Characters: John, Sherlock, Mycroft, Magnussen

POV: Mycroft, John, Sherlock

Prompt: Sherlock is still in hospital after being shot by Mary, when someone pays him an unexpected visit. John and Mycroft witness this terrible spectacle.

Submitted by: Thanangst

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This entire chapter is a big fat SPOILER for the deleted scene from "His Last Vow" off the Series 3 DVD. It is literally transcripted word for word right into the following story. It is available for viewing on YouTube. Warning: LONG chapter.

Control Room

The small room is dark, but filled with noise and activity. Technicians chatter in urgent, hushed voices; fingers fly over keyboards in a cacophony of data-gathering; computers whir and hum beneath the din. Mycroft paces at the back of the room, his shiny Italian wingtips clicking heavily, ominously across the tile floor.

"Increased security detail," he says crisply, as Anthea dutifully types the dictated notes into her phone. "Extra surveillance at all entrances. And I want to know how he got in - now."

"Sir." Anthea halts her employer's pacing with a hand on his arm. Her gaze is directing his attention to a screen on the far wall.

Mycroft follows her line of sight, and immediately his face turns white. The technicians have noticed too - a wave of murmurs washes through the room as one by one they look first to the screen, then begin typing madly at their terminals, redoubling their efforts to find something - anything - that might tell them why Charles Augustus Magnussen has wormed his way to the door of Sherlock Holmes' hospital room.

"Out," the elder Holmes orders, his voice calm and authoritative. Several of the technicians look up in alarm, and Anthea's eyes go wide.

"Sir," she asks, "shouldn't we - "

"No," he intones, as the room empties quickly. He and Anthea are left alone in the dark, their faces starkly illuminated by the harsh light of the screen on the wall. The servers hum like a legion of worker bees. "Post a team at the nurses' station. Level one. Put them on standby. I need to know what his purpose is."

Anthea's phone is pressed to her ear before Mycroft even finishes speaking. Reliable, steady, efficient Anthea. She steps away, murmuring quiet, succinct orders in code.

Inside, Mycroft can feel his heart racing as he watches. The screen is split into fourths - a live camera feed shows Sherlock's room from two angles, as well as the hallway outside and the ICU nurses' station. Simultaneously, Magnussen arrives at Sherlock's door and Mycroft's own response team assembles at the nurses' station - casual as you like, they look like nurses on break. Mycroft steps forward, keys a command into the terminal, and drops himself into a chair as the screen fills with a single feed: Sherlock's room, shown from the camera installed into the air conditioning unit in the upper corner, furthest from the door. From this angle, he can see most of the room. The small blind spots are covered by the camera on the opposite corner - with just a few keystrokes, he can switch to that one as needed. Total control. Or so he tells himself, despite the frightfully rapid cadence of his pulse.

On-screen, Magnussen slips inside. "They're not all from me," he says by way of greeting, indicating the flowers surrounding Sherlock's bed. The detective is lying still, his faculties hampered by pain and drugs, but recognition sparks in his eyes almost immediately.

Mycroft grips the armrest of his chair, white-knuckled and tense, as he watches Magnussen approach his brother's bedside.

"The struggling carnations are from Scotland Yard," he continues. "And the single rose is from… W. And the black wreath? C-Block, Pentonville. I'm not sure the intent was entirely kindly." Magnussen sits down in the chair beside the bed and rests his hands on Sherlock's arm, petting it fondly, lightly.

From behind him, Mycroft hears Anthea make a sound under her breath, a mix of disgust and surprise. She opens her mouth to speak, but Mycroft holds up a hand. "Not yet," he says, his voice low. He can feel Anthea's urge to protest, but she holds her tongue. Mycroft's heart continues thundering in his chest - truth be told he, too, wants nothing more than to give the order that would send his standby team straight to that room to drag Magnussen kicking and screaming away from his little brother… but he knows he shouldn't. Can't. He needs to know.

Sherlock's heart rate ramps up on the monitors, his breathing takes a subtle uptick. Magnussen slides his hands under Sherlock's forearm, lifting his hand, cradling it, inspecting it. "Oh, I covet your hands, Mr. Holmes. Though, since you've survived, I suppose you get to keep them."

Anthea makes a strangled sound. "Sir!"

Mycroft shakes his head, struggling to maintain his own composure. "Not yet," he breathes, leaning close to the screen, his right hand wrapped painfully tight around the armrest.

"Look at them," Magnussen says, admiring each long finger. "A musician's hands. An artist's." Boldly, he presses his lips to the back of Sherlock's hand in a reverent kiss. Then he turns his head, looks into Sherlock's eyes. "A woman's." The detective breathes heavily through his nose, paralysed by drugs and pain and - fear? Yes, fear. He clings to consciousness, desperately afraid to lose to the drugs and be entirely at this man's mercy. He hasn't got any.

The elder Holmes feels guilt welling in his chest. Part of him is screaming - get him out, GetHimOutNOW - but he knows he can't. The extraction team is waiting across the hall, he reminds himself. Ready at a moment's notice. Information is power, and he needs to know what the most dangerous man in the world is doing here, now; what his involvement is with Sherlock.

By way of some miracle, Sherlock manages to pull his hand away, and Magnussen lets it drop back onto the thin hospital blanket. "Apologies," Magnussen says, brushing his fingers together, "for the dampness of my touch. You'll get used to it." Carefully, gently, he places the pulse oxymeter back on Sherlock's middle finger. He takes a breath. "Having shot you, the woman you know as Mary Watson left without killing me - which is odd… because that was the reason she came."

Mycroft snaps his fingers quickly, but doesn't take his eyes off the screen. Anthea nods and gets out her mobile again, stepping away as she speaks hurriedly into it.

Suddenly, Magnussen is inches away from Sherlock's face, their noses practically brushing as he whispers to him, just barely picked up over the surveillance microphone: "I didn't pass on her identity to the police. Information like that is too… valuable to be shared." Sherlock's rapid breathing is clearly audible. His eyes, barely slits up to this point, are wide and staring up at Magnussen's, though they are losing focus as his energy reserves are drained. Magnussen's fingers brush his arm. "Wouldn't you agree?" he murmurs, and steps away as Sherlock's eyes roll back and the lids press closed. He's gone before the detective fully loses consciousness, the door shutting behind him with a snap.

"Oh, God," Mycroft exhales. "My God, Sherlock, what have you gotten yourself into?" He lifts his phone to his ear.

Baker Street

"I'm not sure he'll be able to stomach chicken casserole."

"No. Definitely not. But Mrs. Hudson made it specifically for him, so we'd better pretend to take it along or it'll break her poor heart."

John and Mary are standing in Sherlock's kitchen, the two of them gathering what few creature comforts can be transported to the hospital. It sounds as though he'll be in hospital for some time yet - he pulled through surgery, yes, but he isn't out of the woods. John knows this better than anyone, but the distraction of this activity (Mary's idea) is boosting his morale.

"Okay then," Mary sighs, pawing through the large canvas bag to take inventory. "Pyjamas, socks, hairbrush, laptop, cold case file."

John heaves the chunky stoneware dish out of the refrigerator and sets it on the table next to the bag. "Chicken casserole."

"What are we going to do with it, though?" Mary asks, peeking beneath the lid.

"Eat it, in all likelihood. It's actually quite good. Oh - did you get the cord for his phone?"

"Think so." Mary nods and digs through the bag to make sure.

John can't help staring at her. Despite their sleepless night and so much time spent at the hospital, she looks well put-together: her blond hair is neatly pinned back, and she's dressed in easy layers with a soft brown cardigan and a cream-coloured top over boyfriend jeans and tan brogues. She isn't wearing makeup and hasn't had nearly enough rest, but her eyes are bright. She radiates strength and energy. She's his rock.

"What?" And now she's looking at him in concern. She gives a sort of half smile. "You okay?"

"Yeah," John replies. "Just… yeah. It's been a weird couple of… yeah. I'm fine."

With a knowing nod, Mary closes the space between them and runs her fingers back through his hair. "S'gonna be alright, though. Gets better from here."

Her nails against his scalp feel good, and John lets out a sigh. "Hopefully," he says on a sigh, the pragmatist in him rearing its head. "There's still secondary infection to worry about, and - "

"No." Mary's index finger presses itself into his lips. The scent of peaches fills his nostrils.

John frowns. "What about you? You okay? You don't need to be here, you know, you could go home and rest."

Pretty blue eyes roll heavenward. "I'm pregnant, not terminally ill."

His phone rings before he has a chance to lecture her about the increased demands of pregnancy. He digs it out of his back pocket: blocked number. "Hello?"

A familiar voice replies without prelude, "Go outside and get into the car."

"Mycroft!" John says with evident relief. "I've been trying to get hold of you. Listen - "

"I already know, John. Really. Please get into the car."

"Why don't you just meet me at the - "

"The car, Doctor Watson." The line dies.

John pulls the phone away from his ear and stares at it in consternation. Looking up, he catches Mary's questioning gaze. "Mycroft finally phoned back," he explains unnecessarily.

Mary blinks owlishly back at him. "'Bout bloody time. Well?"

"I've been summoned," the doctor states. He sighs. The world runs on Mycroft Time and he knows it. No choice but to obey - no doubt one of his assistants will be coming in to collect him presently, if he doesn't.

"I'll handle this," Mrs. Watson says of the bag and the crockery, her tone one of finality. "Go ahead."

"I'm sure it's nothing. He'll just be wanting a debrief. I'll call you when I'm done." John pulls her in close with an arm around her waist. He can feel the tiny swell of her belly pressed against his stomach. He kisses her lips before dashing out the door.

Control Room

John is more than a little surprised to be escorted to the very hospital he'd been planning to go to all this time. Actually, he's more than a little annoyed, too. "I could have just finished what I was doing and met him here," he rants at an unresponsive Anthea. She's off her phone - for once - but she's no more conversational than normal. With a beckoning hand, she leads him inside.

But, again to John's surprise, they don't board the elevator for the ICU. Instead, Anthea precedes him into a stairwell and begins climbing up. Frowning, John swallows his protests and follows her. He knows it's pointless to ask where they're going - she won't say, and anyway, he'll find out soon enough.

When they come out of the stairs, John figures they are just across from the ICU. Perhaps Mycroft wishes to speak in private and has reserved a conference room. Perhaps he's going to lecture - again - that the boys should stay away from Magnussen if they know what's good for them. In fact, he's steeling himself for an argument as Anthea leads him into a side room separated from the public area by a locked door, which she opens with a keycard.

Irritation turns to surprise as John enters upon what looks very much like a military operation control room. Terminals have been set up in neat rows, each one with a specific duty. There's a heavy desk at the far end of the room, with a tall leather chair behind it. On the wall is a display screen, and a surveillance image of Sherlock's hospital room is splashed across it. The room is empty of people, except for Mycroft, Anthea, and himself. Momentarily, however, Mycroft waves Anthea away and she exits with a deferential nod, shutting the door quietly behind herself.

Despite the over-the-top display, John's patience has worn dangerously thin. "What is going on?" he demands, frowning up at the screen on the wall. "What is this - security footage?"

"Precisely." Mycroft is leaning back against one of the terminals, his arms crossed over his narrow chest, his brow knitted. "Without knowing who shot Sherlock, ensuring his safety from the culprit is of the utmost priority," the elder Holmes explains. "However, there has been a… development."

This gets John's attention straightaway, Mycroft's tone sending a chill through him. "Wait - what? What development?"

Mycroft gestures to an open chair. "Sit."

"No - tell me."

Turning, Mycroft keys a command into one of the terminals, and the footage on the screen jumps and settles. "The audio feedback is of a low quality," he warns. "However, I think you will be able to understand the gist of what is being said."

Curiosity gives way to trepidation as John watches the screen. Sherlock is lying still, asleep or nearly, monitors beeping steadily away. The door to his room opens - unsurprising, considering vitals rounds in the ICU are conducted quite regularly, but after a moment, it becomes clear that the visitor is no nurse or doctor. Charles Augustus Magnussen sidles through the door and surveys the room. "They're not all from me…"

John feels his heart skip a beat. "What the - you just said his safety was - "

"I don't know how he breached my security," Mycroft admits with evident annoyance. "I have people working that out. It's not important right now. Watch."

Mycroft wasn't joking - the audio cuts in and out regularly. On-screen, Magnussen seats himself beside Sherlock's bed, takes his hand between his own - a gesture meant to appear sweet, but it's a power play: I own you. The pleasant beeping from the heart rate monitor spirals up into a hurried, nervous rhythm.

The sudden, biting pain in his palms is the only way John ever even notices that he's balled his hands into tight fists. His nails leave red marks as his breath races in time with Sherlock's own.

"...I suppose you get to keep them… musician's hands…" Magnussen's lips brush the back of Sherlock's hand as the detective's breath wheezes rapidly. He's painfully aware of what is happening, but too weak to defend himself or even speak. His eyelids flutter and he just barely manages to summon the strength to pull his hand away.

He can't watch any more of this. Despite the poor quality of the sound, he can see and hear Sherlock's respiration and heart rates racing, can see the struggle in the twitch of muscles that his body is too weak to use. Magnussen is touching him, demonstrating an animal possessiveness, and Sherlock is powerless to stop it. "No," John growls, turning for the door, "no - "

"It's not live," Mycroft reminds him, folding his hands.

"I will fucking - "

"Enough. Watch to the end."

"I can't - "

"Doctor Watson!"

John scrapes together his military bearing and forces himself to turn around and face the screen, watches as Magnussen strokes Sherlock's arm, and feels as though he's watching something much more graphic and disgusting than its outward appearance. It's meant to be that way. He knew he was being watched. This was for their benefit, John thinks. His eyes go to the timestamp - 07:12:13 on today's date. This morning. Only an hour prior, John had left Sherlock's bedside to go and have a shower and a kip. If only he'd stayed.

"...left without killing me, which is odd…" Magnussen continues. The audio crackles and sputters as he stands and draws close to Sherlock, whispering something the microphones don't pick up. His face is mere inches from the detective's. John's eyes are on Sherlock; this is only the second or perhaps third time he's ever witnessed fear on that face, but there is no denying it. It's his powerlessness more than Magnussen himself that frightens him, in all likelihood, and he cleaves to consciousness in an effort to gain some control of any sort in the face of this violation. It isn't clear what's being said, but it shakes Sherlock to the core. Then, it's over as quickly as it began, Magnussen straightening, leaving; Sherlock finally losing consciousness as the door closes behind his unwelcome guest's departing back.

"What did he say to him?" John demands as the video jumps and freezes. He feels himself trembling with anger, but wills his body to be still.

Mycroft keys in another command, and the video switches to live, going by the timestamp, and now Sherlock is asleep, his body slightly turned away from the camera, favouring the wound. A nurse stands at his bedside, charting. The elder Holmes scans the feed and, once satisfied that all is well, turns to John and turns his hands over. "What do you make of it?"

"What do I…?" John splutters. "Jesus, Mycroft, tell me you have someone on - "

"Of course I do. Answer the question."

"He knows who shot your brother. Maybe even orchestrated it. It'd be easier to know if I could hear what was said after the audio went haywire." The masseter muscle in John's jaw tics in irritation. With all of Mycroft's 'resources,' he couldn't manage to find a better microphone for this setup?

"My analysts pieced together what they could. It would seem that it was a threat, of sorts. The context is beyond me, but it seems Sherlock may know his attacker - as does Magnussen. He promised to keep the shooter's identity a secret, presumably for a price. John, I need to know what Sherlock's involvement is with this man. His very life may depend on it."

"You know what I know," John snaps. "Have you been to see him, since - since this?"

Mycroft breaks eye contact. His silence betrays all.

"Has anyone?" John fights down rage. "You know what that was, don't you? And you saw how Sherlock reacted? And you've just left him alone all this time?"

Continued silence from Mycroft.

"You - you're ridiculous. The both of you. Oblivious." The doctor heads for the door. He knows his face is flushed, he knows he is probably limping - stress can do that now and again - but he doesn't care what Mycroft thinks of him right now. He watched his brother being threatened, practically assaulted by that man, and hasn't even looked in on him.

"John," Mycroft says in a warning tone.

"Shut up!" John steps out, pulling the door shut behind him much too hard, and heads straight for the ICU.

Control Room

Mycroft doesn't relish lying to John. He doesn't relish having had the audio track edited to keep him from discovering that his own wife is the person who shot his best friend... but he can't have John distracted. He needs information if he's going to protect his brother, and extraneous data would only be a hindrance.

Not that it did much good. John's apparent empathy for Sherlock's discomfort has made this foray rather pointless in the end.

He heaves a sigh, and looks up in time to see Anthea slipping back in. Her gaze is questioning, and Mycroft shakes his head in defeat. "In any case, it's of little consequence now. He won't be able to go meddling in Magnussen's affairs for some time. I'm told there's a lengthy hospital stay and possibly physiotherapy in his future. In the meantime, all there's to do is to close the holes in our security and ensure Magnussen doesn't have the chance to get close again."

"Of course, sir," Anthea replies, already typing notes into her phone.

ICU Room #3104

By the time John has checked in with the visitor list and made it to Sherlock's room, the nurse has left and Sherlock is alone again. He's lying slightly on his left side, a pillow under his legs, left arm akimbo. His slow, deep breathing, and the lazy beat of the monitors tell John that he's asleep again. His lunch sits untouched on the tray to the side of the bed, but that's no surprise - the drugs will have made him sleepy and nauseous.

Old habits die hard, and John finds himself first looking over the chart and then the monitors, before rounding the bed to sit beside his friend. He checks the IV line and peeks at the bandage before settling back, crossing one leg over the other.

How did Magnussen just walk in here? John stares at the door. Mycroft will have had a security detail posted outside. There was surveillance on the whole ward - John saw evidence of that back in that operations room. And, more importantly, why did he come? Was it simply a power play, as it appeared? What has Sherlock gotten himself into?

Despite the increasing number of unanswered questions, John knows he can't devote any energy to them now - and neither can Sherlock. Even Mycroft knows this - that's why he assaulted John with that display and not his brother.

John is dragged back to the present as Sherlock stirs, his sleep-roughened voice falling through a short staccato groan of pain. "Hey," says John gently, touching his arm lightly. He knows as soon as he does it that it was a mistake, confirmed as Sherlock jerks suddenly, a gasp hissing through his teeth as he tumbles abruptly into consciousness. John knows he remembers his encounter with Magnussen, can see it in his eyes as they open and immediately scan the room. "Sorry," the doctor says sheepishly. He retracts his hand and waits for Sherlock to relax before asking, "How are you feeling?"

The detective is doing his best to hide how shaken he is, but exhaustion and pain have worn down the facade he usually erects in such situations. He spends some time repositioning himself, allowing John to help him ever so slightly, and when he finally gets settled, he nods. "Quite well - in fact, I was thinking of signing myself out," he deadpans in a breathless voice.

Smirking wryly, John gives the monitors another cursory glance, only barely aware of himself mentally noting his friend's colour and affect. "Yes," he plays along, "I'm sure that would go brilliantly." He quickly notices the sweat beading along his friend's brow, and his eyes go to the morphine pump. It's been turned all the way down. Clenching his jaw, he reaches out and turns it up halfway, feeling Sherlock's eyes on him all the time. He leans forward and gives him a firm look. "You can't be doing that."

"Can't be doing that," the detective returns, casting a dark look toward the pump.

The message is mixed - can't be doing it because of his sobriety, or because he'll risk being helpless again if Magnussen returns?

Sherlock helps to answer the question: "I know you know."

John immediately abandons all pretense. "He won't be back," he promises, his voice a rough near-whisper. "Mycroft has security details posted."

"Right." He's not convinced. Sherlock's lips are a thin line, despite that the rest of him is slowly relaxing as the morphine kicks in. He presses his eyelids shut and exhales through his nose.

John has promised himself that he wouldn't ask about the encounter, because Sherlock needs his strength in order to heal, but… the risks are too great. As argumentative as he was with Mycroft, he knows that information is power. Sherlock knew his attacker, and Magnussen knew him too - in what capacity? What kind of danger is he in now, here, incapacitated like this? "What did Magnussen say to you?" John asks without warning, against his better judgment.

Sherlock hums thoughtfully, his eyes still closed, a frown forming between his dark brows. He draws his hands together, carefully skirting the wound. "I don't remember," he says after a moment, seemingly wracking his brain. He opens his eyes and squints at the ceiling. "Something about… the shooter fleeing. I… can't remember. I was…"

"Okay," John stops him, "that's okay. Just… if it comes to you, I need to know."

Grey-green eyes flick over to John. The detective's expression is one of mild curiosity, though it's clear the drugs are dulling his mental faculties.

"Information is power," John says simply, trying and failing to seem casual. White rage still courses through him at the thought of Magnussen sitting here in this chair where he is now, touching a half-insensate Sherlock, threatening him. "I don't… Don't want him coming back here to finish the job, do we?"

"Mm." His eyes fall closed again.

John watches his friend as he drifts off again, unable to fight the strong effects of the morphine. Has he deduced that John has seen what happened, rather than having been told secondhand? Is he telling the truth - does he truly not remember what Magnussen said to him? John thinks back to the video footage. Sherlock was there, he was coherent. The blind panic in his eyes was a clear enough indication of that. But there are a lot of strong drugs in his system and he could have truly forgotten, although... It isn't like him, to forget anything that momentous, that important. Even under the effects of drugs, illness, poison, grievous injury…

"Who shot you?" John whispers, watching the slow rise-and-fall of his chest, listening to the steady beep of the EKG. He imagines Magnussen's sharklike face hovering over Sherlock, so close it almost looked affectionate, a lover moving in for a kiss. The truth was closer to a viper moving in for a kill. John feels his own pulse accelerating at the imagery, and he looks again to the door. He desperately wants Magnussen to come through that threshold, he realises. He longs for him to walk in, just try anything, and see for himself just how ruthless John Watson can be.

"Who are you protecting?" he murmurs, his eyes returning to Sherlock's face as his mind's eye conjures up the ghost of Magnussen hovering there, whispering threats so frightening that even Sherlock Holmes was shaken.

John makes a silent promise. Mycroft's security measures be damned - if Magnussen manages to get in here again, if he manages to get anywhere near here, John will end him.

ICU Room #3104

Sherlock hovers on the edge of consciousness. He's dimly aware of John's fingers just beside his on top of the scratchy blanket.

"Who shot you?" John's soft voice floats to him through the fog of impending sleep. "Who are you protecting?"

You, Sherlock thinks, and he wants to claw his eyes out in frustration. I'm protecting you.

[END?]