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It was late, dark and still lashing down an ice-cold rain when Greg stopped the car outside of 221 in Baker Street. There were lights on in the hallway, shining through the glass at the top of the door and he didn't doubt that Mrs Hudson was pacing the floors out of worry. She'd known Sherlock for some year, Greg knew, and despite him being an adult their entire relationship she treated him as though he were a young boy. Despite this, Greg was quiet as he let himself in through the main door of 221 and wasn't surprised a bit when the door at the far end of the hall opened sharply, revealing the middle-aged woman in her dressing gown with an ashen face and her exhausted, tear-reddened eyes. John had called her, Greg recalled, but he had been brief with his words and so Greg was expecting questions.

"Detective Inspector," She straightened up, pulling her dressing gown around her tighter. "I thought you may have been John." She dithered.

Greg's lips pulled into a smile but his eyes didn't shift, "John's still at the hospital with Sherlock. He's out of surgery – he asked me to come and pick some things up, I didn't mean to disturb." He said calmly, a little embarrassed to be where he was and not feel professional about it.

"How is he? Do you know what's going to happen, yet?" She asked and her hand flew to her chin in dismay so quickly it made Greg jump internally.

"We're not going to know anything, not until he's woken up and been properly assessed." Greg looked down at his hands, turning the key between his large fingers.

"But it's not good, is it Detective Inspector?" She asked, swallowing audibly.

Greg looked up at her again and gave a fond, painful smile with a small shake of his head, "No. No, it's not good at all."

For a moment they regarded one another in silence, neither prepared to cry but both able for it. But it was she who took control of the situation. Clearing her throat, Mrs Hudson straightened her back and in true English fashion, stiffened her upper lip. "You're here to pick up some things for the boys?"

"Yes, if that's OK with you?" Greg nodded, "I'll do my best to be quick; John's asked for a few things for him and Sherlock, I'll just grab those and go again, try not to disturb anything."

"It's quite alright," She dismissed with a shake of her head, "Carry on and if you need my help just shout. John's clothes are on the left, Sherlock's on the right – it's the same for their toiletries in the bathroom," She said with a thoughtful frown, "Doctor Watson's left handed, you see, so I suppose it makes it easier to grab at things," she smiled softly and Greg found himself doing the same. "Knock before you leave? I'd like to know you're going back and I can send some food with you, I don't want John neglecting to eat."

"Of course," Greg nodded professionally, drawn in by her maternal pattering. "Thank you." He waved the keys in his fingers before taking the seventeen steps up to 221b.

He felt like an intruder as he stepped into the flat through the kitchen. He glanced around, the surfaces littered with beakers and cups all of which he knew were Sherlock's doing. The flat was somewhat clearer than the days before John had moved in, but the clutter and scientific overload remained. He reached up and flicked the light switch on the wall beside the fridge, illuminating right through the archway into the main living space with a flood of bright, yellow light. He glanced around uneasily, spotting John's charger exactly where he'd said it would be. He scooped it up, pushing it into his coat pocket to avoid putting it down and losing it somewhere and scoped around a little, trying to work out if there was anything that would be of use to them littered around the lounge but his eyes didn't settle on anything of importance.

Nervously, he made his way into the lower bedroom, searching out a bag from the wardrobe and laid it out on the unmade bed; a tangle of sheets and pillows to remind Greg that twenty four hours ago it was occupied, fully functioning as their home and now it felt empty, devoid of life and so hollow it was almost spooky. It was odd to search through the draws of his friends, filling a hold-all with underwear. It felt far too personal but it gave him something to do that made him feel like he was actually helping Sherlock and John out in a situation where he was pretty much useless. He added a couple of books into the bag with John and Sherlock's clothes and threw in the charger from his pocket before he paced from the bedroom into the bathroom, filling a procured toiletry bag with whatever he put his hands to. Once the bag was packed and zipped tightly, he stood in the middle of the bedroom , hands on his hips pushing back his coat, and tried to think of something to do that didn't involve breaking down.

Anger coursed through him at bubbling speed. It made no sense that they'd gone from inspecting an apartment suspected of being used as a terrorist hide out to surrounding one of their own with a bullet in his back. The apartment had been empty, that he was certain of; there had certainly been nobody in the building whilst they were in there. How did it go from an empty flat to one housing a gunman? He couldn't work any of it out and it only drove his anger further up. He wanted to grab the nearest firearm and go to Northumberland Street and shoot the sorry son of a bitch who'd done this – an eye for an eye in the most perfectly cruel of ways. And it would be just, he told himself. Revenge it might be, but it would be just.

He picked up the bag in his right hand and quickly made his way out of the flat, plunging it back into darkness before he descended the stairs. He left the bag on the bottom step and turned down the corridor, knocking gently on Mrs Hudson's door. "Mrs Hudson?"

A chain and then a deadlock slipped across before the door was pulled open and the woman revealed herself again. She'd been crying and Greg could see it plainly; her eyes were red and her face paler than before. He gave her a soft, sad smile as she handed him a lunchbox. "There are," She sniffed, "Sandwiches for you and John in here. And there's some fruit and biscuits." She smiled and then produced a thermos flask, "And tea," she gave a gentle nod.

"Thank you – John will really appreciate this. I appreciate this." He gave a tired smile.

A sad look crowded her features and her eyes flicked across Lestrade's face, "You will look after them both, won't you?" she asked, her voice catching slightly.

"I wouldn't be doing my job as DI or their friend if I didn't, Mrs Hudson. They're in safe hands, both of them, I promise you." His voice was soothing in an attempt to placate her frayed nerves and he touched against her arm gently with a freed hand. "Get yourself off to bed, you look exhausted. I will be in touch with you after lunchtime and I'll pass on any news of Sherlock I have then, alright?"

"Thank you," Her eyebrows knitted together sympathetically in the centre of her forehead as she attempted a smile, "Thank you," She repeated, clinging to the door for a moment before she pushed it closed, slowly. Greg waited until he heard the locks slip back across again before he turned away.

He placed the food and the flask into the back and zipped it back up again, throwing it over his shoulder for the short walk to the car. Laying the bag on the front passenger's seat as he got into the driver's side of the car, he pulled door closed quickly against the unrelenting rain and rested back against the seat with a heavy sigh through his cold nose. Everything was fucked.

There was a sound that flooded John's ears, gradually getting louder, that resonated over the electric pulsing of the room. One he'd heard before, numerous times, but not one he could put his finger on with his mind so emotionally fatigued and distracted. It continued as though on a loop – tap scuff, tap scuff, tap scuff – and then stopped, ebbing into silence. Then, as the tapping resumed once more, John's mind finally came to life with something far off flicking on to remind. From his position, leaning against the side of Sherlock's bed, bending over to keep closeness, he straightened and craned his neck to look up to the door way and wasn't a bit surprised with who his eyes landed on when he scanned the entrance.

"Mycroft,"

Mycroft was stoical but irrefutable, nodding curtly at the slightly younger man, "Doctor Watson."

"He's…" John began

Mycroft's gloved left hand shot up, "I've seen the notes," he cut in, stepping further into the room. He left the coat on his arm and his umbrella on the chair housing John's and dragged his gloves off, dropping them down with the rest of his belongings before he pushed his hands into his trouser pockets and stepped closer to the bed, walking around to the opposite side in order to face John and get a little bit closer to his brother. "Of course, I can organise whatever is needed should the worst case scenario arise." He said, voice booming against the static. "New accommodation, physical therapists, equipment – whatever that might be – whatever it is that is needed," he stopped and, for the first time since he'd met him, John saw Mycroft struggle with his stony-faced composure.

"He's in a lot of pain." John decided that talking into the silence was the best option. "Wakes occasionally but he's not lucid and though he is tanked up on medication it only works so well and they're only able to give him so much. They're aware of his history of drug use – they're trying to be diplomatic."

Mycroft's mouth twitched at the mention and his eyes locked up on John's coldly, "You've spoken with the surgeons who operated on him?" he asked. There was malice in his tone but it was nothing that John hadn't come to expect since meeting the man for the first time.

John inhaled deeply, hoping to hide his own feelings and nodded his head, "They're confident there'll be no health complications – the shot to his thigh was clean and there has been no major organ damage. Kidneys, liver, stomach…everything avoided being even scraped." He shook his head wistfully at how lucky, really, Sherlock had been. "But they're certain he'll be paralysed. The nature of his injury…" he shrugged. "It's inevitable, really. We're not waiting for him to recover, we're simply waiting for him to be strong enough to wake up and be told the truth." He scratched his face, his voice bitter. He looked up to catch Mycroft's eye a moment but found him staring at his brother, eyes painfully focused on Sherlock's hidden mouth. "Mycroft, there were three bullets. Three. No accident, no misfire. This was premeditated or at least offered by somebody who knew what was going on and worked off the spur of the moment." John's voice dripped with anger and Mycroft's eyes rose to look at him. "Two in his spine and one in his leg; there is absolutely no way he is ever going to be who he was before tonight, not ever, Mycroft."

Mycroft's brow twitched in the tiniest movement.

John sighed, anger brewing greater, and shook his head, "I just hope you're happy."

"Happy?" Mycroft's frown was deep, his brows sharpening along with his eyes, "What is there in this situation for me to find a semblance of happiness in, Doctor Watson?"

"He was out on your case, the one you came to him with filled with insistence and reverse psychology." John's hands flew out, "I told him no, I said so many times that this wasn't something to be involved in – international security, terrorism, drugs – I told him no but he had to prove to you that he could do this, had to make you see that he was better than you!"

"He is better than me," Mycroft's chest puffed out, "Always has been; mind, body and spirit. There are things I have an acute ability for that he lacks but, in general, Sherlock's ability to always be as brilliant as he was without social conformity made him more capable than I am."

"Not anymore," John swallowed to wet his constricting throat and the sharp intake of breath from Mycroft was all John could hear, even over the machines. "In trying, as he always has done, to prove to you he hasn't completely wasted his life and abilities, in trying to gain some respect, he has all but ruined his life." John's face contorted in anger, trying to make Mycroft see.

"There are a plethora of people in the world who are successful and yet confined to a wheelchair, Doctor Watson." Mycroft's eyes fixed John with a condescending stare, "Plenty, as you well know being an Army doctor." The condescension in his voice with that in his expression was enough to sicken John's stomach.

"Name one whose job is chasing around London after criminals?" John's entire body stiffened with hatred for the man before him. He had never really hated anyone before – not true, deep-rooted hatred like this, so all-encompassing and serious. "If, if there is any chance of him walking again – which you can pretty much rule out – but if there is, he'll be going from scratch, he'll be a child again, Mycroft, learning to walk and read his body like a toddler at the age of thirty-five." He gave a mirthless laugh, "And even if he manages that, if by some miracle something slips back into place to restore mobility, he will never be the same person as he was five hours ago and that is down, solely, to you. I hope you can live with that because I can tell you categorically, I couldn't."

John stared at Mycroft for a second before extracting himself from Sherlock's hand with guilty reluctance. He stalked from the room with a shake of his head, his shoulders squared. His limp was back, slight but evident, and it twinged Mycroft's heart – such as he had one for people besides Sherlock – and he watched John disappear down the hallway with an expression that convincingly hid any emotion at all. His eyes cast to Sherlock, rolling over his cut lips and pale skin punctuated by forming bruises. Taking a deep breath, he leaned carefully over the rail and placed a gentle kiss beside Sherlock's closed, left eyelid. "I'm so sorry," he whispered.

My medical knowledge is limited but I want to thank Rasmus and Hannah for their help in supplying me with candid and well-explained info on all I've needed for this story. Whilst this chapter has been proof-read, there could still be one or two errors and I accept them as my own.

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 821