A/N: This follows on from the last chapter 'Poker Face', and is the finale of this particular arc. There is a hint of sweet and caring Mystrade in this chapter, coming as it does from Mycroft's third person point of view. I've tried to capture the way he speaks, because I'm pretty certain he would actually think in those terms were he non-fictional. Thanks to Confictura for being incredibly quick with a review in which he or she poses an excellent question: How did Sherlock not know that John was in pain and critically injured?
My explanation is thus: a) Sherlock is in shock. b) Because he is in shock, and because John is the only one who can really impress on him the need to do certain things, Sherlock is focussing only on what John has told him to do: use his knowledge to help people and see if there is anything that needs doing. (This is also why we're treated to the spectacle of Sherlock helping Anderson without insulting his IQ levels. Wonders will never cease.) c) Sherlock and John were likely not together when it happened; Sherlock was probably talking to whomever was in charge of the case, and John was probably kicking about watching the SOCOs or Anderson, which is why he was close enough to be properly injured. d) Like many other writers, my headcanon states that one of the reasons why John's injury was so severe is because he likely kept on going despite the wound, because there were people that needed his help more than he needed his rest. He's a truly selfless person, so sacrificing his own comfort and safety comes as second nature to him.
Also: my Sherlock and John are just very, very good friends: no slash unless you wish to put those particular goggles on in the privacy of your own homes.
Contrary to popular belief, Mycroft Holmes worried about his brother. Constantly, in fact. Despite Gregory's solid presence at the hospital for much of the recent past, and the rising hopes of the doctors, Sherlock's visage had taken on a preternaturally greyish hue not unlike the sickly paleness of his flatmate. The bags under his eyes drew the grey from the irises and smeared it above his cheeks like ash, leaving them colourless and liquid. John's left hand was firmly clasped in both of Sherlock's, and his little brother was staring fixedly at the monitors on the other side of the bed.
Although Doctor Watson's prognosis had improved to the extent that it was only a matter of time until he woke up, Sherlock had not left his side except when carried, unconscious with exhaustion, back to Baker Street for a few hours' rest. Sherlock felt responsible for his best friend's grievous injury, having trusted him to take care of himself. Had he only enquired, had he only thought, damn it, perhaps John would have been helped sooner. Then he would not be lying in a hospital bed, the one place where John Watson should not be, comatose and clinging on by his fingernails.
Cocking his head, Mycroft placed the tip of his umbrella very lightly on the lino floor, pivoting to face Sherlock, who was sitting straight up in the uncomfortable plastic chair. When he opened his mouth, Mycroft could see that Greg had not been exaggerating when he had come home the night before, eyes shimmering with tears and stubble peppering his jawline.
"He's breaking up, My. He-he's in bits, My, Sherlock...he looks lost, it's like someone forgot to wind him up since John got hurt.", he had whispered into the crook of Mycroft's neck. The tears had come then, and Mycroft had held him close and carded his fingers through the silver hair tickling his cheek until the older man had fallen into a dreamless sleep. He resolved to go and see the two of them first thing in the morning (five a.m. for him).
"It's been three weeks, Mycroft, and they took him off the ventilator days ago! Why is he not awake? Is it his brain? His heart? Is living with me so unbearable that he would rather stay here, or waste away, or-does he hate me, or is it not of his doing, or can he just not hear me asking him to come back..." Sherlock was ranting now, in full Baskerville sensory overload and gripping handfuls of his curls. He looked quite demented, and Mycroft felt himself wince internally at how much he was reminded of a raven-headed five-year old cradled on Nanny's lap after a particularly cruel goodbye from his first best friend. Sherlock's worst fear was coming to pass-that John might not want him as his friend any more.
Sighing at the sad sight of a genius with all the emotional nous of said five year-old, Mycroft drew himself up to his full (considerable) height, deciding that it wouldn't do to let Sherlock continue down that particular, er, 'hiding to nothing'.
Speaking calmly, and with no small amount of his usual affected superciliousness, he addressed Sherlock as though talking to a particularly bribe-cognisant warlord. "Sherlock. It has been just over two weeks, not three. As usual, your talent for hyperbole is exceptional. They took him off the ventilator a week ago, and they only removed the sedation yesterday. Just because he wants a rest from you, dear brother, why should that mean he wants a more durable arrangement of that kind?"
Speaking more softly now as Sherlock's brow creased in worry, he decided to take the big-brotherly route. "Little brother. 'Lock, look at me. He's been under heavy sedation for days and is recovering from heart surgery. He was tired and adrenaline-boosted before treatment, so it stands to reason that he might stay under for a little while longer than we might expect. He will wake up, we just have to wait a little while."
Nodding dully, Sherlock resumed his earlier watch, peering avidly at the machines beside his friend to anticipate any change. Turning to leave, Mycroft smiled a little in wonderment. John Watson really was spectacularly resilient. A lesser man would not have lasted that first fraught night, connected to life by the most tenuous of strings. Fewer would have lasted the long slog of the next fortnight, and fewer still the gruelling regimen of physiotherapy and rehabilitation that they all knew John would follow to the letter, no matter how many pain barriers he was required to hurdle.
"John?," Sherlock whispered reverently.
Mycroft turned on the spot to see the doctor's eyelids flickering, his grip squeezing lightly on the violinist's digits as they curled around his own nimble surgeon's hands. John's dark blue eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the light as Mycroft gently reached forward and twisted the dimmer switch. A brief, dazed flicker of a smile in his direction in thanks, and John's emerging attention was focussed entirely on his little brother.
"Sh'lock? Y'okay? Dun' look well..."
Sherlock smiled the brightest smile that Mycroft had ever seen. "That's absurd, John. You've just woken up from a-" (at this point the baritone became a strangled bari-tenor) "-near death experience. You should be worrying about you, you idiot."
John smiled, knowing just how affectionate that little in-joke had become. Then his gaze became deadly serious. "'Heard you, last couple 'days. Never give up on you, no matter how many heads you put in' fridge, or how many times you have to replace m'jam 'cause you wanna see whether or not enough sugar negates the need for photosynth'sis in belladonna...waited for you for three years. Very resilient, y'know."
With that slurred reminder of just how much staying power was hidden away inside that steely, oft-underestimated man, Mycroft felt it best to leave. He stole a glance behind him as Sherlock allowed himself the luxury of a little sniffle, letting his guard down in front of John in a post-Reichenbach agreement. John's strong arm curled gently around his little brother's shaking shoulders as the younger man's long fingers tentatively stroked the soldier's hair from his forehead as the best friends succumbed to sleep. Slipping softly away, Mycroft pulled out his phone to call Greg, safe in the knowledge that he would soon hear and see him smile.
A/N: Clearly the Holmes brothers love each other deeply and are just a bit less lucky in the emotional quotient department than empathetic people like John, Greg and Molly. I like the idea that Reichenbach has softened them around the edges a wee bit, and love the idea that, in times of acute stress, they still have nicknames for each other.