The rain it raineth on the just

And also on the unjust fella;

But chiefly on the just, because

The unjust steals the just's umbrella.

Attributed to Lord Bowen

Another big chapter. I hope it provides a heartening amount of proper, indisputable Sherlolly-ness to keep your hunger pangs at bay. Have fun, mes petites. Allons-y!

Sherlock and John crashed into Molly's morgue as though blown there by the late autumn winds that had been building over the afternoon. Molly exchanged glances with Nigel: it was the Old Team, back in action, familiar as strong tea and digestive biscuits.

"The x-ray scanner, Molly—the big one, not the little one! I need it, now," Sherlock proclaimed, brandishing an elegant and expensive men's umbrella like a baton gripped at mid-shaft. "Big enough to fit this."

"You're going to x-ray a brolly?" Nigel asked with a snort. "Right daft, that."

"Not so daft as trying to take it apart without x-raying it first," Sherlock snapped. "It's my brother's. God knows what he's done to protect it."

"'S goin' a bit far, ennit? I mainly just keep a tight grip on mine in the Tube."

"You haven't had me trying to steal yours regularly," Sherlock pointed out, though Molly had a gut instinct that from here on in Nigel had best start consulting with Mycroft regarding methods of securing his. Sherlock had a suspiciously devious glint in his eye as he crossed verbal swords with the lab tech.

"You make a habit of it?" John asked, then added ruefully, "What am I saying? Of course you try to steal Mycroft's umbrella, if you have a clean shot at it."

"Not so much, these days. Not since the one he primed with itching powder—dumped an entire load on me the next time I went out in a downpour. I only pinch it occasionally, to prove I still can."

"So why do you have this one?" Molly asked, as she opened the door of the larger scanner.

"Because..." The falter in Sherlock's voice was almost undetectable, or would have been to listeners less accustomed to his usual tones and inflections. He fixed his attention on aligning the umbrella in the scanning chamber. "It was there."

"And Mycroft wasn't."

John could say things like that, Molly thought; say them with that firm, almost authoritative tone that suggested Sherlock wasn't going to be allowed to faff about avoiding core truths. Judging by the sudden tightening of Sherlock's lips, John had struck true. She wondered if she'd ever have the perception and the nerve to strike as cleanly.

"And Mycroft wasn't," Sherlock conceded, his voice armoured and unwavering. He turned and found the viewing screen at the work station behind him. In seconds he had the image up. He hissed in annoyance. "Mycroft, damn you..."

"What?" Molly said. She looked over his shoulder. "What's that?"

"That, my dear Molly, is Mycroft being too clever by half. And, worse, learning lessons from his enemies. You'd think he'd be above learning from The Woman, but apparently not." One long finger pointed to a dark disk embedded in the shaft of the umbrella handle. "Explosive. And there—that's an embedded memory, I suspect. And this, I believe, is a mobile receiver/broadcaster."

"Cell phone in a brolly?" John said, coming to look over Sherlock's other shoulder. "That's a bit too James Bond for me to credit. Mycroft doesn't seem the type to play around like that. He's serious. Responsible."

Sherlock shot him a filthy look. "Mycroft's sense of humor may evade most people, but it's very real. And he takes absolute delight in playing John Steed. I can think of few things that would charm him more than secrets hidden in a booby-trapped umbrella."

"He's your brother," Nigel chimed in, peering in awkwardly from Molly's far side. "You'd know. Seems to me the big question, though, is how we get the secrets out."

"We don't. He'll have followed Irene's model: layered passwords. I don't even know how to send them to the receiver. Yet."

The final added word was said with fierce determination. Molly found herself chuckling.

"What?" Sherlock asked, with a frown.

"You," she answered. "You're not about to give up, are you?"

"Heaven forbid," John said, joining her laughter. "He'd die first."

"Well, he has, hasn't he?" she asked.

John's grin was dazzling. "Yeah, but he cheated—and you helped him, Miss Hooper."

"I just proved you can't beat me at the game," Sherlock snapped. "No one. Including Mycroft." He stood and wheeled back to the compartment, retrieving Mycroft's umbrella. "This is not impossible. Mycroft isn't trying to beat me. He wouldn't have left me a clue if he didn't want it solved."

"He may just have wanted you to know there was something going on," John argued.

"No. It's more than that. He wanted me to find this. He wanted me to investigate—he wanted me out of it completely, as long as he was able to manage it himself. But he wanted me on it when he couldn't be."

"Is it something you can work on outside my morgue?" Molly asked. "I mean, I'll stay open if you need to work, but it's closing time, and I was hoping to get some dinner and some sleep." She risked a glance at Sherlock, and added, "I was up all night."

"Several of us were," John said, grimly. "And I, for one, am knackered."

"Dinner, maybe?" Sherlock asked. "Food, then home?"

"I'm on," Molly said. "All I've got in my fridge today is yogurt."

Nigel raised his hand. "Count me in, too. But then I'm off."

"Not me," John said. "Dead on my feet. Home, shower, microwave, sleep." When Sherlock shot him a slightly panicked glance, he shook his head. "No. You go. I'm going home." He stretched.

Sherlock leaned close, and Molly heard him husk, "John—I don't..." He looked uneasily at Molly and Nigel. "I don't socialize."

"You eat curry. They eat curry. It's not so hard," John said, firmly. "You can do this. You're Sherlock 'I will not be beaten' Holmes."

Molly felt her stomach drop as she realized Sherlock had assumed the invitation was to John—with Nigel and her perhaps as unavoidable add-ons. For a few moments Old Normal Molly squirmed, screaming internally that she should back out now and avoid the inevitable humiliation of rejection...or, even worse, Sherlock sullenly accepting the situation, and then spending the next hour or so venting his resentment in every way he could think of.

New Normal Molly wasn't willing to retreat, though. "We can go to the Pret A Manger over on Holborn Viaduct. They make a good sandwich. Or we can do Smithfield or Barbican for Indian."

"Barbican," Sherlock said, quickly, clearly determined that if he couldn't ditch Molly and Nigel he'd at least put in dibs on the restaurant he preferred.

Molly, feeling much too clever to live, smiled to herself—she'd successfully stacked the deck. "We're on, then. Nige, you good with that?" Not that she had any doubts. Nigel lived for Barbican's tandoori.

"I'm good."

"Great. John, great to see you." She stepped in and hugged him, pleased when he hugged back. "Now, you go home and sleep. You earned it. But call Mary first—let her know what's up here."

He chuckled. "You're teaming up with her, are you?"

"Modern version of the WI," she said, cheerfully. "No jam or Jerusalem, but we stick together, no matter what."

He gave her an extra squeeze. "I'll let her know you're watching out for her best interests."

She nodded; then, feeling far too assertive to believe, she said, "Okay. Sherlock, Nige, help with close-down and then we're off."

XXX

Nigel, to Molly's relief, proved the perfect person to moderate Sherlock. Every time the older man attempted snark, Nigel either topped it with something clever and funny and sweet, or simply nailed him for being a prat in a good-natured, almost affectionate way that reminded Molly of John. Before they'd completed the walk Sherlock had apparently decided ill-humor was a waste of energy and had settled into an easy pace, using Mycroft's umbrella as a cane.

"Sure you want to go smacking that down on the pavement like that?" Nigel asked, looking uneasily at the umbrella. "Won't it detonate?"

Sherlock gave him a vastly superior look and drawled, "Oh, and my brother is so likely to go about with a hair-trigger brolly. I think not."

Nige sniggered. "I dunno, mate: he's related to you. No telling what barmy ideas he'd think sensible."

To Molly's amazement, instead of coming back with an annoyed retort, Sherlock almost smiled—and then casually reached past her to cuff Nigel on the back of the head. "Prat. Mycroft has better sense."

"Better sense than who?"

"Whom. And than I do," Sherlock said. For once he didn't sound like the admission of Mycroft's superiority had been dragged out of him with hooks.

"Eh, well—setting the bar low, then, are you?"

Another gentle cuff—but no more. Nigel had apparently slipped into the strange, charmed circle of people Sherlock accepted. Molly was tempted to call the Vatican and declare a miracle had occurred.

The walk over was cold even for November. As near as the Barbican was, Molly still wished she had worn a thicker coat. Nigel, who wore a ghastly purple parka from late September through early May, seemed fine, and Sherlock had The Coat, of course, but Molly was still wearing her light go-to-interview jacket from the day before. She crammed her hands as deep in the pockets as they'd go, walked as fast as she could, and hurtled into the Barbican at high speed, breathing a sigh of gratitude for central heating and the warming scent of spices.

They ordered quickly, then settled into conversation. Nigel again served as the hub, providing a surprisingly strong, well-reasoned and deeply informed defense of popular art forms, particularly adventure-based forms. Sherlock, while tart and determined to maintain much of it was "silly wankers playing games" actually appeared inclined to give the geeks of the world a pass.

"'Course he does, Moll," Nigel chuckled, when she risked bringing it up. "Look at him: overgrown geek. If he didn't have his detective thingy to amuse him, he'd be at a convention decked out as Batman or something."

"Don't be offensive," Sherlock said. "I would not wear a silly costume. It's among the least logical elements of the comic book superhero: what sensible vigilante would go around in tights with spandex knickers on top?"

"Aye, yeah, okay, I'll give you that one. So, what? You'd be writing fan fiction?"

Sherlock sniffed. "Of course not. That would be John's hobby."

"So what would you do, Sherlock?" Molly asked.

"Fan wank," he said, firmly. "I'd be the idjit on all the fan sites annoying everyone by pointing out they don't know their canon. Worse, I'd be right."

Nigel gasped and dissolved in hysterics. "Eeeeeee! Yes-yes-yes-yes!"

Molly looked at both of them, then turned to Sherlock. "How did you know to say that?"

"What John so cleverly called 'The Case of the Geek Interpreter,'" he said. "Cover persona. It was an interesting introduction to fan culture. I fit in rather well, if I do say so myself."

Nigel fought down his laughter long enough to gasp, "Oh, shite. What was your fandom?"

"I went for the classics: Lord of the Rings. But I had secondary interests in Harry Potter—pro-Snape all the way—and you don't want to hear what I had to say about what DC did to Oracle."

Nigel lit up. "Duuuuuuuude! Favorite X-Man?"

"Xavier, of course. Hank McCoy after that."

"Avenger?"

"Depends on the day. Tony Stark. Bruce Banner. Dr. Strange."

Molly's couldn't believe it. "You're kidding me, right? You know this stuff?"

Sherlock shrugged and tried to look distant and reserved. "Research."

"No way," Nigel declared. "Man knows his fandoms. You picked pretty good, Sherl. Mainstream enough, with just a touch of quirk. So, what's your wank when you're not passing?"

Sherlock looked down his nose. "It was just a cover, Nigel."

Nigel narrowed his eyes. Then he said, "I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total oblitera—"

Sherlock crumpled his napkin and tossed it at Nigel, just barely choking back something between a grumble and a laugh. "Tosser."

"Nailed it, didn't I?"

"Oh, shut up."

"He's embarrassed because it's not all obscure and hipster and cool: one of the big-time popular books," Nigel told Molly. "Dune is the ego-geek's Mecca. I bet I could tic off the other stuff he'd love, too."

"Don't," Sherlock said, repressively.

"But Sheeeerlock! I haven't even started on the hard-core stuff," Nigel pouted. "Sandman? Neuromancer? Snow Crash? Watchmen?"

Sherlock was on the edge of some sort of heated reply when his mobile rang. He pointed at Nigel and said, "You're not safe yet," then answered the phone. "Yes. Yes...what? Oh..." He went tense, then. "Yes. Yes, I can come. Give me fifteen minutes to half an hour. No, taxi. I'll be there." He ended the call and slipped the phone in his pocket, groping clumsily for his coat on the back of his chair. "Mycroft. They think he's coming around. I have to go."

"I can go with you, if you like," Molly found herself saying, remembering Sherlock's response to his brother's illness. Coming out of coma could be rough on the patient and the family alike.

He was about to turn her down... then hesitated, before saying, "I...Yes. Yes. That would be good." He looked around the table, filled with half-eaten bowls of food and baskets of naan. "I'll pick up the bill. Feel free to take the leftovers home."

Nigel, whose income was nothing to write home about, didn't argue. Instead he eagle-eyed Sherlock and said, "Make sure Moll gets some sleep—or make sure she phones in sick tomorrow. She's been up over thirty-six hours already, thanks to you. You don't send her staggering back in tomorrow morning still dressed in her interview clothes, you hear?"

Sherlock nodded, too concerned over Mycroft to come back with any clever sallies. He'd risen, finally, and collected his coat. He glanced at Molly. "Ready?"

She nodded, pulling on her jacket. "You go pay. I'll meet you outside. If I can I'll flag a taxi and hold it for you." They walked together to the front checkout, and she continued on out into the cold. She looked both ways, failing to spot a cab. She frowned and pulled out her phone, logging in to look for the number of a cab company. The icy wind seemed to cut through her jacket. Her silk pants almost might as well not have existed. As Sherlock came out she said, "No cab. I'm calling for one now."

Instead of answering, he leaped at her, knocking her to the pavement just as a car came screeling down the street. Shots stuttered over their heads, peppering the wall of the restaurant. The plate glass doors and windows shattered; glass rained down. Molly shrieked and tucked herself into a ball as best she could under Sherlock's weight. He'd tented himself over her, arms and upper body attempting to shield her from the attack. She could hear the car as it gunned its engine; the screech of metal as it cut too close to another car; the shouts and exclamations of people on the pavement.

For a small forever, she and Sherlock stayed where they were, hunkered on the concrete. Then, cautiously, Sherlock eased himself up, looking around.

"Are they gone?" Molly asked, embarrassed by the quaver in her voice.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "For now." He stood and fished his own mobile out of his pocket. "Hello, Lestrade? I need your intervention. Someone just tried to shoot me, and I can't stay to give evidence: Mycroft's coming around and I need to get to the Royal Marsden. I need you to send people over, but cut me free."

"And me," Molly said, fiercely determined not to be thrown as a sacrifice to Lestrade's investigators.

"And Molly," Sherlock added, without arguing.

As he continued in his negotiation above her, Molly cautiously sat up. She considered standing. She quickly concluded she had better wait a few minutes before she tried. She was shaking dreadfully. Wrapping her arms around herself she stared blankly at the shot-out door of the Barbican. Framed in the ragged edges of glass left in the frame, Nigel stared back, Mycroft's umbrella clutched in his hand.

One and one made two, and then cascaded into a sum too large to express. Feeling panic rise, she risked raising one hand and gestured in a shooing motion. "Run," she mouthed at him, silently. "Hide!"

Nigel's eyes, already wide, widened further. He nodded and seemed to fade back into the restaurant, disappearing behind other customers gaping out through the destruction.

Above, Sherlock finished his call to Lestrade. He looked down and realized Molly was still on the ground. Leaning over, he offered her his hand. "He's taking care of it. I told him you were safe. That's all right, yes?"

She felt his strength as he pulled her up. "Yes."

"He did ask," Sherlock assured her, soberly. "He does care."

She smiled. "I know." It was sweet Sherlock wanted her to know, though. Greg wasn't the only one who cared—Sherlock cared about her, and about Greg, too.

"He's sending one car just to take us over to the Royal Marsden," Sherlock said. "Police escort, as it were."

"Cheaper than a cab, I hope," she said.

"For us, yes. For the department? No idea what they charge on the budget." Nor, she suspected, did he care. He looked up, then, and she could almost imagine ears pricking. "Here they come. Sirens, coming south on Aldersgate."

She managed to nod. The shock and the cold had hit in full force by then. She was shivering as hard as ever and trying not to cry. She refused to cry in front of Sherlock, not when he was treating her with something like respect at last. He didn't notice, and she was glad of it. Maybe she could pull herself together before he ever did.

The police cars pulled up wailing and whooping. Sherlock left her side, stepping forward and practically grabbing the first officer to step out of the passenger side. Soon he was gesturing, nodding fiercely, and pointing, appearing to give a thumbnail of events for the officer to work from. Then he loped back and grabbed Molly's elbow. "Come on. We've got to get to Mycroft."

She allowed him to drag her along past the waiting cars to one near the end of the line. Sherlock opened the door and let her slip in, easing in after her. He slammed the door, said, "Ready," and the car took off, siren howling overhead.

The noise felt like an attack on top of her shock. She tried to sink into her jacket, ducking her head down. The police car dodged out into traffic at a rate that felt terrifyingly reckless. She pulled in further, wishing her jacket were bigger so she could turtle more effectively. She clamped her teeth so tight her jaw hurt.

Sherlock was rattling on a mile a minute about something... the attack, she thought. Something about his opponents getting desperate. She didn't really care. She didn't even notice he'd asked a question until he repeated it.

"What?" she asked, tightly. "I didn't hear you."

He was silent a moment, then said, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Molly? This is me. Sherlock. Don't waste my time lying. What's wrong?"

"Fine, Sherlock. If you're so smart, you tell me what's wrong."

"It's not exactly like I've got the advantage. Dark car, sirens, you all hunched up like that. Limited detail for observation."

"Then nothing's wrong. Nothing."

She heard him draw in his breath for a sharp response—then stop. He touched her arm. "You're shaking."

"Cold."

"Well, yes, that jacket is perhaps a bit light-weight," he said, almost absently, still studying her. Then, pensively, he said, "You've never been under fire before, have you?"

She shrugged, afraid to answer for fear she'd start bawling.

"It's all right to cry," he said, a bit sulkily.

"No. It's not," she snarled, fighting back the tears. "You'll say horrible things. It's been so nice with you not saying horrible things."

The sirens ensured that the following seconds weren't silent, but they didn't contain any Sherlock-comments. Soon she felt motion beside her, and he said, "Lean forward."

She did. One half of his coat front and all of one arm seemed to sweep around her. He drew her close, sheltering her like a chick under a mother hen's wing. "I'm not going to suggest this is a perfectly good time to cry, because it's not. We'll be at the Royal in about five minutes, which even I will admit isn't enough time for a proper bout of hysterics. But I won't say anything horrible if you cry a bit—or if you cry a lot later. And at least you won't be freezing." He sounded like he was running out of rationalizations, but he continued to hold her close.

The warmth of the coat and his body were lovely, as was the arm around her shoulders. She huddled against his side, and sniffled.

He fished in a trouser pocket and handed her a handkerchief. "Mummy always said a gentleman should never be without one. I find they're rather useful in investigations. You never know when a nice bit of clean cotton will come in handy."

"Won't be clean long," she snuffled, then blew her nose.

"I've got more at home."

She didn't sob. She hardly leaked at all, she thought—only a little. Then she just leaned against him, drinking in the warmth and the completely unexpected luxury of being comforted by Sherlock Holmes. When the car pulled up in front of the Royal Marsden she was almost calm again.

XXX

Dr. Lund met them just outside Mycroft's room. "He's coming around. That's the good news. But I've got to warn you, he's...not very good right now. He's a long way from properly awake, and he doesn't know what's hit him. We've managed to pull the feeding tube—he was choking himself on it. But we may have to sedate him."

Sherlock glared at Lund. "What? He's just coming out of a coma, doctor."

Lund shrugged. "He's panicking. His awareness has come back faster than his understanding, if that makes sense to you."

"He's Mycroft," Sherlock proclaimed, as though that ruled out messy things like panicking when coming around from an extended illness and coma.

"Sherlock," Molly said, quietly. "It's not unusual."

He looked down at her, frown darkening his eyes. "He's Mycroft," he said again, more forcefully. Then, plaintively, "He'll get over it, won't he?"

"Probably," Lund said.

"Probably?" Sherlock didn't appreciate the ambiguity.

Lund took a deep breath. "He may have some permanent amnesia. There's a slight chance that the illness or the period he was in coma will have done worse. It's too early to rule it out. Personally, I'm expecting a full recovery. He's almost over the chicken pox, the pneumonia's doing better. His lungs aren't producing as much fluid. The coma wasn't the result of brain trauma, so there's a good chance there's no lasting damage. But I can't promise you, Mr. Holmes. People don't go into comas just because. He was very sick, and he stayed out for a fairly long time. There's always the chance there's some form of brain damage, and even if there's nothing we can spot, sometimes there's lasting cognitive damage."

Sherlock went from his usual Victorian-lily whiteness to a greenish grey. "Then why sedate him?"

"Light sedation. If he's awake but feels threatened there's a serious chance he'll injure himself. He's still on the IV, he's got the drainage tubes still in place. And he's not going to be very strong or very—agile. He's been sick, Mr. Holmes. Very sick. He's not well, yet. A delusional struggle to free himself from his hospital bed won't do him any good, and could do a lot of damage."

Sherlock didn't look as though he liked it. He did look as though he was going to argue. Molly risked touching his arm. "He's telling the truth, Sherlock. Look, before you say more..." she looked to Lund. "Can he go in and see Mycroft?"

Lund nodded, his eyes grateful. "That's why I called him—that and permission to sedate. Familiar faces can help. People he trusts."

"I'm the last person you should have called, then," Sherlock said, bitterly. "His aide, perhaps."

"Sherlock, try. Just try," Molly said.

His lips tightened, but after a moment he nodded.

Lund opened the door and ushered them in.

Mycroft was the wriggling, unhappy focus of too much attention, surrounded by nurses and orderlies trying to deal with wandering hands and a restless effort to move—to move anywhere. They'd succeeded in removing the feeding tube, but a red, bruised streak remained where it had lain on the skin by his mouth, and gummed patches of old tape adhesive clung tight. His eyes veered as he tried to focus. Molly could see he didn't have full control over eye motion, yet. Her heart tightened. She'd seen patients coming out of sedation, and out from comas before. Some woke instantly, minds sharp and in focus. More, though, experienced some degree of confusion and reduced control over motor skills. Mycroft, in her opinion, was coming in on the bad end of that spectrum.

Sherlock's breath sucked in, hard and fast. He seemed unable to move a step further into the room. "Mycroft?" His voice wavered.

Mycroft's head turned, and he struggled to focus on the latest intruder into his private chaos. "Who?" he croaked. His voice was wrecked, vocal cords sore and raw from lack of use and the extended presence of the feeding tube.

Molly was sure the sound Sherlock made was one he'd never want to admit to or own. It wasn't a cry, or a sob, or a moan; it was a little, shocked thing, too weak to survive for long in the open air. She looked over and saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed down fear. "Mycroft?" His voice was almost as broken as his brother's.

"Shock?" Mycroft continued to try to focus, when focus was beyond him.

Molly slipped her hand onto the small of Sherlock's back, feeling the wool strap and buttons that marked out the start of the coat's classic flare. She pushed gently, whispering. "He can't bring you into focus. His motor skills are going to be punk for awhile yet. Get closer, and talk." Moving him forward with one hand, she gestured to one of the nurses to bring the guest chair up to the bedside. She guided him as though he were as ill and injured as his brother, needing a nurse's hand.

He sat heavily.

"Talk to him, Sherlock." She stationed herself behind him, hands on his shoulders.

"Mycroft? It's me. Sherlock."

The unfocused eyes turned toward him. "Shock?" Even through the raw, cracked voice she could hear the fear. "Where am I? What happened?"

"It's all right, Mycroft. It's all right. You've been sick, that's all. You're getting better, now." Sherlock reached out spontaneously, grabbing Mycroft's roaming hand. "It's going to be all right."

"Not... not accide... not... Can't think. Can't think." The fear jetted up, now, taking control.

If Mycroft's voice and terrified eyes hadn't made it obvious, Sherlock's reaction would have clarified just what it meant to these two brothers to lose their one great ability—the one master-skill by which they managed to survive. Eyes as stricken as Mycroft's, Sherlock rose and fumbled the guard rail down, ignoring the protests of the nurses. He hitched a hip into the space left at Mycroft's waist, then gingerly, cautiously took both hands in his, avoiding the tangle of tubes. "It's all right. It's going to be all right, Buddy."

"Shock—can't stay this way. Promise?"

Molly felt cold to the core, knowing just what Mycroft was demanding.

"Shhh. Shhh. I won't let you get stuck like this. I promise. You're going to be all right, though. Don't be scared. It's going to be all right. You're getting better. I promise."

Mycroft sighed and relaxed, leaning back against the raised head of the bed. He closed his eyes. "Not right. I'm s'posed t' take care 'f you."

Sherlock smiled—a smile that just barely held back tears. "It's all right, Buddy. You do. You always do. This time it's my turn."

When they'd remained together quiet and steady for a few minutes, Molly let the tension bleed out of her body. Keeping her voice low, she said, "Sherlock? Is it all right if I go home, now? I'm dead."

His eyes turned to her. "No. I mean, please, no? They're still holding the room across the hall for me. You can sleep there. Please? I'll take you home later."

What she really wanted was a hot shower, her most broken-in knit nightshirt, and about twenty hours of sleep. But she couldn't quite resist the fear still lurking in his eyes. She nodded. "Okay. Wake me if you need anything."

He nodded, then turned back to Mycroft, stroking his hand with one thumb. "Let Lund know he doesn't need a sedative. Not now. Not while I'm here."

"I will," she said, and slipped out of the room.

XXX

It was near dawn when Molly woke. Sherlock stood at the window, hands deep in his coat pockets, staring out at the silvery sky. She blinked and wiped sleepers from her eyes. "Morning, Sherlock."

He nodded, but didn't say anything.

"How's he doing?"

He almost shrugged, but stopped short of more than a twitch of the shoulders. "Sleeping, now. I think he's doing better. How long does it take to come back properly?"

"Depends," she answered. "Depends on a lot. He's lucky. The coma wasn't from blunt force trauma to the head. But he's been sick. Really, really sick."

He nodded again. After awhile he said. "I couldn't say 'brother' when I was little."

She thought about it, still groggy from too little sleep. After a bit she managed to put it together. "So—Buddy?"

"Yes."

"And Shock. Short for Sherlock?"

"My parents wanted Sherry. Mycroft said it was unkind enough to stick me with Sherlock without saddling me with Sherry. He shortened it to Shock. Or Shock-o. Or Shocker. Or Shock-Jock. And he made it stick, too. Even at King's. I still went through hell at school, but at least I didn't go through hell as Sherry."

"Intelligent man, your brother," she said, sitting up.

"Quite."

She nodded. Eventually she said, "Someone tried to kill you last night."

"Mmmm."

"Someone knew Mycroft was coming around?"

"Probably. They're running out of time."

"Time for what?"

"I have no idea."

She moaned, softly. "Normally you'd think that was fun, wouldn't you? A game." Every tone of her voice made it clear that, in her opinion, it was proof he was a bit crazy.

He snorted. "Normally, it doesn't put my friends and family in danger." The gray light of the morning lit his face, silver-plating his profile, glowing in blue-green eyes. There was something achy in his voice, still grieving from the night before.

"What do you need?" she said.

His eyes darted to her. He shook his head, a tiny motion. "I don't know." She could hear the confusion and misery.

She stood. Drew in a breath and stepped close. Staring at his chest, she said, "I won't say anything horrible, you know."

The laugh he gave was tiny, and forlorn. "No. You never do, do you?"

She risked grabbing the front edge of the coat, where it lay open. She gave a little tug.

With a weary sigh he swung the coat wide, never taking his hand out of his pocket. He pulled her in under his wing, drawing her to himself as though he was comforting her sorrow and fear.

She leaned in close, slipping her arms around him. She did cry, a longer cry than the night before. If the palms of her hands told her that he cried silently, too, she didn't make him pay for her knowledge.

Finally, they drew apart. Molly mopped her face dry with his handkerchief and ignored him doing some mopping of his own with a tissue from the bedside table. Both politely pretended nothing of any great moment had happened.

"I'll call a cab and see you home," he said.

"No," she said, firmly. "Call the cab, but then sleep here. Mycroft may need you."

"All right, but you're calling in sick today."

"No, I'm not. I've got a job."

"Calling in sick. Nigel will kill me if you don't."

"Pfft. Nigel. You can... Oh, my God." She froze, staring at Sherlock. "Oh, my God. I forgot."

"What?" he asked, suddenly on alert.

"Nigel's got Mycroft's umbrella."