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It was almost nine when Greg arrived at the hospital and greeted John with hot, fresh coffee and a packet sandwich. "I assumed the hunger would have seen you destroy what Mrs Hudson sent over last night," he said, dropping the bag into the chair at the door that contained the sandwiches and handed John his coffee.

In reality, John had forgotten all about the food tucked away in the bag but said nothing, gratefully accepting the new provisions. "Umm," he sipped the coffee – hot and strong – and felt almost human again as he took another mouthful. "Oh, great – thanks."

"Not a problem," Greg shook his head, resting his hands on his hips, the motion pushing back his coat in the process. "How is he?" he nodded at Sherlock, sound asleep and breathing gently.

"Exhausted; the Doctor and nurses have been around early. As you can see, he's off the heart monitor so that's good, they're keeping him on the oxygen but I think the mask was bugging him. Um-," he sniffed, trying to remember and wondering how to word things eloquently and yet gently. "His doctor, Doctor Webber, was around and did a few tests on his motor skills."

Greg blinked expectantly – hopefully – and nodded for John to continue, "And?" his brow furrowed in preparation for the news. John shook his head and Greg's face fell, eyes closing as he exhaled a heavy sigh with an ache forming in his chest. "What's next?" he found the strength to ask.

"Physio," John said, sipping from the foam coffee cup. "Rest and physio." The words sighed from his lungs with a huff. "I need to sort so much out, foremost somewhere to live." He said bluntly, eyes fixed on Greg. "Once he's up on his f-," He jutted his jaw forwards. "I mean, once he's fit and well, they're going to look to discharge him and if the house isn't suitable then they won't let him go and he'll mad in here for longer than he needs to be. God, he'll go mad being in here anyway once the drugs wear off." He ran a hand over his face.

"What about 221c – floor-level, isn't it?" Greg pondered aloud.

"Basement," John shook his head, "It wouldn't work and it's smaller than what we have now; a step down in every sense. I'm going to have to talk to Mycroft, see if he can help us out because wherever we go it's going to need kitting out and I don't have that sort of money and I have no idea what Sherlock's finances are like. Before me, I think Mycroft kind of subsidised his life. Wherever we end up, there'll need to be major changes to the kitchen, the bathroom and bedroom – we need a bungalow in the middle of London because I need to be able to get to work; if I don't go we don't eat. If I don't go, we can't pay the pissing rent." He let his head drop back, heavy on his shoulders as he stared up at the ceiling, and Greg felt helpless. How did he find the words to comfort somebody beyond feeling better?

"We'll all do everything we can to help both of you," The DI said honestly, "Not just me, the entire team, we'll all pitch in and help you where you need it. Sherlock's done a lot for us in the past. Whatever you need, whether it's help physically or cooking, cleaning, moving house – whatever if it is, we're here to help."

John's left cheek drew up softly, endeared by the gesture. "Thanks, I appreciate the offers honestly, but Greg, can you see him letting that happen?" he gestured his thumb across to Sherlock, "His pride is broken and bruised as it is and it is only going to take more beatings. I think seeing Sally Donovan attempt to dress him would make him want to roll himself off the closest cliff." He laughed mirthlessly and Greg couldn't argue with his point.

"Still," Lestrade nodded. "Anything you need that I can do, I will."

"Thank you." John dragged a hand across the back of his aching neck. "Do you guys have any ideas yet," he asked, "I mean, about the shooter?"

Closing his eyes briefly, Greg shook his head, "Nothing solid yet – we're working on it. Anderson's team are in there today doing a sweep. There's no way we're giving up on this, John. I promise you that we're not going to let this go until we know what happened."

"You've got nothing," John licked his lips, "Where can you go in an investigation when you have absolutely nothing? You need him-," he nodded at Sherlock, "Without him you're going to get nowhere. Not with the original case and not with this one. I want nothing more than to be able to say that I believe you'll get there with this – I mean, I believe you're going to try, I know you will, I trust you lot, I do." He nodded, hoping he sounded more convinced then he felt. "I know you're going to do everything you can, but I can't pin my hopes on a silver lining in this one Greg, there's nowhere and nothing and you can't make something out of nothing."

Greg's eyes fixed hard on John but swam with acceptance of his words. John was right and he knew it but he also knew that he wouldn't be able to stop. It could drive him into the ground, send him to an early grave, it didn't matter – he wouldn't quit, he owed Sherlock too much.

Mycroft rubbed at his aching temples and slid the thin-framed glasses from his downturned nose. His back was aching but he didn't make a sound as he sat back in the high-backed chair. He'd been at the desk, searching the internet for hours. It had started out as searches for radical treatment of 'miracle cures' for paralysis but, as the night drew in with the acceptance of fate and stories of people who had suffered similar injuries to Sherlock at the same ages jumped off of webpages, the search became about wheelchairs and standing frames, comfort and efficiency for Sherlock. All kinds of things rushed through his mind – a chair of this brand for this type of support, a frame of this brand for this amount of freedom. Google had become a useful tool. He'd searched for equipment that would allow Sherlock to continue to work – streamlined chairs and manoeuvrable standing frames; why did his legs not working mean that he couldn't?

He searched wheelchair manufacturers, physiotherapists, housing in London, housing in Kent and anything else that flashed through his mind that would minimise damage, guilt and – he told himself – disruption for his younger brother. But he knew that the decisions were down to him but to Sherlock and John and that he was simply the purse, but it was the least he could do. He wanted a say, to take control and do everything and anything he could that might fix Sherlock together again but he knew it was not possible; not even a man with a minor Governmental position could do that, no matter who they vetted or bribed or cursed at. Life had changed and he had no control, no say and a heart – such as his was – laden with guilt.

Pushing back the chair from the desk, the wheels squeaking in protest, Mycroft pulled his legs up so that his feet rested on the two of the chair four legs and willed himself not to move his lower limbs at all. He tried to reach forward to his desk but found that his thighs would move instinctively to give him better leverage and realised fully that he couldn't even begin to imagine how difficult things were going to be now, at least for a while, for his brother. On the brink of sinking back into his dark thoughts, he was pulled from the silence by a three beat knock on the door of his office. He looked up as the handle turned and the door opened without a call to enter.

"Sir," Anthea stepped in, "I've just received a call from Doctor John Watson." She said. Her voice silky and calming.

Mycroft's eyes widened but he tried to relax his face, tried to be unreadable. "Yes?"

"He said it would be good to see you at the hospital but he fully understands that you may be required here and would not be at all offended if you couldn't make it. He also said that your brother is much more alert than yesterday but is not yet completely lucid and a Doctor has been around this morning to complete some assessments. He said here that you would understand what he means when he says that suspicions were confirmed." She read off the note scrawled on a slip of paper in her manicured hand.

Mycroft inhaled through his nose and let it escape again in a heavy sigh, "Thank you, Anthea. Could you cancel my meetings for the rest of the day," he said and looked at his watch. It was drawing close to ten am and it felt as though he hadn't rested for a week. "If anybody needs me inform them that I am on business and shall be in touch with them as soon as I am free. Do please screen the calls and take messages of importance; I shall be out of the office for the rest of the day." He rose to his feet and pulled on the blazer thrown over the back of his chair. He looked to Anthea carefully and considered her one of the very few people he would admit to remotely relying upon.

"Your brother, sir," Anthea began calmly, "His condition, is it serious?"

Mycroft nodded briefly, "Quite," his tongue ran over his lower lip. "Life-changing," he elaborated and then added, "Oh, there are two lists on my desk – one is of web addresses and the other with a detailed spec of medical equipment. Would you email those companies, enquire about the listed equipment with each. Price is no matter, but quality, support and comfort are. Do your research," he attempted something close to a smile in her direction before pushing past her, leaving his office with slow, deliberate steps.

He arrived at the hospital punctually. He didn't ask for directions, or permission, as he made his way through the same corridors he'd walked the night before. He felt tired, drained and unsteady, but he wasn't about to let that show. His mind had been too full, to angry, to have gone home to sleep last night, bubbling with angry questions and emotions that threatened to flow over his façade. He knew little about the reality of Sherlock's future, or his own as the brother of a paraplegic; he couldn't even begin to imagine what the diagnosis would truly mean for Sherlock, no matter how many stories he read on the internet or how many doctors and therapists or specialist equipment stockists he accosted.

He pasted on his professional smile for the nurses he passed, his coattails flapping as he walked, and rounded the corner that lead him toward the ICU. He found himself slowing and challenged himself for it; feelings, sentimentality, would not get the better of him, he was stronger than that. He stiffened his jaw, resembling Sherlock somewhat not that he could see that, and walked confidently into Sherlock's room. He wasn't surprised to find John and the DI huddled at Sherlock's bedside and, somewhere inside of him, he was glad they were there – both of them.

John turned at the sound of footsteps and gave an exhausted smile, "Good morning, Mycroft."

"Doctor Watson, Detective Inspector," Mycroft nodded at them both politely.

"Morning," Greg returned, awkwardness oozing from his body.

John leaned over the back of the bed and Mycroft heard him speak in a gentle voice. "Sherlock…" Standing at the foot of the bed beside Lestrade, Mycroft watched the doctor in his care with Sherlock. John's hand squeezed gently over Sherlock's as he called to him again. "Sherlock?" Reaching up, John rubbed his hand across Sherlock's pale cheek, careful of the tube that hooked across behind his ears.

As the pads of John's fingers smoothed slowly across his face, Sherlock's eyes fluttered wildly before they finally dragged open with fatigue. His tongue lapped at his dry mouth as he turned his head to the right, groaning deep in his throat as he woke from an obviously deep slumber. His eyes closed again, exhausted, but his lips pulled up a drunken smile to his cheeks.

"Look who's here," John said; his voice was a little babying but loving and calming nonetheless.

It took a moment or two, but Sherlock's eyes opened again slowly in time with his pink tongue darting out to wet his lips as he turned his head, scanning room through half-lidded eyes. "Lestrade…" he grumbled sleepily, deep in his throat. "…umm, and M-Mycroft." His face scrunched up in obvious pain but no words escaped his lips to vocally convey it. "To what d-do I own the p-pleasure?"

"Pleasure's all mine, Sherlock." Greg replied, his hands resting on the baseboard of the bed.

"Must be serious," Sherlock's jaw slackened as he yawned and his right hand came up clumsily to rub at his tired right eye. It was a good sign, John thought; he had the strength, albeit minimal, to raise his arm. "Nurses touching me and-and now I have a b-bedside…" he yawned again, his eyes lulling closed and rolling back as the yawn seemed to hold his body rigid for a moment, "…vigil."

"You're not dying, that much is apparent." Mycroft said with his usual tartness but Sherlock's lips dragged once again into a lazy, drunken smile. "How do you feel?" he asked slowly.

"Tired," Was Sherlock's immediate response as his hand weakly trailed down his body, resting on his tummy, and curled his fingers into John's hand.

"Are you any pain?" John asked, Doctor first.

"My head, a bit," Sherlock looked at him through heavy lids and watery eyes. "…and my shoulder."

John looked up at Lestrade at the mention of shoulder pain with a quizzical look pasted onto his sleep-deprived face, "Did he fall against his shoulder?"

Greg nodded, "Yeah I remember Donovan mentioning he sort of skidded against it," he pushed his hands into his pockets. "I'll call them in a bit, get a bit more information and see what I can piece together. She wants to know how he is anyway – the entire floor does." He smirked and John found a warm smile at the gesture.

"Tell them nothing but what is necessary." Mycroft was quick to instruct, "Sherlock's business is just that and I am only too aware of the manner with which your esteemed team address my brother." There was a drip of vicious sarcasm to Mycroft's tone.

"Mycroft," John's voice, though soft, was warning. "They're virtually colleagues, and the closest things to friends we've got. They deserve to know. Not only that, Donovan and Hawkes are our star witnesses; they were there when the shots were fired."

"Who…?" Sherlock's voice pitched in but it was growing weaker.

"We don't know yet," Greg replied warily.

"From the…f-flat?" Sherlock blinked his unfocused eyes and looked to John.

John shook his head to end the conversation, "Sherlock, just relax, OK?" He said, fingers pressed to Sherlock's wrist to check his pulse. "Lestrade's working on it, alright? He's got it all in hand so don't worry, just relax. How's the headache?"

"Bad," Sherlock's nose crinkled up and a tearful grumble escaped his throat.

Greg felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment, feeling awkward at Sherlock's vulnerability, "I'll go and find a nurse." He volunteered, "I'll see if they can give his something and I'll call the station while I'm out."

"Thanks, Greg." John called over his shoulder, without looking up, focusing his attention on Sherlock as the dark haired man began to drift back toward sleep with the occasional confused, pain-filled whimper pulling him back from the cusp.

A few moments later, John and Mycroft were joined in the room by a young, male nurse. He was short, slim and tanned and smiled as he approached the bed, carefully extracting John from Sherlock's side so he could work. "Mr Holmes," He spoke carefully and precisely with a South African accent, "I'm Mark. I understand you're in a bit of pain, can you explain it to me?"

Sherlock's groan was deep and throaty as his brow creased, making Mycroft wince. Sherlock's hand rose carefully, resting it on the side of his head above his temple before it felt clumsily to the pillow beside his face. His breathing was a little quick and sharp and John didn't like it.

"OK, in your head. Is it a sharp, stabbing pain or something dull and insistent?" Mark pressed, his fingers pressing to Sherlock's wrist subtly. "Mr Holmes, can you tell me?"

Sherlock's tongue poked across his lips, his eyes fluttering open slowly and landing first on Mycroft. "It hurts," he puffed, his brow creasing deeper.

Mark's strong hand touched Sherlock's shoulder, "OK, not to worry. You're due pain medication very soon so we'll administer than now, OK? It will make you feel drowsy and might cause nausea." He explained and then looked across between Mycroft and John. "If he does feel nauseous or vomits, come to us immediately and we can give him something to settle his stomach." He gave a small, white-toothed smile. Both men nodded in unison.

Mark left momentarily, returning with an emesis basin containing a syringe without a needle and a pair of gloves. Moving to the left side of Sherlock's bed, he pulled the gloves on and coated them in Alco-gel from the bottle clipped to his hip. He pressed the head of the filled syringe to the tap in the back of Sherlock's hand, "Might feel a bit funny," He said, though Sherlock's eyes were closed as his body tried to pull him back to sleep. Mark pushed the plunge down and the liquid moved slowly down the tube and into Sherlock's vein. "It won't take too long for it to start taking effect," He said as he placed the spent syringe into the basin and pulled off his gloves. "Give somebody out on the desk a shout if there's anything at all that you need," he reiterated before turning to leave.

"Thank you," John called out, finding his voice sharp in his throat, eyes on Sherlock as the curly-headed Detective drifted further and further into sleep.

Swapped a bit about in this and hopefully it reads less nonsensically now. Beforehand I had Lestrade volunteering to leave and to call the Yard, yet wrote him back in the room! What a dork! Anyway, I'm a a sausage roll with the chapters at the moment so the next one will be up soon.

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 612