Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock.
This is not the first time that Mycroft Holmes waits for his brother to regain consciousness.
It is not the second time.
It is not the third.
It is not even the fourth time.
Mycroft Holmes will not admit to just how many times he has sat beside his brother's comatose body, waiting for him to wake up. If you ask him, he might threaten you with some sort of incarceration if you don't immediately bug off.
The elder brother sighs under his breath, his head leaning against his right hand his elbow resting on the arm of the chair. In his left he loosely holds his unnecessarily large umbrella.
The only sounds are the tapping of moderate rain against the window and the whirr and beep of the machines hooked up to his brother. Occasionally there is a murmur of excitement from the hallway, but as of late, it has been quite uneventful. Beyond the drawn drapes of the window, it is dark. The digital clock beside the bed reads a time late at night, late enough for it to be early morning. Mycroft stifles a wide yawn.
He had relieved that John Watson a few hours previously, telling his brother's colleague to return to Baker Street and get a bit of sleep; he'd call him if his condition changed.
That is a lie, however. Mycroft wouldn't call, even if his brother did suddenly awaken; he would call Watson in the morning, which was proper. No need to have him stumbling in the hospital at absurd hours.
That was only if his brother's condition changed.
Sherlock lay in the bed, head elevated slightly, an oxygen mask clasped over the lower portion of his face. His cheek bones jut out, hollower than usual, the doctors said he hadn't be eating. Of course he wasn't. He never did.
The spliced blue and red veins and capillaries are strikingly prominent against Sherlock's translucent skin; shadows under his eyes are like smudges of charcoal on a canvas. His curls are splayed against the pillow, coiling against his temple and forehead.
It's an upsettingly reoccurring and familiar sight for dear Mycroft. His brother's hobby/job was a dangerous one at times; working with the police means he has enemies, that he's a target. Mycroft's surveillance helped somewhat, but damn Sherlock was always sneaking around it.
And then, of course, there was Sherlock's other, less savoury pastimes. They usually included cylinders of rolled paper, powders, and injections. It's to help me think! he'd cry in vain. I'm bored!
Mycroft heard it all before.
But Sherlock, goddamn him, the self bastard, didn't think of how it was a stress on others. A parasite, his brother thinks bitterly. He's a leech sucking us dry. He latches on and wont let go.
He rubs his temples and looks up guiltily. I shouldn't be thinking such things, he thinks somberly. It's taboo to speak ill of someone in a hospital, even if they might deserve it.
Mycroft clears his throat. Checks his watch. Sighs.
He dozes, and dreams of Sherlock.
His little brother, with his shock of curls. His hair matted with blood. He's hunched over in an alley and Mycroft slowly approaches, calling his name. "Sherlock?" He lifts his head and his brother staggers backward. For his eyes are hollow, and blood leaks from fractures in his skin.
The scene crumbles, and suddenly, he's on the stairs of 221b, pushing the door open with the tip of his umbrella.
"Sherlock!" he calls. "Where the hell are you..."
There's a mountain of needles and empty syringes in the living room, reaching almost to the ceiling, and atop it lies Sherlock, fingers together in his thinking stance, reclining, eyes closed like he's lost in thought. He shifts, and everything topples.
Mycroft awakes to a bloodshot Dr. John Watson gently shaking his shoulder.
"Come on, then," the Doctor says uncertainly.
Mycroft curses himself for following asleep for so long. He clears his throat. "What time is it?"
"Eight," John says, glancing between the two brothers. He looks run down and slightly embarrassed. His sweater is wrinkled and his hair is a bit ruffled, like he came in a rush without combing it down.
Mycroft checks his watch as well, nodding. He rises, but doesn't go to leave. Instead, he approaches the window, stripes of pale light across his body. He moves the blinds over a bit, peering outside.
"Contrary to popular belief, I do care about my brother." He let's the blinds slide back into place. "That's why I offered you money to spy on him for me. He keeps finding the cameras I install in the flat. Got a bit expensive to keep replacing. "
John opens his mouth to speak, but Mycroft shakes his head, just slightly.
"It's not easy to live with Sherlock, is it?"
John blinks. "Er-no, it's not."
"Yes, I know, I used to. Always needlessly complicating everything. Couldn't just sit down, shut up, and do as he was told." He swallows sharply, still gazing toward the window. "He's reckless, obnoxious, a blatant rule breaker, and is absolutely atrocious in social situations. Yes, he's difficult at times, but that doesn't mean I don't love him."
John's face softens. "Mycroft. I know you love him. I'm sure no one loves him more."
Mycroft turns towards his brother's bed, a sad smile quirking at the corners of his mouth. "Thank you, John."
The background beeping quickens, but neither men notice.
The latter swallows and clears his throat, looking at the floor. "Mycroft."
"Mm?" He looks far away.
"I'm going to contact Detective Inspector Lestrade and have him take a look around the flat."
Mycroft frowns. "Why, John? There is no foul play afoot. Just an addict and his release."
Come on, John, he will himself. "It doesn't appear so, that's true, but living with Sherlock has shown that nothing is really as it seems." Continue. "Like... like his head wound." He gestures. "There wasn't any blood on any of the furniture. And I didn't find a needle when I returned earlier. I just-want a second opinion."
Translation: I don't want to believe Sherlock has slipped up.
The beeps are even faster now.
Both of them turn to the pallid detective. The numbers and ridges on the heart monitor begin to rise, and not gradually. A crease appears on Mycroft's forehead, even he realizes something isn't right.
The blood pumps loudly in John's ears, and he does something he promised never to do. Never in battle, never in the field, never working a case.
The scene makes no sense even as the doctors and nurses burst in, calling orders and clattering about.
He's safe at home, watching a gaudy, inaccurate medical drama as Sherlock shouts obscenities at the telly.
He is not watching his friend die.
A single tone cuts the air and someone is shouting, "Get them out of here!"
Time does not move as the monitor registers a flat line.
John Watson's world crashes around him, full speed.
A/N:review this if u crey evry tiem :'(
Haha, sorry, I had to.
Hello! This is my first Sherlock fic so advice and feedback on being in character, as well as anything else is welcomed.
Edit;; I rewrote a few parts of chapter one, it should make more sense and flow better.
Thank you for reading, reviews are, as always, appreciated but not mandatory.