Hertfordshire, September 2013
"I've taken the liberty of arranging a leave of absence for you."
This is the first thing Mycroft's said that's penetrated the haze of confusion and bewilderment clouding John's mind. He has no recollection of how he got into the car, and over the past half hour only smatterings of Mycroft's haughty monologue have been at all intelligible to him.
John blinks and gives a small shake of his head.
"I'm sorry - what? You can't do that."
Mycroft looks over to John with raised eyebrow and a faint smirk on his lips.
"I can, and I have."
Silence fills the space between them, until John clears his throat and asks quietly, "What's wrong? With... him?"
A troubled frown flits over Mycroft's face. Were he able to concentrate on more than the most basic of information, John might notice that there's a singular concern in Mycroft's eyes, born of something more than just his usual meddlesome ways.
"Grazed by a bullet in the arm - a superficial wound, but one which requires attention."
"You don't need me for that."
"No," Mycroft agrees. "He also has significant swelling on his right knee and difficulty walking. As he remains, for all intents and purposes, dead in the eyes of the world, he has not yet been seen by a physician."
"He... " John echoes. His eyes sting; he blinks once, twice, and then he closes them - against Mycroft, against the encroaching madness. "What happened?"
"A confrontation - one that's been coming for some time now, although I was myself apprised of it only yesterday morning. As you can see -" he points to his lacerated face "- I was caught in the crossfire."
"So," John says, a sickening realisation pooling in his gut. "You knew. You... knew, and you kept it from me."
Mycroft glances at John, then looks away, out the window.
"I knew. But it was imperative that you believed Sherlock dead."
And there's the fog again, dulling the jagged edges of John's anger. He has an urge to hit Mycroft - hard, and in the face - but it's vague and slips further away with each grasping breath he takes, until he can only respond, "I don't understand."
Mycroft gives John a small smile that might be mistaken for condescension, were it not for the strange gentleness in his eyes.
"I think it best that you hear it from him. Simply put, it's not my story to tell."
A short time later, the sound of gravel crunching under tyres signals the end of their journey. John peers out the window to find a surprisingly modest country house nestled in a hilly embankment, and his heart clenches uncomfortably.
"Has he asked for me?" John says in a quiet, controlled voice.
Mycroft sighs. "He... doesn't know I've come for you. I left him sleeping after administering a powerful analgesic, but I daresay he's awake by now."
"Why me?" John can only whisper now; any louder and other, inconvenient things will escape with his words.
"He needs you," Mycroft replies, almost mournfully.
The car comes to a stop. Mycroft climbs out as John, white fingers gripping the soft leather on which he still sits, takes a deep breath and tries to quell the onslaught of a thousand warring emotions. After a moment, Mycroft bends down and pops his head inside the open door.
"Doctor?" he says; then, softly, "Please."
John gives a curt nod and slides over to the door. They climb the stone steps and enter the house together. The sound of the heavy wood door closing is followed closely by the shatter of porcelain from above, and Mycroft, rolling his eyes, heads up the stairway, John slowly ascending behind him.
"Where the hell have you been?"
The voice - his voice - coming from a room at the top of the stairs stops John dead in his tracks - nearly brings him to his knees. It takes everything - everything - John has not run, though towards the room or away he cannot say. He doesn't understand what's happening - grips the bannister, waits for the choking black fog that envelops him to pass. Just outside the doorway to what must be Sherlock's room, Mycroft casts a glance over his shoulder, a silent question in his arched eyebrow. John closes his eyes and steadies himself, and when he thinks he can move again he gives Mycroft a nod.
Entering the room, Mycroft says loftily, "You are in need of medical attention, and I am just returned from seeking it."
"No!" Sherlock exclaims, a note of alarm in his voice that John has never heard before, and it's that faint echo of fear that propels John forward. "It's not safe, not until we know for sure -"
And John, now standing in the doorway, sees only Sherlock.
Sherlock's mouth drops open, and his eyes grow wide. "John... " he says and looks quickly at Mycroft, but inevitably his gaze returns to John and he pales.
Mycroft, glancing from one to the other, gives a deferential little nod and leaves the room.
And there they are, mere feet away from one another but miles from what they were. John still has no idea what to say - has no words, no words that even begin to express the complexity of the emotions that threaten to overwhelm him - and when Sherlock (too thin by half) swallows and stammers hoarsely, "John, I -" John cuts him off with a steely, soft-spoken, "Let's have a look at that knee, then."
And John can see the dawning understanding in Sherlock's eyes. They stare silently at one another for a long moment, John willing Sherlock to let it be for now. Then Sherlock blinks, glances down at his leg, and says, "Yes, that's probably a good idea."