in a suit? Ever heard of isolation gowns?"
Mycroft just smiled enigmatically. "Be assured, John, I pose no threat to Sherlock."
John frowned and tried to stare him down, in vain. "No new development, Shelrock's the same," he finally muttered and rubbed his eyes. Suddenly, he realised that this was the first time Mycroft was visiting his brother – unless John had slept through another encounter. He stared at Mycroft: his face was as unreadable as ever. In fact, he seemed to ignore Sherlock completely.
"I am aware of that, John. Sherlock is not the reason I came." He took something out of his pocket. "You are."
John just stared at him blankly, waiting for an explantaion. Also in vain. "So?" he finally snapped.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, his gaze for the first time sliding to the still figure on the bed. "You know that all of this -" he vaguely gestured at Sherlock, "is due to the fact that Sherlock tried to obtain the phone he lost in Russia."
"Well, if you insist on omitting minor details such as a bomb in a highrise, secret data on gun running, and Moriarty trying to shoot me, almost killing your brother instead, you won't find me nitpicking," John spat at him.
"There's no need to be upset, John. I do know who is to blame."
"And you're sure you're not blaming Sherlock?" John retorted. "I had a feeling like that."
Mycroft looked at his brother and said almost absentmindedly, "No, I blame Moriarty, of course, and myself for not realising he was still alive. An unforgivable mistake." He looked back at John. "That is not important right now. During his encounter with Moriarty at the Shard, Sherlock obtained the data he had lost – he sent it to me and I transferred the relevant parts to his phone. His current phone, mind you." He held out the black device. "You will find everything on it, John. The diary he kept during his hiatus and everything he has written after his return."
"What am I to do with it?" John said, staring at the phone, confounded.
"Read it, of course," Mycroft replied with a tight smile. "That is what he wanted."
It was eerie, John realised, talking about Sherlock as if he were dead, with him lying right there, unable to interrupt with snarky comments and derisive noises.
"I still don't understand why he didn't just talk to me," John sighed, extending his hand.
Mycroft dropped the phone into it. "He couldn't. Whatever happened, it robbed him of words." He seemed momentarily lost in thought, but the sharpness in his gaze returned immediately. "John, I appreciate it greatly that you remain at my brother's side, and please be assured that your wife and your friends are safe. We are currently following a promising trail that will hopefully lead us to Moriarty." He cast a glance at Sherlock. "Perhaps things will return to normal, soon."
John looked at the prone figure and couldn't stop the words slipping out. "Doesn't look like it. He has to wake up first."
"Well, at least he is alive and breathing," Mycroft stated calmly. "Though it sounds rather horrific," he added with a disapproving frown.
"He's just survived a bullet wound and pneumonia, Mycroft," John barked, "he's allowed to sound horrific. That's not the problem. For all we know he might be brain-damaged." John rubbed his face, weariness overwhelming him again. "He might never wake up, Mycroft. Or he might wake up to a vegetative state, and I don't know what's worse for him. With every day, his chances drop. Significantly, Mycroft, it's statistics, Sherlock could give you a lecture on it." He scrubbed his face manically now, until he felt the faint, very faint touch of Mycroft's fingertips on his shoulder.
"Let us not give up hope, John. For all we know, he might just be rebuilding his Mind Palace." With a tiny smile, Mycroft turned and walked away, but John noted that his steps weren't quite as unburdened as before.
"You're all such bloody good actors," John muttered darkly as the door closed behind him.
Looking back at Sherlock, he tried to grasp what Mycroft had implied. "Sherlock," he growled, "if you're not waking up because you're in there, redecorating your bloody Mind Palace while I'm worrying myself sick, I'll light a fire under your bloody ass!"
Of course, he received no acknowledgement whatsoever.
"Damn it," he huffed, switching the phone on. "So, what have you got on here, huh?"
The screen lit up in bright colours.
John frowned, staring at it uncomprehendingly. "What the f…?" Blinking, he pinched the back of his nose. "You gotta be kidding me …"
The phone was locked.