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Going Home

John insisted on accompanying Sherlock in the ambulance, but there was no danger of Sherlock waking up: he was completely knocked out, the constantly disregarded transport finally prevailing. When they wheeled him into the A&E department, John was marched off by an orderly, despite his protests, to have his bruised throat checked out and the various scrapes and scratches attended to. Higher orders, it seemed.

Since it was a busy night and the place was crowded with evacuees from the London Bridge Hospital, he had to wait a long time before a tired looking trainee appeared. John assured him that he was fine and all he needed was a helping hand with the sticking plaster in places where he couldn't reach – which were quite a few, given his battered state.

When he finally emerged from A&E, he felt more done in by the wailing of overtired children and the general racket of dozens of people waiting to be treated than by a Taliban insurgency. Lost, he looked around, trying to figure out where in the unfamiliar maze of corridors he could find someone to get news on Sherlock, and make a phone call. Everyone was in a hurry or frantically busy; due to ongoing paintwork, the direction signs were covered with foil (non-transparent, thank you), and he had neither phone nor coat, no money for a cab, and not even a proper pair of shoes since he had worn slippers in the hospital.

"Just my luck," he groaned, but as he turned around, the sun was rising: Mary was there, standing at the end of the corridor, smiling and looking dapper in a dark blue coat and riding boots. She had his holdall with her, undoubtedly packed with proper clothes.

"Oh, Jesus," he sighed and jogged down the corridor, almost knocking over a nurse pushing a trolley. "Sorry," he blurted, "so sorry!" And then he flung himself into her arms, the bag plopping to the floor.

"Jesus," he wheezed again as he buried his face in her neck, and she chuckled, "Not quite, just Mary," and he almost broke down crying, running his hands over her, feeling her warmth, smelling her hair, her skin, simply revelling in her existence. She held him and squeezed him, rubbing his back in a purely sisterly way, but when her lips found his throat, she left no doubt about the un-sisterly nature of their relationship. "Mary," he breathed, "I'm so glad you're here, are you alright?" He held her at a distance, suddenly noticing the dark circles under her eyes.

"I'm fine, John," she smiled. "I was just worried – the evacuation was on the news, and I knew it had something to do with Moriarty. I tried to phone you, but couldn't get through, so I pestered Mycroft's people, but it was hours until they finally gave me the news that you and Sherlock were okay, that my enforced stay at home was over, and that I could come and get you. Mycroft sent a car, of course," she raised a brow. "So, here are your clothes," she picked up the bag, "and I also brought some stuff to stay overnight. I guess you want to be here when Sherlock wakes up – if only to keep him from wreaking havoc."

John looked at her, and suddenly there were tears welling up in his eyes and he felt like a wimp, but it was so good to have her, to know he didn't have to shoulder everything alone, that there was someone else who cared, who understood, who loved him. She read it all in his face, of course, and grinned, "You're not a wimp, John, it's just nerves." And he leaned against her, laying his head on her shoulder and swaying slightly, shedding stress and fear and pain.

"Okay," he rasped after a while, "I'm OK, it's over," and he wasn't sure whether he was speaking to her or to himself.

"Well, get dressed, then," she smiled and gave him a final pat on the back. They found the toilet, and John vanished inside, emerging only a minute later, fully dressed.

"Well, that was quick," Mary chuckled. "OK, then let's see what they've done to Sherlock," she grinned, "or vice versa."

"We have to find him first," John sighed. "This place is utter chaos, swamped with evacuees, you can't even walk down the corridors – I wonder where they're putting up all those additional patients."

"The morgue's probably got some free space. Sherlock wouldn't even mind, I guess."

John giggled. "Not at all; would keep him from shouting boooored all night. But he should be asleep anyway."

Sherlock, it turned out, was very much not asleep. They also had no trouble finding him, because he was bawling at the top of his voice, wavering between bellowing with rage and wailing in distress – the latter a sound John had never heard from him before, scaring him out of his wits.

"Oh my God," he whispered in horror, and started running towards the noise, stumbling into yet another corridor lined with beds from the London Bridge hospital. Mary followed close on his heels and bumped into him as they both came to an abrupt halt, stopped by an orderly two heads taller than John, apparently assigned to the post of keeping everyone away from the rampaging patient.

"What's going on here?" John snapped, taking up a military stance.

"Nothing," the orderly said in a placating voice, "the man is just confused, no reason to worry, Sir. He's fine, only an adverse reaction to pain killers and sedatives."

"Pain killers and sedatives," John repeated. "What exactly, and who is responsible?"

"Sir, that's–"

"I'm his doctor!" John bellowed, just as loud as Sherlock, and was promptly answered by an anguished wail, sounding very much like a long drawn out 'John'.

"Oh, I'm–"

John shoved the orderly aside and pushed through the door. It turned out they had put Sherlock in a storage room, which was, given the current shortage of space, a mercy, but John instantly felt his anger rise. His pulse really sped up, however, when he saw that Sherlock was held down by restraints on his ankles and wrists to keep him from hurting himself; he had managed to cast off the heating blanket anyway, and the oxygen mask was lying on the floor.

John exploded, "Do you at all know what you're doing?! You are dealing with a traumatized torture victim!" He hissed out several breaths to calm down. "He's not lucid, obviously, so why is there no one taking care of him?"

"Sir," the orderly looked genuinely shocked, "I'm sorry, we didn't know that. This is an emergency, and we're hopelessly understaffed. He arrived without a patient file or any instructions, it's possible they were lost on the way up here – I assure you, we're only trying to keep him safe."

"Okay," John huffed, forcing himself to be reasonable despite Sherlock uttering another cry of distress and trying to roll onto his side, the sight of it breaking John's heart. It was too easy to imagine him in a damp Russian basement, struggling against his captors, and it was made so much worse by Sherlock muttering to himself in bloody Russian.

"Who gave him the painkillers and ordered the sedation? And why?"

Finding the answer to that proved difficult, but it seemed Sherlock had unexpectedly woken up while the X-rays were being taken; confused, he had lashed out instantly at anyone coming near him. Apparently, his mind was still stuck in the fight with Moriarty, and hissing and spitting, he had smashed some equipment, headbutted an orderly and kicked the senior consultant in the groin. John didn't blame them for trying to sedate him, but they had neither considered his drug history nor the current medication in his system, so instead of drugging him into oblivion, they had triggered a serious interaction.

John was taking several deep breaths, struggling to keep his anger under control; he briefly considered calling Mycroft, but a hand on his shoulder stilled him. Mary leaned closer, whispering, "John, let's take him home. Everything else can wait. I'll call Mycroft."

"Mary," he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We can't just take him home. He needs to be in hospital – Jesus, he needs X-rays taken again tomorrow to check the wound from the chest tube, he needs to be monitored closely for infection, he needs another dose of antibiotics, he needs–" John drifted off into a groan.

"Only for one night, John," Mary said. "He needs rest more than anything and he's not going to get it here. Tomorrow, Mycroft can take him to a hospital or whatever he thinks is the best solution, but tonight he should stay with us. No more carting around, no more strangers."

Sherlock gave another wail, reared up and tugged wildly at his restraints, then suddenly went still, staring at John, his face screwed up. "John?"

"Yeah, it's me Sherlock."

"Iwannogohome," Sherlock slurred, then collapsed back into the pillows, closing his eyes.

Mary raised her brows.

John shook his head. "He needs to stay in hospital. We might face an emergency within minutes. We can't take care of him at home."

Mary folded her arms and said drily, "It doesn't look like they're able to take care of him here either, does it, John?"

Sherlock shot up. "DoesitJohn?" He echoed, his face morphing into a mask of heartbreaking grief, and then into a scowl.

"Jesus," John exclaimed, taking a step back. "This, um, you two-" he pointed at Mary and Sherlock, both glaring at him, "the two of you united, that's bloody scary!"

"Only because we're right," Mary declared, then broke into a grin. "I'll call Mycroft."

"Yeah," John breathed, "okay, you're right." He looked at Sherlock and frowned, deeply worried: Sherlock had burrowed into the pillows as far as possible, given his restraints, and was now sobbing quietly, it seemed. John turned to the orderly, "Look, as I said I'm his doctor, I can take care of him, so get me a wheelchair and his papers and you can hand him over to me. I'm listed as his emergency contact anyway."

The orderly disappeared in a flash, undoubtedly elated at the idea of getting rid of his troublesome patient. John heard Mary in the corridor, patiently explaining, "I know he's been in the ICU only hours ago, but the state he is in suggests that someone's going to get murdered in the next few hours – either him or any member of the staff. They've given him the wrong medication – no, Mycroft, suing them to kingdom come will not help …"

John sighed and slowly approached Sherlock. He was lying with his body awkwardly twisted to the side, head half hidden under the pillow, eyes squeezed shut, breathing heavily.

"Sherlock," John said quietly, wary of triggering a panicked reaction.

"John?" Sherlock whispered without opening his eyes.

"Yeah, it's me. I'm here. Open your eyes."

"No."

"Why not?"

"You're gone then."

"I'm not."

"Yess, you are … 'mimagining you, 'm always imagining you, remembering your voice …" he trailed off and mumbled something incomprehensible, probably in Russian.

"Sherlock," John said firmly, "I'm very much real, open your eyes."

Opening one eye, Sherlock squinted at him sceptically. As soon as he saw John, his eyes flew open and he bolted from the bed, but was instantly yanked down by the restraints. He gave an angry yell which turned into another distressed whine.

"It's all right, it's all right," John rushed forward, fiddling with the restraints on his arms. "Mary?" he quickly turned around to see her rushing in, setting straight to releasing Sherlock's ankles. "Here we go, you're free now," John muttered as Sherlock worked his hands out of the restraints. "It's okay, you're – whew!" John suddenly found himself enveloped in a crushing hug, with enough force to squeeze the air from his lungs.

"John," Sherlock moaned, "I want to go home."

"Yes, we're going home, Sherlock," John assured him, stroking his back absentmindedly. At least the adversity to being touched seemed to have vanished completely, he thought wryly.

"Home," Sherlock hummed, "John, please, home, 's been sso long …"

John nodded and patted his back. "Yeah, I'm taking you home Sherlock, just give me a minute, okay? Let me have a quick look at you, and – careful with those lines." He disentangled Sherlock from the IV stand, then checked his pupils.

"John, I'm sorry," Sherlock drawled, "ssso ssorry." Sherlock leaned back a bit, his arms still around John's neck; he let his head loll, his body going limp, swaying slightly. "Sorry …"

"No need to be sorry," John sighed, "it's okay."

Sherlock suddenly drew himself up and looked at him intently, his face screwed up, showing a mixture of concern and confusion. "You know Mycroft said you'd punch me after … after … after," he frowned, racking his brain, "re-returning," he finally squeezed out, a silly smile spreading over his face. "He was wrong," he crowed, closing his eyes.

John raised his brows. "I don't punch my patients, Sherlock," he declared, "but I might be saving it for later."

Sherlock's face fell. "So you're going to punch me."

John sighed. "Perhaps, but not now."

"Do it now." Sherlock straightened up, presenting his face.

"No," John refused, his tone firm. "I am not going to punch you now."

"Whyever not?" Sherlock protested, scowling.

"Because you're out of your mind and vulnerable." It was said lightly and without much thought, but Sherlock crumpled, his face suddenly turning as white as a sheet. Leaning away, he croaked, "So they succeeded." He let go of John and curled up on the bed, burying his face in his arms.

"Sherlock! Hey," John leaned over him, shocked. "What's wrong? Hey? You with me?" He touched his shoulder and almost recoiled, thinking Sherlock was about to lash out, then belatedly realised that he was crying, desperately trying to stifle the sound of great sobs wracking his body.

"Sherlock," John sat down on the bed, rubbing his back. "You're not making much sense right now. It's the medication. Everything's fine, no need to cry."

"Maybe my brain's damaged," came the muffled reply, "they tried to, John, tried to destroy it … burn it … slice into it, scrape my mind out of me … stabbed me in the eye … 't was …"

John bit his lips. "Shit." He looked at Mary who stared at him aghast, and he just nodded, confirming what Sherlock had said. Her eyes widened in horror and she indicated silently that she would go and organise their departure. He nodded at her thankfully.

"Sherlock," John leaned down and squeezed his shoulder. "There's nothing wrong with your brain. They didn't succeed, you remember? They tried, but failed. You're drugged, they doctors gave you the wrong medication, and that's confusing you. You'll be fine in a couple of hours."

Sherlock slowly sat up, scrutinising John's face. His hair was ruffled and his eyes were red and swollen, but he looked utterly serious and focused. "John, if I …" he inhaled, but stilled, closing his eyes against the pain. Then he spoke again, struggling to enunciate every syllable. "John, if my brain is indeed damaged," he swallowed hard, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing one hand against the chest wound, "and I'm, um, and my mind is gone, and I'm an idiot, who can't think, who's stupid, dull, boring–"

"Sherlock," John cut him off. "You're not. And if you were, I'd still be your friend. I will always be your friend. No matter what you do, who you are, or how idiotic you behave. There. Look at me."

Sherlock warily opened his eyes, reading John's face, taking in every line of worry, the weariness, the pain, the honesty, and the joy of having him back. "John," he mumbled, his face lighting up in wondrous realisation. "You're my only friend."

"Yes, you genius," John chuckled. "But you also have a brother who loves you, and people who care deeply about you. And now let's get you out of here."

It spoke for itself that Sherlock did not protest at the idea that Mycroft loved him, or maybe he was too slow to process it. However, he did process the fact that there was not a single unoccupied wheelchair left, and that he was about to be wheeled through the entire hospital in a toilet chair.

"I'll walk," he declared, almost falling off the bed.

"You will do no such thing," John hummed and removed the bowl from the chair. Throwing a blanket over the frame, he declared, "Looks like a wheelchair now, get into it."

Sherlock just glowered at the wheeled violation of his dignity.

John sighed. "Do you want to go home or not? Hey – eh, slow down!" He just about managed to catch Sherlock – he had launched himself towards the chair, misjudging the distance.

"Right," John declared, settling Sherlock into the chair and wrapping him in a blanket.

"John, I hate this," Sherlock drawled, plucking at the hospital gown. "Where's my coat?"

"Not here. The blanket will do for now."

"Yes, but what happened to my coat?" He demanded indignantly.

"It's got bullet holes in it, remember? You'll get proper pyjamas and your dressing gown as soon as we're home." John looked at Mary questioningly.

She nodded. "Mycroft has promised to send someone with everything we'll be needing – he said something about an infusion system and antibiotics and that you should tell his PA what else is necessary. A bag with clothes and toiletries is also on the way."

"Great," John gave a sigh of relief.

"I don't need Mycroft's stuff," Sherlock growled.

"Yes you do," John said.

"I have all I need at Baker Street."

"But you're not going to Baker Street."

"Why not?" Sherlock twisted around, instantly flinching in pain.

"Because," John declared, "you don't even have bed clothes there. We took them to the hospital, remember? So that you'd feel at least a little bit at home."

Sherlock watched silently while John finished tucking him in. Eventually, he said in a low voice, "Thank you, John."

And John knew he was not talking about the blanket. "You're welcome. Always." John straightened and looked down at him. "Ready?"

Sherlock squinted up, frowning. "I would not know what there is to be ready for, sitting is a rather passive occupation."

"Yeah, good to know you're still the same," John declared. "I meant whether you're all right."

"I'm fine, John," Sherlock mumbled, pouting. "Why would I not be?"

"No reason," John sighed, "no reason at all. Let's go." He winked at Mary, who had silently taken out her phone, and slipping behind them, was filming their departure with a mischievous smile. "For blackmail," she whispered as John rolled his eyes at her.

Sherlock just assumed a regal look while John pushed him along the corridor, struggling against grinding wheels and squeaking breaks.