Sherlock story
Deleted Memories, Chapter seven
Warning: post Reichenbach spoilers. Hope you enjoy
"There is a little boy inside the man who is my brother. Oh, how I hated that little boy. And how I love him too."~Anna Quindlan
Sherlock opened his eyes. He felt his brother.
Mycroft was in the doorway staring at Sherlock. Anthea was with him. "Get me some coffee if you would," he asked her. She briefly looked up from her phone, looked at both brothers then walked away eyes glued to her phone screen, fingers racing across it.
"John, would you excuse us?" It was not a question. Mycroft was used to being obeyed.
"John stay," Sherlock said.
He looked from one brother to the other and then sat down. There was no choice; his loyalties have always been with Sherlock. He did however pick up his book and pretend to read. No one was fooled, of course.
"So, you're alive," Mycroft stated casually.
"Brilliant, your ability to grasp the obvious, it astounds me… constantly," Sherlock slowly replied just as casually.
"Seven months," Mycroft said but received no answer.
"I have resources, I could have …" Mycroft was interrupted.
"Helped?" Sherlock finished for him. "Don't you think you've helped enough?" Sherlock's voice took on a singsong mocking quality.
Mycroft silently cataloged all of his brother's injuries. Sherlock, knowing what Mycroft was doing, briefly closed his eyes under his brothers scrutiny.
"Did John know?" Mycroft asked as he walked to the foot of Sherlock's bed.
Sherlock sighed and opened his eyes.
"He's known for about a month," he added, "it wasn't safe to let him know before then." Regret was in his voice.
"Oh," was Mycroft's response; his mask fell for a second. He looked like he had been slapped. His face quickly looked blank again, mask back in place. "I've underestimated John," he said.
"People usually do. After the first day we met, I never did again," Sherlock's responded, his voice became tender.
"Why now?"
"Nidal Ayyad. The possible terrorist threats you've been looking into is Nidal Ayyad, he's alive Mycroft. Nidal Ayyad, Ahmed Ajaj , and Joseph Turkin; they are all linked. There is one not three separate threats. They're all tied to Moriarty."
Mycroft's eyes grew wide. "Are you sure Sherlock?" He already knew the answer was yes. He was after all, a Holmes.
"Of course." Sherlock was starting to hurt but would not admit it in front of Mycroft.
After taking a few breaths he continued, "There is a forth connection something unexpected, something different. I was working on identifying the connections when I was… shall we say detained." Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in bed. His body stiffened as pain shot through him. He exhaled sharply.
Sherlock looked at John who gave up the pretense of reading; he was trying to decide if he should get up and help Sherlock, or give the brothers their space.
He nodded to John trying to assure him silently that he was all right. John took up the book again, but he did not relax. His body was still tense, ready to be at Sherlock's side quickly if needed.
"Lestrade; you need to talk to him. He has some details you'll need to know." He then closed his eyes, sweat starting to form on his forehead. "You have less than thirty days, Mycroft… well, duty done for God and Country, so you'll excuse me."
Mycroft knew his brother was dismissing him but he would not allow it.
"Sherlock will you allow me to help you now?" Mycroft asked
"I'm fine, thank you," Sherlock responded eyes still close.
"Please," Mycroft says simply, sincerely.
Surprised, Sherlock opened his eyes, and looked at Mycroft. Mycroft allowed him to look. Then, Sherlock looked away and said in a small voice, "Home."
"The doctors would never allow it," Mycroft tried.
"We both know you can manage it," Sherlock stated.
Mycroft sighed heavily, "When I said help, I did not mean to help you kill yourself."
Sherlock turned away and closed his eyes, not saying another word.
"Sherlock," Mycroft tried again "If, and I do mean If, I agree to this, I would expect you to listen, to follow instructions; none of your usual tomfoolery!"
Sherlock opened his eyes, looked at Mycroft and replied a little too angelically, "I'll be the very model of cooperation."
Sherlock looked pleased with himself despite the fact that it was getting increasingly uncomfortable for him.
"I did not say I would do it," Mycroft said.
"Yes, you will," Sherlock smirked.
Mycroft could feel his resolve slipping. "I will have my people look at your medical records, and then I'll make arrangements to…"
"You Will Not… my records are private!" Sherlock stated in a voice half threat half plea.
Mycroft's eyes narrowed, a dangerous look was on his face. His brother could be melodramatic, but the outburst was out of place, even for him. He glanced at John and saw that he was surprised as well.
Sherlock swallowed and lowered his voice. "Doctor Watson is more that capable of taking care of any medical issues that may arise." A spasm of pain racked his body. A groan escaped before he could stifle it.
John was on his feet now, but stayed in place.
Mycroft grew concerned. "I'll let you rest." He hesitated then added, "You're in pain Sherlock; push the pump for your medication."
"I'm fine. I have to think now." Sherlock's eyes were closed tightly; sweat now soaked his forehead and weighed down his curls.
Mycroft rolled his eyes, took the pump in his hands, and pushed the button, twice.
Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but the sudden rush of pain medication in his veins, ended all arguments as his eyes fluttered shut.
"The very model of cooperation. Indeed." Mycroft ventured one last look at Sherlock. He then swung his umbrella on his shoulder passing a shocked John Watson who eyed him warily. "I will inform the staff that you are to have full access to all reports and test since you are to be primary in his care. I will of course keep my word and not look myself."
He looked John in the eyes and an understanding passed between them wordlessly; John nodded once. He knew Mycroft was showing self-restraint and trust in him.
"Doctor Watson," Mycroft said as he left the room closing the door behind him.
"That wasn't awkward at all," John said sarcastically
John walked up to Sherlock, observing his sleeping form. Something was bothering him, like an itch in the back of his brain. He had pushed suspicions, concerns, and worries in the back of his mind. They all came rushing forward now. He frowned as he thought back.
Both he and Sherlock was injured before; occupational hazard. This time something was different, something was eating at Sherlock, unnerving him. John wondered what he was missing. He rarely left Sherlock's side except briefly when the staff changed him or dressed his wounds.
He closed his eyes and thought. He thought back, cataloging injuries. It was so dark and Sherlock was so bloody when he found him; the priority then was keeping him alive. His frown deepened as he put the puzzle together.
John stilled, his whole body stiffened.
There was the night before he fully regained consciousness. He had cried out in his semiconscious state and mumbled words that John quickly dismissed as being drug induced, but what if they were actually flashbacks, memories. "Dear God," he said in a whisper. "Please let me be wrong."
He looked at Sherlock.
With the dose Mycroft gave him, he had at least forty-five minutes before he would awaken. He hesitated only slightly then steeled himself and marched out the door.