Soldier holding his Detective

Chapter 4

There were too many lights and sounds. They surrounded him. Pulling him from his hazy sleep. His head felt like it would combust. His mouth held a metallic taste. His eyes were stuck. Had he spent the night drinking? Taking a deep breath, he tried to relax. Tried to figure out why he felt so sick, so lost, so empty, so... so...

So dead.

Focus! For God sake, focus! Where am I? He strained to open his eyes. His eyelashes covering the blurred outside in prison like bars. He took a deep breath. He had to move. He knew that much. He tried to move his arms. Can't stay here. The arms might as well have been connected to the bed for all they moved. His mouth was dry - how long since I last drank? - lips cracking in the effort to part them. He felt himself slipping. Falling back into his dream state.

A rhythmic beeping began to pierce through his ears. The steady beep crept to an alarming ring. Singular sounds mixing to create one shrill noise. It filled his mind. Crowding all his senses. Hands grab onto his arm, pulling and tugging at his lifeless body as he feels himself falling into the dark. He can feel the hands sticking needles into his arm. The pillows from beneath, ripped away and replaced with more grappling hands. He was split between the claws of death and the vice like grip of the living. Can't they stop tugging and leave me?

He became aware of himself again. This time the beeping was steady and distant, the hands had disappeared. A flame spread through his chest. Burning a path from his chest to his head. The light behind his eyelids casting a furious red over his pupils. He strained to move. Instincts kicking in. Get up. Go. Where? Doesn't matter. Just go. His breathing hitches as he tries moving. A groan passing his broken lips as the fire spread further through his body. His eyes manage to open slightly, revealing a blurred room.

A warm hand rests on his shoulder. Rubbing. Soothing. Grounding him, unlike the hands from before. He rests back, allowing the hand to guide him. "Just relax. It's okay. Rest." What is that? That voice. Mycroft? He lays down against the pillows. A hand grabs at his arm as Mycroft withdraws his. The hand is cold in comparison, he fights. As much as he can, he fights the hand. Pulling his arm tighter to his body, turning it away. The warm hand comes back. Rubbing circles into his shoulder. It hurts , he tries to Mycroft. They're cold. It hurts me.

"Just let go. I'm not leaving, okay?" He takes a deep breath, a hot tear runs down his cheek. Mycroft's hand pulls back again. No, Mycroft. It hurts. They'll hurt me. He tries to say again, another tear slipping from the pain. All that comes out is a small pathetic whimper. "I won't leave you. Let them work. I know, you're in pain, they'll fix it," His focus is on Mycroft's voice. He lets the cold fingers wrap around his wrist. "Focus on me. You're doing great," A needle pierces his skin. A cold flush filling his veins. "Go to sleep. I'll wait. I promise." The fingers release him and he falls back to the darkness.

He wakes again. The lights behind his eyelids have faded. Instead the light seems to be concentrated to the right, only small, hardly there. He tries again. Pulling his eyes open. They move more willingly this time. His vision slowly comes back. Blinking away the blurred images. He tries to turn his head towards the light. The room is in near darkness save for that light. His head rolls with great effort. Mycroft was sitting at his side. Book in hand, eyes on the page, small lamp revealing the words. "My..." He croaks. The sound barely a whisper. It was all it took. The man looks up with a start. He lets the book drop to the floor. His hand moving back to the shoulder.

"Myc..." The hand rubs softly. He gives up trying to speak. The pain had faded a lot, but he was exhausted. Mycroft took a deep breath before he spoke, "You are on very strong medication. You really are stupid, you know that right?" The words are spoken without venom, a strange fondness in the smile that pulls at his mouth. "Myc... Home." Mycroft sits back. He pulls out his phone from his jacket. Fingers soaring across the screen, "I'll get you home as soon as I can. I need you to rest for me, okay? Can you do that? I will take care of everything." Following the strangely comforting words of Mycroft Holmes, he closes his eyes. Surrendering his control - not like he had any - and slipping to the darkness once again.

Hushed voices in the room drag him to the light again. He opens his eyes, head still on the side. The chair is empty. Panic rising in his chest at an alarming rate, "My... My- Mycie." The words come out in a desperate plea. A warm hand is placed on his leg, "It's okay. I'm here." He turns his head slowly to the sounds. Mycroft stood at the foot of his bed with a woman in a white coat. Doctor, obvious. The fog that had been filling his head, slowly cleared as he looked around the room.

Still hidden in darkness, the room was private, spacious. It looked expensive. Of course it's expensive, with Mycroft at your feet. He raises his arm to his face. Mycroft smiles at him then continues to speak to the doctor. The doctor looks towards him then leaves the room. The light switch flicking on as he leaves. "I'll take you home," All attention focused on Mycroft. "But, you need to be able to stand on your own. Come on, John. Lean on me, I'll help."

The blankets were pulled back from his legs. He tried to lift his head from the pillow. A hand came to rest behind his head, helping to raise him and yet not pushing. Just supporting. He looked down at himself for the first time. His left arm was bandaged and attached to his chest. All feeling in the arm was lost. Sensing John's panic, Mycroft placed his free hand on his leg. Rubbing circles into his thigh to help ground him. John screws his eyes shut, soldier.

Together they got John to his feet. Mycroft had a firm hold on him. John worked on his breathing. "All you have to do is walk to the door alone. I managed to pull some strings. You shouldn't be leaving." John looked towards Mycroft. He no longer saw the cold iceman, but a loving brother. A man who cares so much for his brother that he is willing to help said brother's boyfriend. Well, not only help, provide care and comfort even though they are practically strangers. All of their previous exchanges had been hostile. But now, in this room, it was like they had become family. The thought startled John. He had to move.

As he stepped forward a sharp pain shot through his leg. Mycroft caught him as he began to fall. "My... leg." He croaked out. Mycroft sat him in the vacant chair, passing him a cup of water. John drains the cup and moves to stand again. The pain screaming through his body. Soldier. He pushes on. Taking slow and steady steps on shaking legs. Mycroft stood close to his side, arms ready to catch him if he should fall. The pain continues to shoot through his leg, but he keeps moving. You're a soldier, damn it, you keep going. To hell with what happens to you. His hand reaches the handle. "Take me home."

John is sitting in Mycroft's black car. They had been driving for almost three hours. The ride had been silent. John had a hospital issue cane in his hand. After he dressed, Mycroft had handed it to him so he could walk without much aid. He had been prescribed strong painkillers and express instructions from Mycroft, to keep them away from Sherlock. They pulled up at Baker Street and for the first time that ride, Mycroft spoke to him, "Wait here. He's been... sensitive. I'll go and check before you follow." John watched him disappear through the door.

John was only left alone for five minutes when the door opened again. "He's asleep. Mrs Hudson was in there watching television. It's up to you what you do." John thought for a moment before he gave a nod and moved out of the car. He walked up the stairs at an agonisingly slow pace. Mycroft followed behind. He stopped in the doorway and turned to Mycroft. In a low voice he spoke, "Thank you. I- I really mean it. For everything. You're a great brother."

Mycroft seemed to go offline at that. Shock filled his features for a moment before he gave a nod. He left John. Finally home. Before he could well up, John made his way to the bedroom. Sherlock was curled up on his side. John's heart gave a lurch. He looked on the floor for any clothes the mad man hadn't put away. He slowly dressed. The familiar scent hit him and left him sniffing back the oncoming tears. Carefully, John pulled back the covers and slipped into the bed. Still fast asleep, Sherlock curled into his side. It's all fine now, I'm home.