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Lestrade looked up from his desk to the three, sharp taps against the door and dropped his pen to the file as it was opened before he could call out, revealing Mycroft Holmes in all his three-piece-suited glory. He gave a sarcastically doughy smile and nodded in recognition at the DI. "Detective Inspector, I do believe I am early." He said with his voice velvety smooth.

"Better than late," Greg reclined a little then sat forwards, clasping his fingers, resting his arms on the desk. "Take a seat," he nodded into one of the two chairs before his bog-standard desk. Glancing around Mycroft's face softened as he lowered himself into one of the chairs, resting his umbrella against the seat of the other, "There's no point in backtracking or covering old ground or pandering here, so I'm just going to get straight to the point," Greg sniffed. "I need to know everything, every last bloody detail that you've got on this gang, on Northumberland Street and on your brother."

"As I told Doctor Watson whilst he was doing your…legwork," Mycroft's face took on an expression of disgust at the word before collapsing back into its usual stance, "There is nothing that I know that I have not already shared. Sherlock has it in his mind that the shooting was the work of a James Moriarty but I haven't heard of him and I doubt that you have either; an enemy of my brothers, I shouldn't wonder." He smiled menacingly at the DI. "So again, Detective Inspector, I repeat myself; I know nothing more than what I have already offered."

"No," Greg reclined impatiently, "I don't buy it. You came to us with this; you never come below your own security so there's something you're not telling us. Somebody's involved who could land you in trouble if you don't pass the buck. Whose bacon are you trying to save, your own?"

Mycroft smirked, another menacing smile, and averted his eyes to Greg's shirt, assessing him; "I can assure you, Detective Inspector, I am not endeavouring to save anybody's bacon. I am merely interested in national security, in the sanctity, as it were, of my brother's life." His eyes flicked devilishly back up to Lestrade's face and he smiled all the more deeply. "As I know you are, too. You've started smoking again; the worry must be eating you alive."

Lestrade's frown was deep and obvious and he stared uncertainly at Mycroft, "Don't do that." He warned, "Don't use smoke and mirrors with me, I know your brother; it doesn't work. Just be honest," he threw out his hand, "There's more to this and you're letting on, there's more that you know." He tapped the file on his desk, "So what is it? Who's involved with the drugs trafficking, with the terrorism? Who, in a position of power, is working with or for whoever this gang has that you're trying to protect?" He threw a sarcastic but forceful smile at the Government official. "…Because," he sat forwards, "I know you know."

Mycroft breathed a mirthless laugh through his nose and rose to his feet with dignified grace, "You know, Detective Inspector, absolutely nothing. I would much prefer it, then, if you spent your time trying to learn what you don't know, trying to discover who is responsible for the injuries caused to my brother and trying to solve the crimes you're paid to solve. And I urge you," he leaned over the desk, intimidation dripping from his gaze, "Don't cross me, Mr Lestrade, or it won't just be your job you lose – it'll be your life."

And in an instant, he was straight backed again and offering his sickly-sweet and all-but-sincere smile to Greg with his air of propriety as his umbrella found itself back into the bosom of his palm.

"I'll be in touch, Mr Holmes." Greg rose to his feet, undeterred. "Very soon."

It was almost six pm when Mycroft got in touch with John via the briefest of telephone calls to let him know he would be with them shortly and that he had the standing frame – and another, identical one to be brought to Bart's whenever Sherlock desired – which was set to go and being delivered by one of his oh-so-helpful employees. He and Sherlock were comfortable and close on the sofa in the basement, Sherlock's nose stuck in a book he'd read a hundred times before whilst John flicked through the channels on the TV, the volume turned down low. Sherlock's weight, as was becoming almost customary, was resting back against John's chest as though John were his support system. It was intimate without sex, close without hands and beautiful without nudity.

"We should…," John began, stopping to yawn with his chin drawn down. "…sorry." He smiled and shook his head. "We should probably shift and go upstairs, make tea or something or dinner or…what?" He paused, feeling Sherlock's deep chuckle reverberate through his chest.

"It's Mycroft, not the Queen." Sherlock replied stoically.

"And he's shelled out thousands for your comfort," John prodded Sherlock's shoulder. "I gave him lists of stuff and, so far, he's gone for the top end of everything. If that's anything to go by, you should probably expect this standing frame to allow you to pirouette like a ballerina." Sherlock's chuckle, deep and manly, vibrated again and John couldn't help but join in with it. "I'm serious!" he added, smiling.

"It'll make all the difference, won't it, being able to stand?" Sherlock asked, holding his book down against his legs and tilting his head back and to the side to catch John's eye.

"To your health?" he asked and Sherlock nodded, eyes blinking closed slowly. completely comfortable, and licked his pink tongue across his dry lips. "Definitely; it'll help strengthen muscles, help reduce those spasms and the back pain. It'll improve your digestion, bowel movements…" he smiled as Sherlock grimaced. "I'm serious; you think the suppositories are bad right now, yeah? Well things will ease when your digestion is better and it'll get better if you're able to support and stand for an hour or so each day."

"And we can do this right away?" Sherlock asked, "Standing?"

"No, I mean, by all means size it out but it's going to hurt so you'll be exhausted after a few minutes until you build up your stamina and strength." John explained and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist, resting clasped in the region of his tummy button when he saw his face fall. "I know, but if you want the independence, the frames will offer it but in order to get it, you've got to work for it. We'll talk with Mycroft when he gets here, butter him up for more equipment and I'll call a friend of mine for some re-learning, if you're adamant you don't want NHS physiotherapists, you've got to let me do it and you've got to work at it; so slacking." He warned, half serious.

"I just want the height. Being short has so many disadvantages, but I don't have to tell you that…" Sherlock grinned at the mock look of disgust that claimed John's expression.

"Kiss me," John demanded, looking down on Sherlock's taught jaw where his head was thrown back.

"You kiss me, you're the able-bodied one." Sherlock's tone was serious, always serious, but serious in a way that John knew it was clouded with immense love, even if the detective couldn't work it out. Lowering his head, John pushed his lips softly against the full pout of Sherlock's mouth. Despite wanting to, despite needing to, John didn't deepen the kiss. He pulled back, a smile stretching his already thin lips, and ignored the persistent throbbing in his groin.

Rows were going to happen and they were going to be heated. He was going to piss Sherlock off and the detective was definitely going to get to him. They were going to disagree, going to fight, going to reach times when they all but hated one another and couldn't stand to be in the same room as each other. John knew all of this and he took it, square on the chin, because they were completely out-weighed by the moments like this; the hugs, the kisses, the closeness, the jokes and the gentle atmosphere. He could take the rough, as much as you'd throw at him, so long as he got Sherlock, pliant in his arms like this, at the end of the day and a niggling of knowledge in the back of his mind that maybe, just maybe, they could get through this together.

Mycroft, as ever, arrived just as John reached the top of the stairs, having left Sherlock in his comfortable spot with his book on the sofa in favour of making tea himself. He jogged across the hallway and pulled open the door, certain Mycroft could read his expressions and his body instantly but genuinely unable to find it in him to care. "Evening," he said, stepping aside to allow the tall, slim man in, followed by another two carrying Sherlock's newly acquired standing frame. "Sherlock!" John called out, his eyes bright with excitement, "Come up here," his tone bounced excitedly, "Your brother's here, got a bit of kit you're going to be happy with." He licked his lips as Mycroft directed his assistants into the dining room where, huffing, they placed the alien machine down effortlessly and then left without a word.

John's face gaped as Mycroft walked around the large, Sci-Fi movie-esque contraption in the centre of the dining room. It looked truly alien with its three-part seat, wheels, table, large framework and buttons and straps, all brought together in a light grey colour that, John was sure, was truly Star Wars inspired. "This is…" John began, awed. "Above and beyond,"

"I ensured I was able to get the best of the best. The mechanical device here," Mycroft pointed to a small box beside the seat, "Allows it to go from chair to supportive standing, locking into place, and the cogs on the front here control the lower wheels for movement whilst upright, allowing mobility as well as promoting good health and independence." He reeled, text-book perfect. "It accommodates his height, fully supports his legs and back without impeding upper-quadrant movement." Mycroft cleared his throat, "The table is detachable but in reality is perfect for eating, working…" he glanced at Sherlock as he came out of the lift, moving slowly with wide eyes through the archway into the dining room.

John smiled as Sherlock entered; glad he'd not rushed down to help him into his chair for the look of satisfaction on the detective's face at having accomplished that feat himself. And, for once, the detective found himself without criticism for his older brother, despite their tetchy conversation that morning. He nodded with gratitude and even chanced something of a smile, despite himself, unable to contain his excitement completely. "Th…um, thank you." He licked his bottom lip.

"You are most welcome," Mycroft replied. John's assuming was that the sarcasm in the older man's tone was intended but Sherlock seemed to take the words as just that, not even detecting the tone of his voice.

"Really Mycroft, this is amazing. It's going to be so beneficial. Given the amount of support he can use it for very short bursts right away but I mean short bursts," John looked gravely at Sherlock, "Five minutes, ten at the most, until you build up your strength."

"Now?" Sherlock looked at John with almost infantile innocence. "Just a few minutes, John, please?" he said a little severely, "Please?" his eyes were wide, hoping he wouldn't have to remind John of their conversations today.

John breathed out carefully and nodded, "Go for it. Can you get yourself from the chair to the stander or do you want my help."

"Let him try," Mycroft spoke up with firmness in his voice that, regardless of his want, made John comply. Mycroft, in that moment, saw his brother as an infant, small and needy, learning to be a big boy, learning to be like him. He watched him with nostalgia bubbling in his throat uncomfortably, his eyes on the shaking in his arms and the determination on his straining face.

John hovered closely, hands poised and flicking with nervousness, as Sherlock pulled himself from the chair by baring his weight on his arms, attempting to throttle himself across to the waiting seat of the stander. He watched the flush of Sherlock's cheeks, the way he tired so quickly, and prayed for a moment's grace to allow him this. It took a few attempts and a lot of huffing, but Sherlock swung his hips from Baskerville to the stander with one, swift movement and stilled a moment to catch his breath, not meeting John or Mycroft's eyes, before cupping his legs beneath the knees, one at a time, and positioning his feet into the designated stands of the frame.

"That's good," John praised carefully, trying not to be patronising but not knowing how else to say "I'm so fucking proud of you and I love you" without embarrassing himself, Sherlock and Mycroft in one go. "That's really good. Sit a minute, get your breath back, and then go for standing." He smiled, his hand a soothing weight on Sherlock's shoulder, as the detective nodded, the blush in his cheeks fading slowly. The three fell into silence, neither sure what the other was thinking but all working toward something of the same lines: Please God let this go well. John breathed deeply as Sherlock nodded his satisfaction. "Easy," John said carefully as Sherlock gripped the controls with one hand and pushed his thumb down.

The movement was slowly and gave off a motorised buzz as the chair slowly began to straighten and Sherlock's legs were pulled straight, his hips set aligned and his back muscled stretched as his shoulders were pulled level with Mycroft's standing almost directly at his side. His face was a little pale, his lip captured between his teeth and his knuckles white as he gripped the sides of the chair but there was a rush in his ears and a quick beat to his heart that was both of fear and of excitement.

"You OK?" John asked carefully, his hand on Sherlock's arm as the chair came to its fully upright position. There was a slight tremor beneath Sherlock's skin and nervousness on his face as he glanced at John and nodded. John checked Sherlock out, ensuring his torso came to rest on the support that hung just below the table and that his body was fully supported, his legs held strong. "Hurt?" he asked carefully.

"Little," Sherlock nodded, "My…back…" there was breathlessness in his words and it struck Mycroft and John at the vulnerability it carried.

"You're doing great, can you move OK?" John coaxed, keeping his hand on Sherlock's arm, "Like, can you turn your upper body?"

Inhaling, Sherlock turned slowly and minutely toward Mycroft before his face betrayed him, displaying extreme discomfort. "I feel a little…," he gestured his hands inarticulately, looking faint.

"Alright, let's get you back down." John was soothing, medical-man extraordinaire, and pushed in the button so Sherlock could concentrate on his breathing. It took more slow moments, but Sherlock was back in a sitting position, finger gripping the sides of the standers chair tightly. "You did really well, it's OK. It's going to take some getting used to. But it's amazing, Mycroft, thank you." John's hand came back to rest on Sherlock's shoulder softly. "Here," he bent at the waist and hoisted Sherlock up; helping him back into his wheelchair in a swift, smooth motion, John smiled reassuringly, "We'll work on it, you'll get there."

"I don't want to get there." Sherlock snapped, "I want to just…do it, to just be able to stand! I've been standing my entire life, why is it so bloody hard now?" he glared at John, "You're the doctor, pray tell, why the hell is it so nauseatingly difficult to do something as simple as standing on my own two feet?"

"I know you're upset," John began.

"No, you don't know, John. The two of you think that in buying all this fancy stuff it's going to make it better? It's not! Nothing is going to make this better," he clapped his hands down on his thighs in frustration, "I cannot walk and no amount of being understanding or filling the house with gadgets is going to change that. I want to try, John, I want to pretend like being disabled gives me some sense of enlightenment and I'm a wonderfully upbeat person for the changes it's made in my life but I can't because I'm not. This is painful, it hurts both physically and mentally and I can't take it; I told you this earlier John, you know what I'm talking about. This isn't me." He waved his hands at his chair then at the stander, "This, entire…the stuff, all the acceptance and adaptation, it's not me. I don't want it; I don't want any of it. I don't…"

Mycroft inhaled through his nose sharply and clasped his hands behind his back, "Sherlock," he began gently.

"No," Sherlock snapped angrily, "No don't do that, don't cut across me or scold me or even dare to think that you doing all of this makes things better. I appreciate it, I do, but it's not changing anything. Maybe it makes you feel better to spend thousands on items to maximise my life but it doesn't make me feel any better. Anybody would think you were feeling guilty about something," he dug his tongue into his cheek and John cringed.

"I am," Mycroft nodded. "I gave you this case, Sherlock; you were there because of me. It is because of me that you were put into the dangers you were and wound up in this position. I am not a sentimental person, Sherlock, but you are my brother and I would never have wanted this for you and nor do I want to see you struggle following it. Accept my help, John's too, and accept your new life or you are going to spiral."

"Oh here we go, are you two in cahoots? Do not lecture me about drugs, you got it?" he pointed a finger at Mycroft before reaching down with both hands, turning the chair quickly, "I'm not an addict, I'm not taking anything and I haven't for years. Don't try…; get out of my way." Sherlock halted before Mycroft, standing in the doorway.

"Talk about this," Mycroft said carefully. "You're angry at me for not being able to give you more information, you're angry at me for trying to help you, you're angry at me for not being able to fix you and mostly, you're angry at yourself because you don't have any idea about anything right now and you're afraid. Say it, admit it to me and you are free to go."

"I am not afraid," Sherlock spat through gritted teeth. "Move."

John watched, arms across his chest uncomfortably, both wanting to intervene and glad that Sherlock was, once again, getting angry and display emotion but he wishes he could go back to twenty minutes ago, to sitting on the sofa with cuddles and calm. "Mycroft, maybe just let him…,"

On John's say-so, Mycroft stepped aside in one, long stride, clearing the walkway immediately. Sherlock powered through the gap and into the kitchen, needing to go anywhere to get air, to get space, to breathe deeply enough away from prying eyes that might see in his face that he desperately wanted to cry.

"This is difficult for him, I know, but letting him off in the face of a challenge is only instilling into him that he doesn't have to face what's difficult." Mycroft spoke in a quiet voice at John.

"And winding him up after the day he's had is useless. We made headway when we got back tonight – not about the case, but about his life. He wants changes, he's trying to get back some of the independence he lost and strike a balance between asking for help and coping where he can. He's been better all evening, feeling brighter knowing he could, in the future, be stronger and then he got his hopes up thinking that standing up this evening would be easier than it was. It hurts him, his muscles cramp up and tighten and he can't stand it; he's weak and tired and it wasn't what he expected and now he's back down the low mood he was in this morning. Challenging him over it isn't going to help; so in this case, you are much better off letting him go and calm down than fighting with him and making him feel even worse." John spoke so calmly and professionally, Mycroft barely detected the amount of love and emotion fizzing beneath his surface.

Mycroft looked with serious eyes at John and tightened his jaw, John didn't miss it and tried to placate.

"I know you're trying to put things right, trying to help but I live with him, Mycroft and I've learned to read him, learned to know when to strike and when not to. Today's just isn't a good day, especially not this evening, especially not after that," he threw his hand toward the stander. "He's grateful, I know he is and you do too, he just wants it to be easy and it's not and that's why he's angry, that's why he's upset. Don't rake up anything else and don't force him to talk to you about it. He'll calm down." He nodded.

Mycroft nodded and cleared his throat, "Yes. Well. I should go; I'll look into the items you asked for earlier, was there anything else you needed to add to the list?"

"Cup holder," John nodded, "Something to put on his chair. He threw tea all over the place this morning, that's all." He pulled down the corners of his mouth and arched his eyebrows up and was glad that Mycroft didn't push it. "Thank you, I mean it; we have our differences and still do, there are things we're never going to agree on and things you've done I…," he trailed off, "I'm thankful for everything you're doing to help him, that you're providing him with all he needs. It's important and it's appreciated."

"Let me know if I can do more," Mycroft said, sincerely as he preceded John out of the dining room, back into the hall. "I'll go, give him the space he clearly wants, but if there is anything I can do don't hesitate to get in touch. And I want it known again, Doctor Watson, there really isn't anything more that I know."

Though he wanted to, John couldn't bring himself to fully have faith in Mycroft's conviction but his words were sincerely delivered and John appreciated it, somehow. He nodded, wordlessly, and followed Mycroft to the door, holding it open and lingered on the step as the older man descended the stairs into the street; his car was waiting right outside the gate, and he disappeared into the night without a muttered goodbye. John pushed the door closed and fed the bolt across before walking on unsure feet into the kitchen.

Sherlock was loitering in the corner like a child who'd been told off and didn't see John approach but he heard him. "Don't say anything," he said his voice stiff as he turned his chair to face John. "Let me just be in a bad mood?"

"Fine with me," John held up his hands, "I was rather hoping you wouldn't be because I fancy a shag but…," he shrugged.

"Don't flip this," Sherlock frowned, "I'm in a mood, don't start being cute with me because it's not going to work."

"Fair enough," John smirked at himself and turned to the kettle. "Tea?"

"Coffee," Sherlock licked his lips, "Black, two sugars – I'll be in the dining room."

"Whilst you're in there, get on Google-," John called as Sherlock steered out of the kitchen.

"Why?"

"…look up 'ways to kick a moody cripple up the arse'." John called back watching and waiting in his own mirth for Sherlock's bite back.

"Oh yeah," Sherlock's voice dripped sarcasm and, despite his claims to want to stay in his bad mood, it bubbled with moderate humour. "That'll be right near the pages on how Doctor Watson isn't funny in the slightest."

-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: 593