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Alone in a familial surrounding, Mycroft and John stared at the barely conscious man before them. It was obvious that they were thinking the same thoughts but neither was willing to voice them. Only John could truly had any idea as to what lay on the horizon and, even then, his knowledge was purely medical; he'd never lived with and focused on somebody, twenty four seven, after an accident that left them with the injuries Sherlock faced. He was out of his depth and unable to keep afloat without assistance, he knew that survival of his own mental health would depend on his ability to kick against the tide.

"I've begun inquiring about equipment and aid for Sherlock," Mycroft broke into the silence with his deep voice, rumbling and silky. "It would seem there are numerous options to maximise his movements and independent living. There should be no reasons why, if changes are made and the correct aids gathered, that Sherlock could not return to his work within St Bartholomew's; in theory, there is nothing stopping him returning to work with Detective Inspector Lestrade, either."

"That's the thing about theory," John spoke slowly, most of his focus on Sherlock. "It's not practice."

"There are laws in place that state there should be equal opportunities and greater access for individuals with disabilities." Mycroft said firmly, his eyes flicking back to Sherlock without looking up again.

John sighed gently, "You're right about the lab, he'd be an asset to the team and it won't be hard to install lower work benches or have specific shelving units that are of easier access to Sherlock – you could even have standers once he's strong enough, I agree with you." He insisted, "But in terms of fieldwork, leg-work…" John sniffed, arms folding across his chest, "Practicality-wise it's…difficult."

"But not impossible – I'm thinking of Sherlock's mind, he would become bored, dangerous toward himself without the ability to work, something to whet his mind. Thinking of my brother back before he began working with the Police Force, he was dependent upon drugs and alcohol, smoking incessantly and a dangerously volatile person – I don't want that to become his life again, the noise in his head never quietening because he is going to have enough to deal with physically." Mycroft's words dissolved.

"I know you want this to be OK, to be as normal as possible and treat Sherlock as though he's just a little lower down than before but it's not going to disappear under the carpet as easily as that, Mycroft." John's voice remained saintly even. "The next twelve to eighteen months are going to be rough; there is no quick fix, there's no fix at all. This is it now," he spanned out his hands, "And he's as stubborn as hell; if he doesn't want to meet us half way then he won't and he'll go one of two ways – he'll give up completely or he'll fight us the entire rest of his life."

"Or," Mycroft said, his voice strangely light. "He might surprise us yet and become the great man he likes to pretend he is." There was humor intended, John supposed. "Is he aware yet?" He asked, the depth returning to his tone, his shoulders stiffening.

John shook his head, "No – he knows it's serious but I didn't elaborate, he's not fit for it; the lucidity's still a bit intermittent."

"Please," Mycroft turned to look directly at John, "If I'm not the one to tell him, I at least want to be here for him when the news is passed on."

John nodded his head instantly, "Of course." For a moment, silence filled the room so thickly that John could feel it against his cheeks and tightening around his chest. He sighed through his nose, something that was becoming habit, and stepped closer to the bed, watching Sherlock's chest rising and falling. "I don't know how to tell him." he laughed sarcastically through his nose, "Sorry Sherlock, the gunshots damaged your spinal cord and you're paralysed from hips to toes, incontinent and you're being turfed out of Baker Street." he shook his head, looking up at Mycroft. "I can't imagine that one rising up on silver wings."

"He wouldn't appreciate sugar-coating." Mycroft said sternly.

"No, I know, but being too blunt isn't a good tactic with him, either. There are parts of him that fail to process it." John rubbed his stubbled chin, "Maybe I'll do a PowerPoint presentation with daisies and pixies." He chuckled mirthlessly.

"And Pirates," Mycroft submitted, his eyes unfocused as they lay on Sherlock's face. John watched him a moment, his hands wringing together. "He always wanted to be a pirate when he was a child, would only ever wear shirts that had stripes on them because that's how he'd seen them in books." John's lips pulled a gentle smile at the whispering words of the Government official.

"Well he can still be a pirate," John nodded slowly, "More of the 'Lieutenant Dan' approach now though then I assume he was going for in his youth. Good job none of us own a shrimping boat," he grinned and Mycroft's brow creased.

"A what?" He licked his lower lips, eyes brought to examine John's face.

"Lieutenant Dan," John said, shaking his head, "Forrest Gump," he elaborated, "A film that brought about huge success for Tom Hanks…" Mycroft stared back at him, "You and Sherlock really do know nothing about pop-culture, do you?"

"Trivial," Mycroft replied, dismissively.

John smiled to himself, eyes drawn up as Sherlock's nose creased as he slept. It was funny to him how, in the most tragic of times, people could be pulled together. Here was Mycroft, open and suggestive, caring for his little brother in his time of need. Sibling rivalry had a lot to answer for in John's opinion.

Sally pushed her way into Lestrade's office in search of his binder, knowing that somewhere in it was a number for Sherlock's brother. She knew that he had to be contacted, questions needed to be asked, but she was dreading it. The case they were on last night had been directly provided by Mycroft and was of great importance. She knew that, by now, he would have been informed of Sherlock's status but she needed his official word on the case, trying to pull together as much information as possible on those involved to whittle her way through suspects for the shooting. But it was the blind leading the blind; Mycroft had come to them with no information and she was now going back to him in the same state. She didn't know what she was expecting, but it had to be done.

She sat down into Greg's high-backed chair and flicked through the binder on his desk slowly, biding her time and savouring the silence his closed off office offered compared to the floor outside. Relaxing back a bit she pulled the binder onto her lap and groaned audibly as her mobile buzzed in her pocket. She dropped the folder back onto the desk and reached into her pocket, drawing out her Blackberry. 'Lestrade' flashed on the screen in white letters and she answered the call quickly.

"Sir?"

"Sally-," Greg's voice was quiet and at the use of her first name from her boss, Sally knew she was in for some harsh news.

"How's Freak?" she asked calmly, resting back into the chair again. She was worried for him, naturally; she wasn't so inhumane that she didn't feel a stab of guilt and sorrow at the idea of him being injured. But she wasn't a hypocrite and she would be pandering to him simply because of an injury – her opinions of his ridiculous behaviour and attitude toward her wouldn't be changed overnight because of a bullet. Her long, tan fingers of her free hand ran through her loose, spiral curls.

"Paralysed," Greg said simply, used to her sniping and name-calling by now, and Sally almost laughed.

"Very funny," She breathed flippantly.

"It's not a joke, Donovan." Greg reprimanded with a firm voice, "The two bullets that hit his back have damaged his spinal cord beyond words; the bloke is dead from the waist down." There was gruffness to his voice that Sally hadn't heard since he'd explained to the team that he and his wife were divorcing some years ago. The sound was horrible and she didn't like it.

"God…" She stammered, not sure what to say, and sat upright in the chair, her free hand flying to her mouth. "Jesus."

"Look, I've got to go – keep me up to date with everything, alright? Do whatever you have to do, interview whomever you need to, use everything bloody resource. Find the bastard, Donovan." Greg hurried.

Jerking herself back to life slowly, Sally nodded, "Yeah…" She said, her voice clouded distantly, "…yeah, sure. Of course,"

Before anything more could be said, the line went dead and Sally slowly lowered the phone from her ear. She'd never known anyone injured in this manner before, most of the time shots were fired at officers – or those working for the police – they were wearing vests or were caught in the leg which would see them confined to office work. Or they died. Dying, Sally felt, was something she could have coped with better. Had Lestrade told her that Sherlock was dead, she felt as though she would have been able to contain it better, to process it better with less shock and confusion than knowing he was going to be permanently disabled in one of the most life-changing of ways possible.

She sat for a moment, processing the news, feeling herself transported back twelve hours to be standing over Sherlock's near lifeless body in the pouring rain on Northumberland Street. She tried to remember where the bullets had come from but she couldn't – all she could see was Sherlock's rolling eyes and blood pouring into the cobbles from his back. She felt sick initially and, for a moment, she felt as though Sherlock had gotten his comeuppance; it served him right, she judged, for being such a jumped-up little prick with his posh voice, floppy hair and tailcoat, touting about with his holier than thou psychopathic tendencies. And then the sickness came back, hard and thick in her stomach like rocks and she felt terrible. She rose unsteadily to her feet; she had to tell everyone else.

Greg returned to the room to find it shrouded mostly in silence, broken only by snuffled breaths from Sherlock. Mycroft stood at the foot of Sherlock's bed, occasionally tapping at his phone but mostly with his eyes on his brother, hands braced against the baseboard. John was all but attached to Sherlock, fingers laced in the Detective's whilst he slumbered. "I told Donovan," he spoke into the quiet and Mycroft and John turned to look at him.

"Oh," Mycroft brows rose. "And her reaction, I would assume, was something of indifference?"

"No," Greg frowned, "She actually asked about him before I mentioned his name and when I told her the outcome, she seemed shocked." He looked at John, "I told her to knuckle down and make sure they do all they can on this to secure a conviction."

"Hard to convict without a suspect, isn't it Detective Inspector?" Mycroft's brow furrowed down in contrast and his voice dripped sarcastically from his spread tongue. "You usually require somebody to blame in order to convict them."

"We'll get whoever it was," Lestrade bristled.

Mycroft let a laugh escape through his nose, pacing a little at the foot of the bed before resuming his stance, "Yes, Detective Inspector," He looked menacingly at Greg, "Yes – I'm sure you will."

Once again there were quite a lot of changes to this - I reformatted most of it because I had removed Greg and had to re-institute him at the end for the next chapter to flow. It should be up later/tomorrow!

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 639