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The Inescapable Mistake of Caring

3

Limits Reached

-I-

In retrospect, Myroft Holmes had to admit to himself, he should have known that his brother would not stay still, would do something, as he always did, incredibly stupid, and incredibly foolish. He had counted on the influence of the morphine doing much to keep Sherlock dazed, calm and peaceful as well as on his brother's continued weakness now, five days after the shooting, but had, once more, made the grave mistake to underestimate John Watson. Or rather, John Watson's ability to evoke such surprisingly and disconcerningly deep devotion -love, quite possibly - in his brother, a devotion which had been, apparently, enough for Sherlock to overcome both morphine and exhaustion and disappear from hospital, no doubt with the help of one or multiple members of his homeless network.

Mummy would be very cross with his little brother - and of course with him, for not protecting Sherlock - if she were to know. Which she, thankfully to Mycroft's wise precaution not to inform their parents, wasn't.

"Five known boltholes," he told Detective Inspector Lestrade who was, together with John Watson, attempting to comb London for his brother and trying to achieve the impossible - find Sherlock Holmes in his beloved city, in this cesspool of hiding places and dark alleys where Sherlock had always managed to blend in completely, for once -, the impossible which not even Mycroft had succeeded in during those years when Sherlock's only form of company had been his chemical compound of choice.

If Sherlock did not want to be found, of that Mycroft was perfectly - and painfully - aware, then there was little even he could do. Sherlock Holmes was, to his own misfortune, clever enough to avoid security cameras he knew of.

While he continued briefing the Detective Inspector who had been sent here by John, his own employees in the meantime surveying security cameras and the agent Mycroft had had assigned to the hospital being disciplined for his surely to remain single mistake, Mycroft structured what he knew, and soon more than one fact became obvious to him.

Whatever his brother was doing, he was doing it for John Watson.

Mary Watson, the doctor's wife, was not involved in Sherlock's disappearance.

His brother did have a plan, had to have a plan, and it would surely concern John Watson and his wife.

And whereas he trusted Sherlock, trusted him as much as he would ever trust another human being, he did not trust his brother with his life. Because Sherlock had proven, more than once, that he was willing, foolishly willing, to risk everything for John Watson - and would, undoubtly, do it again.

Time was of essence, then.

-I-

How very telling it was in the end that not John Watson was the one to call him first, but his personal assistant, just as she had done before with John being too busy pacing in a hospital corridor and worrying, who informed him that Sherlock had been found, somehow, had returned to the assembly of furniture and chemicals he called flat and had then, not even twenty minutes later, been loaded into an ambulance which had proceeded to speed away.

The triumph that he had been right once again did not come.

His little brother was in danger, once again, and this time, it was his brother's fault, his fault completely.

"Oh Sherlock," was the only exclamation he could think of as he all but dropped his phone, relenting to burying his face in his hands.

Oh Sherlock.

-I-

His personal assistant kept him updated via another agent Myroft had had stationed at the hospital, perfectly reliably as she always did.

Sherlock was in surgery, she informed him, not likely to be out for hours. John Watson was still there, waiting for surgery to be over.

Internal bleeding, Mycroft concluded swiftly as soon as he had ended the call. Moving and walking around, everything for John Watson, ripping out sutures and tearing open his brother's fragile, newly mended inferior vena cava, sending him onto a dangerous cycle of altruism bordering on self-destruction and the repeated possibility of cardiovascular collapse. Death was, he calculated for the second time within one week and at the same time wondered how it could have happened that two grievous, possibly life-threatening mistakes of his had occurred within the same range of days, a terrifying and yet probable option.

This time, he forced his body and his mind to obey his commands as he attempted to piece together what his brother had done: Had escaped from the hospital, aided by at least one member of the homeless network, prepared, most likely, to confront both John Watson and his murderous wife about the truth.

Brother dear, he could barely refrain from shouting out loud, for all your massive intellect… For all his massive intellect, Sherlock remained scaringly stupid and entirely too susceptible to be taken over by sentiment for his own good.

He had, no doubt, contacted John Watson, had reunited with him, had presented to him the truth about his lying wife, the former intelligence agent who had happened to not kill Sherlock because of her emotional bond with John and therefore with Mycroft's own brother, and had then, in the company of Doctor and Mrs Watson returned to Baker Street, to have, quite possibly, an enormous domestic argument about lies, marriage and murder.

And all that while, that much was perfectly obvious, bleeding out internally and being, with certainty, aware of his slow and impending death approaching - and ignoring it against better knowledge, for John Watson, his brother's greatest weakness.

While he was pouring himself a glass of the best brandy in the late evening in his secret office, Mycroft Holmes had, for only the third time in his life, to admit defeat, had to agnise that he had, completely and utterly, failed.

If his proneness to trust his brother, to not go against Mary Elizabeth Watson, no matter how irrational the notion had been, and his failure resulted in his baby brother's death, for real this time, Mycroft would not know, for once, what to do.

-I-

It was in the middle of the night when he arrived at the hospital, took a quick look a John Watson, the crumpled form that was John Watson, slumped, defeated, terrified, for once not the steady soldier whose part he played so well, made sure that there were no news yet, that Sherlock was still in surgery, likely for a few more hours, and stepped outside again, smoking his third cigarette that day. That night.

When he had worked his way through half of his package, he finally forced himself to stop - he was, in contrast to his brother, not used to inhaling such amounts of cigarettes and he, furthermore unlike his brother, did not nurse the tendency to drown his worries in substance abuse.

He did not feel the need, however, to go back inside and sit there, united in gloomy worry with John Watson whose unfathomable wife was the cause for all this, alongside with his own brother's stubbornness. He withdrew to the closed, empty cafeteria instead, sitting, stiffly, on a cheap chair and looking, quite likely, like just another frightened family member to the average viewer's eyes. Which he was, maybe, because it was his little brother who was in danger, and because his supply of pretending to remain aloof and cold while confronted with the prospect of losing his little sibling had simply… run out by now, with the second time within one week. Trying to protect Sherlock had always been the task Mycroft did not allow himself to fail, but had failed far too often.

Because no matter what he did, or how many years he had lived, a particular curly-haired toddler had once, many years ago, taken up residence in Mycroft's heart, and had never let go again.

And the repeated thought of losing his brother, his little brother, was now enough to reduce Mycroft Holmes to a merely average man.

-I-

When he approached John Watson later, conceding, his brother's friend looked up briefly, his face composed as always and yet cracking, with blood-shot eyes, and a mere first glance was enough to confirm what Sherlock had been up to: John knew, as the distinct defeat visible in his features and the telling absence of his wife suggested.

"He's in surgery," John croaked instead of a greeting, and Mycroft, his umbrella leaning against the wall, hands loosely, purposefully loosely, resting on his thighs, back perched uncomfortably in the obnoxious chair, didn't bother to inform John that he already knew.

"Oh God," John groaned. "It's my fault, it's completely my fault. He was bleeding internally and I didn't notice…"

There were things Mycroft could have said, in this moment, many things. Yes, for example, yes, it was John's fault. She was his wife. Or, of course, he could lie, for John Watson's sake, for Sherlock's, if - if - he survived this. No, it wasn't. Nobody's fault. Fine.

In the end, Mycroft Holmes, who had always prided himself for his eloquence, for his aloofness, said nothing at all and wondered how exactly his brother was intending - if he survived - to untangle this mess, a mess Mycroft had, in his blindness, his blind trust in his brother and the confidence in his own ability to control what was happened without arresting Mary Elizabeth Watson, contributed to.

-I-

Not even thirty minutes later, exactly three hours and forty-one minutes after Mycroft's PA had phoned him, had informed him, John Watson took up pacing again. Against his original impulse, Mycroft did not snap at him, and did not demand him to sit down and stay still, not this time, when he felt as if he was about to start tapping his own foot nervously, too, a display of his own utter anxiety.

"You…," John began while doing his third lap in the narrow corridor, his left trembling hand, even more telling in terms of betraying his momentary constitution, clenched into a fist and pressed against the side of his leg, "you knew, didn't you? That's why you wanted to talk to Sherlock on your own."

Mycroft let out a deep breath and rested the back of his head against the wall. Waiting. Waiting for news, waiting for Sherlock, waiting in a cheap, primitive, malodorous, impersonal, distasteful hospital corridor, without anything to distract himself. Pitiful and disgraceful on its own, the fact that he found himself in a situation, in a location for ordinary people, ordinary people who cared and loved and suffered too much and too deeply, all the time. If it hadn't been for his brother, if his brother had never existed, Mycroft would be way above all that, would be, truly, invincible, indestructible, uncaring, cold, rational.

"Yes," he answered finally, and nothing more. Because there was nothing to add.

Did he ever wish for it to be like that?

It was a stupid question, and an unnecessary one, completely pointless. Nothing, nothing at all, would, however irrationally, however implausibly, ever outshine the moments when Sherlock's eyes, large in the little boy's face, had brightened upon seeing his older brother, or the moments when tiny, chubby arms had clutched at his throat and had refused to let go, or the moments when Sherlock, so much older then, so much older not only in years but also in experiences, called him brother and then asked about his diet, just the same way Mycroft always urged his brother to take his cases, or when Sherlock actually smiled, although his so vulnerable gaze was nowadays solely directed at John Watson and no longer at Mycroft.

His brother was the source for what little humanity still remained within Mycroft, and whereas he would, many times in his life, have fared better without any inclination to humanity, there was nothing in the world for which he would have traded his little brother for a boring existence as an only child. His little brother, who was, currently, fighting for his life once more.

A bout of bitter laughter suddenly was released by John, accompanied by punching his closed fist against the white, cool wall, a futile gesture of frustration, a violent outlet for his anger and rage. "My own bloody wife shot my best friend," he growled, shaking his head, like one of those maniacs who had been submitted to torture for a too long amount of time, those Mycroft had to deal with occasionally. "And it's my fault!"

There was no sense whatsoever in this statement, and yet, once more, Mycroft did not comment on John Watson's outbreak. One of them, he realised not for the first time as his own heart kept beating painfully quickly in his chest as if to make up for Sherlock's, possibly about to stop forever, and as his temples started pounding with a herald of an impending headache, would probably lose his sanity before this night was over.

-I-

John Watson had slumped in one of the chairs once more, both of his hands trembling now, his breathing mere shallow, quick gasps by the time a doctor approached them, his pace quick, but not hasty. John lurched to his feet, unsteadily, and Mycroft followed with more dignitiy, as much dignitiy as he could muster while he started studying the man, searching for tell-tale signs to be prepared for the man's message.

Face serious - wrinkles around the eyes, on the forehead, mouth thin-lipped. Arms and hands hanging loosely at his sides - not flapping them as so many surgeons did when nervous or when about to convey bad news to someone. Late forties, married, second wife, but not happily, going… no, not important at the moment.

Shoulders - tense, but more likely from standing in the same spot for hours, bending over Sherlock, the reopened hole in his chest and his shredded vein, and not from failing to save a life. Eyes dark - natural colour deep blue, serious, just as his face, gravity pronounced through wrinkles. Less wrinkles around the mouth - not generally a cheerful person, gloomy facial expression, in conclusion, did not mean anything negative in particular.

Conclusion: His brother had not died. Yet.

"So?" John immediately blurted out, looking as if he was ready to lurch at the surgeon and squeeze an answer out of him - and if it wasn't the one John hoped for, strangle him, too.

Mycroft's jaw had tensed considerably, he noticed by the time the man finally began to speak, and he immediately forced his body to relax. Alive, Sherlock had to be alive.

"He lost an unfortunate amount of blood," the man told them, "and he's still in critical condition, but…"

Mycroft did, despite himself, miss the next few words. John, next to him, deflated visibly, his knees shaking underneath him, so badly that, for a moment, Mycroft found himself contemplating already how to inform Sherlock, once he was coherent, stable, that his best friend had collapsed because of… sheer giddiness.

John, to Mycroft's great relief, did not let it get so far, but sagged down on one of the chairs, burying his face in his hands.

"…sedated for a few more days, to give his body time to heal," the surgeon explained further, but Mycroft cut him off with a small gesture, perfectly in control of his body once more. "Very well," he said. "I will hear about that later. If you would allow Doctor Watson now to see my brother?"

It was neither a question nor a matter of discussion, and Mycroft's words, just as he had expected, were obeyed.

-I-

The blue scrubs Mycroft had to wear as he followed John half an hour later were simply disgusting.

Disgusting and, as he had accepted without hesitation, necessary, since Sherlock had not yet been transferred to his room, but remained in recovery - no doubt in John's comforting company - for the time being, until the doctors were content enough with his vitals to move him.

Scrubs always tended to remind him earlier days, of a drug overdose that had almost proved fatal for his brother, without, however, causing his heart to stop, and not only the fabric they were made of repulsed him, but also the fact that the necessity for them always came in unison with Sherlock being in danger.

Sherlock had, all things considered, got off lightly, Mycroft mused as he carefully opened the door to the post-anaesthesia care unit. He was alive, still alive, and had, if he was spared from further complications, only a slightly worse chance to recover than five days ago. It had been another close call, the doctor had informed him, a very narrow escape for Sherlock who had scraped through, somehow, whose heart had been in danger of giving out on him - for good, possibly - more than once. They had managed to stop the bleeding and repair the damage he had inflicted on his inferior vena cava and his liver laceration, but, and the surgeon had been very clear about that, Sherlock's body would not be able to take another episode like this. The second surgery had left him even more debilitated than the first one, and no matter how young and healthy he had been before, there was a limit for everyone, and Sherlock had reached his.

Making out John Watson, slumped in the chair next to the bed only hidden from view by thin curtains, Sherlock's hand tightly in his grip, didn't even take Mycroft ten seconds.

Sherlock was to be allowed to wake up from the anaesthetic, Mycroft had been told, giving the doctors the opportunity to assess his state, and then to be kept under mild sedation for the next few days, enough to keep him sleeping and, most importantly, from wreaking any more havoc on himself.

John acknowledged his presence with a flickering look before returning his attention to Mycroft's little brother.

Seeing Sherlock hours after surgery, once he was stable, breathing by himself and no longer completely colourless due to massive blood loss, had been, Mycroft had to realise within split-seconds, far easier than dealing with having to bear the sight of his little brother now: There did not seem to be much blood left in his body, going by his utter pallidness, however scientifically impossible that notion was, and every single limb was slack in medically induced unconsciousness, unconsciousness relaxing his muscles far enough to require mechanical ventilation. He remembered that, of course, from Sherlock's most dangerous drug overdose, the sight of his little brother being breathed for because he was too weak, unable to do so for himself, and it should not leave him of all people shocked. It did, unfortunately.

John's voice startled him, his flinch betraying his being upset even more than his clenched fists. "Did he code?" he whispered flatly.

"I'm sorry?" Mycroft found himself incapable, unwilling, to tear his gaze away from his little brother's, his baby brother's dead and still face.

"Did he code?" John repeated, gripping Sherlock's hand so firmly that his own knuckles were turning white.

This time, Mycroft vowed to himself, not for the first time since he had talked to the surgeon, this time he would stop Sherlock from trying to kill himself again, and if he personally had to ensure that someone was at his brother's side at all times. Twice he had failed to protect Sherlock now in a row, partly due to Sherlock's annoying ability to take Mycroft by surprise, particularly with his foolhardiness and recklessness, over and over again, and a third time would - apart from the fact that it was not going to happen - simply be too much.

"No," he answered finally.

John gave a curt nod. "God," he mumbled, and for a moment Mycroft feared he would start… weeping, a rather unsettling prospect. "He can't die, he… it's… Mycroft, if he dies, then…"

"He won't," Mycroft heard himself say, although there was no data, no reliable data, to base this assumption on. Because Sherlock absolutely was not allowed to die.

"Is she… does she…," John went on, voice barely above a whisper, and his grip tightened enough for Mycroft to expect Sherlock to open his eyes any second, pulled back to consciousness because of John's intense squeeze. Nothing happened. Of course. "Will she try again?" was what John finally croaked.

The thought was, admittedly, a rather stupid one. Sherlock had, after all, not been Mary Elizabeth Watson's primary target, had, in contrast, been an unfortunate witness the would-be-assassin had needed to dispose of, therefore shooting him. Besides that, she would definitely not get a second chance. Indeed, Mycroft decided while studying his little brother, it was time for a long conversation between himself and Mrs Watson.

"No," he answered simply, and it seemed to be enough for John. Of course. John Watson, loyal, soldier, brave - or stupid, depending on one's notion towards romanticising -, trusting. Trusting Sherlock and therefore, however faulty the assumption was, trusting him with protecting Sherlock.

He better hadn't, Mycroft had to admit.

"Well," he announced, straightening. Structuring his thoughts, focussing did prove, even more so than five days ago, to be utterly difficult in the face of Sherlock's latest near-death experience. "I will leave you to it, then."

John Watson did not honour him with a reply this time, all of his attention fixed on Mycroft's brother. Very well. At least this was, finally, close to how it should be.

-I-

It was a relief, a relief brought upon him by hormones and biological reaction, to stand in front of the hospital once more, without scrubs, and inhaling the smoke of another cigarette. Low-tar, of course. Sherlock would scowl at him, the vivid image of his brother's exasperation overlayed by the recent sight of his corpse-like form in a hospital bed.

Calling his parents, he pondered as he puffed out smoke into the still dark night around him, would become inevitable now. Calling them, interrupting their holiday in Oklahoma on which he had sent them, having to answer for his mother's no doubt immense fury, having to cover for Sherlock. It would be absolutely unthinkable to inform them of Sherlock's… escapology act, to tell them that their beloved younger son had risked his own life to confront his best friend about the truth concerning a former intelligence agent.

What a mess. A mess Sherlock would have to entangle, as soon as he was back to his usual annoying self. For once, Mycroft found himself looking forward to hear Sherlock provoking and teasing him.

Informing his parents, however, would have to wait, at least until Mycroft had the confirmation that his brother had woken, had indeed coped with a second emergency surgery and would not be prone to another life-threatening escapade in their parents' presence.

Oh, his mother would indeed be furious. Outright livid, so ordinarily full of worry for his younger brother, directing all of her anger at Mycroft, who would, as he registered with a sigh, of course take all the blame.

His father, in contrast, would be calm - always calm, or trying to be, with his eyes and the way his smile changed, betraying his anxiety, his smile that always reminded Mycroft of his little brother - and warm-hearted and comforting, a steady rock for his mother.

Mycroft had always, always in his life since he had been old enough to appreciate it, felt nothing but respect for his father who was, admittedly, not a genius - a goldfish, Sherlock's voice mocked him in his head -, but yet so very proficient at spotting details when they were important. There had to be, after all, a reason why his mother, a mathematician, an intelligent woman, had given up on her career, almost everything else, to lead a life with this man and have two children with him, of which one continuously manoeuvred himself into unsettlingly dangerous situations.

There was need for another quick counselling with his PA, Mycroft decided, to have her arrange a meeting with the woman known as Mary Watson in which Mycroft was going to very thoroughly remind her of what was inevitably going to occur if she ever, ever again, happened to show but minimal inclination to harm his brother in whatever minuscule way, or, should his brother's condition decline and her shot and the disturbance she had caused lead to any further deterioration or permanent impairment, that he, Mycroft Holmes, could indeed be very unforgiving, and very merciless, and that her continued existence entirely depended on the adovacy and - relative - well-being of Sherlock Holmes and, subsequently, John Watson.

A return to the hospital then, he planned on, to convince himself once more of the fact that his brother was still amongst the living, had woken and allowed the doctors to precisely assess his condition, as well as a short reassurance that John Watson was fine, or at least as fine as anyone close to Sherlock could be in this situation.

Another conversation with the doctors, possibly, to avoid being surprised by any so far unexpected complications, and then, finally, once he was sure, absolutely sure, that Sherlock was stable enough to risk upsetting his parents without simultaneously risking having them witness their younger son's suffering and death, he would have to phone his parents.

Mycroft finished smoking his low-tar cigarette in complete silence, calming his racing thoughts and still quickly beating heart, and wished, for a moment, that he could hear Sherlock mocking his preference of low-tar now.

Even after he had extinguished the material proof of his nervousness and of his inclination towards sentiment, he stayed where he was for a bit longer, as if to summon strength for what was still to come, and finally forced himself to dial his PA's number, to arrange the necessary meeting, and, a duty he had guiltily neglected since his brother's injury, to receive quick updates about the elections in Uganda as well as the progress of his agents in Southern Serbia.

Sherlock, he was sure of that, was in capable hands, and there was, after all, still a country to run.

For a moment, while he was waiting for his PA to pick up and at the same time contemplating another cigarette, he longed for Sherlock to scowl at that, too.

-I-

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