Sherlock wakes, not one but nearly two hours later in the strangest position he has ever found himself. He is nearly half way through the bars of the bed and onto the next mattress. The fingers of his left hand are entwined with those of his flat mate's. His right arm is pushed as far as possible across John's body but it ends up resting with the palm somewhere across John's chest. His legs have not managed to be as dexterous and only his right foot has made it across to John's bed.
He can hear breathing behind him and pulling his hands back he turns around. Mycroft is watching him with a pleased smirk on his face. 'Sherlock, Sherlock, such sentiment.' He croons when he sees his brother awake and Sherlock pulls his hands into his chest in frustration.
'Are you ready to go ahead with the plan?' Mycroft asks.
'Just fill me in on the details.' Sherlock says, unwilling to admit that he does in fact only remember parts of their previous conversation.
'We change you back into the clothes you came in here with. Make sure you are smeared with a decent amount of blood and then we send you out among the reporters. You will fake a breakdown and I will come in and drag you back here. You will have 24 hours here in which the news will pick up your ill health and then we will move you back to Baker Street in order to make another scene and entice the press. With any luck this will have Larson thinking that he has in fact succeeded in his venture and there will be no more attacks on John. Just in case I will keep the guard with him.' Mycroft indicates the man outside the door who currently is a rather wiry looking chap but no doubt as lethal as the rest of them.
Sherlock agrees and within minutes he is back in his own clothes. They feel sticky and horrible. Partially stiff where they have dried and partially still wet they are most uncomfortable. A woman turns up as Sherlock is getting dressed and ushers him into the bathroom. There she squirts blood on him messing up his hair and brushing it across his face to achieve maximum effect. Sherlock has the feeling it is not the first time she has done this. 'Give it a minute to dry and you will be good to go.' She says and disappears. Sherlock is glad that the blood drying on his face isn't John's this time but some random stranger's. It doesn't however change the fact that the rusty brown staining his shirt is almost exclusively John's.
'Ready?' Mycroft asks and Sherlock nods silently looking over at John who is still unconscious and thus unable to give his consent to this scheme. Sherlock wonders briefly if he would approve.
They make their way down the stairs and Sherlock takes a deep breath before turning the corner to make himself visible. He can see the crowd of reporters outside and can't help but think that John would find it ridiculous that his 'death' would draw this kind of crowd. He knows he looks a fright, he has looked in the mirror and he pushes through the doors allowing the cameras to get the full effect.
'Mr Holmes, is Dr Watson dead?' a woman throws at him. So predictable
'Yes.' He nods slowly making it sound tortured. An image of John in the bath flashes before his eyes.
'Why did he kill himself?' A pushier reporter asks and Sherlock turns bringing his hands up to block the flash of the camera.
'Please, I don't…. ' he pleads and he thinks of John. John in that red tinted bath… pushing his fingers forcefully down John's throat to make him throw up, John in his arms so very, very still… John being pulled away from him by the paramedics…. John hooked up to all those machines, John who still might not make it… and the tears are not fake when they come and when his breathing picks up and he wraps his arms around himself allowing the panic attack to take him this time it is anything but fake. His heart rate picks up, his breathing starts to come in little gasps and the pain in his chest makes him feel like he is dying.
He collapses to the pavement and one of the reporters actually has the decency to drop her microphone and crouch next to him, asking how he is doing, not for the camera but because she is concerned. He has gone ghostly pale and he is gasping for breath as though someone is strangling him.
Just as the world starts to turn black Sherlock feels Mycroft's hands on his arm. 'Leave my brother alone. His best friend just died, he doesn't need you lot making it worse.' Mycroft tries to pull Sherlock to his feet but his younger brother is completely limp on the ground. 'Come on, get up Sherlock, I'll take you back inside.' He urges but Sherlock doesn't move. Realising that his younger brother isn't faking it, that he actually has passed out Mycroft grudgingly pulls him into his arms and lifts his slender frame bridal style, it will look best for the cameras, and carry him back into the clinic.
He half expects Sherlock to raise his head and laugh at him when they reach the privacy of the clinic but he doesn't. He is still a dead weight in Mycroft's arms as he lowers him to the floor and yells for help.
He knows he is being unreasonable when he demands that someone arrange so his younger brother can sleep next to his very ill friend who will surely not benefit from having an octopus like detective strapped to him. He knows he is endangering national security when he ignores the calls to his phone in favour of staying to watch to ensure that both men are as safe as is possible. He also knows he is being irrational when he refuses to eat or drink anything the kind nurse brings and instead has Anthea bring him a bottle of water. He knows but somehow Sherlock's excessive sentiment seems to have rubbed off on his older brother and Mycroft finds himself spending all night slumped in a chair watching his brother sleep curled up next to his ailing flatmate who is slowly gaining strength. He does not look forward to having to tear Sherlock away and drag him back to Baker Street.