Seven: Judas (Lady GaGa)

I'll bring him down, bring him down, down

A king with no crown, king with no crown.

Mycroft Holmes burst through the double doors of the hospital wing and approached the reception desk. The short brunette that was manning the station glanced in his direction before coming out from behind to meet him.

"You would be Mr. Holmes, then? Mycroft Holmes?" she queried, putting her hands on her slim hips.

He raised his eyebrows at the diminutive woman. "Yes…"

She nodded. "This way, then." She turned on her heel and strode down the hallway. Mycroft blinked slowly, but followed her, his long strides closing the distance.

"How did…"

"They said to expect you," the woman interrupted, throwing a small smile over her shoulder. She stopped short in front of the oaken door marked 221 (how fitting) and held the door handle. "I should warn you," she said, "he's had a rather rough time. He had to have stitches here and there, he's broken his left arm in two places and dislocated that shoulder, and we had to patch up a rather nasty gash on his left thigh. It came pretty close to the artery, but he'll be okay."

"Is he conscious yet?" Mycroft asked.

She shook her head. "He wasn't the last time I checked, which was… twenty-two minutes ago. But he is not in a coma and he should snap out of it fairly soon."

Mycroft mumbled in understanding. "What about his companion?"

"He had to have a few stitches himself and is sporting a rather terrific black eye, but nothing more major than that." She opened the door and held it there for him. He mumbled his thanks and entered the darkened hospital room.

The nurse had been right…he had had a rough time. Mycroft let his eyes assess the prone form of John Watson in the dim fluorescent lighting. The rough blankets had been pulled up to his waist and his blonde head was resting on the pillow, his eyes shut and still. Mycroft could see the network of bandages and slings that had been arranged over his left arm and shoulder. There was a spectacular bruise on his jawline and a small, stitched laceration above his right eyebrow. John looked like hell.

Mycroft felt rather than saw the presence of his younger brother stirring in the shadows behind him. Sherlock appeared on his right and together, the Holmes brothers stood in silence and watched the unconscious form of John Watson. Mycroft was the first to move, turning his head to appraise his brother's condition. Yes, there was the black eye, visible in the low lighting. The normally pale skin on his face had been mottled by a remarkable blend of indigos, cobalts, and deep plums. The sleeves of his shirt had been rolled up and there were white bandages covering his forearms.

"So what happened, little brother?" Mycroft murmured.

"Ambush," Sherlock stated in his low baritone. "I certainly hope Lestrade's informant got his thirty pieces of silver out of that one." He watched John a moment longer before adding, "John was thrown through a plate glass window and fell eight feet to the landing."

"I was told that he almost nicked his femoral artery," Mycroft said.

Sherlock nodded. "Fractured his arm in two places as well. And dislocated his shoulder."

"And what about you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock waved his hand and made a face. "Black eye and a few cuts. I'm fine."

They waited in the silence for a few minutes more. Neither brother felt the need to fill it with trivial comments or such nonsense. The Holmes brothers spoke only when there was something important that needed to be said.

"So…" Mycroft started. "Your assessment of this new…threat that seems to be encroaching on London? He seems to be filling the shoes Moriarty left rather nicely."

"She, actually," Sherlock stated. Mycroft threw him a look. "Novel, isn't it? No, this is definitely a woman's work. A brilliant woman…"

"More so than The Woman?" Mycroft inquired.

"I believe so," Sherlock murmured.

Mycroft was silent for a moment. "I will put heightened security details around Baker Street and John's clinic."

Sherlock made a face. "Why? I highly doubt this woman will try me again. I think I made it fairly clear to her where I stand."

"But as long as you stand with the angels, dear brother, she won't stop. You will need protection, and so will John."

Sherlock stared at his elder brother. "We can take care of ourselves, Mycroft." The tone was not haughty, but more embarrassed. John was Sherlock's responsibility and he would make sure that nothing happened to him.

"With all due respect, Sherlock, I'd rather not take the chance. I have already seen what a grieving John Watson looks like, and it is not something that I care to witness ever again. That being said, I would never like to think of what a grieving Sherlock Holmes would look like." Mycroft tightened his grip on his umbrella ever so slightly.

Sherlock scoffed lightly. "So much sentiment, Mycroft. I remember that it was you that told me that caring was not an advantage."

"But we both know that isn't quite true, don't we Sherlock?" Mycroft said. He waved his hand, encompassing the whole room. "We were told from a tender age that our emotions had no place in our lives. And yet here we stand… you and I standing together in a hospital room watching over your…partner, your lover." Mycroft paused for a moment, his head tilted to the side in thought. "John Watson has changed your life rather significantly, little brother. In a roundabout way, he has changed mine as well. Here we are, both feeling and allowing emotion to enter our neural processes…and the world has not fallen. I am just as observant as you are, Sherlock, perhaps even more. I clearly see how much John means to you and consequently how much you mean to him. It would not sit well with my conscience if something were to happen to either of you and I had done nothing to prevent it." Mycroft stopped and took a deep breath. He wondered if everyone felt so tired after admitting that they had... feelings.

"Well that was awfully sweet of you, Mycroft." John's croaky voice suddenly filled the room and Sherlock sprang into action, making it to his side in three strides. He ran his hand gently through his partner's hair and gave him a small smile. Mycroft moved to stand at the foot of John's bed, offering the man his own small smile.

"How are you feeling, John?" Mycroft asked.

John chuckled dryly. "I feel like I got thrown through a window, Mycroft. But I'm okay, thank you." He frowned suddenly, like there was something he was supposed to be doing and wasn't. "Sherlock? Where are my trousers?"

"John? Your trousers? They had to cut them off, you had a very severe laceration on your thigh." Sherlock rubbed a gentle thumb across his brow, easing the worry lines out.

"No, Sherlock, there was a card in my pocket. I found it lying on the ground just before that…ape of a man found me and threw me. It had a…riddle on it or something." He frowned again, trying to remember. Sherlock got up and went to the bureau, retrieving the small bag of personal items the hospital had returned. He rummaged through it and picked out the piece of creamy white stationery. He held it aloft and threw an eyebrow in John's direction, wincing as the motion pulled the bruised skin. John nodded.

Sherlock came back to the bedside and looked at the paper. The card was thick and expensive, no traces of personal logos or watermarks to be found. It was plain except for four lines drawn with violet ink. The handwriting was elegant but the poetry malicious. He read it aloud.

How to bring down the king with no crown

Drunk on his own power and might

Who watches the watchmen, gentlemen,

In the middle of the cold, dark night?

The three men stared at one another for a few minutes. Then, John began to shift uncomfortably. The stitches in his thigh had begun to sting and he was suddenly aware of a dull ache in his left arm. Sherlock noticed his twitching and buzzed for the nurse. Mycroft moved to the window and stared out into the city's lights.

Life was about to get interesting.