The Scientist

Contact

Sherlock's hands trembled as he dialed his brother's number on his phone. He tried to steady his breath again, wincing as his attempts shot needle-like pain through his chest. The phone kept ringing . . . Ringing . . .

"What is it now," Mycroft said, exhaustion lacing his voice.

Sherlock shook his head, trying to breathe. All that came out was a wheeze and a strained,
"Mycroft."

There was a short silence on the elder brother's end. "Sherlock? What is it? What's the matter?"

Sherlock tried to breathe again, succeeding a bit. "Mycroft, do you think . . . Come by Baker Street . . . "

"I'll be there in ten minutes."

He hung up the phone, leaving Sherlock to prepare himself to attend to Mycroft. He dragged himself to the couch and managed to pull on the backrest to lay flat on his belly. He would remain there, trying to breathe, until the front door burst open and two sets of feet barreled up the stairs. One was Mycroft. The other was much heavier, most likely one of his body guards.

Mycroft came through the living room door and did a double take as he saw his brother lying face- down on the couch.

"Sherlock," he said as he fell to his knees next to the younger Holmes.

"Sentiment, brother dear." Sherlock turned his head toward Mycroft and smirked at him. He found a strange pleasure in seeing his brother in such a state.

"Sherlock, you idiot." Mycroft said, breathing out. "That's what you called me for?"

"No," Sherlock said, pushing his body up to a sitting position. He did feel a bit better now, so the blackness in his vision was less than when John had left. Mycroft's hands aided him along the way.

They both sat on the couch next to each other while Sherlock caught his breath again.

"Two things," Sherlock said. He turned his head so that he could look his brother in the eye. "John came by and showed me that envelope there." He motioned to the large manila envelope sitting on the coffee table.

Mycroft picked it up, quickly removing its contents. He paused when he saw that there were translucent plastic sheets: the results of a medical scan. He held them up to the light with shaking hands, one by one, until he had examined them all. He sighed and quietly put the scan results back into the envelope. "Sherlock--"

"We both knew this was coming," the younger brother interrupted. "That's not important right now."

Mycroft's head whipped toward his brother. "What do you mean? Of course it is! If anything, it's the most important!"

"Mycroft," Sherlock sighed. "He's made contact."

The elder brother froze. "When?"

Sherlock picked up his phone and looked onto the 'received calls' list. "Twenty three minutes ago."

The two remained silent, both staring at the phone.  The only sound in the room was the faint humming of Mrs. Hudson's washing machine downstairs and the nervous guard's feet shifting here and there.

After a few moments, Mycroft got to his feet and gently picked up the manila folder from the coffee table. Sherlock felt his brother's hand fall on his shoulder. At a squeeze, Sherlock was prompted to look up into Mycroft's worried eyes, which now spread to his entire face. It had been a while since he'd seen his brother lose control of his facial expressions.

"Are you alright?" he asked, genuinely concerned and wanting a response.

Sherlock shook his head no, but responded with a quiet, "I'm fine." After a moment's hesitation, he lifted his own hand to rest on top of his brother's. He needs comfort more than I do. "Just find him."

Mycroft nodded curtly, turning away before Sherlock could see the tears beginning to form in his eyes. He and his guard returned down the stairs and to the waiting car outside to dive straight into work.

Even after he heard the front door close and the doors to the car outside close, Sherlock continued to mumble to himself, repeating the mantra: "I'm fine. Find him. I'm fine. Find him..."

.O.o.o.O.

Weeks passed before Sherlock received any news concerning Moriarty. In those weeks, he had contacted his father through the post and sent him the x-rays. It would take approximately five days to reach their country home. He also resorted to the lab in St. Bart's for a source of distraction, watching Molly work and doing some experiments himself. He knew full well that he had plenty equipment at home, as did Molly, but he simply didn't want to be at Baker Street. He spent a couple of days staring at the wall from his chair, feeling despair and grief while not being able to do anything. After those days of visiting the darkest corners of his mind palace, he decided that he'd rather not be alone all the time.

Molly was curious but did not question his sudden presence at St. Bart's. He would follow her around everywhere, except to the loo and whenever she got something to snack on. He assisted her in autopsies, worked alongside her in the lab, even helped with paperwork. That was odd. Sherlock had always hated paperwork. Something was definitely wrong if he wanted to help with that . She decided to bring him coffee every now and then to show him that she was there if he wanted to talk. The only times he spoke beyond a muttered thanks was during autopsies, where his observations were required for Molly's recordings. She was very worried about him.

John searched for Sherlock everywhere he went, looking in all the possible places, after he went to visit 221B and the detective was not home. His heart raced when he saw that his best friend was gone. He was worried what the news had done to him and what Sherlock would do to himself. A few days passed before the idea to look in St. Bart's occurred to John. When he got there, he saw Sherlock sitting at a microscope, inspecting whatever specimen he had gotten his hands on. He sighed in relief as soon as his eyes had fallen upon the dark-haired man. He noticed that a certain pathologist's head popped up at the sound, and she smiled up at him in greeting. There seemed to be an unspoken understanding between the three to be silent, so John looked around for something to do. He picked up some paperwork off of Molly's desk and read through the papers. He looked up at Molly, as if asking for permission, clearing his throat softly to get her attention. He knew that this small interruption would go unnoticed by Sherlock, who was deep in concentration. Molly looked up to see John holding up the paperwork, and she smiled gratefully and nodded. The three continued like that, John coming in around noon to work on whatever he could while Molly and Sherlock did their own things.

Sherlock and Mycroft didn't contact each other, both knowing that each was doing what he could. In Sherlock's case, he could do nothing but wait. Mycroft spent all his resources trying to find the fiend while still worrying about his little brother. He would never show it, but he was worse off than Sherlock because of the scans. He decided that the best thing he could do was focus solely on finding Moriarty. For the sake of England.